Gangsterland

CHAPTER SEVEN

For the first two weeks of December, Rabbi David Cohen woke up each morning at 5 a.m. and ran a few miles on the treadmill while listening to a series of Hebrew language tapes. Rabbi Kales gave him the tapes the day after David took out Slim Joe. David had gone into the office that Monday morning, as he was ordered to do, and Rabbi Kales began saying things to him in Hebrew, and when David didn’t respond, he stopped and examined David’s books, which David still hadn’t completely unpacked, and pulled out a slim workbook titled Modern Hebrew for Children.

“You didn’t read this?” Rabbi Kales asked.

“I tried,” David said.

“What do you mean you tried? You’ve read a hundred books; you’ve read most of the Midrash! And you only tried to read this?”

David didn’t think he could learn another language. He’d read the first ten or fifteen pages, about the alphabet and phraseology so that kids could figure out how to say prayers and maybe prime them for their bar mitzvahs, and it just wouldn’t stick. He’d never had any facility with Italian, either, though he thought that had more to do with his mother. After his dad was thrown off the building, she didn’t let anyone speak Italian in the house, said it was the sound of his father’s stupidity and malice, the sound that had left her a widow, the sound that left her to raise a son alone.

“I’m not good with other languages,” David said. “You’re in America, speak English, that’s my opinion. Otherwise, get the fuck out.”

“Your xenophobia is lovely,” Rabbi Kales said, and when David didn’t respond, he added, “Only Jews speak Hebrew, and even then, in America, not a great many. But a rabbi who doesn’t know passable Hebrew is like a fish that cannot swim.”

Rabbi Kales gave him a series of cassettes, narrated by what sounded like an entire city of thousand-year-old Jews; he told David it was important for him not just to learn the words, but also to get familiar with the voices.

At first, David couldn’t find the thread of the talks — the accents were too pronounced — and sometimes he couldn’t tell if the person speaking was a man or a woman, their voices so thick with age all he could hear was syllables. It wasn’t until he realized that whenever they spoke he started to run faster, began to sprint, that it all made sense: He couldn’t understand them because he didn’t want to hear what they were saying.

Knowing that Rabbi Gottlieb had been tortured just a few feet away from where he was attempting to learn Hebrew began to bug him, which is what got David to start jogging outside.

Out in nature — in the re-created nature of his gated community — with hills and curves and stones in the road and 7 Series BMWs blocking part of the communal sidewalk, which David was sure was against the HOA rules, he found himself forced to concentrate more on his own footfalls than what was coming into his ears, and the result was that he began to hear the stories, began to understand the old voices, began not to be creeped out by them.

It was beneficial, the tapes and jogging out in public, Rabbi Kales telling him how he needed to get integrated into society, to not fear his congregants, to start acting like a rabbi, particularly with the holidays coming up, where he’d be asked to take on a more interactive role. Since killing Slim Joe, he’d spent most of his time getting schooled by Rabbi Kales at the temple, meeting a few people here and there, learning functional Hebrew directly from Rabbi Kales and the tapes. It was hard, particularly since Rabbi Kales had him learning two new languages: Hebrew and what the rabbi called “dignified language,” which basically meant he wasn’t allowed to swear anymore. At least not out loud.

While he jogged, he’d talk back to the tapes, which meant he did little more at first than nod at the other joggers he encountered, or the people rolling into their homes after the conclusion of their 9 p.m.–5 a.m. shifts at the hotel (or casino or strip club or wedding chapel or wherever else all these people seemed to flow in from), the neighborhood as busy at 5 a.m. as it was at 5 p.m. The town kept meth hours, which was unnerving. David had spent so much time over the last fifteen years doing work in the dark that he’d become comfortable alone in the shadows. Here, everyone moved under the cover of darkness. It made David feel unbalanced. Or more unbalanced, anyway.

So he shouldn’t have been surprised when at five thirty in the morning on the first day of Hanukkah, he came around the corner of Pebble Beach Way, heading toward Sawgrass Street, and found a man in a suit standing there. He was about David’s size — a little over six foot, fit, but not overly so — but looked to be a decade up on David in age. The first thing David thought was that he was a fed. He reminded himself he wasn’t supposed to be paranoid, that no one in Las Vegas was looking for him, and that he didn’t look like Sal anymore, a fact that surprised David every time he looked in the mirror, particularly now that he had a full beard speckled with bits of gray.

Still, his first inclination was to snap the guy’s neck and keep moving. There was something wrong with this idea, David now understood, even if it seemed simpler than whatever was going to come next.

The man approached him without any trepidation, already talking, though David couldn’t hear him over the cassette he was listening to. The man didn’t appear to have a gun, or handcuffs, or any kind of walkie-talkie or a cell phone, and was standing next to an idling Mercedes. Not even the best fed got to roll in a Mercedes, so David removed his headphones and tried to look surprised and not murderous while still maintaining enough distance that, if need be, he could act on whatever volition he had. Not paranoid. But not a fucking pussy, either.

“Sorry, sorry,” the man said. “I didn’t see you had phones on.” He extended his hand, and David shook it. “Jerry Ford. Like the president, except I’ve got all my hair, at least for now.”

David didn’t respond. He was trying to figure out why this man had been lying in wait for him. He looked vaguely familiar in the same way people in dreams look vaguely familiar.

“I live right here,” Jerry said, when the pause became awkward, “and have been meaning to come out and chat with you. Seen you every morning and just didn’t make the connection before. Sort of expected the whole mishegas with the crap hanging off of your clothes and whatnot.”

The butter-yellow house was three blocks from David’s, and the Mercedes — a butter-yellow convertible — registered, too.

“Not crap,” Jerry kept on, “never crap, God, but, what do you call that stuff that the Hasids wear around their waist?”

“Tzitzit,” David said. Rabbi Kales had warned him that once people knew he was a rabbi, they’d have all kinds of questions, the pressure of which made David stay up every night and, even before the jogging, wake up early every morning. It was the same schedule he kept back home, anyway, just with more reading.

Jerry snapped his fingers. “That’s it, that’s it,” he said. “I don’t know why I was expecting the full black getup with the. . how do you pronounce that again?”

“Sit-sis,” David said.

“Oh, like you’re telling your sister to take a seat, right?”

“Right.” David wasn’t positive this was correct. He was positive, however, that he had the authority to be wrong and not be challenged, which he rather liked.

“I don’t know why I thought that,” Jerry said. “Rabbi Gottlieb, Rabbi Kales, they’re both like you, right?”

“I never knew him,” David said. “Rabbi Gottlieb.”

“Helluva nice guy,” Jerry said, in a way that made David doubt the sentiment. “Never took him for a drunk. Never took him to be much of a boater, either, but then who knows, right? Private lives of rabbis must be a thing of great mystery.”

“I’m sorry,” David said. That was something Rabbi Kales had imparted to him lately: Start conversations by saying I’m sorry, and people will assume you’re apologizing for being very busy, even when you’re just trying to get away from them. Then just say but, and if you’re lucky, the person on the other end of the conversation will get to their point or leave you be.

“No, no, I’m sorry, you’re a busy man, I’m sure,” Jerry said. “And I just ambushed you on your run like some kind of criminal. I keep odd hours, like you, and thought this might be the one chance I had to chat with you for a minute, finish a business conversation I never got to finish with Rabbi Gottlieb.” Jerry fished a business card out of his suit jacket pocket and handed it to David. “I own my own biomedical business, and I’ve been trying to get into a conversation with the funeral home at the temple, where, it should be noted, I am a member in excellent standing.”

David stared at the card trying to make sense of what was happening. He couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” David said again, and, tried to hand Jerry his card back.

“No, no, hold on to it,” Jerry said. “I’m not trying to sell you anything. Rabbi Gottlieb and I talked about this at some length before his accident, and then Rabbi Kales wouldn’t take any of my calls. I tried to go through the rabbi’s son-in-law, and he gave me the runaround, said he was just a fund-raiser, which I totally get. Need to keep business and family separate, right?”

“I haven’t gotten to know Mr. Savone very well,” David said, “but the Talmud tells us that business is a test of our ethics. And I know Mr. Savone is an ethical man.”

“No argument,” Jerry said. “My business is in tissue, and tissue doesn’t discriminate. We do a lot of work with the dental school at UNLV and the med school out in Reno, plus private medical interests around Nevada, little bit in Oregon, trying to move out into Utah, but the Mormons are a golem, am I right?”

Jerry stared at David like he was looking for some kind of approval. It was one of the weird things David had noticed about the Jews. They wouldn’t always come right out and tell you they were Jews once they found out you were a rabbi, or even just with strangers they thought were also Jews; instead they’d drop these code words into the conversation, these bits of Yiddish, just to let you know on the sly that they were in the tribe. It was like how the wannabe gangsters used to talk, every other word was whacked or respect or some shit they picked up watching The Godfather, like everyone was running around talking about going to the mattresses.

“You shall inquire and make search and ask diligently,” David said. He’d read that in the Talmud, and it sounded like something Rabbi Kales might roll out without explanation, so he gave it a spin.

“I get that, I get that,” Jerry said. “Thing is, I’m trying to develop a partnership with a funeral home or two locally for those people who want to donate their tissue, and, quite honestly, we have some of the cleanest bodies around. Even the old ones live pretty clean, right?”

“I’m sorry, but,” David said.

“No, no, I understand. It’s not pleasant conversation. But, for our people, you understand, this is a great opportunity to give back to the local community. And, of course, there are rules about this stuff. The temple would be compensated. That was the thing Rabbi Gottlieb and I were talking about, and he just couldn’t wrap his mind around Rabbi Kales ever getting into it. But I’m seeing you out here running every day, and I’m seeing a sophisticated young man, who, I understand, has the rabbi’s ear now. And I’m thinking, you know, maybe there’s a better chance for a symbiotic relationship to develop here.” Jerry paused, as if trying to find that final bit of noninformation that might interest David, not knowing he’d already stumbled through it when he mentioned some form of compensation. “It would be a mitzvah, is what I’m saying. Good for the Jews.”

“How much?” David said.

“A big one,” Jerry said. “A very significant mitzvah.”

“No,” David said. “How much would the temple be compensated?”

“Oh,” Jerry said. He seemed honestly surprised. “It depends on your service.”

“So we wouldn’t be getting paid for getting you the. . what did you call it? The tissue? Just for our actual removal of things. Am I understanding you?”

“Right, right,” Jerry said. “That’s the law.”

“How much do you get?”

“I do all right,” he said. “I’d like to do better, which is why we’re having this conversation.”

“If I’m to explain this to Rabbi Kales,” David said, “I need to explain to him how this might return to the temple in some positive light, you understand.”

“I see,” Jerry said. “You’re talking about getting press for this?”

“No,” David said. “No press. Never.”

“Right,” Jerry said. “Say we’re talking about some corneas. We have an excess of good corneas here in the United States, but I can sell them to companies in China, India, places like that, really help people all over the world. I don’t know if that’s what you’re talking about.”

It wasn’t. But it was interesting. “How much do you make on a deal like that?” David asked.

“I get maybe fifteen or twenty thousand for them,” he said. “Not all pure profit, of course.”

“Of course,” David said, thinking: Yeah, maybe only 99 percent profit. “And this is legal?”

“You think I’m going to present an illegal idea to you, Rabbi?”

That Jerry didn’t come talk to David at the temple, instead waited out on the street like he was selling watches out of his briefcase, raised David’s bullshit detector, but he liked this guy’s gumption. Las Vegas was the only place he’d ever been where everyone was squeezing you. There was a tip jar at the cleaners he used down on Rainbow, like you should give an extra buck because they got the starch right; a tip jar at the automated car wash, presumably so the robots would feel appreciated; and at the Borders on Decatur, where he’d sometimes go to hide out during the day, he’d see people hand the girl with the pierced nose at the info counter a few bucks for showing them where to find the self-help books.

But he could actually appreciate a business like Jerry’s — it was called LifeCore — which aimed to help others. Thing was, the more Jerry talked, the less David believed him to be all about the altruism. Like how he hadn’t answered his yes-or-no question with a yes or a no.

And if he was on the take? So what. The whole town was on the take, even people like Rabbi Kales, all done under the cover of escapism of some kind.

One day the Review-Journal would run a big piece on how a mob museum would be a great way to lure nongambling families and history buffs to the Strip, better than Star Trek: The Experience at the Hilton or the septic water park next to the Sahara, and then the next day Harvey B. Curran would have a blind hit piece about how he heard New York families were muscling into the monorail project and if it were thirty years ago, there would be blood on the streets and the streets would be better for it. A week later, there’d be a splashy feature on how Steve Wynn was saving the arts by bringing rare Cézannes, Monets, and van Goghs to the Bellagio for the world to see, people seeming to forget every piece was bought on the backs of a generation of assholes losing on rigged games of chance.

Never mind the locals he saw every day at Smith’s, buying their groceries with an attitude, dressed in sweat suits, gold chains, those hard stares, like they were going to intimidate a box of Cheerios into giving up the money it owed. And the tourists. Somewhere along Interstate 15 they stopped being accountants and file clerks and started being tough guys in shiny shirts. David wouldn’t be surprised if in fifteen or twenty years, after he was long gone, the city built a roller coaster on top of the temple’s cemetery and renamed it Gangsterland.

Maybe Jerry Ford was trying to play David for a rube.

Maybe he didn’t think someone like Rabbi David Cohen would want to find a way in, rather just see the good of it. Which made David think he should probably at least act slightly concerned about how all this was going down. Last thing he wanted was for this shyster to think he was a shyster, too. But that’s what made this all interesting to David: Something about David’s mere appearance made Jerry think he could approach him about this business deal. And maybe it was just a business deal. Maybe David was reading it all wrong, but he didn’t think so. Jerry Ford had probably been marking him for a week or two, just waiting to pounce with this little shell game. Maybe even saw him with Slim Joe once or twice in the neighborhood, probably wondering why the new rabbi was consorting with a thug.

“Why aren’t you standing outside a hospital right now?” David asked.

“You know how many people die in Las Vegas every day?” Jerry asked. “Hospitals don’t have the time for these tissue donations. Lungs, hearts, kidneys, they do the big jobs, and even still, they subcontract that work out most of the time to organ banks. So say Mrs. Rosenthal passes on, she’s a tissue donor, we come get her, bring her to your shop, if you pardon the term, and your guy handles the process. I assume you’ve got a guy who’s qualified for that?”

David had no idea. Bennie had yet to introduce him to the funeral home staff, figuring it was better to keep him away until the last possible moment, make sure he was, as Bennie said, as “Jew’d up as possible” before he started interacting with the staff.

“Yes,” David said.

“Might be good for business overall, steering more funerals up here to Summerlin,” Jerry said. “Not that what you do is a business of course.”

“Of course,” David said.

The sun was starting to come up, David’s favorite time of the day in Las Vegas. It was the only time when the place looked clean. He needed to get back to his house, shower, and then get over to the temple. Today was going to be a busy day with the Hanukkah celebration, and, according to Bennie, he was going to officiate his first funeral, maybe two. The whole week was a mess of meetings, and services, and God knows what. Then, after Hanukkah, Bennie told him there might be an influx of body work, that some shit was going down in Reno that could end up lucrative for them. But Jerry had opened up some ideas for David, maybe a way to keep something on the side, even, work his way back to Chicago a little faster. He’d need time to ponder that.

“I’m sorry,” David said to interrupt Jerry’s monologue. Jerry was talking about how hip bones were the new wave, what with all the hip replacements being performed now that people were living longer. “My point here was that I think Rabbi Kales would be interested in knowing what you intended to donate back to the temple.” David couldn’t quite understand how he’d managed to put those words together in that way, how he was actually starting to talk like a straight guy. Small steps for mankind and all that.

“Oh. I guess I didn’t understand. .” Jerry stammered for a moment, tried to take in what David was telling him. “What would a good percentage be?”

“Ten percent,” David said. “Fifteen. Maybe even twenty.” This kind of talk felt normal. Shaking people down was second nature to David. He knew if he talked to Jerry in his own voice, he could get fifty out of him. Maybe sixty. Hell, he could probably get seventy.

“Fifteen percent,” Jerry said. “Like a tip, basically?”

“People tip twenty percent now,” David said.

“Machers tip twenty percent,” Jerry said.

“And you’re a macher, aren’t you?” David slipped Jerry’s card into the pocket of his sweatpants, where he thought he might start keeping a switchblade, just in case. “I’ll talk to Rabbi Kales,” he said.

“All I can ask, Rabbi Cohen,” Jerry said. They shook hands again, and David was surprised to feel sweat on Jerry’s palm.

“Tell me something,” David said, not yet letting go, his smile wide and friendly, or at least trying to be, his jaw still not quite right in his opinion. “How did you know my name?”

“Oh, right.” Jerry tried to pull his hand away, so David covered up their grasp with his other hand. He’d seen Rabbi Kales do a similar move when he wanted to keep someone from ending a conversation before Rabbi Kales was ready. “It was in the HOA newsletter. It’s a big deal when a rabbi moves in. Good for home values.”

It was just after noon, and Temple Beth Israel was filled with kids, all of them screaming or crying or running, or all those things at once, the temple’s Children’s Hanukkah Party in full swing. The entire playground had been turned into a carnival area, with face-painting stations, booths filled with cooking food — latkes, hot dogs, burgers and fries, funnel cakes, because it was David’s understanding that you couldn’t have a carnival without funnel cakes — a guy making balloon art, a ten-foot-tall inflatable dreidel that the kids could get inside of and make spin, and, surrounding the perimeter of the playground, the parents, including Bennie and his wife, Rachel, sipping coffee and ignoring their children entirely, letting the teenagers who’d volunteered to take the brunt of the abuse.

David stood on a small stage in the middle of it all, trying not to feel sick while Rabbi Kales made a speech welcoming everyone to the annual party. David had lived his entire life lurking in the background, a shadow, the person in the room no one wanted to speak to, and now here he was front and center, minutes away from being formally introduced by Rabbi Kales.

After, David feared the adults would want to talk, make polite conversation, something David had never done in his entire life. What if he got something wrong? What if he said something that was completely contradictory to the Jewish faith? Rabbi Kales had told him not to worry, that if anyone questioned anything he ever said, all he needed to do was tell them that it was from the Talmud and he’d be covered, because no mere quasi-practicing Jew (which is what the temple was mainly comprised of, what Rabbi Kales called “pork-eating Jews”) ever cracked open the Talmud. Besides, Rabbi Kales told him, it was all about interpretation. He could have an interpretation that was different than any other rabbi in the world. That was the nice thing about being a Reform rabbi, Rabbi Kales said, they were open to the idea that maybe another rabbi had a different slant to the same set of beliefs.

He had a pretty good feeling that was going to be true.

“Some of you may have noticed a new face here at Temple Beth Israel,” Rabbi Kales said. David searched the playground for a soft landing place and instead found Bennie Savone, who at some point had moved directly in front of the stage, along with his wife. She was smiling at him with genuine warmth, and it occurred to David that she thought he was an actual rabbi, like her father was an actual rabbi. They’d met in passing only twice — she’d come to the temple to pick up her daughter while he and Rabbi Kales were in conversation, so she just stuck her head into his office and said hello, told him if he needed anything not to be afraid to call, that sort of thing, which struck David as extremely polite for a woman married to such a fucking prick — and somehow his mere countenance had been enough for her to believe.

David thought maybe that was the thing. People wanted to believe that you were who you said you were.

Rachel had an expensive haircut, nice makeup, white angora sweater, simple gold jewelry, a significant diamond on her wedding ring — maybe two, two and half carats — but it was nicely inset, not like his cousin Ronnie’s wife, who had a diamond so big it could send SOS signals on sunny days. Rachel didn’t wear gaudy hoop earrings or huge clusters of ice on every appendage. The Orthodox, they were big on the idea of tzniut, keeping modest in dress, particularly the women, which meant they all dressed as though they’d just escaped from Russia with the Cossacks hot on their tail. Rachel wasn’t that modest, comparatively, though up against the other women he saw in Las Vegas, particularly the ones he could see staring at him now from behind their Starbucks cups and huge bug-eye black sunglasses, she looked like a nun.

David focused on Rachel, tried to imagine that she was rooting for him, thought about how disappointed she’d be if he started vomiting, and that seemed to soothe him a bit, until the sound of Rabbi Kales voice once again pierced through the roaring of blood rushing to his ears. He was talking about how the Maccabean warriors took it upon themselves to live or die nobly, some fairy tale about, when you got right down to it, how noble it was to be a killer, provided you happened to be killing people for your freedom to believe in something. It was the same bullshit the Family tried to press on the new meat. Problem was, as time wore on, you started to realize you were just part of the same bureaucracy found in any business. The only thing noble about it, as it related to the Family, was at least you knew your friends were more likely to stab you in the chest than in the back.

Rabbi Kales paused in the middle of his speech and turned to look at David. David smiled, still feeling like if he moved too quickly or even opened his mouth more than a crack he might hurl. The rabbi looked pained for a brief moment, just a flash, really, probably not long enough for anyone to notice, and then he cleared his throat and started in again.

“No one can replace Rabbi Gottlieb,” Rabbi Kales said, “not in our hearts, nor in mere presence, and we all wear the tragedy of his passing each day here at Temple Beth Israel, particularly today, on the first holy night of Hanukkah, when we celebrate the onset of a true miracle. I think you will come to find Rabbi Cohen to be a kind and faithful servant of the Torah.” David saw the adults in the audience nod, almost imperceptibly, and David understood that the rabbi was proving David’s very point: He was telling them what to believe, and because they believed in Rabbi Kales, they believed what he said. “Like all of us, Rabbi Cohen is still learning that life looks somewhat different here in Las Vegas.” The audience laughed, since no one was actually from Las Vegas, at least not according to the statistics David read in the paper. Even Bennie chuckled, though probably for entirely different reasons. “So please do keep in mind that Rabbi Cohen is still in training, both as a rabbi and as a Las Vegan, which means I don’t want to hear of anyone inviting him to any poker games for at least another six months, and he is never allowed anywhere near the Strip when the rodeo comes to town, and that’s an order!” More laughing, the rabbi putting on a nice little nightclub patter now, full of inside jokes, bringing the room back up. It was a holiday, after all. “Especially not in the company of my son-in-law.” And the house came down, as much as a house can come down when it’s also filled with a bunch of sticky six-year-olds, wealthy Jews, and a Mafia boss who happened to own the Wild Horse strip club and was inexplicably married to the rabbi’s daughter.

Rabbi Kales stepped away from the podium and motioned for David to take his place. They’d practiced this moment earlier in the morning; Rabbi Kales told him to simply thank everyone, tell them how happy he was to be in Las Vegas and how he hoped to be of service to the temple, and then get the hell off the stage.

It sounded simple enough, yet when he stepped behind the podium and looked out at the playground filled with Jewish children, smelled the cooking food, heard the polite applause from the adults, and saw Bennie Savone with his arm around his wife, his wife whose father was the rabbi, his wife whose father the rabbi had done something depraved enough that he was now in bed with a gangster who was going to build an empire on corpses, in a way no other Mafia boss ever had, and had selected David to be his guy, had seen enough in him that he was going to let him be responsible for the growth and the prosperity of not just his criminal plan but, it seemed, also his noncriminal plans to grow a temple Las Vegas. . well, he felt a huge surge of pride.

All this time waiting for something big to happen. All the years he told Jennifer that they were going west to get beyond that Chicago shit. All the ways he’d wondered if he’d ever see fifty, or if he’d be thrown off a building. All the nights he’d driven back across the Illinois state line in a stolen car, ten grand in his pocket from a freelance job so they could get the transmission fixed, get a stove that didn’t leak, help Jennifer’s dad pay his medical bills after he got his hip replaced, or just to get them through the slow time during the coldest, frozen months of winter.

All that. . and here he was, he’d done it, he’d made it. Now all he had to do was bide his time, do what Bennie asked, listen to Rabbi Kales, make all the right moves. And when the time was right, he’d be done with all this tsoris, he’d have money in the bank, and then, then, he’d go get Jennifer and William. Maybe it wouldn’t be only a year or two. Maybe it would be more like five or seven. And that would be fine. The Jews had wandered the desert for forty years. He could do five standing on his head.

David opened his mouth slightly at first, to make sure he wouldn’t wretch, found Rachel in the audience, realized what he was looking for wasn’t even her, wasn’t any friendly face in particular, more like the idea of a friendly face, because he knew at some point in his life he was going to disappoint Rachel, would probably leave her a widow, because that’s how the game always ended for people like Bennie, and then he leaned into the microphone and said, “Shalom.”