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HEART OF GOLD
HEART OF GOLD
HEART OF GOLD
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HEART OF GOLD

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Release dateJan 24, 2017
ISBN9781542752916
HEART OF GOLD
Author

Warren Adler

Acclaimed author, playwright, poet, and essayist Warren Adler is best known for The War of the Roses, his masterpiece fictionalization of a macabre divorce adapted into the BAFTA- and Golden Globe–nominated hit film starring Danny DeVito, Michael Douglas, and Kathleen Turner. Adler has also optioned and sold film rights for a number of his works, including Random Hearts (starring Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott Thomas) and The Sunset Gang (produced by Linda Lavin for PBS’s American Playhouse series starring Jerry Stiller, Uta Hagen, Harold Gould, and Doris Roberts), which garnered Doris Roberts an Emmy nomination for Best Supporting Actress in a Miniseries. His recent stage/film/TV developments include the Broadway adaptation of The War of the Roses, to be produced by Jay and Cindy Gutterman, The War of the Roses: The Children (Grey Eagle Films and Permut Presentations), a feature film adaptation of the sequel to Adler’s iconic divorce story, and Capitol Crimes (Grey Eagle Films and Sennet Entertainment), a television series based on his Fiona Fitzgerald mystery series. For an entire list of developments, news and updates visit www.Greyeaglefilms.com. Adler’s works have been translated into more than 25 languages, including his staged version of The War of the Roses, which has opened to spectacular reviews worldwide. Adler has taught creative writing seminars at New York University, and has lectured on creative writing, film and television adaptation, and electronic publishing.

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    HEART OF GOLD - Warren Adler

    Praise for Warren Adler’s Fiction

    Warren Adler writes with skill and a sense of scene.

    The New York Times Book Review on

    The War of the Roses

    Engrossing, gripping, absorbing… written by a superb storyteller. Adler’s pen uses brisk, descriptive strokes that are enviable and masterful.

    West Coast Review of Books on Trans-Siberian Express

    A fast-paced suspense story… only a seasoned newspaperman could have written with such inside skills.

    The Washington Star on The Henderson Equation

    High-tension political intrigue with excellent dramatization of the worlds of good and evil.

    Calgary Herald on The Casanova Embrace

    A man who willingly rips the veil from political intrigue.

    Bethesda Tribune on Undertow

    Warren Adler’s political thrillers are…

    Ingenious.

    Publishers Weekly

    Diverting, well-written and sexy.

    Houston Chronicle

    Exciting.

    —London Daily Telegraph

    Praise for Warren Adler’s

    Fiona Fitzgerald Mystery Series

    High-class suspense.

    The New York Times on American Quartet

    Adler’s a dandy plot-weaver, a real tale-teller.

    —Los Angeles Times on American Sextet

    Adler’s depiction of Washington—its geography, social whirl, political intrigue—rings true.

    Booklist on Senator Love

    A wildly kaleidoscopic look at the scandals and political life of Washington D.C.

    Los Angeles Times on Death of a Washington Madame

    Both the public and the private story in Adler’s second book about intrepid sergeant Fitzgerald make good reading, capturing the political scene and the passionate duplicity of those who would wield power.

    Publishers Weekly on Immaculate Deception

    Heart of Gold

    by Warren Adler

    Copyright ©2017 by Warren Adler

    ISBN-13: 978-1542752916

    All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination based on historical events or are used fictitiously.

    Inquiries: customerservice@warrenadler.com

    STONEHOUSE PRODUCTIONS

    Produced by Stonehouse Productions

    Published Stonehouse Productions

    www.warrenadler.com

    Chapter One

    She wanted me to recommend a smart Jewish lawyer, Linda said. So I recommended you.

    Linda had been going on about her trip to Poland to visit her aunt and how she had met this girl in a place called Jasna Gora, then later traveled with her on the Chopin Express to Vienna where they both caught the plane back to the States.

    People who say that are usually Jewish or anti-Semites. I told her.

    Not all Semites are Jews, she snapped. It was, I will admit, a very confusing distinction.

    Her name was Linda Czerwinski and she had the straight, turned-up nose, high cheekbones and the smooth, creamy skin of your average Polish girl under thirty. She was a nurse at Mount Sinai hospital where I had met her when I had to take a deposition from one of her patients. In her white uniform, especially those white stockings that clung to well-turned calves, she made my libido dance the dervish and I asked her out.

    On our first date she invited me into her apartment.

    I’ve asked you here so that I may perpetuate the legend of the Polish woman.

    What legend is that? I asked. She had already begun to unbelt, unbutton and unzip me. By the time an hour was over I had the legend fully committed to my memory, complete with visual images, verbal communications and footnotes.

    We have to do everything and be better at it than most, she told me in dead earnest. Not like you Jewish boys whose mothers tell you how wonderful you are every time you move a muscle. Our men have to get their reassurance with this, She patted me there.

    It was a unique piece of wisdom and I promised to remember it, especially if she provided me with periodic reminders, which she did with great enthusiasm. Often, because she knew how it moved me and how the usual pantyhose destroyed my reveries about what went on above the hem of that white uniform, she would wear white stockings fastened to a garter belt, a sight to make every Polish boy a patriot. Recalling the image made my heartbeat bang against my ribs and brought about other changes in my anatomy. I felt myself getting very anticipatory.

    When Linda slipped on the staircase at the hospital, I really put myself out to get her a good settlement. We got $35,500, which was pretty fine since the only clinical sign of injury was a black-and-blue mark on her right tush cheek, which I personally cured with gentle loving care. She hated the neck brace that I made her wear in public for four weeks, but she liked the diathermy, which she claimed made her sexy. Since that was her normal state, it was impossible to confirm.

    Notwithstanding our relationship, I still took my third. Business is business.

    I hope I’m not recommending a headache, Linda mused aloud.

    Why a headache?

    There was a long pause at her end of the line.

    She made some remarks that I don’t think you would take kindly. You know what I mean. About your people.

    So what else is new?

    Don’t let it prejudice your willingness to help her.

    You know me well enough to know that I never let hate, bigotry or prejudice interfere with the normal pursuits of my practice. Besides, some of my best friends are Polack shiksas, I snickered volubly, then lowered my voice. Does she wear white stockings and a garter belt?

    I didn’t get the reaction I expected. Just simple avoidance. My antenna sprouted into the ether. Something was awry.

    I wanted to help her out. She’s staying with me at the moment.

    Did she have a misstep? I asked hopefully.

    Nothing like that. It’s something very big. She hasn’t told me. But she did say it involved a great deal of money.

    And because any good Polack believes that all Jews care about is money, my name came to mind. There was a belligerent edge to the remark. I often get touchy on that subject. Besides, there was something in Linda’s attitude that was sending strange signals. Maybe she had acquired another guy on the trip, someone that desperately needed her ministrations.

    Maybe we should forget it, Miltie?

    Lets not. It might ruin my people’s reputation.

    She might have understood, but I wasn’t sure. I was being snarky and I think it floated over her gorgeous head.

    Her name is Karla Smith.

    What happened to the tongue twister?

    Her father changed his name legally when he came to this country. She’s from Montana.

    Montana? There must be a Polish joke about that.

    I was trying to get her back on the banter track, thinking that I might have misinterpreted my earlier conclusion.

    This is not a joke Miltie, Linda said, showing rare attitude. With her father gone, she’s thinking about not going back home. Not until this other matter is settled.

    The money matter, I prompted.

    It’s all very mysterious. But I do believe her when she says it’s very big and very important. She’s that kind of person. The kind of person that would rather not say than tell a lie.

    Like me.

    Not like you Miltie. Not anything like you.

    There’s another ethnic slur in there somewhere, I said. On the one hand you tell me that she’s as right as rain and on the other you say she’s a Jew-baiting Polack.

    I didn’t say that. I said that she had made some remarks that indicate… well, that indicate...

    That she hates hebes.

    Nothing is black and white, Miltie. That’s not God’s design.

    God’s design? It sounded ominous.

    Where did you say you met her?

    Jasna Gora.

    Sounds like a rock group.

    It’s near Czestochowa.

    Gesundheit.

    When she didn’t laugh, I knew that something had changed. Yet she knew she owed me some explanation and I waited to see what form it would take. Aside from her delicious sexuality, she was a deeply sensitive girl, totally without real guile. Above all, she was a master at fellatio.

    It’s the great spiritual center of Poland, the religious heart of the country. There is a monastery there and the famous painting of The Black Madonna, which has miraculous powers. I was there.

    This was no tourist’s explanation. She was clearly enthralled. Apparently my sweet little Polack shiksa had found religion.

    You can’t believe the spiritual force of it, Miltie, she lowered her voice. It’s changed my life. I’m not the same person, Miltie.

    Did that mean no more master-class fellatio? It was my first thought after her remark. The key word was spiritual. I had been through a similar situation with my ex-wife Jennie as she floated from one cockamamie sect to another. Every era had its ups and down. The ups of the ‘60s had been a boon for sex and the ‘70s a boom for cults. Time marches on. It was now 1975 in the year of their Lord and New York was on the verge of bankruptcy.

    So far I hadn’t asked Linda for a welcome home date or made blatant references to screwing, which, in her present state, might have been considered a mortal sin. I continued to listen to her rapturous description of the spiritual power of the place whose name I’d already forgotten, replete with promises to change the way she lived. Finally, she said: I have had an epiphany.

    Does that mean... I began.

    I will never forget you Miltie, she said. It was a strange finale.

    Just tell the Smith woman to call, Linda, I said. I get your drift, I wanted to say. Instead I said goodbye with warmth, civility and heart-sinking regret. I wanted to tell her that her fellatio skills had repeatedly sent me to heaven numerous times, and that I hoped she would find the same pleasures on her own path to salvation.

    Within seconds of my hanging up, I was up to my ass in more pressing problems. But Linda’s call had irritated me. I hated when my expectations were thwarted.

    I yelled out for Mary to come in from the outer office. Although I had installed an intercom, the offices were small enough for verbal communication. My office sometimes felt like it was the size of a shoebox, but the outer office where Mary worked was worse, since it had no window. Nevertheless, it was a small price to pay for the privilege of putting a Park Avenue address on our cards and stationary. I could always squeeze an extra ten or fifteen percent for a Park Avenue address. It scared the hell out of the insurance companies. Actually, it was on Park Avenue South, which wasn’t quite the real thing, but I found that the Post Office still delivered if I dropped the South.

    As always on Wednesdays, Mary came marked with the cumulative burdens of her passionate weeknights with her priest lover. The puffs under her fierce Italian eyes were at their darkest, and the lines near the nostrils of her hawk-like nose were etched at their deepest level. For two years now she had been having an affair with an Irish priest. Its physical manifestations took place Tuesday through Wednesday in a furnished room in Brooklyn Heights, never on weekends, as if such proximity to the holy day might be a sacrilege.

    Yet despite her appearance the affair seemed to have energized her. She was a dynamo of activity, the great Earth Mother to my one-man band legal practice and real estate dealings. She handled all of my paperwork, including correspondences and follow-up letters to clients, paid all my bills, knew where all my personal and business financial skeletons were hidden, kept and maintained all of the client files, and generally could, if she had to, dissect me with a dull knife blindfolded.

    When she came in, I resisted the temptation to ask her why Linda’s sudden surge of spirituality had turned off the sexual spigot, while Mary’s had, by her own admission, become a sexual convulsion. She had apparently appointed me her substitute confessor and her blow-by-blow descriptions were shockingly vivid. Religion does strange things to human beings. I don’t put it down for those who need it, as long as the bug doesn’t bite me.

    She watched as I snapped open the briefcase and showed her the pile of bills, all neatly held together by rubber bands in bundles of stacked hundred dollar bills. Under them was my pistol in its black holster. I had acquired it as a visible symbol of persuasion, to be used only in emergencies involving really unruly and recalcitrant tenants, of which there were many in the buildings under my management. I had a license to carry it, but so far had unholstered it only once and that was to unravel the mysteries of its operation. Actually it was quite simple: I had learned it all from the movies.

    I hate that thing, Mary said.

    As the virgin said to the bridegroom.

    It’s not funny. I could see she was in a foul mood.

    Not funny. But necessary. I hefted the gun in its holster, dreading the moment when I would have to wave it in some harassing bastard’s face.

    How much is in the box? I asked. It was the question. We kept the cash from the rents in a safety deposit box. The mother lode I called it.

    With this, Mary calculated, fingering the piles. I’d say ten grand. Since we owe five, six times that amount, it’s not enough to make a dent. The original idea had been to hoard it. Someday the scam was bound to end. That’s the problem with mother lodes. You never think they will run out. And you always spend as if they never will.

    Don’t worry, I said. She shrugged and I could see she wasn’t convinced.

    Harris called. He wants to see you at P.J.’s at five.

    Son of a bitch. Always after collections. He’s got a wooden leg for booze and money.

    It was Harris who had gotten me the buildings to manage in exchange for a kickback to himself. He called it a commission, which was a misnomer since he was the Vice President of the Savings and Loan in charge of the rental property.

    The fact was that by taking it, he was not only violating a trust, the trust of his superiors, co-workers and stockholders, he was doing something patently illegal. I’m not being self-righteous. I’m in it with my eyes open, just as much as he is. The part I hated most was kissing Harris’ ass just to perpetuate the money flow. And, of course, I was screwing the Savings and Loan. It was a round robin of screwing and it was the tenants that were getting screwed the most.

    At first, I had played the little game according to the rules, paying the Savings and Loan the monthly fee stipulated, shmearing the building inspectors and the various other authorities on the take, paying the utility bills when I was pressed to the wall, and keeping the buildings inhabitable, but barely. I told myself I was doing the best I could. The stark fact was that by keeping the buildings reasonably inhabitable I was saving the tenants from being condemned and thrown into shelters.

    Then Harris began to press me for more of a cut. Then more. Since he controlled the deal, I had no choice. In all things, as my father, Wise Willy, would say, for every action there is a reaction. Mine was to rub Harris’ nose in it.

    Managing buildings like the seven I had was a very hazardous occupation. The tenants were the dregs of humanity, welfare cases most of them, junkies, prostitutes, drunks, thugs and hustlers. There was also a smattering of people too old to move and families too destitute to leave. It was, in fact, a mixed bag of horrors.

    I had never witnessed such a degree of human degradation. The stink of urine and excrement clung to the walls. Toilets were perpetually clogged through misuse. My employees charged with keeping things running were barely competent. The tenants shmeared them with sex and drugs to get anything done. Stoves were always breaking down. Actually, nothing worked for long. I did start out with good intentions, but I quickly learned what all the former owners had learned before me. Milk it before it milks you. Fuck the human considerations. You were dealing with the third world. Hell, more like the fifth or sixth world.

    For more than a year, I had kept the hustle going. At first I felt more than entitled to take my cut — then all I could get my hands on. Because these people had no checking accounts, all collections came in cash and were, as far as I was concerned, tax-free.

    All this loot bought me a condo on the Upper East Side, a BMW, and a private school for Larry in Manhattan, which meant that I had to keep our old Village apartment for Jennie. I also had acquired a wardrobe of designer clothes, a stable of girlfriends and a string of credit cards. There were also the inevitable extras, like the orthodontist for my sister Ruth’s little girl, who was being systematically remade by her pushy mother.

    She was only fourteen and I still had the nose-and-chin job to look forward to. Her husband Harold had gone into EST which taught him that anything was possible and the first thing he did was leave her. What was not possible was for him to make a living. What little he made, EST took.

    I also slipped my mother Ida a buck here and there. She took it with extreme reluctance. Wise Willy had forbidden her to accept any of my ill-gotten gains, which gives some clue as to why I call my father Wise Willy. His bag was being a philosopher, a moralist, an intellect, and a searcher for the ethical way, which was not the most productive posture for a cab driver who spent most of his off-time at the New York Public Library.

    In a world where some Jews were getting rich and buying priceless art and thoroughbred horses, all Wise Willy could think of doing was trying to make sense out of an incomprehensible world. While the Jews of his generation were out there making money, Wise Willy was busy with philosophical abstractions. It was not a mindset for a man who drove a tank for George S. Patton. Fact is, I loved the stubborn, infuriating opinionated son of a bitch.

    Not that my practice wasn’t a moneymaker. There was still enough scam left in negligence to make a decent living, which is probably a misnomer. There is no such thing as a decent living. Decent depends on your needs. Mine were to have enough money to never ever have to kiss someone’s ass again. Sure, I could have stayed at Potter and Phipps on Wall Street, which had just begun to hire token Jews. I could have made a hell of a living in a more respectable side of the law business. It was no mean feat getting a job with a white shoe firm for a Jew from Brooklyn Law School. As you could tell, I’m a good bullshitter, and by a strange twist of genetic fate I look like an Ivy League goy, which is a good thing, but not like it used to be.

    I hated that job. My then-wife Jennie loved it. She was still into her Jappy phase and thought she was crossing over, a fact confirmed by the way she lisped the name Potter and Phipps just like any ordinary Jew-baiter. That wasn’t the principal reason why I hated that job. They insisted on time sheets and answerability, not exactly my strong suit. Although I did my best to disguise it, they were right about us Jewish boys. We had this urge to get out from under, to get out on our own; we gravitated toward the big dough. That’s why they hated hiring us. And they were right.

    What shall I do with this? Mary asked, as I piled the little bill bricks into her outstretched arms.

    Use some of it to pay back the escrow monies, I replied. Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.

    I can’t shovel shit against the tide. When I didn’t answer her, she said: We have to talk about this Miltie.

    Tomorrow.

    You always say tomorrow.

    Therein lies the essence of optimism.

    She had the forbearance of a saint, a role for which she might have been secretly bucking for. I felt genuine compassion for her dilemma, I really did. She had enough problems of her own without taking on mine. I told myself that some people devise strategies to keep them scrambling and Mary was one of those. I suspected also that she had a morbid compulsion for impossible challenges, of which I was one and her priest lover another. I paid her well, of course. But she was more into emotional upheaval than mere money.

    Take five bricks, I said. Call it a bonus.

    Five hundred. Are you nuts? She shook her head. That only compounds the problem.

    For me. Not you.

    That’s not fair, she said, pouting.

    Then give it to the Church.

    I’ve given enough to the Church, I thought suddenly of Linda.

    That crazy church of yours certainly creates needless suffering, I said.

    I will not stand for your anti-Catholic remarks, she said. I knew she was serious, and guilt-ridden to boot.

    I was referring to the double standard. Dona playa da game. Dona maka da rules.

    God does not employ a double standard, she huffed.

    I’ve had just about enough God for one day.

    She gave me her most withering look and stormed out of the office, leaving me to contemplate how I was going to keep Harris from milking one more dishonest dime from my hide.

    Chapter Two

    When Karla Smith called a couple of hours later, my memory needed jogging.

    Linda’s friend, she reminded me after my embarrassed pause, whereupon I acknowledged her pleasantly enough. Her voice seemed devoid of ingratiation. I pictured a hard woman with marbled flesh, thin, pursed lips and a receding chin.

    Can I see you today? Her insistence was compelling. It was then that I remembered what Linda had said. Instantly Smith’s image was embellished with a riding crop poised in pudgy fingers over a beefy palm and a swastika adorning the upper arm of a brown coat.

    I’m not sure, I said, deliberately dangling the uncertainty just to make her as uncomfortable as her advance notices made me.

    Maybe a quick lunch? she asked. I felt the pressure of her determination. Not frantic, just intense. Her suggestion triggered a sense of mischief.

    Why not?

    Just tell me where. I’m a stranger to New York.

    I cleared my throat to mask a chuckle I could barely control.

    Moishe’s. It was a Jewish delicatessen on Third and 20th. She repeated the name, giving it a totally wrong inflection. This time I laughed out loud. She ignored me.

    What time?

    Let’s say one.

    It was after twelve. Wherever she was, she would have to hustle. I said goodbye and hung up feeling good about my little joke. Taking the john key from the wall hook in Mary’s office, I went down the corridor to the old-fashioned, high-ceilinged men’s room, where I checked myself out in the cracked and cloudy mirror.

    Funny, you don’t look Jewish, I said to my reflection. Dredging up that old chestnut was something I did not do every day, but it was especially appropriate to the impending lunch with the Polack. I hoped my natural disguise would thoroughly confuse her.

    With my blue eyes, a nose that extended from chiseled cheekbones at a near-perfect 45 degree angle, straight sandy hair, a frame that rose over six feet in height, broad shoulders, a small waist, flat stomach and tight ass, I could generally pass for a good looking goy. A smart yenta, of course, would have spotted me for what I was at fifty paces.

    The blue eyes and, most probably, my big cut dong must have been the inheritance of a horny Cossack who had ruffled the babushka of some fat-thighed female relative back in the old shtetl during a pogrom a hundred-odd years ago. But inside the incongruous physical envelope, I felt one hundred percent Hebe. I liked the feeling. I also liked the adventure of it, the suspense of being the target of pursuit, both real and imagined.

    When I finished my primp job, I went back to my office and put the john key back on its hook. Mary had already gone, probably to put the money in the deposit box at the bank and grab a bite to eat.

    Joining the midday street parade, I squinted into the bright autumn sun, which made this old and spotty part of town as shiny as a new penny. Even the air, which in summer hung hot, heavy and unhealthy, seemed to have been replaced, miraculously, by a sweet, clean and refreshing substance. It felt soft going in and like a minty refreshment going out, which would be a statement of some dispute to a stranger. Not for me.

    God, I loved this city, especially in the fall. Always in that season I forgave her her cranky moods and bouts of meanness, forgave her her tough old indifferent hide. She was the perennial whore with the heart of soft putty, indiscriminate as hell in the choice of those she took to her bed. Yet she took them all on with equal passion and enthusiasm. No prejudice in that big baby. Hell, you couldn’t blame her for getting fed up once in a while.

    Even the impending threat of bankruptcy and all the mismanagement corruption and crime in play felt like the Big Apple was simply going through a bad hangover which was sure to disappear as time went on. That’s the way Wise Willy put it.

    Moishe’s displayed a rather large Star of David on its street pane. Through it, I could see the high counter and below the display cases stocked with the savory items that were the staple of every Jewish delicatessen in the world. In the rear was the sitting part of the restaurant, a hodge-podge of mismatched tables and chairs, offering a near-perfect reflection of its customers.

    There were overweight Jewish merchants and manufacturers, three-piece suiters like myself from the nearby law offices and brokerages, scruffy old ladies and bent old men, secretaries advertising themselves in trendy designer clothes bought at discount, some Orientals returning the culinary compliment to their Jewish brothers and a smattering of blacks looking as comfortable as they might be at a Harlem food emporium.

    Hanging over this odd collection of human jetsam was the ubiquitous smell of garlic. A fat little man, Moishe himself, led me to a table for two adorned with a pile of sour pickles on a bed of sauerkraut in a brown plastic dish. Facing the window, I munched on a pickle and waited, watching for her through the Star’s inverted triangle.

    I knew it was her by the way she moved, carrying with her this air of single-minded, unstoppable purpose, like a racehorse with blinders crossing the finish line. How dare she look like that? I thought. A glob of pickle stuck in my throat and I had to cough it into my fist. Something hard inside of me was heating up. A sour backwash of anger bubbled into the back of my throat.

    This was no unattractive lady, and it only irritated me further to find myself assessing her objectively. She was on the delicate side, with dark curly hair clipped short and close to the head like a boy, although she wasn’t masculine in any way. In tight corduroy beige jeans and a brown turtleneck, her tight curvy figure moved with liquid grace as she came forward, growing cautious as she got closer, slowing as she approached the entrance. There she stood for a moment, nostrils flaring as she soaked in the peculiar odors, eyes squinting as she surveyed the unfamiliar conglomeration. She was, of course, equally out of place. A number of people turned to look at her.

    Maybe it was the way my face mooned up at her. Or maybe it was Linda’s description, but she picked me out quickly and came toward me.

    Milton Gold? she asked. When I nodded, she slid into the seat opposite me, smiled tentatively and met my gaze with total confidence. Close up, I could see flecks of yellow in her large brown eyes. Her nose arched gently to wide nostrils, below which her lips peaked in a cupid’s bow. A good tan covered her olive skin and made it two or three shades darker. Of course, she definitely did not look like the cliched image of the Polack Nazi Jew-baiter that I had conjured up in my mind as a result of my conversation with Linda. The surprise only fed my anger.

    I hope this place meets with your approval, I muttered.

    Good as any, she replied, unhitching her pocketbook from her shoulder and putting it on the table. Then she looked around again, making a more careful inspection of the surroundings. I half expected — and probably wanted — her to sniff her contempt. She didn’t. I decided it was because she felt superior to it, out of it, an uninvolved visitor. This conclusion did not do wonders for my disposition.

    Before we could get on with the obligatory small talk for openers, a henna-haired middle-aged waitress slapped two grease-stained menus on the black plastic table. She picked hers up, glanced at it with indifference, shrugged, and then put it down again. The waitress, typically impatient and intimidating, stood over us, pencil poised over her order book.

    They make a helluva kosher corned beef sandwich, I said, with a mischievous accent on the kosher. The real thing. I felt the urge to twist the knife.

    I’ll have a roast beef on white with mayonnaise and a glass of milk, she said. I wondered if this was her way of getting even.

    You’re not serious? This is a Jewish delicatessen.

    My remark obviously puzzled her. I exchanged confused glances with the waitress.

    Sure about the white, hon? the waitress asked. When the Smith girl nodded, she lifted her pencil and pointed to the window. This is Kosher Bosher baby. Milk’s only for the Goyim. She snickered. But we can do you coffee, iced tea, all kind of soda...

    What she means is that they don’t mix meat and milk, I interrupted. An ancient tribal hangover from bygone days.

    I looked up at the waitress.

    She’s from Montana.

    That explains it, the waitress said, you look like iced tea.

    Fine, she nodded, either ignoring or not understanding the little greenhorn by-play. I ordered a corned beef sandwich and a diet cream soda and the waitress padded away on her thick rubber soles.

    When she had gone, Karla Smith folded her hands on the edge of the table and we looked each other over. I felt certain that I was as much of a shock to her as she was to me. I noted that she wore a tiny silver cross high on her neck, just under the turtleneck fold.

    Linda told me what you did for her, she said slowly. For her, to her, or with her, I wondered. A flickering sexual impulse crossed my consciousness.

    Everything, I hope. I winked lasciviously. It made absolutely no impression. We had… I cleared my throat, mostly to add a little drama to my verbal missile, …a brief involvement.

    She didn’t say, she responded with no-nonsense assurance. I wasn’t certain, but since I apparently was spoiling for a fight, I thought it sounded a little like contempt.

    Well we did, I snapped.

    It’s still none of my business, she said calmly.

    It’s important. I couldn’t think of why. Maybe it implied a certain level of acceptance in the world of Polack shiksas?

    Not to me.

    Here I was trying to get her riled and she was doing it to me without effort.

    I’m seeing you only on her say-so, despite… I paused, mostly to recover my perspective. I was only partially successful. A brief frown creased her forehead. Suddenly, I couldn’t get it out.

    Despite what? she pressed.

    Never mind, I said. I opened my palms. Your smart Jewish lawyer.

    She inspected me with her large brown eyes. I felt a little like a fool.

    If you’d rather we not—? she began. So she was tough, I thought. I saw the figurative gauntlet thrown down on the table beside the bowl of pickles, and let the chance to escape go by.

    I promised I’d listen.

    She hesitated, continuing to inspect me. I felt like a not-so-prized bull about to be the compromise choice, and I didn’t like it.

    Linda said I could trust you. She bit her lower lip. And that’s the important consideration. I could tell she wasn’t quite sure.

    It’s the usual condition of a client-lawyer relationship, I said, still belligerent.

    Everything has happened so fast. She hadn’t directed the remark to me and her eyes had suddenly glazed over. I’m not even sure how to start. Her fingers nervously tapped the table. And I’ve only got $500 left.

    I’ll pay for the lunch, I said sarcastically. When she reached for her pocketbook, I felt I had gone too far. My arm shot out and I put my hand over hers. It was purely a reflex action, but when I kept it there, she looked up at me with pursed lips and a flicker of anger in her eyes. It was as if we had reached a totally incomprehensible level of communication.

    This is strictly business, Mr. Gold.

    I quickly withdrew my hand. It was very confusing.

    I told you. I promised to listen.

    The waitress brought our sandwiches and drinks. The roast beef on white looked alien and a bit forlorn. My corned beef, on the other hand, looked beautiful and I quickly filled my mouth with a hefty bite.

    It was actually my father’s suggestion, she said, not touching her sandwich. Like everything else, it was… well… out of character.

    What was? I swallowed hard, washing it down with cream soda.

    That I get a Jewish lawyer.

    There’s an ugly stereotype in there somewhere, I said. But then, what would you expect from a Polack? When I saw her flush, I lifted my hand. Enough.

    He died three weeks ago, she sighed. Hard to believe that so much could change in three weeks. She was, quite obviously, holding back tears. Even anti-Semites are human, I told myself facetiously, wishing she would, at least, look the part.

    Sorry, I mumbled, thinking about Wise Willy, who was very much alive and happily ensconced in the New York Public Library where he spent his usual lunch hours.

    She looked up suddenly, like someone at last grabbing the reins of resolve and rolling off the high diving board.

    He had a very bad time, you see. He was in Auschwitz, a Nazi concentration camp.

    I had taken another bite of sandwich and her remark aborted its getting past my gullet. I found myself staring at the cross around her neck.

    I know what you’re thinking, she said, not waiting for my comment. You people… She shook her head, …Everybody seems to believe that only Jews were killed by the Germans. Nearly half were non-Jews. Twelve million were killed in the camps.

    That makes only a paltry six million Jews.

    I’m not saying it wasn’t horrible. Only that they were not the only ones who suffered. She bit her lip again, fussed with her sandwich but still didn’t pick it up. He used to get so angry at that. As if he were a non-person. You can’t imagine what it does to a person.

    Don’t get me wrong, I said, growing defensive. It wasn’t my gorge rising now, but my compassion. For the first time in our brief relationship, I felt manipulated. Watch out, Miltie, I warned myself. This is a lady with a cause. I’d rather this not get to be a contest between Jews and non-Jews on who suffered more. I’m sure it was awful for everybody.

    People would see his tattoo and say to him: ‘You Jews really bought it from the Germans.’ She had turned her eyes away, as if to look at me might be too painful to bear. "He was a man that lived mostly in

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