Al Becker did not take Abe Casson's remarks at face value. He did not doubt that the rabbi had spoken to Lanigan about the matter-conceivably, in the course of the conversation, some chance remark of the rabbi's may have given the police chief a different slant-but he did not believe the rabbi had been able to work out a convincing defense of his friend. Still, he supposed he ought to see the rabbi and thank him.
Once again, their meeting was not without its awkwardness. Becker came straight to the point. "I understand that you had a lot to do with Mel Bronstein's being released, rabbi."
It would have been easier had the rabbi made the expected modest disclaimer, but instead he said, "Yes, I suppose I did."
"Well, you know how I feel about Mel. He's like a kid brother to me. So you can understand how grateful I am. I haven't exactly been one of your most active supporters-"
The rabbi smiled. "And now you are somewhat embarrassed. There's no need to be, Mr. Becker. I'm sure your objection was in no way personal. You feel that I'm not the right man for the position I hold. You have every right to go on feeling that way. I helped your friend as I would help you or anyone else who needed it, just as I'm sure you would in like circumstances."
Becker phoned Abe Casson to report on his conversation with the rabbi, ending with, "He's a hard man to tike. I went there to thank him for helping Mel and to more or less apologize for having worked against him on the contract business, and he as much as told me he didn't need my friendship and didn't care if I continued to oppose him."
"That's not the impression I got from your story. You know, Al, maybe you're too smart to understand a man like the rabbi. You're used to reading between the lines and guessing what people really mean. Has it ever occurred to you that the rabbi might not talk between the lines, that he says pretty much exactly what he means?"
"Well, I know you and Jake Wasserman and Abe Reich are sold on him. The rabbi can do no wrong as far as you people are concerned, but-"
"He seems to have done all right for you too, Al."
"Oh, I'm not saying that he didn't do me and Mel a favor, and I'm grateful. But you know very well that Mel would have got off anyway, maybe in another day or two, because they didn't have a thing on him."
"Don't be so sure. You don't know how they play the game. In an ordinary case where a man is tried for some ordinary crime-sure, the chances are that if he's innocent he'll go free. But in a case of this kind there's another element. It's no longer just a case at law. Politics enters into it, and then they're not so concerned about whether a man is guilty or not. They start thinking in different terms: have we got enough to go before a jury with? If the man is innocent, let his lawyer take care of him and if he doesn't, it's just too bad. It becomes a sort of game, like football, with the D.A. on one side and the defendant's lawyer on the other, and the judge the referee. And the defendant? He's the football."
"Yes, but-"
"And another thing, Al, if you really want to see this in its proper perspective, just ask yourself what happens now? Who's the chief suspect? I'll tell you-it's the rabbi. Now whatever your opinion of the rabbi, you can't call him stupid. So you can be sure he knows that in getting Bronstein off the hook he was putting himself squarely on. Think about that for a while, Al, and then ask yourself again if the rabbi is such a hard man to like."
23
Sunday it rained. the rain had started early in the morning, and the corridor and classrooms of the Sunday school were pervaded with the smell of wet raincoats and rubbers. Mr. Wasserman and Abe Casson, standing just inside the outer door, stared moodily at the parking tot, watching raindrops bounce against the shiny asphalt.
"It's a quarter-past ten, Jacob," said Casson. "It doesn't look as though we're going to have a meeting today."
"A little bit of rain, and they're afraid to go out."
They were joined by Al Becker. "Abe Reich and Meyer Goldfarb are here, but I don't think you'll be getting many more."
"We'll wait another fifteen minutes," said Wasserman.
"If they're not here now, they won't be here," said Casson flatly.
"Maybe we should make a few telephone calls," Wasserman suggested.
"If they're afraid of a little rain," said Becker, "your calling them won't change their minds."
Casson snorted derisively. "You think that's what's keeping them away?"
"What else?"
"I think the boys are playing it cozy. Don't you understand, Al? They don't any of them want to get mixed up in this."
"Mixed up in what?" demanded Becker. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about a girl who was murdered. And about the rabbi's possible connection with her. We were supposed to vote today on the rabbi's new contract, remember? And I imagine some of the boys started to think about the possibilities. Suppose they vote for keeping the rabbi, and then it turns out he's guilty. What would their friends say, especially their Gentile friends? What would be the effect on their business? Now do you get it?"
"It never occurred to me," Becker began slowly.
"That's because it probably never occurred to you that the rabbi could have done it," said Casson. He looked at Becker curiously. "Tell me, Al, didn't you get any phone calls?"
Becker looked blank, but Wasserman's face began to color.
"Ah, I see you got some, Jacob," Casson went on.
"What kind of calls?" asked Becker.
"Tell him, Jacob."
Wasserman shrugged his shoulders. "Who pays attention? Cranks, fools, bigots, am I going to listen to them? I hang up on them."
"And you've been getting them, too?" Becker demanded of Casson.
"Yeah. I imagine they called Jacob because he's president. And they called me because I'm in politics and so I'm known."
"And what have you done about it?" demanded Becker.
Casson shrugged his shoulders. "Same as Jacob- nothing. What can you do about it? When the murderer is found, it'll stop."
"Well, something ought to be done about it. At least we ought to tell the police or the Selectmen or-"
"And what can they do? Now if I were to recognize a voice, that would be something else again."
"Yeah."
"It's new to you, eh? And it's probably new to Jacob. But it's not new to me. I've had this type of call in every political campaign. The world is full of nuts-bitter, disappointed, disturbed men and women. Individually, they're mostly harmless. Collectively, they're kind of unpleasant to think about. They write nasty obscene letters to the newspapers or to people whose names are mentioned in the news, and if it happens to be someone local, they telephone."
Wasserman looked at his watch. "Well, gentlemen, a meeting I'm afraid we won't have today."
"It wouldn't be the first time we didn't get a quorum," said Becker.
"And what do I tell the rabbi? That he should wait another week? And next week, we are sure we'll get a quorum?" He looked quizzically at Becker.
Becker colored. Then suddenly he was angry. "So if we don't get a quorum, it'll be next week, or the following week, or the week after that. You've got the votes. Does he need it in writing?"
"There's also the little matter of the opposition votes that you mustered," Casson reminded him.
"You don't have to worry about them now," said Becker stiffly. "I told my friends I was in favor of renewing the rabbi's contract."
Hugh Lanigan dropped by that evening to see the rabbi.
"I thought I'd congratulate you on your reprieve. According to my source of information, the opposition to you has collapsed."
The rabbi smiled noncommittally.
"You don't seem very happy about it," said Lanigan.
"It's a little like getting in through the back door."