Don't Ever Get Old by Daniel Friedman

knuckles.”
    â€œDid that frighten you?”
    â€œIt was a little disconcerting. This guy kept showing up everywhere I went for a couple of days, and when I tried to take my family out to dinner, and he was waiting for me at the restaurant, where my wife and son could see him, I decided I’d had enough.”
    â€œWhat did you do?”
    â€œI shot him.”
    I finished the coffee and slammed the mug down on the table.
    The big Jew didn’t flinch at the noise, he just stroked his beard. “That is a good story. Thank you for sharing it.”
    â€œYou sure you never heard of Avram Silver?”
    â€œI don’t believe so.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Why don’t you meet me at the Jewish Community Center at around four this afternoon, and I will introduce you to some people.”
    â€œI would like that very much.”
    I was there, on time, waiting. He didn’t show up, though.

 
    12
    Later that night, I found myself in the enormous auditorium of Lawrence Kind’s shopping mall church, thinking about Yitzchak Steinblatt and those dangerous hands of his.
    Kind wasn’t being very conversational. I didn’t hold it against him, since somebody had hacked off his lower jaw and flung it against the wall, leaving a red splotch on the white stucco.
    â€œThat happened while he was still alive,” said Detective Randall Jennings, pointing at the stain.
    â€œI guess he was not at peace in his final moments,” I said.
    â€œGuess not,” Jennings agreed.
    I lit a cigarette, and nobody told me to put it out.
    Less than twenty-four hours after Kind had spilled his guts to me as he begged for redemption, someone else had spilled them all over the stage of the church. They were uncoiled on the floor in a grayish-pink tangle next to the emptied-out torso, as if Kind had exploded while giving a sermon. The carpet around the body was soaked black with congealed blood and bile.
    Jennings and I were sitting in a couple of those cushy movie-theater chairs, where so many worshippers had watched Kind preach. Technicians combed the stage, taking photos and collecting samples.
    Had the big Jew done this? I would imagine the Mossad killed cleaner.
    â€œAs much of a mess as he made, it doesn’t look like the killer left any physical evidence for us,” Jennings told me. “There doesn’t appear to be any of the attacker’s tissue under Kind’s fingernails. No defensive wounds on the arms. It don’t look like the preacher got a chance to draw blood, so we won’t be finding any DNA. We’re still searching for a lead of some kind, but I’d be surprised to find anything. A lot of care went into this murder.”
    â€œA careful scumbag is still just a scumbag,” I said.
    â€œWell, I’ve always been an admirer of proficiency and attention to detail. It’s something we could use more of in this town, even among our criminal elements.”
    â€œWhy’d you call me out here to look at this?” I asked.
    â€œThought you might be interested.”
    â€œI retired from being interested in this kind of thing thirty-five years ago.”
    â€œYeah, but this one was a friend of yours.”
    I paused for a second, trying to figure out how much the detective might know. It could be that he was making a guess and trying to get me to confirm it for him. I couldn’t think of any reason why Jennings would be aware of my conversations with Kind, so I decided to lie to him.
    â€œI met this man once, at a funeral here last week.”
    Jennings tilted his head. “Now, that’s not quite the truth, is it, Buck?”
    Maybe Max Heller’s protégé wasn’t quite as dumb as I had him figured.
    â€œI know he came to your house, twice in the last few days. I know he came to visit you at one o’clock this morning. As far as I know, you were the last one to see him alive. Other than the guy that did this