Alone, she let her hands drop helplessly. Realizing it was dark, no one's around, the pier has emptied out, try finding a cab in Redondo Beach at this hour.
The smart thing would have been to return to the restaurant. Instead, she just stood there. Crying.
Well, Fräulein, stupidity has its rewards.
His turn.
Wonderful. His second time. First had been little Sally Tosk, back in Syracuse, tenth grade, well developed since eighth. He'd watched her chest grow, almost alarmingly. Not a true blonde, a strawberry blonde, still wearing braces on her top teeth. She'd come on to him all through football season; finally he'd graced her with a date. Secret date- she had a boyfriend but wanted to slut around with him, too.
He'd driven to her house in his father's new Buick, her parents out till late, some kind of Rotary dinner. The Tosks lived on a big piece of land beyond the city limits, used to be a farm. Sally was ready at the door, little nightie, nothing else. Gave him tongue in the living room, tit in the kitchen; they moved up to her bedroom, then she got all hysterical when he refused to say he loved her and tried to push him away, and he had to put a hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming.
Covering her mouth and her nose, and all of a sudden she was blue. He panicked. Then he started to see her in a different light and fooled with her body, just exploring. Careful not to leave anything behind, he drove home throbbing with terror and pleasure.
The Tosks came home two hours later. Big scare in town, rumors of a stalking sex maniac.
He lost sleep for weeks, because what if Sally had told someone she was meeting him? Lost weight and told his mother he had the flu.
But she hadn't told anyone; worried about the boyfriend.
The cops talked to the boyfriend.
No leads. He attended Sally's funeral, cried along with everyone else.
Nothing like young lust.
Sally. The German girl. Lisa.
Not that he was a serial killer. He had no compulsion.
But when the opportunity came up…
At Sally's funeral, he really lost it when the dirt hit the coffin. One of Sally's girlfriends, another cheerleader, took his hand and dried his eyes, told him later how sensitive he was.
“Dearly beloved,” he intoned in a melodious voice. Not Niven- John Houseman, someone like that.
And the Oscar goes to…
45
I tell the old guy, “No, I've still got it, but I wouldn't mind some more. Have any work I can do?”
He pushes his glasses up his nose. “So you can talk. Want to work, eh? How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
He comes closer. “Listen, if you're in trouble, running away from something, maybe I can help you. Because a fellow your age shouldn't be out here all alone.”
I back away. “I don't need help. Just work.”
“Got a work permit?”
I don't answer. He says, “A work permit. It's the law. To protect kids. They used to force kids to work, not anymore. Not in the United States.”
So he's not going to help me. I start to leave.
“Hold on- you want work? Fine.”
I stop. “What do you have? How much do you pay?”
He smiles again. “A businessman. Okay, listen, the shul here- the synagogue”- he points over his shoulder-“is not used much during the week, but it would be good to have someone to clean the place up before Friday services. Keep an eye out on things, know what I mean?”
“A watchman?”
“Not a night watchman, a day watchman, because there's nowhere to sleep- you have someplace to sleep?”
“Sure.”
“It's dangerous around here at night,” he says, coming even closer. “You been on the streets awhile, haven't you?”
I don't answer.
“I'm not trying to be nosy, sonny, but maybe I can help. 'Cause I been there, believe me.”
The way he says that, the change that comes over his face- like something I learned in science. Metamorphosis. I know he's telling the truth.
“That must have been a long time ago,” I say.
He stares at me. Cracks up. “Yeah, a real long time. Back in the Stone Age.”
His laugh is funny- deep, like it comes from way down in his belly. I can't help myself. My mouth turns up.
“Ah, he can smile, too. So maybe life's not so bad after all, eh?”
That wipes the smile from my face.
“It is?” he said. “Someone hurt you that bad?”
Inside the shul he shows me a little closet in the men's bathroom where the cleaning stuff is kept. A broom, a dustpan, a mop and pail, Windex for the glass, Lemon Pledge for the wood. Some silver polish, too, but he leaves that there. Sees me looking at it.
“C'mere, sonny- do you have a name, by the way? I'm Sam Ganzer.”
“Sonny is fine.”
He shrugs, holds out his hand, and we shake. His hand feels like a hunk of dried meat.
“Nice to meet you,” he says.
“Same here.”
He brings me into the main room of the shul. At the front is this big carved-wood cabinet that I never had a chance to open, reaching to the ceiling and covered by a blue velvet curtain. He pulls a cord and the curtain opens. Behind it are these doors with twelve little carved scenes- Bible scenes. I recognize Noah's Ark, Moses in the cradle. Some other stuff doesn't mean anything to me.
Nothing about Jesus. Of course. I think: This is weird; what am I doing here?
Behind the carved doors are three things also covered in blue velvet with Jewish writing with wooden poles sticking out on top and bottom and silver handles, just on top. The closest one says, Dedicated by Saul and Isidore Levine in memory of their father, Hyman. Hanging over the front are silver plates.
“Know what these are?” Sam asks.
“No.”
“Torahs. The Jewish Bible- you believe in the Bible, don't you?”
I don't know what I believe in, but I nod.
“So you understand these are holy, right?”
“Don't worry, I won't steal the silver,” I say.
He turns red as a tomato. “That's not what I was implying, sonny. I just want you to know that this is important stuff we're dealing with. So when I ask you to polish the silver, you'll be extra careful. Got it?”
“Got it.” Even though I know what he was really saying.
We arrange it this way: I'll sweep and mop the entire shul, including the bathrooms, Windex the windows, and Lemon Pledge the wood. The last job will be polishing the silver, because he needs to bring me more rags.
“Also,” he says, “the silver polish is pretty strong, so don't breathe it in too close, got it?”
“Got it.”
“I'm serious,” he says. “You don't sniff stuff, do you? Glue, paint- you don't do that, right? No drugs?”
“Never,” I said. “Not once.”
“I believe you,” he said. “You seem like a nice kid. I'd like to know what you're doing out on the streets, living on crackers, but it's your business.”
I say nothing.
He says, “I just don't want to come in here, find you knocked out by silver polish fumes. Believe me, I know about these things, owned a hardware store for forty years. At the end, junkies and lowlifes were coming in buying all the glue and fixative- it was pretty obvious none of them ever installed a commode.”
Boy, he can really talk.
“I'll be careful,” I say.
“Another thing. Today is Thursday, tomorrow night we have services. Saturday, too, so I can't use you at all on Saturday.”
“Fine. After today, I don't think there'll be anything to do.”
He puts his hands in his pockets. “So now the important part: How much do you want?”
“Whatever you think is fair.”
“Whatever I think? Meaning if I say two pennies an hour, you'll be happy?”
“I think you'll be fair.”
“Flattered, sonny, but if you're gonna be a businessman, learn to set a price.”