On the other hand, I liked Meir. He was a smuggler, but a harmless one at that. The sort of man who would not be a criminal if rationing didn't exist. The sort of man who would one day, when rationing finally ended, revert to a legitimate life. If he didn't first end up in jail or dead.
He specialized in jams and canned goods, though he sometimes brought in chocolate and cigarettes as well. His goods weren't of the highest quality, but scarcity adds varnish and luster to even purely mediocre products.
He made good money. Enough to buy nice clothes and shoes and rent a large apartment on a quiet street in Tel Aviv. Still, he would never be really big; he didn't have the required ferociousness. Which was fine by him. He wasn't doing this to get rich, just to make a good living. And since I frequently patronized the black market myself, who was I to judge him?
I had done a job for him a year earlier, when one of his employees began helping himself to a quarter of every jar of strawberry jam Meir smuggled in, making up the deficit with water. The employee kept the rest for himself or sold it. It didn't take long to find out who he was.
Before I took the job, Meir assured me that his only form of retribution would be to cut off ties with the yet-unidentified thief. When I suggested that a little roughing-up was to be expected in such matters, he shook his head and said, "I hate violence," and he looked so earnest that I couldn't help but believe him. And it turned out that I was right. Meir was as good as his word.
A few weeks ago, he had come to me with a new problem. Over the past six months, he'd noticed that a larger-than-usual share of his shipments was seized by customs. A ship would dock at port and a cursory inspection would commence. Same as always. What changed was that the customs inspectors seemed to know exactly which container to check for Belgian chocolate, which crate held jars of English marmalade, under which sack of potatoes Meir's associates had stashed packs of French cigarettes.
"Those bastards used to rummage around like blind beetles," he'd told me. "All of a sudden, they're bloodhounds."
Usually, a call to the police would follow the discovery of illicit goods, but Meir had a senior customs official on the payroll, and he hushed things up. Still, the uncovered merchandise was confiscated, dealing a painful blow to Meir's finances.
What aroused his suspicion even more than the frequency of the discoveries was the fact that all of them were made by one of two inspectors. The rest remained their usual ineffectual selves.
"Someone's tipping them off, Adam," he'd told me, "and I want you to find out who it is."
And I did. It took a bit of legwork and an excruciating bus ride to Haifa, but I learned where Meir's confiscated goods ended up, and who was involved in the racket.
I had come to the warehouse that night to tell Meir what I'd discovered. But now I wasn't sure I should.
I said, "I know who's responsible, Meir. And where your goods go."
His eyes lit up. "You do? That's great. Who is it?"
"I'm not sure I feel comfortable telling you."
"What? Why?"
"Because I don't want anyone to get killed for mere stealing."
"Well, that's no problem. You know me, Adam. I'm not the type."
"It's not you I'm worried about. It's him." I jerked a thumb over my shoulder, in the direction his cousin had gone.
"Amiram?"
"Yes. Something tells me he's not as averse to violence as you."
Meir didn't bother to deny it. He just said, "Amiram works for me, Adam. He'll do what I say."
"You're sure about that?"
He nodded. The sweat had cooled on his face, giving it a bright sheen. The blotches on his cheeks looked wet. "You can count on it."
I studied his face. He looked serious and certain, which made me feel slightly better about my options. Still, I wanted to make sure we understood each other.
"All right, Meir. I'll tell you who's robbing you. But if anything bad happens to him, I'll hold you responsible. Are we clear?"
Meir gulped, taking a tiny step back. Good. I wanted him to be a little frightened of me.
"I understand," he said.
So I proceeded to tell him the name of the sailor who was tipping off the customs officials and explained how the confiscated merchandise made its way to a black-market vendor in Haifa, who then sold it to the general public. When I was done, I said, "If I were you, I'd keep this information from your cousin. Deal with it yourself."
He nodded, thanked me, and counted twenty liras into my palm. I pocketed the money and bid him farewell.
Exiting the warehouse, I saw the red dot of the cigarette before noticing the man sucking on it. Amiram was sitting on a barrel, legs spread wide. Moonlight played across his face, making shadows dance on his skin.
"All done?" he asked after blowing out a jet of smoke. His tone dripped with disdain.
"Yes," I said.
"Okay, then."
I nodded and turned to go. I'd not taken five steps before his voice sounded again.
"Hey, cop."
I turned around to face him.
He held up a hand, forming a gun with thumb and forefinger. "See you around one of these days." And he pressed the thumb down, like a cocked hammer dropping, puckered his bleached lips, and made a firing sound. "See you around real soon."
12
I woke up early after a night full of bad dreams. Like the pain that used to tear Dahlia's sleep to shreds, so did my nightmares yank me into wakefulness again and again.
I felt tired, worn out, my body twice its weight. But going back to sleep was an impossibility. If I tried, I would just find myself tossing and turning in my bed.
Lowering my feet to the cool floor, I ran my hands over my scalp and face. The stubble on my cheeks needled my palms. My body was slick with sweat. Free of the blanket, my limbs began to tremble.
In my tiny bathroom, I drank cold water from the tap, then showered and shaved and ran a comb through my damp hair. I studied my reflection in the small mirror above the sink. I did not look half as tired as I felt. A good sign.
I dressed and ate breakfast. Chicory coffee with black-market sugar. Three pieces of bread I toasted in a pan and then smeared with margarine and loaded with slices of Gouda.
I'd used too much of the sugar and had sliced the Gouda too thickly. I enjoyed my meal, but my profligacy made me feel ashamed and guilty. My breakfast could have fed three men in the camps, and not just for a single meal but for a whole day.
Rinsing the dishes, I wondered what had led to my overindulgence but couldn't come up with an answer. It made me feel uneasy, as though something inside me were changing, and I did not know what it was. Once the dishes were done, I set out to begin my day. It promised to be a busy one.
I popped into Levinson Drugstore on the corner of Hamaccabi and King George and used their telephone to call Reuben Tzanani. He told me he still hadn't gotten hold of Meltzer and suggested I call him again in a couple of hours.
That left me with a decision to make. I had two places I could go, but this early in the day, I might not find the man I was looking for in the first. The second place offered no such uncertainty. All the people in it were dead.
Another call might have solved my dilemma, but I wanted no one to know where I was going, not even my client.
I started down King George, my mind still not made up. It was a beautiful morning, the sky a clear blue with just a thin smear of cloud, like a milk mustache across a child's upper lip. It was hotter than yesterday. Poor Greta. The rattling fan would see heavy use today.
I paused when I got to the corner of King George and Bograshov. Decision time. Should I turn west toward Trumpeldor Cemetery, or should I continue down King George?
The British monarch prevailed.
At the bottom of King George, I turned onto Allenby Street and walked south. I stuck my head into Greta's Café, bid Greta good morning, and told her I might come back later; I had work to do. The next corner was Balfour Street. Ohel Shem was at number 30.