An Accidental Murder: An Avram Cohen Mystery (22 page)

She was about to say something, except suddenly there was a flurry at one of the curtains and a laugh, and Sonia— for who else could it be?—appeared suddenly in the room with an elderly man before her, laughing cheerfully but at the same time giving instructions in Russian to the bouncer, telling Mustache in Hebrew that the American seemed very happy with Juliet, and asking the girls something in Russian, indicating Cohen with a long fingernail.

From the tone of her voice, he decided, she was asking why one of them had not already captured his attention.

She was short, but full-figured, her breasts holding up a strapless dress. In the dim light, she might have been a beyond-her-years teenager or in her late thirties, or even early forties. She smiled at Cohen a second time, and asked him to join her at her desk. The bouncer, meanwhile, held open the door for the elderly man who was bidding farewell to each of the girls with a little bow and peck of their outstretched hands. One of the blondes on the sofa said something in Russian, pointing at the mustached man in the armchair. Sonia waved her off and beckoned her new customer, the barrel-chested, white-haired man in the gray twill trousers, sneakers, white shirt, and a gray windbreaker jacket. Cohen took his glass to the desk and sat down in the steel and leather chair.

“Can you tell me how you came to find our little place?” Sonia asked Cohen. There was no suspicion in the question.

It was more like a customer survey.

“A friend,” said Cohen. “You are Sonia? He especially noted your charms.” She smiled again. But now there was something in her eyes that showed more curiosity, as if there was something else she was supposed to know. “Your friend’s name?” she asked.

He smiled at her. “Benny.”

“Which Benny?”

“From Jerusalem.”

“The writer?”

He nodded.

“A good boy. So did he tell you the rules?”

Cohen shook his head.

“You pay in advance.”

He nodded, reaching for one of the packets in his inside jacket.

“We take credit cards and—”

“I’ll pay cash. For your time.” “Barbara seems interested in you,” the madam said, looking over Cohen’s shoulder. Cohen turned to find himself facing the undulating hips of the black woman.

“She is very appealing,” Cohen admitted, but he leaned forward and tried to smile with as much charm as he could muster. “Perhaps later, but for now, I think I prefer you.” “Later?” she asked, skeptical.

“Another time perhaps,” he promised. “But you are the best here. Benny said so. And we both know that he is an accurate reporter.”

She laughed. “A good boy,” she repeated.

“He tries,” said Cohen.

“Too much, sometimes,” she said, suddenly a little scornful.

“So how much?” Cohen asked.

“For Barbara? Six hundred shekel. For me? A thousand.

Unless … “

“What?”

“You have special needs.”

He pulled ten two-hundred shekel notes from the envelope he opened inside his jacket and spread the red bills on the gleaming surface of her desk.

He lowered his voice. “I have special needs,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow, suspicious, tempted, curious.

“Talk,” he said.

He thought he saw a flutter of suspicion in her eyes, but then she smiled and slid the money into the drawer, waving a hand at Barbara, sending her away.

There was a little round of laughter from the Russian girls on the sofas behind him. “Yossi,” she suddenly said to the mustached man with the limp. “I know you’ve done a good job this week. Bringing the American tonight was very good. But I’m afraid, darling, that you’ll have to wait a little while. Unless of course you’d like … ” she waved a hand at the girls, none of whom seemed particularly enthusiastic about Yossi.

The buzzer rang and she tapped the desk, making the computer mouse move and the monitor come to life. From where Cohen was sitting he could only guess there was a video card that enabled her to view on the monitor screen the person who had asked for entry to her kingdom. She sighed and pressed a button beneath the desk surface.

“Karin,” she called out to a blonde in a red bikini, pushing herself away from the desk and rising, “you’re in charge. I’m taking … you didn’t tell me what to call you,” she said to Cohen.

“Avram,” he said.

“Avi,” she changed it. He winced. She didn’t notice, but spoke over his shoulder. “I’m taking Avi to my room for a while,” she announced to Karin.

“What about me?” whined Yossi.

“You can have Juliet when your American finishes,” Sonia offered, “or maybe you’d like Barbara.” The dancing girl heard her name, grimaced, but then moved her dance toward the mustached man in the armchair, slowly descending in front of him as Cohen followed Sonia.

They went through a slit she knew in the curtain, leading to another draped and dimly lit corridor, long and narrow, lined by six doors on each side. Over two of the doors, a little light flashed, indicating the room was occupied.

Vaguely through the first door they passed, Cohen could hear the rolling English of an American trying to speak French. Probably with Juliet, Cohen decided.

Sonia led him to the last door on the right, opening it to a room about the size of his little living room study at home.

Instead of windows, there were mirrors on three of the four pasteboard walls that were covered with a wallpaper of swirling red, purple, and black paisley. Light came from low-watt bulbs, illuminating details like the fur-covered handcuffs on the night table beside the huge bed, which was covered in black sheets. He crossed the room to a brighter light coming through the beaded curtain. It led to a shower stall, bidet, and toilet, as well as sink and counter and the bright lights of a makeup studio mirror.

He doubted the room was microphone or camera free, but he was past the point of caring. She made it clear she was a professional at work. She knew the risks. So far, all she knew was that Cohen wanted to talk.

“I like talk,” she said as she came into the room. “But it is not so easy for me. In Hebrew. In Russian I am much better. But I’m learning. Maybe you can teach me something new. A veteran Israeli like you … “

He took her hand in his and put an arm around her waist and said, “I’m hear for talk, not sex,” in a very low voice.

“Information. Benny gave you a package to deliver. A book. A letter.”

She went to the boudoir table, looked in the mirror, then plucked a tissue from a box on the cosmetic table. She dabbed at the corner of her lips, then slid open a drawer and pulled out a red lipstick that she applied carefully, leaning forward toward the mirror. Only when she was satisfied with her appearance did her eyes go to his, reflected in the mirror.

“Such a smart boy, and so foolish,” she finally said. “Is there a problem? Is Benny in trouble?” she asked.

“Should he be?”

“I have not seen him for a long time.” “He’s been busy,” Cohen said. “Did you deliver the book?” “Yes,” she admitted.

“To?”

“Benny knows.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does.” “All Benny knows is that you said you would give it to a boss.”

“I did.”

“Who?”

“Why?” “It was my book.” “Benny says it was his.”

“Benny helped. It is my story.”

She looked him up and down. “Police, yes? Remembrances?

Yes?”

He nodded.

“I didn’t read it,” she reiterated, trying to make him believe her. “Just passed it on.” “To Witkoff,” he said. “Alexander Witkoff.” He stated it as a fact, and was surprised by her reaction.

“Who?” she asked, asking so bluntly, so simply, so honestly, that his instincts told him to trust her precisely because specifically, in that instance, an honest ignorance of Witkoff’s name cost her nothing. He sat down, stunned by the surprise.

Misunderstanding his slump to the edge of the bed, she got up from the cosmetic table and crawled onto the bed until she reached his shoulders and tried to ease the tense muscle bunched at the base of his neck and across his shoulders.

“There, isn’t that nice?” she asked. “Why don’t we take a nice hot shower together. Why worry about Benny? So smart, so foolish. But you are different … “

He stood up, not so much angry as impatient, tired, and hungry. He wanted to move on, but he had to try again, just to be sure. “Alexander Witkoff?”

She pouted innocence. “Avi, Avi,” she offered, reaching for his hand. “Yes, I know an Alexander. Several. Even Witkoffsky, a teacher when I was in polytechnic in Leningrad. But no, his name was Fyodr. Not Alexander.

What do I care about a Witkoffsky?”

“Two people are dead because you gave that book to someone,” he said.

“I’m impressed. So I must be careful what I say,” she snapped, but it was boredom, not fear, that made her suddenly mean. “So, who is this Witkoff?” “I thought he was a boss. Your boss. I needed to be sure, before I could … ” “I told you. I have no owner. Benny wanted to meet someone very high, very high. I know this man. He is very high.”

“But he is not your owner?”

“I have no owner,” she protested again. “I am a businesswoman.

Partners, yes, I have partners. Not owners.

And the man is not a partner. He does not need places like this anymore. He comes to see me. For personal attention.

Older men have special needs.” She smiled at him. “If you let me, I will show you how well I know—” “How much did Benny pay you?” he .

She scowled. “I know what Benny wanted. To meet … ” she paused, not saying the name itself. “To meet this man. I know this man. Benny is a good boy. He tries too hard, but he is a good boy. He wanted some help. And what was the help? Deliver a book, a letter. What harm can that be?”

He decided that she was confident from the start. Confidence was her natural immunity. She was a professional, he decided.

“Here’s ten thousand shekels,” he said suddenly, surprising her, pulling out one of the envelopes and spreading the pale red cash on the black sheets. “I want the man’s name.”

She picked up one bill, holding it to the dim light, checking that the crisp new bill wasn’t counterfeit. On one side, the country’s second president, a poet and Zionist ideologue, looked out mournfully. On the other, a little girl with a pencil and eraser worked in a notebook, while in the background of the bill Hebrew letters floated in the red sky. 200 new SHEQALIM it said in English and Arabic beneath the girl.

She started to gather all the money. He grabbed her wrist much faster than she could have expected. She did not resist.

He looked for needle tracks. He found an old white-line scar of a suicide attempt perpendicular to the veins on her wrist. She smiled at him and said, “You underestimate me.” “I’m sorry,” he said bluntly. “The money is yours,” he added, still restraining her attempt to take the cash. “For the information.”

She considered his hand on her wrist, the money on the bed, and then his face, looking into his eyes, shaking her head. “It’s not enough.”

“Benny didn’t pay you this much.”

“I didn’t tell him a name.” She considered the sum. “If I do this, if I tell you, if he finds out I told you … “

“I won’t tell him.” It was not the first time Cohen promised confidentiality to an informant.

“You know,” she said, studying his eyes, “I believe you.”

But then she smirked, almost laughing at his innocence.

“But he can find out.”

“If he is as rich, as important as you say, why should such an important man trust a woman like you. Working in a place like this?”

Again she smirked at him and he became aware of her hand in his lap. “I am special, perhaps,” she offered. “Especially with older men,” she added.

“He’s my age?” Cohen asked.

She patted at his shoulders, to test his fitness perhaps.

“You, I think, have a better body.” She looked back at his face and gently brushed back some of Cohen’s white hair.

“But your face is older. Maybe five, maybe ten years.” She raised an eyebrow, and added, “maybe twenty. I’m impressed.” “So you are a toy for him,” he asked.

She grinned at him. “A favorite toy.” “Why?” he asked. “Why?” he repeated, changing his tone to offer negotiation.

She looked at the money on the bed again and shook her head. “It’s not enough.”

“He is rich. If he likes you so much, why doesn’t he take you out of here?”

“You are rich,” she tried. “Why don’t you?”

“How much?” he asked.

“To buy out my business? Let me retire the way I want?

More than you have.” “He won’t know you told me.”

“Can you guarantee that? Can you be sure that if I tell you, if I help you, my life will not be in danger?”

“Your life is in danger here.”

“You may have a strong body, but if you are threatening me, Andrei is a boxer.”

Cohen pulled a second packet of cash from his jacket pocket. “Your friend won’t know,” he said, keeping his eyes on hers. The second ten thousand made her eyes flicker.

He could see her thinking, her eyes searching his to find out how much further she could stretch the negotiations.

She was right. There was a risk, even if Cohen did his best to avoid divulging his source. But he was right, he saw her thinking, life is a risk. And to earn twenty thousand shekels in fifteen minutes for nothing more than a name was not an easy proposition to turn down.

She swallowed, said, “Zagorsky, Vlad Zagorsky,” then reached greedily for the money.

“You are sure?” he ordered.

“Zagorsky, yes, that’s who you want.” “Describe him.” She smiled, and he realized that she could do better than that.

“Pictures,” he said.

She bit her lower lip.

“Don’t lie to me, please,” he asked, and maybe it was the age in his voice, the weariness or the pain, or simply her own fatigue, but after she thought a long time, looking at him and perhaps into her own soul, she nodded, and got up from the bed, making sure to take the cash with her.

A few minutes later, he was watching the television set in the corner of the room. It began with a black-and-white shot of the very room in which Cohen was now sitting on the edge of the bed. First Sonia entered, then a man.