old lady. There are only a couple real produce stands left. A good butcher shop, okay. The rest is all coffee and doughnuts and dumb T-shirts made in China. Overpriced cheese and middle-of-the-road falafel. Oh, and tourists. Lots and lots and lots of tourists. Sometimes you can’t see the market for all the tourists.
Loretta and I used to come here for dinner, back in the day when we were first courting. We were tourists then ourselves, I guess. We’d be fooling around, acting silly, and someone would ask, Where you from? And we’d make up anything, we’d say—Cucamonga. Far away. That always got a laugh.
Now I’m walking through here all alone, past the agua fresca stand and the hundred-year-old Mexican guy who still repairs leather handbags, and tears are welling up in my eyes. I’m trying not to think about Loretta, not because I don’t still love her, but because it’s painful, and to tell you the honest truth, I’m sick and tired of feeling pain. When you reach a certain age, well, that’s how it is.
When I reach the corner, I stop and take myself a short breather. I’ve made it all the way to Fairfax, and I’m not completely out of steam, which is good. I can see Canter’s off in the distance. They keep trying to revive this street, but I dunno, something always seems to be dragging it down. Today there are these herds of nubile twentysomethings walking around in their shorts and flip-flops and sunglasses. A kid on a skateboard. A pair of bare-armed young women with blue hair and way too many tattoos brush by me, smoking, tapping their ashes on the sidewalk, talking, reeking of indifference. Most everyone around me, though, I should say, looks extra tanned and healthy. Then I spot her: she’s pulled back from the crowd, crouched and withdrawn like a tortoise—a timeless black lady on a metal bus bench, her bundle of schmattes, everything she owns, piled up pell-mell beside her in a shopping cart. And she’s clutching this crude cardboard sign for dear life—HOMELESS PEOPLE MATTER. AS I pass her, she tilts her head and locks eyes with me. I stop, sigh, fish around in my pocket, and finally pull out a rumpled five. And I have to tell you, you can chalk it up to guilt or my heritage if you want, but whatever, it’s almost a pleasure to press it into her palm.
“Homeless people do matter,” I agree. “Everybody matters.”
“That’s so right.” She grins. One of her eyes is clouded over and she’s missing a few critical teeth up front, but still she’s grinning. “God bless you, God bless you.” Something has brought her to life. She rises, lifts herself from the bench, and breaks into a spontaneous little soft shoe on the sidewalk. If there’s music playing, it’s all inside her head. Was it my words? I wonder. The money? The sudden presence of another human being? Who the hell knows.
Critics say the food at Canter’s isn’t what it used to be, meaning it’s not how they remember. You’ll excuse me, but I’ve been coming here since the dinosaurs started slipping and sliding into the La Brea Tar Pits, and the truth is, the food is just the same as it’s always been. It’s their memories that are shot, farblunget, gone to hell in a hand basket. But you wanna know what’s the first thing I notice about this place? Every single time? Not the food. It’s the air-conditioning. The air-conditioning is nothing short of magnificent. Such a relief after being outside in the unrelenting noise and glare. They must have thought a lot about Canter’s even before they laid the first brick. Canter’s didn’t just happen. The floors are speckled linoleum, and the cool molded lights in the ceiling remind me how people figured UFOs might look like in, say, 1961, when they probably got around to remodeling. In fact, come to think of it, the restaurant is almost all from that era. Loretta couldn’t get enough of it. She used to say, “You walk in, and just like that you’re back in another era. A lost episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show.” That’s what she called it one time.
I ease into my usual booth on the left and take in the expanse of my surroundings. Everything runs on automatic here. There’s no need at all for a menu, but they give me one anyway. I peek around at some of the regulars. One gruff old fellow in a Greek sailor’s hat and orange sneakers nods at me. I nod back. That’s as far as our friendship has ever gone, which is probably okay for both of us.
I’m early for my meeting with Lieutenant Malloy, but then again, I’m always early. I’m convinced that’s the way it is with most Jews. My father was always early. Irving Parisman’s philosophy in life, if I had to sum it up was, let’s get it over with. And if he was going to do that, well, he wanted to do it ahead of time.
I glance at the menu, and because the heat has yet to let up, I order an iced coffee and a side of kasha varnishkes. By the time it arrives, Lieutenant Malloy is there as well, towering over me. He’s wearing a dark blue suit, which makes him seem formidable. Probably also makes him uncomfortable on a warm October day like today.
“Bill.” I stand and extend my hand. “So nice of you. It’s been a while.”
“Too long, Amos.” He unbuttons his coat, slides in opposite. He looks me up and down the way cops instinctively do. Then he somehow remembers he’s not just a cop but an old friend, and nods. “So how’s Loretta coming along?”
“About the same,” I say. “Some days are better than others. You know.”
“It’s like that with my Jess.”
He’s just saying that to be polite. I understand. It’s not at all like that with his Jess, who has arthritis in her knees and a few other assorted ailments, but nothing to write home about. The old lieutenant is a generous soul; this is his way of showing empathy. And he doesn’t really want to hear me tell him what I’m going through. But then I’d rather not talk about it, either, so there you are.
The waitress steps forward. Her name is Naomi. She’s been here forever, her face is always red and damp, and she always has a sweater on because the air-conditioning drives her crazy. Malloy asks her for hot pastrami on rye, coleslaw, and a big tall orange juice, extra ice. When she’s out of earshot, he turns all business-like. “You wanted to see me? What’s up?”
I fiddle with the wrapper to my straw. “Ezra Diamant,” I say.
Malloy’s lips tighten ever so slightly. “The rabbi who died last week?”
“How many rabbis you know, Bill? That rabbi, yes, exactly.”
“Happened right over there, I understand.” He motions with his finger toward an empty table nearby.
“I read the paper. They say it was a heart attack.”
“Yeah. So it would seem.”
“He died on your beat, didn’t he?”
“I’m the one in charge. You got that right.” There’s a hint of annoyance in his voice, or is it resignation now? With Malloy, it’s always hard to tell. “Okay, so what do you want to know? One minute he was eating his lunch, talking to his pals, waving his hands around, and next thing anybody knew, he was facedown in a bowl of soup.”
“What kind of soup?”
A thin smile. “Matzo ball, what the hell else? That’s what I heard anyway. It happens.”
He says this so matter-of-factly that I almost miss the supercilious glint in his eye, the little look that says, come on, man, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.
“Sure it happens,” I say. “To maybe one in a couple million. Fifty-three-year-old man. Picture of health. Suddenly just drops dead. Hey, why not?”
“You’re
