But now, an hour later, his back was on fire, his wrists were killing him, he was starving, and he needed to figure out what was happening with his wife and son.
He’d been down in these drains a half dozen times over the years with the Temple during the winter, dropping off food and clothes for the homeless, but in the spring and summer, it was just too fucking hot, David already sweating through his clothes. What he knew about these drains he knew from Miguel, who’d been the person to suggest they go down there and help out in the first place.
“When I was a kid,” he told Rabbi Cohen, “we lived there whenever my mom didn’t have the rent money. There’s good people living in the storm drains. It’s safer than on the streets, so we had our place, and when she got some cash, we’d find another aboveground place to live.”
“How long ago was this?” Rabbi Cohen asked him. They were in the mortuary, Miguel getting a body ready for donation, this time an actual dead Jew, Billy Pelz.
“Well, I’m twenty-six,” he said. He cut open the body using a Y incision, the room filling with a smell like defrosting meat, something metallic, and old shit. “Last time was, I guess, senior year in high school.”
“Where’s your mom now?”
Miguel shrugged.
“You don’t know?” David asked.
“She wasn’t a real good mother, Rabbi,” Miguel said. He walked around the body, his fingers lingering on a hand or foot, depending upon where he was standing. “Did you know him?”
“A little bit,” David said. “He was an optometrist.”
Miguel said, “Not a lot of bad news in that job.” He picked up the order. “We’re going to remove his lungs, Rabbi, and you don’t want to be here for that.”
“Okay,” David said. “Can I ask, Miguel, how did you get here?”
“For a little while, my mom danced at Mr. Savone’s club. We waited in the car for her. Mr. Savone would come out sometimes, bring us food. He was real nice. Told me to come see him for a job when I was older. So I did.”
Now, David hefted the bags back up, walked another fifty yards, to an area they called the Art Gallery, the walls covered in old newspaper clippings painted over in garish colors, Mayor Goodman’s face now bright orange, Wayne Newton a phoenix rising, Joe Pesci, from some movie, in a clown suit. Every inch of available wall, another piece of art, dating back years now, plus the requisite gang graffiti, though there wasn’t much in these parts, gangsters just as scared of the dark as anyone else. The walls didn’t quite reach the roof, leading up to a manhole that opened onto Rainbow Boulevard. The cavity was illuminated with a pinhole of sunshine from the manhole, enough to make art by, the whole spot ethereal in the afternoon glow. Almost pleasant if you could excuse the stench of sewer water, exhaust, and time.
David lifted a bag over his head, shoved it up between the wall and the ceiling, then the other. They disappeared into the darkness.
“Is there anyone here?” David called out. He waited. The roar of traffic above made this spot impossible to sleep in, the cacophony constant, but David wanted to make sure no one would fuck with his money.
He walked another ten yards down the tunnel, calling out, but there was nothing. When they’d feed the homeless, they usually found them a few blocks away, directly under Davis Park, where it was quiet, there were bathrooms, and, at night, the children could play on the jungle gym and the adults could sit under the stars, forget about their problems, at least for a little while.
DAVID CAME OUT OF THE BASIN AND INTO DAVIS PARK. HE FOUND A SPOT OF shade, sat down, tried to slow his heart rate, and then did something he hoped he wasn’t going to regret: he called Miguel.
He answered on the first ring.
“Miguel,” David said, “this is Rabbi Cohen. Are you somewhere safe?”
“Yes, Rabbi. The FBI let me go home. Should you . . . be calling?”
“No,” David said, “I should not be.” That was Miguel. Ever helpful.
“Is it true, Rabbi?”
“What part?”
“That you’re . . . not a rabbi?”
“No,” David said, “I am a rabbi.” He was now. He believed that honestly. He’d done the work. Passed the tests. “The other stuff, whatever they said, is probably true.”
“Yes, Rabbi,” Miguel said. “I guess I’ve always known to some extent. But, Rabbi, I loved my job; I felt like I did good work. Whatever you and Mr. Savone and Ruben did, that was your thing. I took care of those people like they were family. Every day.”
“You did,” David said. “You have nothing to feel ashamed about.”
“I’m sorry,” Miguel said, “that it was a lie.”
“Listen,” David said, “I need you to do two last things for me. Okay?”
“I’ll try,” Miguel said, “but I got a family, you know?”
“I know,” David said. “First thing, tell the FBI everything. Turn state’s evidence. I know you feel you need to be loyal to Mr. Savone. The way to do that is to be loyal to yourself, first. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Rabbi.”
“Second thing. I’ve left something for you in the storm drain. In the Art Gallery. Two, three feet from Rainbow manhole, in the ceiling. Once everything is clear, move out of Las Vegas, Miguel. Find a small town in the middle of the country. Somewhere with shitty weather, so there’s not a lot of tourists or gangsters. Go to mortuary school. Then open your own funeral home. Because you are very good at your job.”
A pause. Then: “Yes, Rabbi.” Another pause. “Will I ever see you again?”
“Probably not,” David said. “I appreciate you, Miguel. Have a good life.”
“You too, Rabbi. And I’m very sorry about your wife and son.”
David bolted upright. “What?”
“What I saw on the news just now. About them being missing and presumed dead.”
Presumed dead.
