Street Dreams

He devoured half of my bagel. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Leaving no stone unturned. Can you play along?”

He glanced at his watch. “For another minute or so. Then I have another obligation.”

“Where do you rent movies from?”

“I probably rentedIn the Bedroomfrom Crystal Video, but that went out of business a few months back. Now it’s just plain Blockbuster.”

“Your girlfriend moves back to New York; your video store goes out of business…”

“I have the Midas touch.” He stood and gathered up his Sunday paper. “Thank you. It’s been charming, but I have to go.” As he walked away, he said, “You can clean up after me.”

I watched him walk away. Then I stood and carefully gathered up his discards.

Help you clean up?

Gladly, Buck.Gladly.

?

Buck was Bradley Durvain.

His DNA was not a match.

So much for my gut.

But since I was the one who had instigated this interviewing charade, I dutifully went through every working member associated with the Fordham Communal Center for the Developmentally Disabled. When it came to gathering genetic information from José, the center’s janitor for two years, I interviewed him at Fordham, talking to him during a smoke-and-coffee break. Afterward, I picked up the Styrofoam cup and the two cigarette butts and placed them into two separate evidence bags.

It was only after the DNA match came through that I recalled Sarah’s words and kicked myself mentally. She had given me the information when we first found out about the gang rape, but I hadn’t been paying attention. Dad and I had asked her to describe her assailants. She had said they were Mexicans… like the school’s janitor, José.

But he’s a nice Mexican. Sometimes he gives us candy and treats.

His real name was actually Hasan Fazul Al-Liby and he was from Iraq, not Mexico. But he called himself José because in the present political climate, being Hispanic rather than Arabic increased his prospects of employment. His being a scumbag did nothing to improve the standing of his people.

Hasan not only gave the girls candy and treats, he took them to the movies. Afterward, he’d take them to his apartment in downtown Los Angeles and have sex with them in front of a video camera. A search warrant produced a cache of snacks and six tapes with compromised women-two mentally disabled girls, including Belinda (the other wasn’t from Fordham) and what looked like four homeless women. At least, they weren’t little children. With the tapes entered as evidence, Brill brought the DA enough for the case without Sarah Sanders having to make a confession, saving wear and tear on the poor girl’s psyche. My father, ever deliberate and methodical, had once again called the correct shots.

When the news of Hasan’s “detainment” reached Fordham, another girl-his current “girlfriend”-came out of the woodwork, much to Klinghoffner’s dismay. The case began to grow exponentially. It took on a life worthy of newspaper coverage. Brill, along with the assistant DA, began to appear in front of television cameras. I had managed to avoid any kind of association, other than being the first officer at the scene of the hit-and-run. Fine with me: Let Brill take the credit. I figured I had paid off my debt to him and then some. By the time I left for Israel, Hasan was on remand. Denied bail, he was being held at County jail pending trial and was being investigated by both the FBI and CIA for terrorist links. My opinion, for what it’s worth, was that Hasan was just your ordinary rotten scumbag with no political affiliations.

He had lured Belinda out only to mow her down because Belinda was going to report his bad behavior after he had stopped “being her boyfriend.” I had the correct reasoning, but the wrong suspect.

And I was so damn sure.

It gave me pause, how fortunate it was that the law required evidence to back up hunches and intuition. One day-hopefully sooner rather than later-I’ll get a gold shield. Hasan’s arrest was one of those seminal events, one of life’s lessons that I’d carry with me long after I got used to being called detective.

?

A week later, Koby and I were scrunched into two coach seats on El Al Airlines headed for the Holy Land. Nervously, I rehearsed my imaginary conversations with his family. In the end, it didn’t matter. I was with Koby; I was automatically fine with them. I trulyadoredhis kinfolk, but there were just somanyof them, something I wasn’t used to having grown up as an only child. The minute we walked into his parents’ apartment, my brain went into overload.

The scene could have been a fraternity prank for rush: Exactly how many people could you cram into a tiny speck of an apartment? It was two parents, nine siblings-including twin teenage sisters who kept asking me about all the stars I see working in Hollywood-spouses, assorted cousins, and dozens upon dozens of children of all races and ethnicities. One stepbrother had married a Russian woman, another a French Moroccan, and a third had hooked up with an American dentist. His two brothers had Ethiopian wives, but his sister had married a Yemenite Jew whose father was a policeman. It was a living, breathing United Nations, but the good part was they all spoke some English. Still, their sheer number was simply overwhelming.

There wasn’t much time to sightsee, only a quick overnight in Jerusalem because everybody said I had to see Jerusalem. It was ancient and exotic and in parts very labyrinthine, but also filled with traffic and it was nearly impossible to find a parking space in city central. It wasn’t at all a war zone, not nearly as dangerous as I thought it would be. There were people on the streets, but we were reminded constantly not to drive certain roads at night; the couple of times we did, we carried a gun.

Mostly, it was hopping from one relative to another, one meal after another, everyone ending the repast with the accusing words “So when will you be coming back?” Meeting the family gave me fresh insight into my beloved. Doted on by his parents, cosseted by his five older brothers, worshiped by his four younger sisters, Koby was the favorite, the designated “pet,” and when the conversation wasn’t centered around politics-which was most of the time-it was a swap of Koby stories. The oldest brother of all ten, Yaphet, summed it up succinctly one day at the di

But he got the point across.

“Yaakov,” he growled out. “He got the looks… He got the brains… He got the physical…gevurah…”

“Strength,” Koby whispered.

“I think he is adopted,” Yaphet snarled out. “Or my mother decides to playtricks!”

Immediately, the table broke into raucous laughter… led by Koby’s father.It was then that Koby turned to me and whispered, “It is time to go back.”

We were both thrilled when we touched down at smoggy old LAX. After a day of recuperation, Koby returned to work. I, on impulse, went downtown during the midafternoon heat to check out skid-row denizens. I walked from block to block taking in sad, discarded faces, trying not to bleed for the world. I had almost given up when fate tapped my shoulder.

I knew him instantly. He was sitting on the stoop of a condemned building in an industrial block of warehouses, eating food from a can. His kinky hair had grown bushy and wild, but somehow he had managed to remain clean shaven, a lucky break for me because a beard would have covered his recognizable Down’s-like face. He had open sores on his hands and his face was dirty, just caked with grime. His body was swathed in layers of clothes, even though it was fiery hot.

My heart was pounding when I approached him. He looked up and hooked an arm over his meal, a gesture of protecting his food. I extended my hand to him, but he didn’t respond.