decent-looking woman.”
“Maybe.”
“My advice is to find someone else. You can’t afford another beef with I.A. Wait until the case is cleared before you call her.”
When I returned to my desk and spotted Ortiz grabbing his murder book and heading out of the squad room, I reached for the phone and called Nicole. Fuck I.A. and its petty rules and vindictive investigations.
“I appreciate you helping me out on the case,” I said.
“You mentioned that.”
“I’d like to show my appreciation.”
“Yeah?” she said, sounding skeptical.
“You free for dinner tonight?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“How about tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Sunday?”
“Can’t do it.”
What a mistake, I thought. A detective hitting on and then badgering a source. If Grazzo heard about this, he’d yank me off the case. Now, I knew, was the time to back off, deftly extricate myself from the situation, and not talk to her again until the case was cleared.
“How about Monday night?” I asked.
“Sorry.”
“How about New Year’s Eve? That’s seven months from now.”
She didn’t answer. What the fuck is wrong with me? I wondered. I need to inject some discipline back into my life. Before I get fired.
“Wednesday,” she said softly.
“What?”
“Why don’t we have dinner Wednesday night.”
“What time?”
“Seven.”
After she gave me directions, I hung up. A few minutes later Dickie Jenkins, the head of security at the Kismet Casino, called. He’d viewed the tape of the high-limit table on the night Pete Relovich was killed. And he never caught a glimpse of Ray Abazeda.
I was on a roll.
CHAPTER 13
As I headed west on the Santa Monica Freeway, I tried to figure out how-or if-Abazeda was connected to the cash and the Japanese figurines stashed under the tiles in Relovich’s kitchen. Did they have anything to do with the homicide? Was Relovich dirty when he was a cop, or did he get hold of the cash and the figurines when he began driving for Jane Granger?
I parked in front of Abazeda’s house, but his Lexus SUV wasn’t in front and no one answered when I rang the bell. I planned to cruise by again in a few hours.
I returned to my car and when I saw the streetlights flick on, I realized it was almost sundown. I was late for Shabbat dinner. I snaked in and out of lanes on Olympic, hung a left on Fairfax, and headed north. The Hollywood Hills were just a faint silhouette, a charcoal sketch in the dying light. I found a parking space around the corner from my mother’s duplex and jogged down the street. When she answered the door, she scowled at me.
“Mr. Big Shot Police Detective is so important now he can’t even make it to Shabes dinner on time. I invited Uncle Benny and Ariel and they’re both very disappointed in you.” She muttered a hmpph, spun around, and I followed her to the dining room.
“Good Shabes,” said my great uncle Benny, extending a hand. “It’s been too long.” He fingered the collar of my suit. “Lookin’ good, boychik.”
“Shabat shalom, Uncle Ash,” Ariel said, hugging me.
When I sat down I was relieved to see they had not yet finished dinner.
My father’s cousin Mort, Benny, and I were considered the family misfits. Me because I’m a cop. Mort because he was a Republican. Benny because he’d been arrested a few times for bookmaking decades ago and served a month in county jail. Benny eventually joined my father in the shmatte business, working as a showroom rep in a ladies’ sportswear mart downtown-while occasionally handling football and horse racing bets from the workers in the nearby clothing factories. Benny was eighty-four now, bald, wizened, and bent over like a question mark, but he was still sharp and enjoyed needling me.
“When you going to stop being a schmuck and get a real job?” Benny asked.
“When are you going to get a presidential pardon and clear your gambling conviction?”
Benny wagged his fork at me. “Those gonifs in vice-half of ’em are on the take-should be looking for real criminals, instead of wasting their time on people who are just giving the public what it wants.” He pointed the fork at Ariel and asked, “You know what the sport of kings is?”
“Basketball?”
“No. Horse racing. I used to make a good business on the ponies,” he said wistfully.
My mother, who looked horrified, whispered, “He doesn’t need to know about all this.”
“About all what?” Ariel cried.
“This doesn’t concern you,” she snapped. She rushed off to the kitchen and returned with half of a baked chicken, a mountain of kugel, and a bowl overflowing with green beans. I cut a piece of challah and salted my plate. I dipped the challah three times in the salt, quickly whispered a prayer over the bread, and took a bite.
“Why such measly portions,” I said to my mother with mock outrage. “I’m hungry!”
“You want more, I’ll get you more,” she said, rising from the table.
“Sit,” I said. “I was just kidding.”
After dinner, I helped Ariel clear the dishes. My mother brought out coffee and then staggered back, balancing an immense honey cake on a glass platter.
When we finished dessert, I said the prayer before the Mayim Acharonim — the washing of the fingertips. Washing off any dirt you pick up while eating the meal is a way to show respect for the blessing. After pouring some water into a cup, I dribbled over the laver — a ceramic basin-a few drops on the fingertips of both hands. Uncle Benny then said the Bir Mat Hamazon — grace after the meal. When Benny finished, he shuffled to the living room, fell onto the sofa, and loosened his belt. “Wonderful meal, as usual, Estelle. Thanks for the invite.”
I went to the kitchen, rinsed the dishes, and deposited them in the dishwasher. When I had finished the last one, my mother barged into the kitchen, pulled a plate out of the dishwater and held it up to the light, pointing to a few flecks of gravy around the edges.
“Mom, you’re supposed to be relaxing in the living room.”
“How can I relax when I see you put a plate like that in the dishwasher.”
“What’s wrong with it.”
“It’s dirty.”
“Of course it’s dirty. That’s why it’s in the dishwasher.”
“That’s how you get bugs,” she said, pushing me out of the way.
She flipped on the hot water and began vigorously scrubbing the dish with a sponge. “I’m going to have to redo all of these dishes,” she said, dismissing me with a flick of the sponge, a few beads of water hitting me on the chin.
When I returned to the living room, Benny said, “I got three tickets to the Dodger game on Wednesday night. Dugout seats. From one of my old customers,” he said, winking at me. “Down payment on a long overdue debt. You want to join Ariel and me?”
“Can’t make it.”
