Lavar cocked his head, like he was trying to line up David’s features. “Oh, yeah,” he said, unconvincingly, but he did take his hand off his gun. “I heard there’d been some unpleasantness at the Temple?”
“I was having surgery anyway,” David said, “and then unfortunately I took a spill. Now here we are.”
“You fell?” Lavar said.
“That’s not what you heard?”
Lavar opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself, David able to see the rotors and motors grinding to a halt, the homeowner always right at the Lakes at Summerlin Greens. “That’s what I heard, yes,” Lavar said. “Are you looking for Mr. Ford?”
“Yes,” David said. “Thought I’d invite him to Torah study today.”
“His windows are alarmed,” he said. “If you tap on them, cops will be here in minutes.”
“Well we wouldn’t want that,” David said. “When did Mr. Ford put his house on the market?”
“Sign went up yesterday.”
“Did Mr. Ford leave town?”
“I couldn’t really say,” Lavar said.
“You couldn’t say,” David said, “or you shouldn’t say?”
“I guess I don’t know the difference?”
“Did he leave a forwarding address?” David asked.
Lavar brightened. “Yes! Yes, he did.”
“Then you can say,” David said.
“I guess I never know what is supposed to remain private.”
“Things not done in public,” David said. “But as you can see, we’re standing in public.”
Lavar looked over his shoulder, like he thought others might be coming up behind him. “Mrs. Ford went to their beach house. Don’t know where Mr. Ford is staying, I’m afraid. Real sad, though; I guess they’re going their separate ways?”
“Marriage is a series of discussions over contested emotional agency,” David said. It was something he told his congregants regularly. It made them feel like the worst parts of their marriages were simply contractual issues between equal parties, which they never were, not to the person who filed first, anyway.
Lavar’s radio squawked, so he held up a finger and slid his earpiece in, and said, “Go ahead.”
Lavar was maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, wasn’t really an officer at all but had a patrol car, a fancy polyester outfit, a fake-ass badge, and a real-ass gun on his hip. Two men pretending to be something they weren’t talking about a third man who reconstituted the dead for the living. Wasn’t that something.
“Ten-four,” Lavar said, then slid the earpiece out of his ear. “Sorry about that, Rabbi. Looks like either a hit man or a flower delivery for Mr. Tinch. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“He lives on the other side of the course, in the new houses over on Mickelson. Really nice guy. Anyway. They don’t have a pass, so I have to give my approval.” David had never heard of anyone named Tinch, not in the Lakes or anywhere else. The other side of the golf course, which was a good two miles from David’s front door, was another fucking universe, with its own clubhouse, book clubs, ladies’ bunco. Lavar took a couple steps toward Rabbi David Cohen, lowered his voice. “They say Mr. Tinch is mafia. That’s why the HOA office thinks he could be a hit man.”
“Really. Who else is mafia?”
“You know, you wear a nice suit and blow-dry your hair, there’s going to be questions,” Lavar said. “My dad? He used to run errands for Moe Dalitz. Do you know who that was?”
“I do,” Rabbi David Cohen said.
His radio squawked again. “Well, I better get moving. You have a good day, Rabbi. Don’t touch the windows.”
David followed Lavar back to his car.
“May I ask,” he said, “what they say about me?”
Lavar shrugged. “They all want you to marry their daughters.” He looked down, seemed to get embarrassed, David thinking he had him now; that was good. “Or date their sons.”
That was a twist.
“It’s nice to be admired,” David said.
“And some think you’re Mossad,” he said, “but I think that’s just because of 9/11. Everyone wants to feel safer, you know? So now their rabbi is an assassin.”
BY THE TIME DAVID WAS OUT OF THE SHOWER, HE COULD SEE ON HIS CCTV that Bennie’s Mercedes was idling in the driveway, the Israeli kid who’d been with Bennie at the hospital behind the wheel, which meant Bennie was somewhere in the house. That was the thing about Bennie Savone. He treated everything he owned the same. No locked doors. He had keys to everything. It wasn’t even a fucking metaphor.
David walked downstairs, saw the sliding glass doors to the backyard open, cigar smoke wafting in. He found Bennie relaxing on a chaise lounge, a glass of orange juice on the table beside him, a cigar burning in the ashtray, Ray-Ban sunglasses pressed close to his eyes, sun on his face.
“Make yourself comfortable,” David said.
“You’ve got a nicer pool than me,” Bennie said. His voice sounded scratchy, like maybe his cold was getting worse. “I told Rachel we should get a saltwater but she was against it, said the maintenance costs were double. I was like, baby, I’m a rich man. She said, ‘You want a bunch of strangers coming to the house twice a month to keep it clean? Or do you want to be able to hire some kid from the neighborhood?’ I mean, she had a point. Then we bought this place for Rabbi Gottlieb; first thing she does, gets a saltwater pool installed.” He took a drag from the cigar, poofed his cheeks full of smoke, then blew it all out, careful not to inhale. “But we got a better view.”
“That’s true,” David said. He dragged another chaise lounge over, sat beside Bennie. “Also, your house isn’t a prison.”
