Gangsterland

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jeff Hopper loved Las Vegas. When he was still living in Walla Walla, he’d drive out to Pasco and pick up a flight to Las Vegas on a Friday afternoon and be playing blackjack at the Sahara by dinnertime. Sometimes he’d go with friends, but Jeff mostly preferred to go by himself. Once he settled in Chicago, his trips became less frequent, but he still managed to get out at least once a year. . except for this last year, which had been completely lost to him.

He had a whole system: He never stayed at a casino — which meant he ended up staying at some shitty hotels over the years, invariably called the Royal Plaza Inn — so that once he went off to bed, there was no temptation to play just one more hand. He always had a cheap steak dinner at the Barbary Coast’s Victorian Room. And, without fail, he always played a couple of hands at the Frontier, just to see if the Culinary Union was still on strike there, as they’d been since the early 1990s.

The hotel was a microcosm for just how terminally screwed up the city really was: Howard Hughes had purchased it, the Desert Inn, the Sands, and a handful of other casinos in the 1960s as part of his quest to clean the Mafia out of Las Vegas, only to turn those places into his own strange fiefdom. And then a few years after his death, the Frontier was sold to the Elardi family, who promptly gutted the casino, tried to bust the unions, and ended up with picketers for the better part of a decade. And no one even got killed in the process.

Now, though, four days after the Super Bowl Sunday raid on Kochel Farms, as he drove away from the Strip toward the tony suburb of Summerlin — a place built by the Howard Hughes Corporation, too, in the ultimate coup de grace for old Las Vegas — Jeff couldn’t help thinking it was better back then because the Mafia would never have put a Gilley’s in the Frontier. The idea of a mechanical bull on the Strip as absurd as the giant sword of Excalibur jutting into the sky, or the laser beam from the top of the Luxor. Hard to imagine Frank, Dean, and Sammy doing their show in a glowing pyramid. Of course, the Mafia was still operating out here, they just couldn’t afford to run the casinos anymore.

Not the big ones, anyway. There were a few silent partners still involved with the sportsbooks, though the FBI was content to keep their eyes averted since they weren’t breaking tourists’ legs or getting involved in point shaving (at least not as obviously as they used to), and there was some decent grift going on with the prevalence of video poker machines in every bar and restaurant in town. All victimless crimes. No one seemed to be running to the FBI to complain they’d lost at video poker.

The Mafia in Las Vegas these days was all about secondary markets: the booming construction business that had spoked out in every direction from the Strip; the warehouse-size strip clubs that promised huge cash hauls on a nightly basis; the resort drug trade of ecstasy, coke, and pills. They didn’t bother with the hard stuff or the easy stuff, leaving the heroin, crack, and weed to the Bloods and Crips, who mostly operated out of the slums of North Las Vegas.

The strange thing about Las Vegas, the part that Jeff really loved, was that the local press treated everyone with an Italian name who got nicked for a crime like they were John Gotti. The front page of both the Review-Journal and the Sun this week ran a huge story on someone named Bennie Savone, a local hood who wasn’t even connected to a family, just running his own crew out of a strip club in town called the Wild Horse, who’d apparently overseen a series of wholesale beatings and shakedowns of his customers, plus some run-of-the-mill credit card scams. Jeff hadn’t bothered to read the whole story — it was bush-league stuff. That was the thing about open cities like Las Vegas: If you were criminal minded, no one was going to tell you what you couldn’t do, particularly if you were good for the ecosystem, and that included the local media. What else were they going to report on?

Las Vegas had always been the second home for the crime families, with the Chicago crews running huge swatches of the city for decades before eventually receding into the background through the unions, particularly the Teamsters and Culinary Union, though with the corporatization of the casinos, they simply weren’t as prevalent anymore. Turns out, not even the Mafia can muscle an entire corporation.

Not as prevalent, however, didn’t mean gone. Which is why Jeff was in Las Vegas in the first place. The delivery trucks that exited from Kochel Farms on that night the previous April had gone all over the country — as far east as Vermont, as far west as California, but nothing south of Missouri, which made sense considering how the Kansas City crews still had so much influence in the steak world — but the largest concentration was in Nevada and California, home to countless hotels and steak houses. There were only a few probable locations, based on where there was actual organized crime taking place and where the trucks had stopped, at least according to their logs, which could have been falsified.

“You think Cupertine is living inside a Sizzler?” Matthew said to Jeff on the phone the morning after the raid, after Agent Poremba was able to get the trucking information Jeff had requested.

“Someone saw him,” Jeff said. “I know it. That’s enough to get us moving in the right direction.”

“What about the drivers?”

“We can’t get to them yet,” Jeff said. “They’ve got no reason to speak to you and me. In a week, maybe the FBI will pick them up, but what will they say? They’ll be lawyered up long before any questioning.”

“Maybe one of them has a conscience,” Matthew said. “Could be waiting the week is the way to do it. What’s the hurt in waiting?”

“Because this is ours, Matthew,” Jeff said. “This is what we’ve been working toward. And it’s what I’m paying you for.” Matthew sighed on the other end of the line. He was still in Walla Walla; Jeff was still in Chicago, sitting at Midway, waiting to figure out where he was going to fly to. “We can only make a dent if we do this separately.”

“This is about that night at the Four Treys. You don’t trust me anymore,” Matthew said.

“I don’t trust us together,” Jeff said.

“You know the bureau would have given Fat Monte a deal,” Matthew said. “Would that have been better?”

“His wife is showing some signs she might come out,” Jeff said.

“So, what, she can have Ronnie Cupertine toss her into Lake Michigan? She’s better off staying in a coma the rest of her life.”

“If she can talk,” Jeff said, “we’d have another chip in this. We have a week to get something solid, and if that happens, it’s all yours. I’m done.”

“That’s a big if,” Matthew said.

“It’s what we’re left with.”

“What’s your hunch?” Matthew asked.

Kochel Farms had over a hundred accounts in Nevada — sixty-nine in Las Vegas, seventeen in Reno, another dozen in Tahoe, another seven in Carson City — and over a hundred and fifty in California — thirty-two in the San Francisco Bay Area, seventy-five in and around Los Angeles, twenty in Palm Springs, and then a few more spread out in San Diego, the California side of Tahoe, and Silicon Valley.

Jeff examined the list of businesses: Kochel Farms trade was in either supplying high-quality meats — prime rib, porterhouse steaks, and the like — or low-quality meats — ground beef, rump roasts — so they worked with high-class hotels and pricey restaurants, but also with schools, ethnic meat markets, and crappy burger stands.

There was no way they’d stick Cupertine in Tahoe, he’d be too obvious, and the Mafia there was like a boutique business these days, mostly running low-level slot machine scams, the odd bit of prostitution, the occasional loan sharking business. Too family-oriented. No room for tough guys. And no one out there could afford whatever Ronnie’s asking price would have been.

He had to be strategic about this.

“I know Las Vegas,” Jeff said, “so I’ll start there, then move up to Reno. You ever spent any time in L.A.?”

“I went to Disneyland when I was eleven,” Matthew said. “So I could stake out the Haunted Mansion if you think that will help.”

“What about Palm Springs?”

“My grandparents have a time-share,” he said. “You think the Bonannos bought Cupertine and he’s calling bingo numbers now? Is that our best shot?”

“It’s not impossible,” Jeff said.

“You have some metric on how to approach this list of places?”

“One by one sounds like the only way, starting with any places that have strong old-school union or criminal ties, people who still might be willing to do a favor for the Family or who might actually need someone like Sal Cupertine,” Jeff said. “We need to shoe-leather this, Matthew. Hand out photos. Talk about the people he killed. Get anyone who might be scared of talking feeling comfortable that they’ll be protected.”

“Will they?” Matthew asked. Then: “Will I? Because that’s a question I have.”

“I know,” Jeff said.

“I want to live a long life, and I don’t want to spend all of it looking over my shoulder if we somehow muck this up.”

“Look,” Jeff said, “after this, you’re done. Okay? I’ll pay you your whole nut, and we’ll consider it a done deal, with or without Cupertine.”

Matthew didn’t say anything for a moment, and Jeff assumed the kid would say no, no, he was in for the long haul, that this was his obsession, too, and that he’d chase this white whale around perdition’s flames if need be. Instead he said, “Okay.”

Now, three days after that conversation, Jeff merged onto the Summerlin Parkway feeling no closer to Sal Cupertine and farther away from Las Vegas in general. He’d spent the last days working the Strip, Downtown, the joints clustered around UNLV, then down into Green Valley and Henderson, and it was, frankly, depressing. Sometime in the last few years, the Las Vegas he remembered had turned both into a place to bring the family — the number of people he saw pushing strollers down the Strip was truly appalling — and a place to descend into absolute, opulent, asshole-fueled debauchery. $3.99 prime rib had been replaced by $100 artisan burgers. The strip clubs were essentially legalized prostitution, twenty-four hours a day, twenty bucks to get a girl to bounce on your lap for five minutes at a time. And inside every restaurant or bar or casino or strip club, there was a group of five or ten unsmiling guys trying to look tough, wearing too much cologne and jewelry, calling cocktail girls “bitch” and tossing money at them, like they were acting out characters in a movie.

He hit several of the big old-school hotels — Circus Circus, the Sahara — some that probably had contracts with Kochel Farms dating back twenty years and which historically had strong ties to the old Culinary Union, places that might still stand up and take notice if Ronnie Cupertine needed something. But the people he met in food service there were in their twenties and early thirties and were mostly Mexican; the managers were fresh-faced corporate types, guys who’d shit themselves if someone stuck a gun in their face or would just call the cops if someone tried to shake them down. If someone higher up came down to the loading dock to pick up some gangster out of the back of a truck, there’d be fifty witnesses, none of whom would likely be willing to put their own life on the line for fifteen bucks an hour. Plus, the level of security was astounding: Cameras and armed private security guards were everywhere. The casinos were, after all, just giant banks when it came right down to it.

The newer luxury hotels that had contracts with Kochel Farms — the Monte Carlo, the MGM, the Bellagio, even the revamped Caesars — barely even let Jeff in the door, which didn’t make it likely that they off-loaded a hit man, either, and the restaurants inside them were all corporate jobs for the most part, none of them connected to any known crime figures.

He hit up the bars and the dives and the mom-n-pop joints on the list, and the reaction he got was the same each time, usually some variation on, “Why the fuck would we be hiding that guy? Get the fuck out of my business.” He event went off the map a few times, rolling into venerable (and reputed Mafia) businesses like the Venetian, the twenty-four-hour pasta spot over on Sahara, and Piero’s over by the Convention Center, just to get the feel for the city again, listen in on conversations, that sort of thing, but all he heard were tourists quoting The Godfather while they ordered dessert.

And now Summerlin, Howard Hughes’s landgrab that had turned twenty-five thousand acres of scrub desert into high-end suburbia, replete with private golf courses, McMansions, man-made lakes, and millions of dollars’ worth of plastic surgery patients. Hughes wanted to rid Las Vegas of organized crime, and he did a pretty good job of it. But he’d replaced one kind of criminal with elements just as immoral and ruthless: real estate developers and elective surgery outlets.

Jeff exited on Buffalo, then headed west on Vegas Drive and then up Hillpointe, past gated developments with names like Adagio, Cielo Vista, and Painted Shadow Canyon, signs for the TPC golf course and vacant lots that promised “unique, timeless homes at exclusive members’ pricing!” Jeff couldn’t help but think of Paul Bruno.

There were six places in and around Summerlin Jeff needed to visit today, and he figured he’d knock the easiest one out first — the cafeteria at the Tikvah Preschool and Dorothy Copeland Children’s Center at Temple Beth Israel — before going to a bar called Bananaz, a couple delis, a new resort in Summerlin, and then two different country clubs.

The idea that a private preschool might need its own meat distributer seemed absurd on the face of things, until Jeff saw the sprawling campus of Temple Beth Israel unfold in front of him. On one side of the street was the temple, with a lattice-work of adjoining buildings and green spaces forming a crescent against the road. Aside the crescent of completed buildings was another series of buildings — the signs said it was a private K–12 school called the Barer Academy — which looked to be about 80 percent finished and which at the moment was filled with construction workers.

On the other side of the street was a funeral home, a cemetery, and even more construction — a learning center and another park that promised tennis courts and an aquatic center by 2001. Jeff thought of Paul Bruno again — a guy like him could have made a billion dollars selling real estate in Las Vegas.

Jeff parked in the temple’s lot and gathered up his materials — a notepad, a pen, a stack of photos of Sal Cupertine, his cell phone, and his gun, but then thought better of it and stuffed the gun in the glove box of his rented Pontiac, figuring that bringing a gun into a house of worship that was also filled with kids was a bad idea. No need to court anxiety and trouble where it wasn’t needed, particularly not for an exercise that would probably be over in ten minutes or less. The bars and delis, well, those he’d come strapped in. You never knew who was hiding in the back of those places.

He walked through the temple, poked his head into their little Judaica shop, which was well stocked but didn’t seem to have anyone actually working in it, and then made his way down a long hall to the temple’s administrative office. . where he sat for fifteen uncomfortable minutes, waiting for someone with a little authority to come and speak with him, since the receptionist was no help whatsoever. It was nine thirty in the morning. If he wanted to get everything done that he planned for the day, he’d need to bounce in another fifteen minutes, come back the next day, or just cross it off the list as cleared.

He’d shown the receptionist, a woman in her late fifties named Esther, several photos of Sal Cupertine, and she hadn’t recognized him, and she said she’d been there every weekday for the last three years, except for holidays and when she went on vacation to the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego.

“Rabbi Cohen should be here any minute now,” Esther said.

“Is Rabbi Cohen the only person who can take me over to the cafeteria?”

“Oh, yes,” Esther said. “We have very strict rules about strangers coming onto the campus during school hours. Rabbi Cohen or Rabbi Kales must be with you at all times, for safety purposes. We can’t very well have strangers with the children, you understand.”

“Is Rabbi Kales in?”

“Oh, no, he’s out ill. Rabbi Cohen should be here any moment now,” she said, a touch too sternly for Jeff’s taste. “A cup of coffee would probably make the time pass faster, that’s what I’ve always found.”

“Okay, thank you,” Jeff said. Esther stepped away then, so Jeff got up and looked out the window to the construction going on across the street. What a strange combination of facilities: a funeral home and a Jewish cemetery surrounded by an aquatic center, tennis courts, and, at least according to the signs, a performing arts center. The entire circle of life on one street.

“Can I help you?”

Jeff turned around. Standing in the doorway was a man in an expensive black suit, a thick salt-and-pepper beard, glasses, close-cropped black hair that showed just a hint of gray at the temples, a black yarmulke on the back of his head. He was maybe six foot, lean in the body but had some weight in his face, like maybe he ate a few too many cookies. Jeff guessed he was in his forties.

“I’m waiting for Rabbi Cohen,” Jeff said.

The man cocked his head, like he hadn’t quite heard him. “Did you have an appointment?”

“No,” Jeff said. “I’m actually here on some sensitive business that I hoped to discuss with him.” He stepped back over to the uncomfortable chair and gathered up his materials. “I’m actually wondering if anyone here has seen this man.” He handed the man a photo of Sal Cupertine. He stared at it for just a moment, then handed it back.

“I didn’t get your name,” the man said.

“Jeff Hopper,” he said, and he extended his hand.

“Rabbi David Cohen,” the man replied, though instead of shaking Jeff’s hand, he clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m afraid I’ve just come back from a funeral, so my hands are covered in dirt.”

“Oh, of course, right,” Jeff said. It was one of the few things Jeff knew about Jewish funerals: Everyone threw dirt on the casket. It was both touching and a little creepy, though of course someone had to bury the dead. What must it be like for this man, Jeff wondered, who had to throw dirt on the graves of people every day? What must it be like to be so intimate with death? Jeff wasn’t a religious man, so he never gave much thought to people like priests and rabbis, never considered that when it all came down to the end of things, they were always there to handle the worst of it. How do you not take that home with you at night? Four people had died because of Jeff’s actions — or his inactions, anyway — and he wore their memories like chain mail. And then there was Paul Bruno. . and Fat Monte. . and who knew what the hell would happen to Fat Monte’s wife, a still-living vegetable?

“I can come back,” Jeff said, because suddenly he realized just how fruitless it was to be at Temple Beth Israel, of all places, bothering this rabbi.

“No, it’s fine,” Rabbi Cohen said. He smiled then, but only half of his mouth seemed to work just right. Like maybe he’d had a minor stroke at some point.

Esther returned with a cup of coffee and the morning’s Review-Journal under one arm. “Rabbi Cohen, this nice man has been waiting to speak with you,” she said.

“Of course,” Rabbi Cohen said. He gave Esther that same crooked smile. No, it wasn’t a stroke, Jeff decided. The guy just didn’t seem comfortable smiling. “Why don’t you take Mr. Hooper to my office while I wash up. Is that fine with you, Mr. Hooper?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Jeff said. “And it’s Hopper, not Hooper.”

“Of course,” Rabbi Cohen said. There was that smile again. There was something funky about his teeth, too, Jeff thought, like maybe his bite was off, his teeth not quite matching up. “And Esther, if you could do me a small favor,” Rabbi Cohen continued, “if you could run down to the Bagel Café and pick up an order of lox for Rabbi Kales and take it to his house, I would appreciate it. I was to bring him lunch this afternoon, but this morning has been a trying one, as you can imagine, with Mrs. Goldfarb, and I thought we’d close the offices until this afternoon’s funeral.”

“Oh, yes, Rabbi Cohen,” she said. “I’ll do that right away.” She nodded solemnly, like the rabbi had just asked her to put down his dog. This was not a world Jeff understood, clearly.

The rabbi excused himself then, so Jeff followed Esther down the hall to a small, neat office. It had chest-high bookcases lining one wall, the books all spine out and at the front edge of the shelf, not a single one out of place. There was a wide oak desk that faced the door, a high-backed black leather chair behind it, two less-comfortable-looking chairs in front of it. There was a window behind the desk, too, and it was open just a crack, and Jeff could hear the sound of children playing nearby. Recess, probably.

On the other side of the office, there was a large dry-erase calendar filled with events affixed to the wall — Jeff could only guess what the Valentine’s Day Kugel Off! might possibly entail, never mind the Y2K&U talk that was scheduled for the end of the month — and beneath it was a wooden cabinet topped with a few knickknacks: a teacup and saucer, a framed diploma from a rabbinical school on a metal stand, a menorah. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

Esther set Jeff’s cup and newspaper on the edge of the desk.

She kneaded her hands together in what appeared to be honest worry.

“Esther, are you okay?” Jeff asked.

“Rabbi Cohen has never entrusted me with an errand before. It’s a big step. He didn’t specify if he wanted bagels as well and I certainly don’t want to assume, since you know what that does!”

“I say go ahead and get the bagels,” Jeff said. “Who was ever upset to get a bagel, even if they didn’t ask for one?”

This brightened Esther considerably. “That’s an excellent point.” She patted Jeff on the knee. “Thank you. That’s such a wonderful way of looking at the world.”

After Esther left him in the rabbi’s office, Jeff tried to imagine what it would feel like to have bagels be the weight of your world.

He’d give the rabbi ten minutes, and then he’d head off to Michelangelo’s Deli, one of the more promising locations on his list for the day, since Jeff had never known an Italian deli that wasn’t hiding something. The joint was an old Las Vegas establishment dating from the 1960s that had just opened a new storefront in a strip mall on Lake Mead and Rock Springs. Their old location, across from the Commercial Center on Sahara, was one of those places Jeff used to like to visit when he came to gamble, since they weren’t exactly hiding the fact that there was something other than meats being served, at least not with the number of guys in sweat suits who kept walking in and out of the kitchen counting cash.

Jeff picked up the newspaper and examined the articles. Russian astronauts were going to point giant mirrors at the sun, which would then bounce light onto parts of the Earth for a few minutes. Questions were being raised by a recent spate of U.S. bombings of Iraq. The president of Chechnya announced his country would now be ruled under sharia law. Jeff flipped to the local news section. Construction on the spaghetti bowl to snarl traffic for weeks. $75 million wagered on super bowl, casinos rake in $2.9 million in profits. Local plastic surgeon presumed dead. And then there was a photo of that Bennie Savone character again, this time next to a column by Harvey B. Curran, the mob’s own town gossip:

The street is still buzzing about jiggle-joint operator Bennie Savone getting nicked on conspiracy charges related to the beatdown two of his bouncers gave Lewis McDonald, 42, a dentist from Nebraska, that left the tooth-man paralyzed and missing an eye. The indictment is sealed, but word is that Savone ordered video from the club’s security system destroyed, then sent a friend over to Ace’s Pawn to see about acquiring their tapes. All this after offering the family of McDonald serious seven-figure cash in hopes of keeping them quiet on the criminal front and forestalling what would likely be a crippling civil suit against his gentleman’s club, The Wild Horse. The feds are also closing in on Savone for what one source says are “credit card irregularities,” which might be anything these days, but if you’ve ever been to the Wild Horse, you know that a glass of water costs $10, $100 if you want ice. Savone’s got pit bull legal eagle Vincent Zangari on the case, so he’s surely been told to “keep his mouth closed” and that “he’s got rights,” but that might not keep the feds from taking a closer look at some of the sweetheart construction contracts Savone has made on both sides of the Strip. Savone hasn’t found any trouble over the course of last decade, so it’s a good chance he’ll be back in no time for his weekly brunch at the Bagel Café with his father-in-law, Rabbi Cy Kales, to talk about the expansion of Temple Beth Israel, Savone Construction Partners’ ambitious project in Summerlin. For wiseguys like Bennie Savone, “no time” to the feds usually means 60 days until they’ll get around to setting a bond.

Jeff sat there for a moment and tried to reread the column. His heart was beating so hard that he wasn’t quite able to focus on the words. Jeff had never heard of Bennie Savone prior to arriving in Las Vegas. It was impossible not to know about the Wild Horse, since they had advertising all over the city — on top of cabs, inside the weekly rags, guys wearing Wild Horse T-shirts walking up and down the strip and handing out flyers that promised “the most Wild ride in town”—and the club itself was the size of a football field. . a football field covered in topless women, no less.

All the words in the column were ones Jeff knew, but he’d never seen them put together before. A wiseguy. A strip club. A rabbi. A temple. It was like the beginning of a bad joke. It was also the first time since last April that Jeff Hopper felt like Sal Cupertine was anywhere near his grasp. He didn’t know how the dots connected yet, didn’t have even the faintest idea how it had come to pass, but what he did know was simple and tangible: Last April, on the same night Sal Cupertine killed four men in the Parker House in Chicago, a truck departed Kochel Farms and ended up at Temple Beth Israel in Las Vegas, maybe fifty yards from where Jeff was sitting, seven days later. That was a fact. It was also, apparently, a fact that one of Temple Beth Israel’s rabbis was the father-in-law of a reputed wiseguy named Bennie Savone, who, if the gossip column was to be believed, was spearheading the development of the temple’s sprawling campus.

There was nothing illegal with that, at least not on the face of things. Nor was there anything illegal in getting meat delivered, though Jeff wondered when Temple Beth Israel had begun to use Kochel Farms. In fact, there was no proof yet that this Savone guy had done anything wrong, though legitimate businessmen didn’t usually let their local newspapers call them wiseguys.

Jeff stood up and looked out the window. He could see the parking lot, a bit of a playground that was filled with children now, and then, in the distance, tractors moving land, maybe thirty construction workers in the midst of various tasks, a water tank, and acres of undeveloped land that hadn’t even been graded yet. How much did this kind of development cost? Millions. Multi-millions. Where was that money coming from? And how would Sal Cupertine fit into this? Or was he buried underneath that high school? There was that, too, he supposed. He needed to find out from Agent Poremba all he could on Bennie Savone and how the hell he ended up married to the daughter of a rabbi. The local Las Vegas boys would know more than Poremba, but it wasn’t like he could just walk into the field office anymore. He was little more than a rent-a-cop at this point. Then he’d call Matthew, get him to drive up from Palm Springs, only four hours south, and start getting eyes on this temple.

“Beautiful view, isn’t it?”

Jeff startled at the sound of Rabbi Cohen’s voice, turned, and saw that the rabbi was standing directly behind him, just inches away. The office door was closed. Christ. When had he walked in?

“The construction?” Jeff said.

“No,” Rabbi Cohen said, “the children playing.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose it is,” Jeff said.

“But they can be a bit loud.” Rabbi Cohen reached past Jeff, slid the window closed, then closed the thick brown curtains, too, descending the office into half-light. “Please, have a seat, and I’ll see if I can help you.”

Jeff sat down. He needed to settle his thoughts, take this point by point. There was nothing here yet, just some words in a newspaper article. He needed to be meticulous, as ever. “Right,” Jeff said, mostly for himself. He took the photos of Sal Cupertine back out of his notebook and set them on the rabbi’s desk, next to the newspaper. “As I said, I’m looking for this man. Have you seen him?”

“And who are you?” the rabbi said.

“A private consultant for the FBI,” Jeff said. It was a mouthful. And not one that Jeff particularly cared for.

“What does that mean?”

“I’m working on a special project for them,” Jeff said.

“They don’t have enough agents?”

“Not for this, no,” Jeff said.

“There seem to be quite a few agents in Las Vegas,” Rabbi Cohen said. He pointed at the newspaper, which was still open to the column about Bennie Savone. “If what Mr. Curran in the Review-Journal says is to be believed, at any rate.” Rabbi Cohen picked up the photos of Sal Cupertine then and carefully looked at each one. “He doesn’t look familiar, I’m afraid,” he said eventually.

“He would have been here in April,” Jeff said. He flipped through his paperwork. “The twenty-second, to be exact.”

“Doing what?” Rabbi Cohen said.

“We’re not sure,” Jeff said. “But there’s some indication he might have been transported via the company who delivers meat to your cafeteria. Kochel Farms.”

“And what did he do that he needed to escape inside of a meat truck?”

“He murdered three federal agents and a confidential informant,” Jeff said.

“Oh, I think I read about this,” Rabbi Cohen said. “In Detroit, wasn’t it?”

“Chicago,” Jeff said.

“I see,” Rabbi Cohen said. “And it’s your belief he is now standing in our cafeteria, waiting for you?”

“No,” Jeff said. “It’s my belief he went from here to somewhere else, but I’d like to talk to your staff and see if they recognize him, remember any details about the day in question.”

“This man,” the rabbi said. “Does he have a name?”

“Sal Cupertine,” Jeff said.

“Oh,” Rabbi Cohen said. “Now I understand.” He picked up the newspaper and spent a few moments looking at the article about Bennie Savone. “This is the only city in America where it’s illegal to be Italian, apparently. As you can imagine, Rabbi Kales is sickened about all of this. That’s the father of his grandchildren and the husband of his only child that this. . this. . golem. . is libeling.”

“If he’s innocent,” Jeff said, “he has nothing to worry about.”

Rabbi Cohen opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pair of silver scissors and began to cut the story out of the newspaper. “Talmud says that there are those who gain eternity in a lifetime, others who gain it an hour,” he said, and he continued cutting up the story until it was little more than confetti, then he very carefully scooped the pieces up and dumped them in his trash can. “How long do you think an article in a newspaper lasts?”

“Bennie Savone is not my business,” Jeff said.

“And yet here you are,” Rabbi Cohen said.

Rabbi Cohen tented his hands together at the fingertips but didn’t speak for a moment. Jeff couldn’t quite place the inflection in the rabbi’s voice, couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or intrigued or simply bored. He didn’t seem surprised by the appearance of someone working for the FBI, which most people are, and that seemed odd. The more he stared at the rabbi, the more Jeff also got the sense that maybe he’d been in some kind of accident, because the skin on his neck and along his hairline seemed slick. Not like he’d had a facelift, exactly, but like he’d had something reconstructed. Maybe he’d been attacked by a dog or something. That would account for the weird way his mouth wouldn’t quite wrap around a smile. And then there was the way his beard didn’t quite connect with his sideburns. . must have been an accident, maybe a burn? It was impossible to tell what the skin around his mouth looked like under his thick beard.

“You’re wondering about my face,” Rabbi Cohen said.

“I’m sorry?” Jeff said, because he didn’t know what to say.

“I see you looking at my face,” Rabbi Cohen said, “trying to figure what’s wrong with it. It’s all right. You’re not the first person. Turns out children frequently have the same question.”

“I apologize,” Jeff said. “I just. .”

Rabbi Cohen waved him off. “No need,” he said. “You can’t be more candid than you are with your own face, now can you? Talmud tells us that we cannot expect the Torah to live in only the most beautiful people. Eventually even the best wine spoils in gold chalices.” He tried to smile again. “Well, in light of everything, Mr. Hopper, I’m afraid that I can’t let you search our grounds without a warrant. While I trust your intentions are pure, you’ll pardon me for not trusting the FBI right now.”

“I’m not an FBI agent,” Jeff said.

“Then you’re just trespassing,” Rabbi Cohen said, “and I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“This is how you want to do it?” Jeff said. “You want twenty guys in here tomorrow? That’s what you want?”

“If you’d like,” Rabbi Cohen said, “I’m happy to take you on a tour of our public facilities. Show you that all we’re hiding here is dirt and sand. And if tomorrow you come back with a warrant, Temple Beth Israel will be happy to let you do as much searching as you’d like.”

Jeff knew one thing for certain: Poremba wasn’t going to be able to get a warrant to start searching a temple in twenty-four hours. He’d be lucky to ever get one. And Jeff wouldn’t be in on the search even if they did. Tomorrow, he and Matthew would do this on their terms.

Jeff stood up. “Show the way, Rabbi.”