“Why not?”
“Got a date,” I said.
“With who?” my mother called out from the kitchen, over the din of the running water and the clatter of dishes.
She marched into the living room, drying her hands on her apron. “What’s her name?”
“Nicole.”
“Last name?” she asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.
“Haddad.”
With one hand, she gripped her neck, stricken; with the other, she grabbed a lamp for support. “Haddad! Is she an Arab?” she asked accusingly.
“Lebanese,” I said.
She raised an index finger and said, “Hear that sound? It’s your grandparents rolling over in their graves.”
“I married a Jewish woman,” I said. “That, obviously, didn’t work out too well.”
“But an Arab?” she said, cradling her head in her hands. “Why don’t you just take your gun out of your holster and shoot me right now? Because that’s what you’re doing to me. You’re killing me.”
Ariel jumped out of his chair and stood in front of her, arms extended. He burst into tears. He shouted, sobbing, “Don’t shoot Nana!”
I lifted Ariel onto my lap and tousled his hair. “Your grandmother’s just playing.”
“See what I have to put up with,” she said to Benny. “You don’t know the half of it.”
She turned to me and asked, “Have you lost your marbles?”
“It’s just a date.”
“You taking her to happy hour at the local mosque?” Benny asked.
“She’s not a Muslim. She’s Lebanese Christian.”
“But she’s still an Arab, you schmendrik!” She snorted with disgust. “For God’s sake, you’re still married.”
“Not really.”
She crossed her arms and barked, “Are you divorced?”
“Technically, no.”
“Then you’re still married. Robin’s a nice girl from a nice family. Why can’t you two work it out?”
“Look,” I said impatiently, “the separation wasn’t my idea. She’s the one who filed for divorce, not me.”
“So you’re separated. Big deal. That doesn’t mean the marriage is over. My friend Dottie Feldman’s son was separated for almost two years, but he just got back together with his-”
“It’s over!” I shouted.
“Don’t you raise your voice to me,” she said, turning on her heels and storming back into the kitchen.
“My nephew dating an Arab,” Benny muttered. “That’s the worst news I’ve had since off-track betting put me out of business.”
Typical night at the Levine house, I thought. Every discussion ends in hysteria. Eager to flee, I walked into the kitchen to say goodbye to my mother.
She flipped off the water, turned toward me, and said, “The only reason I’m so upset about all this is because I want you to be happy. I’m only thinking of you.”
“You’re only thinking of yourself,” I snapped.
She angrily slammed the dishwasher shut. “That’s entirely untrue.”
“You want me to get back with Robin so you can have more grandchildren. Having only one puts you low woman on the totem pole at your Hadassah chapter.”
“How could you say such a thing,” she said, looking hurt. She lightly touched my forearm and said, “Your father, as you know, had a very hard life. But you know what made him happy?”
I shrugged.
“You and Marty made him happy. You two were his whole life. He felt that raising you two boys made everything he went through worthwhile.”
“He said that?” I asked, my voice catching.
“Yes he did.”
“I felt like I was a disappointment to him.”
“How?”
“When I enlisted in the army. When I joined the LAPD. He was so angry.”
“Yes, he was angry. That’s because he was worried about you. Yes, he envisioned something else for you. But he never stopped being proud of you.”
“I never got that sense.”
“Well, he was proud of you. He didn’t agree with some of your choices, but he respected you.”
I felt myself getting choked up. Grabbing a sponge from the drain, I dabbed at the edge of the sink. “He said that?”
“Yes, he did. He respected your dedication to what you believed in. And so do I.”
“I appreciate you saying that. And I appreciate your concern, Mom. But I’m old enough to make my own decisions. So please, no more advice on my personal life, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
I took her arm and led her toward the dining room. “Will you promise?”
“I promise I won’t give you any more advice on your social life. Unless, that is, I think it’s extremely important.”
I laughed. “Now we’re back where we started.”
I shook hands with Benny and said, “Next time you get Dodger tickets, I’ll join you and Ariel.”
Benny gripped my bicep. “Listen to me. Don’t be a schmuck. Stick with your own kind.”
I tousled Ariel’s hair and said, “See you Sunday?”
“Can’t. Mama’s taking me to a birthday party. But next Sunday will you teach me to surf?”
“I don’t know if you’re ready for surfing. But we’ll do something fun at the beach.”
I turned to my mother and said, “Thanks for dinner.”
She walked over, stood on tiptoes, and kissed me on the cheek.
As I opened the front door, my cell phone rang.
“He came after me!” a woman shouted hysterically. “He beat me up. I had to protect myself. I think I killed him.”
“Who is this?”
“Jane Granger.”
“You okay?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll be right there.”
CHAPTER 14
Reaching under my police radio, I flicked on my lights and siren and sped to Redondo Beach. I skidded to a stop in front of Granger’s complex, ran up the stairs to her apartment, and banged on the door. She flung it open, and I followed her into the living room.
Abazeda was slumped on the sofa. He had a nasty purple bruise above his right eyebrow, and streaks of blood ran down the side of his face. Granger, who was holding a. 32-caliber semiautomatic by her side, began to pace. “This cocksucker comes barging into my place and starts slapping me around-”
“That cunt coldcocked me with the butt of her pistol,” Abazeda shouted. “I never laid a finger on her.”
For the next thirty seconds, both shouted at the same time, so loudly I couldn’t make out what either of them was saying.
I slammed my hand on a wall. “Shut the fuck up! Both of you!”
