Mrs. Kaplan and the Matzoh Ball of Death by Mark Reutlinger Page B

“I think your nephew had to give his permission for the company to do this screening of him. I do not think any of the persons on our list will give us their permission. In fact, I am pretty sure it would also be against the police rules for Benjamin to do this for us; but it is too important not to at least ask him.”
    —
    That evening after supper, Mrs. K and I made our way to the lounge, where she hoped to have a chance to speak with Mr. Taubman privately. The lounge at the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors is divided into two large areas by a set of tall bookcases, maybe six feet high. One side is the more noisy part, with a large television and tables to play bridge and other games. On the other side are sofas and comfortable chairs with magazine racks, where residents can talk quietly or read without having to listen to Oprah or an argument over how the cards were dealt.
    On this evening, as we passed through the more noisy part, several of the residents were watching what looked like that nice Jewish boy Seinfeld—it seems like he is on television several times a day at least. Over in the corner, that
alter kocker
Abe Wasserman was having himself a manicure from the lady named Tiffany who comes to the Home to do our hair or nails so we do not have to go to her shop, which for some residents is difficult. Abe will tell you he is very particular about his grooming, which is why he is so frequently getting his nails manicured from Tiffany. Anyone else will tell you that it is because of Tiffany, a nice young lady of maybe twenty-five, with long blond hair. She also is quite
zaftig
in the
bristen—
she has big breasts—of which she conceals very little.
Oy,
she could hide her handbag in her cleavage and no one would notice. And of course she leans forward and jiggles when she is polishing her client’s nails. So Abe, he sits and enjoys the view at the same time he makes himself “well groomed.”
Nu,
it is an innocent enough pastime.
    In the more quiet side of the lounge we saw that Mr. Taubman was sitting alone and reading. Mrs. K went over and sat next to him, and I took a seat a short distance away so she could speak with him in private. Taubman, as I was saying earlier, is a dignified and handsome gentleman of about seventy-five, with wavy silver-gray hair and a warm smile. He always sits or stands straight like a soldier—add some boots and maybe a baton and he would look like MacArthur. Of course, Taubman should look like a soldier, because he was one. He was high up in the military police at one time, and he would have become a policeman afterward had he not been injured and so not qualified. Instead he went back to school and became a successful businessman. “At least I made a lot more money in one year than I would have in ten as a policeman,” he once told me, “but it wasn’t half as exciting.” He is very proud of his son Benjamin, and now through him Taubman has become a policeman at last—like they say, vicariously.
    I could not hear the conversation, but according to Mrs. K, they made chit-chat for a few minutes, and then she asked him if she could have Benjamin’s telephone number. Taubman smiled kindly and said to her, “I am glad to give you his telephone number, but I’m curious as to why you would want it.”
    Now Mrs. K almost always tells the truth, except when it is extremely inconvenient; but she was uncertain whether she could tell Taubman the real reason she wanted his son’s telephone number. On the other hand, what else could she say was the reason? That she wanted to invite him to
Shabbos
dinner next Friday? That she wanted tickets to the Policeman’s Ball? So she took a chance and told him what we had been thinking—although without the details—asking him not to tell anyone else.
    After a minute thinking about this, Taubman wrinkled his brow and asked, “Don’t you think the police are capable of investigating this fairly? Do you have some reason not to