After dessert, everyone pitched in clearing the dishes.
Mikey and Benny laughing uproariously as they balanced stacks of plates, Shoshi admonishing them to be careful.
Then the children retreated to Shoshi's room to watch a videotape of Star Wars-the TV, VCR, and tape, donations from Los Angeles-and the women went back to the wedding album. Gene and Daniel stepped out on the balcony and Gene pulled out a cigar and rolled it between his fingers.
'I didn't know you smoked,' said Daniel.
'Once in a great while I sneak one in after a really good meal. These are Cubans-picked them up in the duty- free at Zurich.' Gene reached into his pocket and pulled out another. 'Want one?'
Daniel hesitated. 'Okay. Thank you.'
They sat, put their feet over the railing, and lit up. At first the bitter smoke made Daniel wince. Then he found himself loosening up, feeling the heat swirl around inside his mouth, enjoying it.
'Speaking of sharks,' said Gene, 'how's your case?'
'Not good.' Daniel told him about Juliet, the endless interviews of doctors and nurses, the pressure exerted on hordes of sex offenders, all useless so far.
'Boy, do I know the name of that tune,' said Gene, but there was a lilt in his voice, the mellow satisfaction of homecoming. 'Sounds like you've got a real winner on your hands.'
'I spoke to a psychologist this morning, trying to get a profile.'
'What'd he tell you?' asked Gene. He lay back and put his hands behind his head, looked up at the black Jerusalem sky, and blew smoke rings at the moon.
Daniel gave him a summary of the consultation with Ben David.
'He's right about one thing,' said Gene. 'The psych stuffs darned close to worthless. I've worked Lord knows how many homicides, gotten bushel-basketfuls of psych profiles, never solved a case with one of them yet. And that includes the nut-case serials.'
'How do you solve them?' On the surface a foolish question, far too artless. But he felt comfortable with Gene, able to speak openly. More open than he could be with his own family. It bothered him.
Gene sat up, edged his chair closer to Daniel's.
'From where I sit, sounds like you're doing everything right. Truth is, lots of times we don't solve them. They stop killing or die and that's that. When we do catch them, nine times out of ten it's because of something stupid- they park their car near the murder scenes, get a couple of parking tickets which show up on the computer. A records check, just like you're doing. Some angry girlfriend or wife turns them in. Or the killer starts playing games, letting us know who he is, which means he's basically catching himself. We've done nothing but cut along the dotted line.'
The black man sucked on his cigar and blew out a jet-stream of smoke. 'These cases are hell on the ego, Danny Boy. The public gets hold of them and wants instant cure.'
Keep pounding the pavement and wait for the killer to give himself away. The same thing Ben David had told him.
He could have done without hearing it twice in one day.
He got into bed, hugged and kissed Laura. 'Ooh, your breath-have you been smoking?'
'One cigar. I brushed my teeth. Want me to brush again?'
'No, that's all right. I just won't kiss you.' But moments later, her legs wrapped around him, the fingers of one hand languidly caressing his scrotum, the other entangled in his hair, she opened her mouth and relented.
He woke up in the middle of the night, his mind still going like a dieseling engine. Thinking of death camps and hypodermics and long-bladed knives that could sever a neck without sawing. Blood flowing in gutters, disappearing down sewer drains. A city drenched in blood, the golden stone turned to crimson. Headless dolls crying out for salvation. Himself suspended in mid-air, like one of Chagall's birds. Frozen in space, unable to swoop. Helpless.
The first time the war between the grown-ups ended differently, he'd been caught by surprise.
Usually they'd shout themselves into exhaustion, the vi-ciousness defused by alcohol and fatigue, trailing off in a mumble of last words.
Usually she would outlast Doctor, spitting out the final curse, then lurching upstairs, woozily, the boy anticipating her retreat and running ahead of her, safe in bed, hidden under the covers, as her footsteps grew faint, her dirty talk faded to silence.
Doctor usually stayed in the library for a while, walking back and forth, drinking and reading. Sometimes he fell asleep on the tufted leather sofa, still in his clothes. When he came upstairs, he, too, trudged heavily. Leaving the door open in a final act of generosity, so that the boy could share his nightmares.
The time it was different, he'd been six years old.
He knew this with certainty because his sixth birthday had been three days before, a non-event marked by gaily wrapped gifts from the most expensive toy store in town, a cutting-of-the-cake ceremony grudgingly attended by both parents. Then a double-bill monster movie accompanied by one of the maids, the one with the horse face, who had no use for children and hated him in particular.
During intermission he went to the theater bathroom and peed all over the wall, then bought so much popcorn and candy that twenty minutes later he was back in the bathroom, throwing up into his pee puddles.
So he was sure he was six.
On the night it ended differently, he wore pale-blue pajamas with a monkey and parrot pattern, sat curled on the sixth stair, massaging a polished wood baluster. Hearing the usual bad-machine sounds, happy because it was
