Part 30 (1/2)

Ari managed to drive us down to Market Street without causing an accident. He dropped me off at Fourth Street, then drove off to park the car in the public lot at Fifth and Mission. On Market, I hurried along the sidewalk, crowded with shoppers and workers on coffee breaks. As I pa.s.sed under the row of plane trees, I noticed that some of them had swollen buds on their branches, a promise of leaves.

In his old green parka and filthy slacks, Sarge stood in front of the slice of Roman bath otherwise known as the entrance to the Flood Building. A black-and-white patrol car sat at the curb. A uniformed officer was talking to Sarge, and from the way he'd shoved his pale pink face right into Sarge's dark brown one I suspected the worst. As I came up to them, I heard Sarge say, ”I told you, I'm waiting for a girl I know, and here she is now.”

The cop looked me over with a twisted scowl around his mouth. ”Yeah?” he said. ”Okay, then, you can both move along.”

He sauntered back to the patrol car. We walked up to the crosswalk that led over Market to Bloomingdale's.

”Am I glad to see you!” Sarge said. ”I got that letter for you.”

”You do? Where's the rabbi?”

”In San Francisco General. He's been back a few days, sick as a dog.”

”What's wrong with him?”

”The pneumonia, I'm betting. He told me that the flying saucer people dumped water on him, and he got a chill from it. Or something like that. He wasn't making much sense by then.”

”I guess not. How bad is it?”

”Real bad. Me and some of the boys got him down to Emergency last night. Finally. He didn't want to go, but he was coughing and spitting too hard for too long.”

The light changed. We worked our way through the crowd of pedestrians coming across. On the other side, I looked back. The squad car and its driver, that overexcited champion of Order, had left.

”Ain't no use standing around in front of this store,” Sarge jerked a thumb at Bloomingdale's. ”They got private heat to roust us.”

”Let's go down to Fifth,” I said.

”Good idea.”

We walked past the fancy indoor mall and around the corner under the scornful eyes of enormous fas.h.i.+on models, photographs, that is, three-times-life-size posters that covered the windows of the Westfield Building. Down on Fifth Street, we found a spot to talk by a loading dock, closed at the moment with a metal pull-down door. We stood in front of three normal-sized posters advertising gold jewelry. Out on the street, traffic snarled and honked. Pedestrians hurried by, glanced our way, then looked somewhere else fast.

Sarge reached under his parka and pulled out a beaten-up brownish envelope that had started life white. He handed it to me. I tried to say thanks but sobbed instead-just once. On the front it read ”for Nola O'Grady” in my father's handwriting.

”What's wrong?” Sarge said.

”I thought he was dead,” I said. ”My dad.”

”Jeezus!”

”Yeah.” I stuffed the letter into an inside pocket of the jacket. From another pocket, I brought out a twenty and a pack of cigarettes. ”Thanks.” I handed them over.

”Thank you.” Sarge grinned with a display of missing teeth. ”Aint you gonna open it?”

”Curious?”

”Real curious. Look, the rabbi wants to see you, too. If you want to see him, you better go down there right away. He's pretty bad off. He kept talking about wanting to see you and someone he called s.h.i.+ra's boy. Know who that is?”

”Not for sure, but maybe.”

”The rabbi told me that he went to Israel to look for s.h.i.+ra's boy but couldn't find him. So he came back here to give you the letter. I told him, no way you could get to Israel and back again. He didn't say nothing to that, and then the doctor made me leave, because they was going to X-ray him.”

I took the letter out of my pocket. I wanted to read it. I was afraid to read it. Finally, I got up my courage and tore off a corner so I could slit it open with a fingernail. When I took out the letter, Sarge caught his breath.

”That paper,” he said, ”looks like the c.r.a.p they give you inside.”

”Sure does, yeah,” I said.

Cheap wood pulp paper, lined, and the piece measured maybe four inches by six. At the top Dad had put a number-his number, I a.s.sumed, in whatever prison he was in. He'd covered every inch of the rest with tiny writing, except for one printed line at the bottom, which read ”Moorwood H Block 814 Inspected 77.”

”They sent him up, for sure,” I said. ”At least he's not dead.”

”What did he do?”

”Long story.” My hands began to shake.

”You read it.” Sarge took a step to put himself between me and the sidewalk, then turned his back to me. ”I'm too d.a.m.n nosy.”

I leaned against the cold damp stone of the wall behind me and read. ”Nola, I'll pray to every saint I can remember that you get this. They're letting Reb Ezekiel out without the StopCollar on, so maybe he can get back. I'm sending it to you because you're the one with the brains in our cursed family. Tell your mother I never meant to leave her and you kids. I didn't think they'd come that far-”

”Oh, s.h.i.+t!” Sarge said. ”That lousy undercover cop!”

I looked up and saw Ari striding down the sidewalk toward us. He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, but when I ran an SPP, I picked up annoyance, not rage.

”It's okay,” I said. ”Yeah, he's a cop, but he's one of my regular johns, too. I was supposed to meet him over on Market.”

”I hope the b.a.s.t.a.r.d pays you.”

”Yeah, he does. He's not one of those f.u.c.k me or get busted cops.” I stepped away from the wall. ”Hey, good-looking! Think you could give me a ride somewhere? Or are you on duty?”

”Off for the day,” Ari said. ”Where do you need to go?”

”San Francisco General. The rabbi sent me this letter, and he's in there with-” I glanced at Sarge.

”Pneumonia,” Sarge said. ”I hope you ain't gonna bust him for something.”

”No,” Ari said. ”There's no warrant out on him. That's what I was trying to tell you that day in the park.”

”Guess I should have listened. The way the rabbi freaked like that, I thought you was after him for sure.”

”A reasonable supposition,” Ari said. ”But wrong.”

”Look, Sarge,” I said. ”Thanks. I mean, jeez, really, thanks. I might have another twenty to give you later-” I glanced at Ari and raised an eyebrow. ”Like, an advance on what you're going to owe me, huh?”

Ari pulled out his wallet. ”Very well, but you'd better not run out on me now.”

”Nah. You're the only guy I, like, look forward to.”

Ari handed Sarge a twenty. ”I must admit,” he said, ”it gripes me to see a veteran like you out on the streets. What's wrong with this sodding country?”

”I kind of wonder myself,” Sarge said. ”Thanks.”