Chapter Two
Silas drummed the heel of his boot on the rabbi’s hardwood floor. The echoes were short and sharp in the small room. He didn’t like leaving the car parked on the street away from him.
Not that Betty was in danger. He just felt nervous.
He asked, “So this isn’t a permanent solution?”
The rabbi’s office walls were lined with bookshelves. The shelves themselves were nearly invisible beneath their burden of scrolls and books. Light leaked in through a yellowish veil over the window, and from a green-shaded lamp squeezed between two bookcases in the corner. The ceiling was covered with dimpled, popcorn-style plaster. Somewhere in the house, someone was baking with cinnamon. The faint sound of violin playing drifted through the air.
A huge gray-skinned man stood mute in the door. His tousled black hair looked as if it had been taken from two different heads and sat ill at ease on his scalp, flowing in conflicting directions. He wore a black suit that barely fit across the shoulders and showed both wrists, staring into the hallway outside.
Rabbi Birnbaum shook his woolly head. His tiny, wrinkled face with thick lips and twinkling eyes was nearly crowded out by his gnarly white ear locks and beard. “Listen to me closely, Silas. I believe there is a permanent solution.”
The rabbi leaned over his heavy dark wood desk and clasped his hands together. Silas sat in a wooden slatted chair in front of the desk. The duffel sat on the floor beside him, with the leather scroll inside.
“I can’t wait until Judgment Day, Rabbi.”
“I’m not saying the only justice in this world is with Hashem.” The rabbi cracked a wry grin. “I’m not that kind of rabbi.”
“You’re a practical kabbalist,” Silas said. Rabbi Jacob Birnbaum himself had taught Silas those words. Birnbaum insisted that that did not mean that he was a magician, but as far as Silas could tell, the difference between a practical kabbalist and a wizard was that practical kabbalists didn’t eat bacon.
“Correct,” the rabbi said. “And I want to do justice in this life. It’s a mitzvah.”
Silas wasn’t sure what a mitzvah was, so he just nodded.
“You have an unusual challenge,” the rabbi said, “and I’m still looking for a permanent solution.”
Silas said, “So am I.”
Birnbaum nodded. “But in the meantime, I have a temporary fix for you. A painkiller, if you will, since I can’t remove the tumor.”
Tumor? Silas frowned.
The rabbi’s grin evaporated awkwardly. He knitted his fingers together and showed his square, yellowing teeth.
Silas wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. Was it hot in the room? “I could use a painkiller.”
The rabbi pushed a thin roll of paper across the desktop. “I only have the one,” he said. “It takes some time to produce. Be careful with it.”
Silas examined the roll. It was a strip, half an inch wide by six inches long, containing a single line of writing in the square characters he took to be Hebrew. The letters were written in a neat hand, and the ink was gold. “I can’t read this.”
Birnbaum chuckled. “You don’t have to read it. In fact, reading it wouldn’t do you any good.”
Silas frowned. “Then what do I do with it?”
“You eat the scroll.”
Silas snorted. He hoisted the duffel from the floor and set it on Birnbaum’s desk. “This one, I assume you don’t eat it. Whether you read it or not is up to you.”
Birnbaum slid the scroll from the duffel. He unrolled it a little for a better look. His eyes teared up as he gazed on the square characters. “I’ll read it.”
“What’s it do?” Silas asked.
“Do?” Birnbaum sniffed. “It doesn’t do anything. It’s…you know how the Samaritans have their own version of the Torah?”
“No,” Silas said.
“Different words in a few key passages, and they insist theirs is the original? And, who knows, they might be right. No?” Birnbaum shook his head. “Well, this is someone else’s version of the Torah. It’s a rare and ancient document. One of the rarest, maybe.”
“Whose Torah is it?” Silas had no great confidence in his own knowledge of the Bible. He’d sat through his share of Sunday School as a kid in Alabama, but he was pretty sure that words like “kabbalist” and “Torah” had never come up.
“The descendants of Cain.” The rabbi’s eyes gleamed. “Cast out for the sin of their father. Craftsmen and traders. Smiths. Compelled by the world to wander. Who knows what fascinating and important things they have to tell us?”
Silas nodded. “That’s great. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Thank you.”
“The scroll you gave me. I don’t read it, I eat it. I get that. But then what does it do?”
“It’s a painkiller,” the rabbi said. “For your sister.”
Silas found that his eyes were tearing up now. “Thank you. How long does it last?”
“Until sunset,” the rabbi told him. “But you should know that whatever pain your sister doesn’t feel will be borne by you instead.”
“I’ll feel all the pain?” Silas asked.
“Correct.”
“Good.” Silas nodded. “That’s how it should be. That’s how it should be all the time.”
Rabbi Birnbaum set the big scroll down. “Silas, not everything is your fault.”
“I didn’t say it was,” Silas agreed. “But some things are.”
“You’ve got to forgive yourself, Silas.”
Silas shook his head. “I’m not looking for forgiveness. Any special care I need to take of the scroll until I use it? Like, prayers to say or something? Incense?”
“Just don’t get it wet and it should be fine.”
Silas asked, “You can make more of these?”
“In time,” the rabbi said. “Can you wait around? No, no, what was I thinking, of course you can’t. Three days, wasn’t that what you said? Come back when you’re able, I’ll have more for you. And I’ll look for a permanent solution, too.”
“So will I.” Silas stood, jerked his thumb at the big guy standing in the doorway. “Does he ever talk?”
“He doesn’t,” the rabbi said.
The big guy groaned.
* * *
Silas stepped out into the bustle of Midwood, Brooklyn. The fresh spring air felt cool and comfortable on his face and the sun was shining, but the locals were bundled up as if shielding themselves from winter’s bite, the men in long black coats and black fur hats. The women all had long hair and long dresses, and many wore kerchiefs on their heads. Almost everyone had dark hair.
Silas felt like a sore thumb in his leather jacket, jeans, and blond hair. Patting the inside pocket of his jacket to be sure the scroll was safe, he turned and loped toward Flatbush Avenue, where he’d parked Betty. The weight of his pistol at the small of his back was reassuring.
Silas passed a bookstore with Hebrew letters in the window, and then a hatter, and then a grocery store. The grocery had loaves of bread in the window and Hebrew letters on the signboard, along with the word kashrus.
A phone rang.
Silas stopped and looked around. A narrow alley ran along the side of the grocery store, and at the mouth of the alley, a dented blue-and-silver pay phone was bolted to the wall.
The call was probably for him.
He felt tired. He could use a day of rest. Just a day wouldn’t be too much. In one day, the monster couldn’t overtake him.
On the other hand, that would be one day in which he wasn’t looking for a solution for Betty. For a cure. For a rescuer.
He took a deep breath and stepped over to the phone. It had lost several of the bolts holding it to the brick wall and hung askew, daring Silas to remove the last peg.
The phone rang again.
Silas picked up the receiver and shrugged it against his ear. “Danger.”
“I’ll say,” the bookie said.
It was an old joke, and neither one of them laughed. The “bookie” had nothing to do with gambling, and Silas had never met him. In fact, Silas couldn’t be certain that the bookie was human. The “bookie” was short for the “booking agent,” and the bookie had recruited Silas, shortly after Betty’s death. The bookie kept Silas in work, work that suited Silas’s peculiar situation, and the clients paid the bookie.
The bookie knew a spell or had a magical power or something. He always knew where Silas was, and could always call a pay phone in Silas’s immediate vicinity. It was a convenient trick, since Silas needed the bookie to give him work and he found himself on a lot of backroads and out-of-the-way places.
It was also a little creepy. If the bookie could find him at any time, who else could do the same?
The other half of the demon could, for starters. It always knew where to find him.
Silas also had a phone number he could use to call the bookie. It was a number that never required a dime. In fact, it was a number you could dial on a dead phone, a phone with no dial tone, and it would still work.
Silas said, “You’ve got a job for me.”
“You’ll be happy to know that Shagruk reports he is a satisfied customer,” said the bookie, whose voice was a warm baritone. “He would recommend our services to a friend, if asked.”
“Of course he’s satisfied.” Silas snorted. “I gave him the egg. Too bad Shagruk doesn’t actually have any friends to recommend our services to.”
“He could recommend us to other trolls,” the bookie said. “And, hey, that stunt with the mama snallygaster does have him a little peeved. He thought maybe it was personal.”
“I got nothing against Shagruk,” Silas grunted. “But if he had recommendations, I would take the work.”
“And he paid you?”
“Yeah.” Shagruk would also have paid a fee to the bookie, but Silas didn’t ask about that. It was the bookie’s problem.
“You gotta watch your ass when it comes to getting on the bad side of the pa-troll.”
“I warned them.”
“Yeah, well, he may be sore at you the next time around. Anyway, I’ve got a job for you.”
“I’ll be careful. What’s it pay?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“Nice,” Silas said. “Is that all? I’m not exactly saving for retirement.”
“Also something called the Lost Elegies of Ramchal.”
“Is that on the list?” Silas asked. The list contained a number of books and objects that were desired by Rabbi Birnbaum or other wizards, kabbalists, conjurors, and researchers. The list was a sort of shopping list, by means of which Silas obtained items he could trade to magicians to try to get their help.
So far, the wizards had been of limited assistance.
“It’s on the list,” the bookie said. “It’s one of Birnbaum’s. Ramchal is the rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto. I guess those guys all have nicknames that start with R because R is for rabbi.”
“Fine,” Silas said. Five thousand dollars plus a book the rabbi wanted was good pay. “What’s the job?”
The bookie said, “It’s courier work. You pick up the package today in Manhattan, deliver it Sunday night in San Francisco. Easy peasy. You can do that in your sleep, that gives you all week, Leadfoot.”
It was Tuesday. “Plenty of time,” Silas agreed. “Where in San Francisco?”
“Technically, not in San Francisco. Close to San Francisco. Miramar. I hear it’s a pretty place, right on the ocean. You’re taking the package to a house called Il Palazzo. In fact, that’s the whole address: Il Palazzo, Miramar.”
The name of the house sounded familiar, but Silas couldn’t quite put his finger on why. On the ocean in California, that probably meant it belonged to some Hollywood mogul or rock star. “What’s the package?”
“Just a little box. Two by three by five inches. Black wood, the client says, gold hinges, no markings.”
“Two by three by five inches?” Silas considered. “What’s inside? Short cigars? A watch?”
“What do I know?” The bookie snorted. “Could be my grandmother’s ashes, for all I know.” The bookie spoke with a hint of a New York accent when he was being sarcastic. “Could be jewelry. Precious stones. A pair of socks. A couple of eyeballs. You still have that item for the Bluesman? He was asking after you. He ain’t so happy and that’s bad for business.”
Silas changed the subject. “There must be a password for the exchange.”
“The handoff person will have the box sitting on a folded newspaper. You say, ‘I understand you’re looking for a new life.’”
“Oh, good,” Silas said. “So if I approach the wrong person with a black wooden box sitting on a newspaper, I get to sound like a cult leader.”
“As if anyone would mistake you for a Moonie. But you won’t approach the wrong person. You’re going to go to Nooper in the Bowery, you’ll be there at eight p.m. tonight, and it will be obvious who the handoff person is because everyone else will be a kid with safety pins poking through his lips or nose, and there will be one person with a folded newspaper and a black box.”
“Nooper?” Silas asked. “Is that the museum?”
“N.W.P.R.O.F.T.,” the bookie explained. “New Wave, Punk Rock, and Other Fine Tuneage. Nooper.”
“Right. The punk club.”
“It might do you good to hear a little rock and roll,” the bookie said. “You could unwind.”
“I hear plenty of rock and roll,” Silas countered. “Believe it or not, I hear almost nothing else. And I won’t unwind. Any other specifics about delivering the package in San Francisco?”
“I don’t have that information yet,” the bookie said. “They were just a little cagey. I’m supposed to get a call by Thursday, and I’ll give you the details when I have them. Do me a solid and don’t aggravate the highway pa-troll when you’re going back through Pennsylvania. You’re making your own luck, good and bad.”
“I won’t need to speed at all if I’ve got this much time to go cross-country.”
The bookie chuckled. “Just make sure you stop by a pay phone from time to time.”
“I do have to gas the car up.”
“Good. It’ll be an easy job.”
“It never is.” Silas hung up the phone.
He shuffled up the block to the avenue. His boots felt heavy, but the truth was a part of him looked forward to getting on the highway again. There was no escape, there was no permanent outrunning of the demon, but at ninety miles per hour on an interstate highway, Silas felt safe.
On the avenue, the population changed. There were still Jews in their coats and hats and kerchiefs, but here there also passed black and Chicano youth. Silas heard languages he didn’t know, that sounded like Russian and Spanish and German.
Three young men stood beside the GTO, wearing torn denim and white tank tops. The muscle car looked out of place on the Brooklyn street; the vehicles around it were battered Pintos and Datsuns, chipped and scratched. The GTO was sleek and red, with a black roof. It had not a scratch on it, despite all the rough-and-tumble driving Silas had done in the vehicle.
One of the young men, skinny and fidgeting, was trying to slide a metal strip down into the car door, alongside the window.
“Come on, Jazz! You tripping?” his heavyset buddy wearing a black beret urged him.
“Freaky deaky. It keeps popping back up!” Jazz snapped.
“Just break the window, Jazz.” The third young man glowered at traffic on the sidewalk, sending people scurrying around them. He was the tallest of the three and had broad shoulders and thick arms. His belt was pierced with squarish metal studs. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Silas. “What are you looking at, Shorty?”
“Don’t break the window,” Silas said. “It will only make you sad.”
“What’s making me sad,” the tall young man growled, “is not getting inside this car. So if my friend can’t get the lock open, I’ll do it myself.” He stooped and picked up a fist-sized chunk of asphalt. “But if you have the key, maybe you can save me the trouble.”
Silas said, “I have the key. That’s my car. Make good decisions, now.”
Jazz and the Heavyset Kid turned to stare, and Broad Shoulders raised his chunk of asphalt.
“So…no good decisions, then,” Silas said.
Broad Shoulders made to swing his chunk of pavement, but Silas was faster. He punched Broad Shoulders in the nose. He slapped the weapon from the thug’s hand and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. Blood streamed down the young man’s chin, splashing on Silas’s hands.
“Easy,” Silas said.
Heavyset Kid stepped forward, raising his fists, and Silas tossed Broad Shoulders into his path. When they landed on the sidewalk together, Heavyset Kid splayed his fingers wide on the concrete to catch himself.
Silas stomped on his hand, and Heavyset howled.
“Jazz, right?” Silas said to the third kid. “Is that your name?”
Jazz dropped his metal strip and ran.
Silas looked at the would-be car thieves falling over each other on the sidewalk. Was it his business to explain this life lesson to them?
He decided that it wasn’t, and got into the GTO. Betty’s engine fired to life with a comforting rumble as if saying she’d had it covered all along.