'How's he doing?
Shmeltzershrugged. 'According to him, perfect-big John Wayne thing, for the moment. When you get down to it, he didn't go through that much. Your finishing off Heymon gave his heroin dose time to wear off. Cohen woke up all by himself, saw the animal heads, and probably thought he'd died and gone to hell. But he denies it, says it was funny-some joke, eh? He wriggled to a phone, put a pencil in his teeth, and dialed 1(X). By the time Daoud and the Chinaman got there, he was out of his ropes, bragging how simple it had been. He'll get credit for the German Colony bust, a promotion, like all of us. You're the only one who got bruised-tough luck, eh?'
'Me and Richard Carter,' said Daniel.
'Yeah, tough luck for him too,' said Shmeltzer. 'Guy's at Hadassah, but he'll live. The watchman, Hajab, got a split mouth. The teeth you knocked out were false-let the fucking U.N. buy him a new bridge. Needless to say, the bastards from the Hill of Evil Council tried to raise a stink, bring you up on charges, but the brass and the mayor stood up for you. Something about tearing down the fucking hospital for national security purposes.'
Daniel coughed. Shmeltzer poured him a glass of water, held the glass to his lips.
'Two other tidbits, Adon Pakad. Amira Nasser, the redheaded whore, supposed to be in Amman all this time? Rumor has it that she was on Shin Bet's payroll, free-lancing for dollars, on top of her street work, in order to pick up on bomb talk. When she encountered Heymon, started talking about it. Shin Bet pulled her off, sent her to a safe house in the Negev.'
Daniel sat up, was hit with a wave of pain. 'Nice guys. They couldn't have let us talk to her, given us the ID?'
'Bad timing, low priority,' said Shmeltzer. 'Rumor has it that she didn't get a good look anyway.'
'Rumor has it, eh? Your friend been getting talkative?'
Shmeltzer shrugged again, adjusted his glasses. 'My famous fatal charms. She thinks I'm still available, wants to get on my good side.'
'What's the second tidbit?'
'More wonderful timing. Remember that pregnant kib-butznik I talked to-Nurit Blau, used to be a tour guide for the Nature Conservancy, had total amnesia? She saw Baldwin's picture in the papers, this morning. Called me up and said, oh, yeah, that guy, he was on one of my tours, snooping around. Anyway, I can be of help, blah blah blah- idiot, probably give birth to a cabbage.'
Daniel laughed.
The door opened. The heavy nurse stormed in, a young doctor at her side.
'Him,' she said, pointing at Shmeltzer.
'Finished so soon?' Shmeltzer said to the doctor. 'Tsk, tsk, not good at all, got to work on your staying power.'
The doctor was perplexed. 'Adon,' he began.
'Good night, Pakad.' Shmeltzer saluted, and left.
A candle burned on the nightstand.
At least another two kilos gained, estimated Daoud, as he watched Mona get into bed. She'd unbraided her hair and combed it out to a black, glistening sheet that hung past her waist. And what a waist! Her softness concealed by a tent of soft cotton nightgown, but the curves coming through-all that comforting roundness.
She got in beside him, causing the bed coils to creak, laid her head on his chest, and sighed. Fragrant of cologne and the sweets he'd bought her: sugar-coated almonds, Swiss chocolate filled with fruit paste, honeyed figs.
'Was the dinner acceptable?' she asked timidly.
'Yes.'
'Is there anything else you'd like to eat or drink?'
'No.'
She lay there, breathing heavily. Waiting, the way a woman should, for him to make the first move.
The closet-sized bedroom was silent; an opened window revealed a starry Bethlehem sky. All six children and Grandma finally put to bed. The rugs beaten, the kitchen washed down and aired.
Time to rest, but even after the heavy meal and sweet tea, he was unable to unwind. All those spent in the shadows, waiting, watching, and now it was over. Like that.
Thank God, no more murders. But still, a letdown.
He'd done his job well, there were promises of promotion, but when the end had come, he'd been sitting and watching and waiting.
Much talk of all of them being heroes, but the Yemenite was the the true hero, had met the killer face to face, washed his hands in the devil's blood.
He'd visited Sharavi in the hospital, brought him a cake Mona had baked, moist and rich, spiced with anise, stuffed with raisins and figs.
The Yemenite had eaten with him. Commended his performance, repeated the promises of promotion.
Still, he wondered what lay ahead.
Walking the line. Serving at the pleasure of strangers.
Cases like the Butcher came up once in a century. What further use would they have for him, waiting and watching? Betraying his Arab brethren? Making more enemies, like the one in Gaza?
