The Butcher's Theatre

Much talk of all of them being heroes, but the Yemenite was the the true hero, had met the killer face to face, washed his hands in the devil's blood.

He'd visited Sharavi in the hospital, brought him a cake Mona had baked, moist and rich, spiced with anise, stuffed with raisins and figs.

The Yemenite had eaten with him. Commended his performance, repeated the promises of promotion.

Still, he wondered what lay ahead.

Walking the line. Serving at the pleasure of strangers.

Cases like the Butcher came up once in a century. What further use would they have for him, waiting and watching? Betraying his Arab brethren? Making more enemies, like the one in Gaza?

Mona's dimpled hand caressed his chin. She purred like a well-fed cat, eager, ready to take him in, make another baby.

He rolled over, looked at her. Saw the pretty face, cushioned, like a piece of gift glass.

She closed her eyes, pursed her lips.

He kissed her, propped himself up, hiked up his nightshirt, and prepared to climb atop the mountain.

Mona parted her thighs and extended her hands toward him.

Then the phone rang in the sitting room.

"Oh, Elias," she murmured.

"One moment," he said, climbed out of bed, and went in to answer it.

He picked up the receiver. The ringing had wakened the baby. Covering one ear to blot out its cries, he placed the other against the phone.

"Daoud? Chinaman here."

"Good evening."

"I'm at French Hill. Got an assignment for you, interrogation."

"Yes," said Daoud, smoothing his shirt down, suddenly alert. "Tell me."

"You know all those confessors that have been crawling out of the woodwork since the Butcher thing closed? Finally we've got one that looks promising-for the Gray Man. Old plumber in gray work clothes, marched into Kishle a few hours ago, carrying a knife and crying that he did it. They would have kicked him out as a fake, but someone was smart enough to notice that the knife matched the pathologist's description. We hustled it over to Abu Kabir-blade fits right into the wound mold. Guy's an Arab, so we thought you'd be the one to handle it. Okay?"

"Okay."

"When can you be here?"

The baby had gone back to sleep. Daoud heard a sound from the bedroom, turned and saw Mona, filling the width of the doorway. A plaintive look on her face, like a kid begging for goodies but not expecting any.

Daoud calculated mentally.

Mona clasped her hands across her pendulous belly. The nightgown rippled. Her earrings shone brightly in the candlelight.

"Ninety minutes, maybe less," said Daoud. Then he hung up and pulled off his nightshirt.

The best disco in Tel Aviv: huge, tropical motif, silk ferns and papier-mache palms, green-and-black velvet walls and aluminum-rainbow ceiling, strobe lights, a high-tech German sound system that could make your ears bleed.

The best drinks too. Russian vodka, Irish whisky, American bourbon, French wine. Freshly squeezed orange and grapefruit juice for mixers. And food: barbecued lamb ribs at the bar. Fried eggplant, steak on bamboo skewers, shwarma, shrimp, Chinese chicken salad.

American rock, all back-beat and screaming guitars.

The best-looking girls, going crazy to the music, making love to every note. Scores of them, each one a perfect doll, as if some horny Frankenstein had invented a Piece of Ass Machine and turned in on full-force tonight. Firm breasts and jiggling tushes, hair tosses and glossy white smiles turned multicolor by strobe flashes.

Hip-thrusting, wiggling, as if the dance were sex itself.

Avi sat smoking at a corner table near the bar, by himself. Wondering if it had been wrong to come.

A slim brunette at the bar had been making eyes at him for five minutes, crossing and uncrossing silver lame legs, sucking on a straw, and letting one high-heeled slipper dangle from her toes.

But a hungry look on her face that made him feel uneasy.

He ignored her, ate a shrimp without tasting it.

Another guy came over and asked her to dance. The two of them walked off together.

Twenty-dollar cover charge, plus drinks, plus food. He had thought this would be the way to wipe his head clean, but was it?

The noise and drinks and laughter seemed only to make everything worse. Emphasizing the difference between good clean turn-ons and what had happened to him. Like putting what had happened into a picture frame and hanging it on the wall for everyone to see.

It was crazy, but he couldn't help feeling branded, couldn't shake the thought that everyone knew about him, knew exactly what the fucking pervert had done to him.

Those eyes. Bound and gagged, he'd looked up into them, seen the grin, known the meaning of evil.

I'm saving you, pretty one. Thank me for it

Another girl sat down at the bar. Strawberry blonde, tall and fair, not his usual type. But nice. She spoke to the bartender, lit a cigarette while he prepared her something lime-green and foamy in a brandy snifter, a piece of pineapple stuck on the rim.

She smoked, drummed her fingers on the bar top, bobbed in time to the music, then started looking around. Her eyes fell upon Avi. She checked him out, headoo toe. Smiled and sipped and smoked and batted her lashes.

Nice lashes. Nice smile. But he wasn't ready for it.

Didn't know when he'd ever be.

Frame it and hang it on the fucking wall.

Everyone knew. Though the secret sat like a stone in his chest.

Last night he'd awakened, smothered by the stone, cold and damp and relentless. Struggling against dream bonds, unable to breathe

Pretty one.

The strawberry blonde swiveled on her stool in order to give him a full front view. Lush figure, all curves. Red brocade shorty jacket over black leotard. Low cut. Healthy chest, lots of cleavage. Long, shiny hair that she played with, knowing it was gorgeous. Maybe the color was natural-he wasn't close enough to tell for sure.

Very nice.

A flash of green strobe light turned her into something reptilian. It lasted for only a second but Avi turned away involuntarily. When he looked again she was bathed in warm colors, nice again.