“And yet you stole from me,” Bennie said.
“You were in jail,” Sal said. “If you got shanked in the chow line, I had to be sure I had mine. You can understand that.” Sal had taken a couple hundred grand and put it in safe-deposit boxes around Las Vegas. Problem was, after 9/11, he couldn’t get into them with his fake ID. “You figure out a way to get me a real license, with this new face, and you can have your money.”
“It’s not even earning interest,” Bennie said. “If you’d been straight with me, I got a guy who could have moved that money to Laos and earned points on it. But you gotta be a sneaky fuck.” Bennie shoved another forkful of salad into his mouth. “This is not satisfying. I cannot chew this in a way that expresses my total fucking disappointment in you, Rabbi.” Bennie pointed at the burger. “You gonna eat that?”
“Be my guest.”
Bennie reached across the table and picked up Sal’s burger, took a bite out of it. “You’re missing out, truly.” He let his eyes wander around the joint. There were maybe fifty people spread out across the cafeteria. Doctors, nurses, administrators. A couple paramedics. Visiting family. A few patients who were either allowed to walk around the hospital or had snuck down. The food was served buffet style, but it was Las Vegas, so there was also a guy cutting churrascaria meats. A pasta station. A full taco bar. A serve-yourself gelato corner. A salad bar bigger than the fucking Sizzler Sal used to like when he was a kid. And then a full grill serving up burgers and chicken, the smell of which wafted throughout the hospital every day about this time, hence the intense fantasies Sal had harbored. “This place is pretty nice,” Bennie said. “I might start taking more meetings here. Can’t imagine cops can drop a wire on this place.”
“You did.”
“Well,” Bennie said, “I’m not constricted by such things as laws.”
“I got news for you,” Sal said, “some suspected Al-Qaeda twat walks in here with a broken toe, they’ll have a wire in every stethoscope.”
“That’s legal?”
“Is now,” Sal said. “So maybe don’t do any business with foreign terror organizations.”
Bennie seemed to consider that for longer than Sal was comfortable. “The Chinese,” he said finally. “That count?”
“I’d ease up.”
“Why do you know this?”
“I have a vested interest in the latest surveillance laws.”
“I’ve got a vested interest in making money,” Bennie said. “And the Chinese are moving us product.”
“The Talmud says, ‘Do whatever the fuck you want,’ Bennie.”
“You’re a little feisty today, Rain Man.”
“I don’t like being confined,” Sal said. “You might remember that from the last time it happened. When am I getting out of here?”
“I’ve got a couple things cooking that need some . . . seasoning . . . first.” He pointed up. “That floor you’re on? Temple Beth Israel made a donation to thank the hospital for making sure your care has been first class. As of tomorrow at noon, when the signage goes in, you’ll be staying in the Rabbi Cy Kales Memorial Wing of Summerlin Hospital.”
“Rabbi Kales isn’t dead,” Sal said.
“Not yet,” Bennie said. “It’s like how you buy a tombstone beforehand. Similar plan.” Bennie picked at a french fry. “You two, a real band of brothers with your plans and ideas while I was on house arrest. Like I was never gonna get out. You really think I’d let you two go to Israel? That was a good one, Rabbi.”
“You don’t have to worry about that now,” Sal said.
“I wasn’t worried before,” Bennie said. “But just a note? You work for me. You might be the head rabbi. You might be my wife’s spiritual advisor. You might be the most loved man in all of Summerlin, but you’re alive right now because of me. Okay? Let’s be real clear about that.”
Sal had seen Bennie Savone angry a hundred different times. He wasn’t surprised by it. But Bennie didn’t seem all that pissed off. He seemed sad. Like Sal had hurt his feelings. It wasn’t like Bennie could have him whacked. Rabbi David Cohen was the head rabbi of Temple Beth Israel. It was like being known in all five boroughs, all that Donnie Brasco shit, except on the real. So Bennie might well be his boss, but Sal wasn’t scared of him. Never was. But especially not now, when things were beginning to come into focus.
“Will Rabbi Kales be here for the dedication?”
“No, he’s fucking cooked,” Bennie said. “But we got cousins flying in from around the country. You put a Jew’s name on a building, they’ll roll out of their caskets just for the after-party blintzes. Review-Journal is sending a photographer, give us some good publicity, finally. It’s why I’m all dressed up. Meeting the hospital bigwigs today to discuss how the Temple and Savone Construction Partners can be of service to each other long into the future.”
“What does that mean?”
“I believe my wife mentioned it to you,” he said, another dig, Bennie twisting in a little on Sal, letting him know nothing between Bennie’s wife Rachel and Rabbi David Cohen was privileged anymore. A change. Noted. “We’re thinking of starting an assisted living facility on the grounds. We’d need a strategic partnership to pull it off.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“Which part?”
“All of it,” Sal said, “but specifically the fucking newspaper.”
Bennie took another bite of the burger. Ate a handful of fries. Took a sip of coffee. Pulled one, two, three paper napkins from the caddy, wiped his face. Propped his elbows on the table. “Motherfucker,” he said, just above a whisper, calmly, no malice whatsoever, “the guy who sucker punched you was a ranked fighter in the UFC. I had him killed and made it look like a suicide. Hung him in his own garage. Had his fucking kid find him. I mean, we did it up. And his friends at the Temple, the Berkowitzes? I got them relocated. Husband’s in Philly. Wife and kid, they’re in Vancouver. I mean, they’re living good lives. Or they will for as long as they don’t fuck up. I did that. For you. Even agreed to pay for their little shithead son to go to private school. So that was a bill I didn’t know I had coming. But let me ask. Do you know what it cost me to keep all your names from being associated with the dead guy? Nothing in the newspaper. Nothing in the blogs. No fucking Yahoo message boards. Nothing. What do you think that cost me?”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“No,” Bennie said, “you did. You literally did. By putting yourself in the situation where that fucking mook even had the desire to put hands on you? You asked for that. You’ve become cavalier while I’ve been gone.” He straightened up. Wiped invisible crumbs from his tie. “So now, I gotta make good around town. I gotta unfuck your mistakes. I gotta go to Harvey B. Curran and ask him for a favor. You believe that? And somehow, he gives me one, because, he says, he respects you. Jesus fuck. He respects you. Heard you got tuned up by the fighter but doesn’t want you embarrassed, so he’s not gonna put some blind item in, no matter if it’s true or not, but maybe I could help him out with a new thing the paper is doing? So that means buying a fucking advertorial in the Review-Journal.” Bennie picked up the burger again, removed the bun, took off the lettuce and the onion and then peeled the cheese off the burger, wrapped it around the onion, popped it in his mouth. Seemed satisfied. “It’s a fucking shakedown, Rabbi. I’m paying for the paper to come and write a nice story about the new wing.”
“What’s that run?”
“Color photos, eight hundred words, that’s six grand,” Bennie said. “Black and white, they cut you a deal; it’s only $5,700. One good fucking piece of press about the Temple and a nice smiling photo of Rabbi Kales, presuming he doesn’t piss or shit himself, keep your name out of it all, and I don’t gotta put anybody in the dirt. Pretty good deal, in my view. So to answer your question, is it a good idea? I dunno, Rabbi, but here we are. You got a better fucking idea?”
“And what am I supposed to be doing during all this?”
“You’re gonna be getting X-rays or a colonoscopy or I don’t know what,” Bennie said. “I vote colonoscopy, but I guess it’s not my say.” He shoved the burger away. “It’s fucking terrible, you should know. Your taste buds might be working fine.”
“So what happened to me? In case someone asks.”
“You fell,” Bennie said. “That’s what I told Harvey B. Curran.”
