Slightly to Esther's right and behind her was a man. Only his head and neck and one shoulder were visible—the rest was obscured partly by Esther and partly by a gray-haired woman who sat on a bench at the edge of the picture, wearing a black dress and facing away from the camera. The man himself was not facing away. In fact, the picture displayed his face in its entirety. It was a wonder he had not noticed he was being photographed, but then again, Manny Orrin must have become quite adept at snapping pictures surreptitiously.
In the picture, the man had a full head of hair, and his face was leaner than it was today. But the mustache was the same, and there was no mistaking that jaw and chin. It was the man seated at a table by the window of Greta's Café.
I considered the odds of this being a coincidence and discounted them as negligible. Then I contemplated what this meant. I came to two conclusions: I didn't know, and I was going to find out.
Feigning ignorance of the man's presence, I polished off my food, taking my time with it, trying to look as if I hadn't a care in this world. When I was done, I smoked a lazy cigarette until it was about to burn my fingers, before mashing it out. I folded up the chessboard, piled it and the empty dishes onto the tray, and brought them to the bar. Behind it, Greta was wiping glasses with a checkered cloth.
"Thanks for dinner," I told her, in a low voice. "Act natural, okay?" Then I strode to the door, put my hand on the handle, half turned and, in a voice loud enough to carry to the man at the other end of the café, said, "I'll see you tomorrow, Greta. I'm going to take a walk on the beach, do some thinking."
Greta stared at me blankly for a heartbeat, then said, "All right, Adam. See you tomorrow."
I gave her a wink, opened the door, and stepped outside.
I ambled a block up Allenby Street, pausing to light another cigarette. I did not look over my shoulder, but when I puffed out my first lungful of smoke, I tilted my head at such an angle that I could see a shadow flit across the light spilling onto the sidewalk directly outside Greta's Café as someone emerged from within.
Smiling grimly around my cigarette, I carried on up the street at a quicker pace. It was just after nine and the sidewalks were busy with people enjoying the relatively cool evening air. Laughter and music bubbled out of restaurants and cafés. Teenagers giddy with summer hustled by in packs in search of excitement. A mass of humanity swarmed the plaza outside Moghrabi Theater and the hoarse shouts of hot dog and soda vendors sawed above the din of the throng. I crossed to the other side of the street, where foot traffic was lighter, not wanting to be slowed by the crowds, and in the process caught a glimpse of the man thirty feet behind, fisted hands at his sides. With each step I took, the skin on my back prickled in increasing panic, and my survival instinct screamed at me to turn around and face my pursuer, not to leave myself exposed.
I ignored it, assuring myself that the man shadowing me would take no action on a crowded street. If he was who I feared—or rather hoped—he was, doing so wasn't his style. He liked to keep things private. And I had given him reason to believe he wouldn't have to wait long for the perfect moment to strike.
But my assurances rang hollow in my ears and a cold sweat sprang up under my jacket. My heart was doing a wild, stuttering dance inside my rib cage. A mocking voice inside my head whispered that I was being arrogant again, that this time I'd end up worse off than bruised. I took a final drag and flicked the cigarette at a nearby gutter. My hands were damp and I stuck both of them in my pockets. Earlier, at Greta's, I'd removed the Luger from my waistband and slipped it into my right jacket pocket. Now my right hand curled around the cool grip of the pistol, thumbing the safety off.
What if he also has a gun? the mocking voice in my head asked. He can shoot you in the back. I had no answer, so I told the voice to go away. It laughed in response, but said nothing more.
Past Moghrabi Theater, Allenby Street curled in a western trajectory, and I followed it to Ha-Knesset Square, where I verified the man was still on my tail as I pretended to check the road for vehicles before crossing it to the deserted beach.
Rows of abandoned beach chairs studded the soft sand, looking in the scant moonlight like skeletons of some extinct mammal. Waves crested and crashed on the sand with a roar, the sea choppy for summertime. The air smelled of salt and sand. There was a shed thirty feet ahead, and I made for it.
I sensed rather than heard him run toward me from behind. I whirled, whipping the Luger out of my pocket and leveling it at the man. The sight of the gun made him try to shift direction in mid-stride. His feet got tangled. He fought to remain upright, but failed and stumbled forward. He landed on hands and knees. His knife had wormed its way loose of his grip and lay there, sharp and shiny on a mound of sand.
"Get up," I told him.
He raised his head to look at me. His eyes were like two lumps of coal and his jaw was a slab of painted concrete at the bottom of his face.
He made a feeble attempt at innocence. "Hey, what's with the gun, mister? I—"
"Shut up," I told him. "Raise your hands and step away from the knife."
He twisted his lips but did as he was told. When he was ten feet away, I told him to halt. Keeping the gun aimed at his chest, I crouched down, grabbed his knife, and hurled it into the water.
"Now move. Toward that shed there."
The shed was made up of planks of wood hammered together. It listed a bit to the left. The door was unlocked, and inside, taking about a third of the space, were stacks of folded beach chairs and other stuff I couldn't identify in the gloom. Some enterprising soul had recently painted the interior, but the smell of fresh paint did not fully overwhelm that of damp, slightly rotting wood. A small window faced the sea, and moonlight filtered through it. There was no electricity, but on a peg by the door hung a kerosene lamp. I told the man to step inside and hug one wall. Then, flicking a match with one hand, I lighted the lamp, adjusting the flame low to decrease the chance of its light being spotted, and shut the door.
"Turn around," I said.
He did and once more I saw the face from the ten-year-old picture. Had he stalked Esther much as he stalked me? If I hadn't told Greta that I was heading for the beach, which he would know would be empty of witnesses, maybe he would have jumped me on the street, or perhaps broken into my apartment in the dead of night.
"What's your name?" I asked.
When he didn't answer, I raised the gun from his torso to his head. He half-smiled with his lips clamped. He had cunning eyes.
"Yossi Cohen," he said.
"Why did you kill Esther Kantor and her baby?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Ten years ago, on Lunz Street. You butchered a woman and a baby and disfigured them."
"You must have me mixed up with someone else," he said, and he did not appear to be scared by the gun in my hand, though, so far, he had obeyed me.
"You don't seem too upset to be blamed for a murder you say you know nothing about," I said.
He shrugged. "I don't get upset easy."
"How did you know where to find me?"
He shrugged again. "Mister, I was out walking on the beach, minding my own business, when you drew a gun on me."
"Walking with a knife," I remarked.
"Knife?" He smiled. His teeth seemed to glint in the lamplight. "Where's my knife? I don't have a knife."
"You followed me from a café on Allenby. You were going to kill me."