him feel this way, all bent out of shape, all nervous inside. Everyone acting so damn godlike and then shittin’ all over you as soon as the holidays was over.
Bunch of fanatical hypocrites. He’d love to buy himself an AK-fucking-forty-seven and take ’em all down in one moment of glory.
But that was too dangerous, too easy to get caught.
One glorious moment, but then it was the cooler for the rest of your life and having to knife off the shaved-headed shvartzes from reaming you in the butt and who needed that crap?
Anyway, he might hit a baby or something and even though the kid would grow up to be one of them, he couldn’t see splattering the wall with baby brains.
Besides, no one had any respect for a baby killer. Rip off a bank or something, now that got you respect. But killing a baby—even by accident—that was definitely out.
Besides, if you’re gonna do anything like that, you don’t do it yourself.
And then there was the principle of the thing.
You needed a gun, no doubt about that. Nothin’ gets cooperation like the muzzle of a sawed-off resting between the eyes. But guns was only for last resorts, or people who couldn’t do no better.
And he could do better.
The suitcase was full of them—knives for gutting, filleting, or butterflying. Cleavers for chopping off heads and tails, picks for piercing tough skin. And the portable hacksaws for the bigger bones.
A part of the old man that would be with him for life.
Best thing was, he knew how to use them, where to stick them to do the most damage with the least amount of blood.
The trick—whether it was a shank or an ice pick—was to keep ’em sharp. The sharper the blade, the cleaner the cut, the less blood.
And he’d packed his best stones.
None of that mass-manufactured sharpeners for him. Just good old-fashioned stones.
Had to have them—all of them. But shit, did they make the suitcase one heavy load.
He picked up a pencil and wrote on a piece of scrap paper:
Rule number one: Keep your hands cleen.
Rule number two: Find the rite dumshit to do the dirty work.
Excepchon to rule number two: First you gotta do the dirty work once to show the dumshit how to do it. Then you let the dumshit do the rest of the dirty work.
Rule number three:
Rule number three:
Rule number three:
He tapped the pencil against the paper, but couldn’t think of anything else to write.
He threw the paper and the pencil in his suitcase, then rummaged through his other papers until he found the right one.
He consulted his hit list.
Three names held the number-one spot, each one just as dopey and stupid as the next.
Any one of the three would do.
Tomorrow morning he’d hang out, see which one came up first.
Then, like Marvin K., he’d be on his way.
Somehow Rina caught Frieda Levine before she hit the ground. Just as Peter predicted, she’d looked, she’d seen, she’d gone out cold. Through all the noise and confusion, Rina’s first thought was: Get the woman alone for Peter’s sake, for everyone’s sake, before she blurted out something she’d regret.
She tried to shout over her mother-in-law’s shrieking. She wanted Eema Sora out of the room and Mrs. Levine alone with her and Peter, but it was too late. A dozen adults swarmed around Frieda.
“Give her some air, for goodness’ sake,” Rina yelled.
Frieda’s older daughter, Miriam, screamed out Mama, Mama. Shimon, her oldest son, grabbed his mother from Rina’s arms, patted her face. The second son, Ezra, yelled to the younger daughter to fetch some water. The youngest son, Jonathan—the Conservative rabbi—suggested they call a doctor. His father said it was yom tov and if they needed a doctor he’d run down to Doctor Malinkov’s house rather than violate the holiday. Jonathan answered that was ridiculous, that saving a life took precedence over the violation of a law and he’d call the paramedics if his father had difficulty with it. Rina interrupted the hysteria, yelling out that Frieda had just fainted, what she needed was air and a place to rest. Bring her into the other bedroom and give her a little breathing room.
Miraculously, they listened to her. Frieda’s three sons carried their mother into the master bedroom, laying her on one of the twin beds. As soon as her head hit the pillow, Frieda opened her eyes and groaned. Rina sat down beside her, stroked her face. Miriam ordered her mother not to talk.
Frieda’s husband said triumphantly, “See, there was no reason to break yom tov—”
Jonathan said, “Papa, she still could need a doctor—”
“She’s up!” insisted the father. “She’s up. She’s up!”
Jonathan realized his father was trembling, that he was just spouting religion out of force of habit and was as shaken as the rest of them. He said, “Papa, sit down. You’re pale.” He turned to his sister and said, “Miriam, take Papa downstairs.”
Miriam took her father’s arm, but he pushed her away, then stumbled. Miriam caught him. Rabbi Levine announced he wasn’t going anywhere and his children should stop ordering him around as he knew what was best.
The younger daughter, Faygie, returned with a sodden washcloth. Rina took the proffered cloth, dabbed Frieda’s forehead, and gave a quick glance around the room—a wall of faces. Rabbi Levine’s skin had taken on a grayish hue. Rina managed to catch Jonathan’s eye.
“I don’t think your father looks well,” she said.
Jonathan threw his arm around his father. “Let’s go downstairs, Papa. Mama will be fine.”
The old man was too weak to argue.
Rina continued to bathe Frieda’s face. The woman’s eyes were still unfocused and Rina began to worry. Maybe something more serious had occurred. But a moment later, Frieda grabbed Rina’s hands, and within seconds, her eyes became puddles of tears.
“What is it, Mama?” Faygie cried out.
“You overworked yourself,” Miriam scolded. Her voice had panic in it. “You don’t let me help you. You’re getting too old to do all this cooking by yourself. Why don’t you let me help you—”
“Miriam …” Shimon scolded.
She fell silent.
Frieda
