sugar, no milk. Two cups. What’s this thing you’ve got about Matty’s coffee? I don’t get it, do you think —?”
Michael ignored the note of complaint that echoed in Zadik’s question. “Everyone knows how everyone else takes his coffee?”
“More or less,” Zadik said. “Some people remember, some don’t. I always know exactly who drinks what and how they take it. Hefetz, too. I think Amsalem from the canteen remembers, but he used to own a coffee shop so it’s natural… . Everyone else, what can I tell you?
I’ve never noticed.”
“Do people usually make their own coffee?”
Zadik flashed Michael a look of astonishment. “What are all these questions about? What are you thinking? That the coffee was spoiled?
Or poisoned? I’m telling you, that guy was a walking time bomb, a dead man walking, with all that weight and all that coffee.”
“So what usually happened?” Michael persisted. “Did one person prepare the drinks for everyone? Or what?”
“Sometimes, and sometimes not. Sometimes we have bourekas or cookies,” Zadik said irritably. “Sometimes someone asks who wants what, sometimes they make it for themselves. Come on, already, who pays attention to things like that anyway?”
“I know that people don’t pay attention, it’s true. When everything’s fine, people don’t pay attention. But in this case I’m asking that you try to remember.”
“Remember what? Who made Matty Cohen’s coffee for him? That’s what you want me to remember?”
Michael nodded.
“I did, okay? Are you satisfied? Don’t look at me like that, I’m telling you: I made his coffee myself. What’s wrong with that?”
“You made it, and you gave it to him? With your own hands?”
Michael asked.
“Exactly,” Zadik said. “What’s wrong with that? You think that because I’m the big boss, I can’t make coffee for my friends? I haven’t got a fat head. I haven’t forgotten where I come from.”
“With your own hands?” Michael repeated.
“What, what about my own hands?” Zadik bellowed. “I put it on the table in front of his seat. Anything wrong with that?”
“We need to check that coffee,” Michael informed him. “It’s standard procedure, just like an autopsy.”
“What? What?” Zadik said. “What autopsy? Who requested an autopsy?”
“Hmmm, just so,” Michael said, clearing his throat. “We did. We spoke with Matty Cohen’s wife. At first glance it looks like a heart attack, but his doctor gave him a checkup just two or three weeks ago, and everything was fine. His wife says he felt really good these past few days, he’d even started a diet. This was quite unexpected.”
Zadik thought for a moment. “There’s no need for an autopsy. I’m telling you, it was a heart attack. I’d bet a month’s salary on it.”
“Maybe,” Michael said. “It’s certainly possible, it stands to reason.
But just to be absolutely certain—”
The door flew open, and Aviva stood there, staring at Zadik.
“Excuse me,” she said, tossing off a small smile in Michael’s direction,
“I didn’t want to disturb you, but first of all, Benizri is here—you asked him to see you the minute he arrived. I’m a wreck, Zadik, a total wreck. Everyone here—he’s been waiting fifteen minutes already. And second, there’s some guy on the phone, he won’t give me his name, but he says—”
“Can’t you see what’s happening here? Right now I can’t—do me a favor Aviva, take care of—”
“So what should I tell him?” Aviva demanded. “He’s been waiting on the phone. Benizri’s waiting, too.”
“We’re almost through here—tell Benizri to wait. The guy on the phone, too, tell him to wait. What’s it about, anyway? Why—” He looked at Michael and Eli Bachar. “All right, I’ve told you everything I know, and you can take anything you need with you. If there’s going to be an autopsy, well—never mind, I’ll go pay her a visit later anyway.”
“Who? Who are you going to visit?” Aviva asked from the doorway.
“And what about all these people—”
“Malka, Matty’s wife. What, you think I shouldn’t visit her?” Zadik leaned on the table and shoved his chair out from under him. Danny Benizri appeared in the doorway.
“Come on in, Danny,” Zadik called to him. “Did you hear about Matty Cohen? Did you hear what happened to him?”
Danny Benizri nodded, his expression grave. “Yes, I heard, that’s really awful.”
Zadik sighed. “I don’t know how we’ll manage with all this… . But you, you did a great job, excellent work. Come here, let me give you a hug. Did you guys see him?” Zadik asked Michael and Eli Bachar, who had already risen from their chairs and were on their way to the door.
“Did you see how he handled the situation, how he saved the whole operation? Afterward, people come to complain. If we hadn’t been there, who knows what might have happened.”
“About Matty Cohen,” Benizri asked, “was it his heart?”
Zadik confirmed the news by spreading his arms wide to his side.
“I don’t know what to say,” Benizri said.
Zadik’s face grew serious. “There’s nothing to say.” He bent his head forward and back, rolled his eyes, and added, on a philosophical bent,
“What can you possibly say? A man’s days are like chaff in the wind, that’s all there is to say. That, and don’t smoke. Quit smoking. How did things end out there? I understand they hauled them off.”
“The minister was moved to Hadassah Hospital at Ein Kerem.
Shimshi and the others were taken into custody and driven off in a police van.”
“Well, that was to be expected,” Zadik said. “Here, have a cigar.” He handed a large box of cigars to Danny Benizri, who selected one and eyed it with suspicion. “Cigars are not for observing,” Zadik informed him. “They don’t do anything: smell it at least.” He waited for Benizri to stick it between his teeth and lit a match from one of the packets in a large glass bowl sitting at the edge of his desk. “Want one, too?” he asked Michael, who was standing by the door waiting for Zadik to open it.
“No, thanks,” Michael answered. “Each man to his own poison.”
Zadik grimaced, took hold of the doorknob, and waited for them to pass through.
“Can I call you after two this afternoon?” Michael asked. Zadik nodded, closing the door after them.
Outside the office Michael could hear Zadik muttering, “It’s incomprehensible: a guy just falls down dead …”
Arye Rubin was standing in the secretary’s office by the door to the little office next door, whispering to Natasha; Eli Bachar observed them while Michael took the package from Aviva’s desk. “It’s lucky they left the cups here. We’re always getting annoyed when they don’t come to clear up, but this time it’s just lucky that everything remained here. You can never know what’s best.” Aviva sighed. “I wrapped them up in a manila envelope and then in a plastic bag. I didn’t touch anything. First in a manila envelope and then in a plastic bag, just like the movies. And I didn’t touch a thing, only the plastic. Was that okay?”
she asked, batting her eyelashes.
“Excellent,” Michael said.
“I just don’t understand why you need it,” Aviva said, turning her head to the side and fluffing out her curls. “And I wanted to know if you need anything else. Zadik told me to give you anything you need—people’s phone numbers, addresses—” Her voice was soft and playful, and Eli Bachar noticed the curiosity that appeared on Arye Rubin’s face as he shifted his gaze to Michael Ohayon, as if suddenly something had caught his interest.
“Chief Superintendent Michael Ohayon,” Rubin said, “I didn’t tell you this before, but I’m an old fan of yours. Ask her,” he said, nodding toward Aviva. “I’ve told her so many times.” Aviva nodded vigorously.
“Really?” Michael asked, embarrassed. “I don’t know that we … I thought …”
