“Knew what?”

“That my son kept his life in the shadows. I knew, of course I knew. A parent always knows. And refuses to know.”

“But why would he be so secretive about a thing like that? I mean—not telling your parents that you have a…fun little band that’s gonna maybe put out a little record? For a teenager, that’s kind of a big deal.”

Elkaim shook his head; self-admonition was seizing him up. “It’s because of us, his mother and I—how we were.”

“How were you?”

“Prrrimativi.” His r sound rolled like a rattler.

“Primitive?”

“No, like, on television—Beverly Hillbillies.”

“You mean, like, country bumpkins?”

“Yes, yes, bumpkins.”

“But I didn’t see you that way at all. I thought—”

“But he did. Most certainly he did. He knew his father was from the mellah, the ghetto for Jews in Casablanca. His mother, may God bless her soul, her father was a fisherman—” Elkaim scoffed with compassion. “He smelled of sardines from head to toe.”

“Yeah but here you were—”

“We were, like you say, bumpkins. And Emil with the music and the skateboards and the car without a roof, he knew he understood this place better than we did. He was hungry for it.”

“Like, he wanted to be more American?”

“That’s right, a real American.”

We shared a moment of silent wonder at the futility of it. Nurse Rosa came in, rolling Elkaim’s lunch under shrink-wrap—chicken, gravy, cooked carrots, compote. When she was out of earshot, I said, “Ya know, whoever Devon Hawley was, isn’t it good to know that someone out there thought Emil was innocent?”

Elkaim looked at me, affronted, his eyes hard with anger. Then he tore off the plastic and said, “Emil was innocent.”

“I believe that, too, Mr. Elkaim, it’s just—”

“It’s not a matter of belief. It’s a fact.”

“Yes, of course, but don’t you think—”

“I don’t think. I know.” He pointed at me, clearly heating way up. “And now I am more convinced than ever.”

“How do you mean?”

“These were his compadres, his people. My son could not have killed a stranger, and he certainly could not have harmed one of his own team.”

“It’s not that I don’t agree with you, Mr. Elkaim, I just—”

“My son was framed, do you understand? My family was destroyed.”

He was red in the face now, frantic, trembling with fury. I’d never seen him like this. Mortified, I tried to reach out to touch his arm and he knocked my hand away. “Destroyed. And I could not find one person to tell me why, not one. Instead—salt in the eyes. And now another innocent man has been silenced, you do see that.”

“If that’s true—”

“Of course, it’s true. You must find out what this man knew—talk to those who knew him, anything. You must. I can pay you more, I can—”

“No, no, Mr. Elkaim it’s not about money,” I said, getting firm. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“My days are numbered, Adam,” he said tersely. “It is not possible to disappoint me.” Then he reached for my arm, ameliorative, he breathed and downshifted. “Soon I will join your uncle. I will be gone from this room. But I will not rest in peace. Unless I know why.”

Heavy silence. Hawley’s last moans hung in the air.

“I’ll try. That’s all I can promise.”

“You will bring me the music to listen?”

“The music? Of course.”

“Before I leave for the world to come, I would like to hear my son play his guitar.”

I left his room, spinning with fresh guilt and resentment, the two-sided coin. Why did I have to be the person to drag ugliness and horror into this poor old dying man’s last days? Seriously—why me?

On the way out, I bumped into the entertainer and Rabbi Peretz pinning up flyers in the hallway—Tuesday Is Popcorn Night (Leave In Your Teeth).

“Jensen, meet Adam,” the rabbi said. “Charles Elkaim’s friend.”

“So I heard,” Jensen said, and we shook. “Charles was just bragging about you—he says you’re an old student.”

“Yeah,” I said, “long time ago.”

“You should join us for the sing sometime.”

“I saw you guys play yesterday. Really nice—you were working wonders out there.”

“Well,” he said with a sad look of recognition, “folks around here need all the comfort they can get.”

“Too true,” the rabbi said, tacking a flyer: Morning Tai Chi 7am in the Courtyard.

I cast a worried glance back at Elkaim’s door. “Speaking of which,” I said, “could you guys do me a huge favor and check in on Charles later today? I had to deliver some bad news—”

Jensen said, “Nothing serious I hope.”

I sighed. “I dunno. But…like you said, he could probably use all the comfort he can get.”

Back in the car I twisted with frustration, pulled between the bloody night and Elkaim’s somber conviction. The long shot just got longer. Still, I had a good enough excuse to see Endi again, that was something, so I headed home, picked up my laptop, a couple of cables, and the LP and drove back to Ziva’s little cottage.

Endi greeted me at the door looking radiant, slightly preoccupied in a sweatshirt that said hell no cardio and gray pedal pushers. She was barefoot, and only some of her toenails had been painted. “Oh, hi, um, she’s…she’s giving a lesson right now.”