A Congregation of Jackals Page 23

  He reached the aisle. Big Abe and his small wife paused, allowing him to exit.

  “Thank you.”

  Big Abe nodded and said, “You have a longer walk than we do.”

  While striding up the aisle, Steinman put the tips of his long fingers together as if touching his hand to a mirror and organized the six minutes in his mind. Like many people in developing towns, he did not trust his savings to a bank, but kept them in his home. He had three hiding places, including a dial safe, the combination of which he knew by memory. Its tumblers were capricious in the summertime when warm air expanded metals. He hoped that they would not misbehave today.

  Sunlight glared in his eyes the moment he exited the church; he put on his brown derby and lowered the brim. In the dirt nearby laid three dead horses, their colors obscured by the gray dust that covered them and the black syrup that leaked from their cracked heads. To the east he saw two dark lumps that might have been sprawled human corpses. On the ground to his right lay a dead hawk with its claws in the air, one wing red with blood.

  He pulled a timepiece from the watch pocket at the front of his trousers; the time was one minute after eleven o’clock. He hurried the pace of his strides to gain himself a little extra time should his safe behave obtusely or in case he met some unforeseen delay.

  As he strode west toward the center of town, one question nagged him continually: how could these outlaws possibly have time to thoroughly search so many homes? They had claimed that they would know if a person withheld valuables from them, but how could they really determine this? If he gave over the contents of all three of his caches, he would have nothing left other than the store, his apartment, four dozen hats and the raw materials to make a few more.

  When he was a child in Berlin, he, his parents and his sister had shared an apartment in which privacy was an abstract concept (possibly the source of his ambivalence in seeking a spouse as an adult). Whenever his father, a cobbler, had a slow week, little Morty knew that they would all eat fewer meals and very little meat. The lean months had deeply impressed the young man. As a successful and independent adult, Morton Steinman had no great plans for the money he had saved over the years, but he always looked at it as a net from the poverty of his childhood. If he gave over all of his savings, he lost the security that made him rest easy when business was slow, the security that forever locked the door to that apartment in Berlin where the drooping wallpaper was discolored yellow and brown, the plaster was soft with mildew, the floor was warped, the shouts of neighbors chased away the few moments of quietude and his father’s Mutter Uta died slowly, wheezing for three years on a cot next to the one he and his sister shared.

  Ruminating, Steinman hastily strode past corrals, ranches, barns and houses, toward the main avenue upon which his store and home sat at the far end. He looked at the other people from side one, dispersing like windblown pollen in all directions toward their homes. He wondered if his face looked as distraught as that of Judge Higgins or Rita or Lilith Ford or the Potleys or T.W.’s cousin. Steinman knew that some of them had their life savings at home and were faced with the exact same dilemma that he was.

  Continuously, he returned to the question: would the robbers be able to determine whether or not he gave them all of his valuables?

  The hatmaker saw the main avenue up ahead. He removed his derby, wiped the sweat that trickled from his curly black hair and replaced his hat.

  Steinman reached the main avenue, which had a few walkers upon it, and descried Dolores, his favorite of the women who worked at Queenie’s. She was like the exquisite gentile Frauen he had admired as a child in Berlin, yet to whom he had never possessed the courage to talk. He waved at Dolores; she smiled politely back at him. The hatmaker had once made a French-styled hat for her as a gift; when he presented it to her, she had stared at it for a moment, blinked and thanked him politely. She had been less friendly to him ever since.

  He wiped his brow, replaced his hat and looked at his watch. It was eight minutes after eleven o’clock.

  “Hello, Morton,” Oliver Petey said a moment before he spat a brown missile into the dirt. He obstructed Steinman’s path and said, “Weren’t you going to church for T.W.’s girl’s wedding?”

  “I forgot something.”

  “They wouldn’t let you in, huh?”

  Steinman tolerated the furrier because his wife was a good customer.

  He said, “Jewish people are allowed inside.”

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  “We don’t burst aflame or anything like that. You are aware that Jesus Christ was a Jew?”

  “Until you boys killed him. He sure changed his mind after that.”

  “I’ve got to hurry,” Steinman said, having wasted thirty seconds too many with this cretin. “Give Jo my regards.” She had excellent taste in hats, if not spouses.

  The hatmaker looked away from the furrier and strode quickly off.

  “Watch that the cross doesn’t fall on you.”

  Steinman reached his store, withdrew the key to the front door, inserted and twisted it, eliciting a click. He screwed the bronze knob and entered his shop, the heels of his leather shoes snapping upon the burnished planks. The walls were covered with scalloped white wood shelves, upon which sat hats of two types: simple ones for men and artful ones for women. Men wanted to look like the other fellows with whom they played cards, and women wanted to be dazzling, unique flowers.

  He walked past the shelves and the wooden hat rack upon which hung multiples of the same beige cowboy hat in every single size, and reached the back door. He inserted the key, twisted the knob and walked through. He ascended the same narrow stairwell he had climbed after more than three thousand days of work, reached the door to his apartment, unlocked and opened it.

  Steinman looked at his watch: it was eleven after eleven. He walked over to the portrait of his family that hung upon the east wall (the artist had included Mutter Uta, even though she had passed on four weeks before the painting had been commissioned) and lifted it from its hook. He set the portrait down, dialed the safe’s combination, twisted the bar and opened the metal door on his first try. Within sat two neat piles of legal tender; the value of the bills amounted to over sixteen thousand dollars. He took the money and put it in his jacket pockets.

  The hatmaker went to his bed, raised the bottom sheet, reached his long fingers into a delicate slit in the mattress and withdrew a felt pouch, the contents of which clicked like communicating insects. Eight thousand dollars worth of diamonds sat inside, clandestinely brilliant. He slid the pouch into his vest pocket.

  Steinman went to his credenza, unfolded its central three-panel door and slid out the top drawer, which was filled with suspenders and bow ties. He pressed his pinky inside a hole in the runner; the bottom of the drawer became loose. Within the hidden space laid his mother’s pearls, her silver mezuzah and her engagement ring. These were bequeathed to him to offer his beloved whenever he got engaged. Each year he became more certain that he would never marry—he found the freedom and simplicity of his bachelor life too pleasing—but these artifacts were his mother’s precious treasures and meant a lot to him because of what they had meant to her. He took the heirlooms and placed them in his right trouser pocket, where they seemed much, much heavier than he had expected.

  He looked at his watch: it was eleven sixteen. He had enough time to return to the church, but he needed to leave presently. That meant he needed to decide. Should he give these familial treasures and the honest yield of twenty years of his life over to cutthroats because they claimed that they could find out if they had been shorted? Should he believe these verflucht miscreants? He had put the bills and diamonds and heirlooms inside his pockets so that he could obey these brigands, but now he needed to decide if he would.

  There was a meticulous organization to the whole robbery that was undeniable and bespoke a calculating intelligence informed by empirical knowledge of the town itself. Had the robbers been gathering information
for weeks or months . . . or possibly longer? Who knew what these miscreants had learned about Morton Steinman? (A few people in town knew that he owned a safe—perhaps one had offered up that datum for a fee?)

  The hatmaker chewed his thick bottom lip . . . as he always did when he came upon a dilemma (which more typically involved the color of a ribbon for a woman’s hat, or which steak he wanted the butcher to cut for him). He looked at the painting of his family that he had laid upon the floor; a triangle of sunlight illuminated the face of his sister, and he remembered times as a child that she and he had enjoyed playing with their friends outside of the synagogue, even in the midst of wretched poverty.

  With three heirlooms and the pecuniary achievement of his entire life, the hatmaker strode from his apartment and down the stairs.

  He did not bother to lock the doors behind him.

  Steinman walked apace toward the church, amidst a throng of people carrying suitcases, valises, satchels, boxes, grocer’s bags, crates and blankets slung like sacks over their shoulders. He thought of the tale in Exodus, though this situation was actually a return to bondage. He pulled the timepiece from his vest: it read eleven twenty-six.

  He replaced the watch and closed the remaining distance to the double doors, which stood ajar though not wide open. He had made his decision to give them what they wanted and refused to ponder the dilemma anymore. Like his father, he was resolute once decided.

  T.W.’s cousin Robert and the man’s wife stood in front of him in the line to reenter the church. They were both silent; their eyes were red from weeping.

  From within the enclosure came the clinking sound of metal striking upon metal.

  Steinman entered the church, passed the sentries and stood in the aisle behind seven people. The old woman at the head of the line dumped her possessions into the open trunk—a roll of bills and about ten necklaces—and then walked back to her seat in side one, which was almost full again with returned persons.

  The talkative twin, standing alongside his brother behind the trunk, called after the old woman, “We appreciate the donation. Jesus Christ thanks you for your kindness.”

  “Don’t say that—we don’t really want His attention, right now,” the minister, seated on the piano bench beside Beatrice, pointed out.

  “Sorry, Uncle.”

  The wiry marshals that had come in from Arkansas threw their watches into the trunk, a wrapped wedding gift and some dreary looking bills.

  The talker motioned for them to take a seat and they did, grumbling audibly.

  Big Abe and his small wife emptied a bag of jewels and bills into the trunk. The talker surveyed what they had dumped inside and then motioned for them to sit.

  Robert and wife opened a valise that had necklaces, brooches and two stacks of bills. His wife picked them out of the vessel and set them in the trunk. They turned to walk into the pews, but Arthur poked the barrel of a gun into the woman’s face; a few people in the church yelled.

  Robert screamed, “We gave you everything! Everything!”

  “No you didn’t,” the talker said. Arthur lowered the gun from the woman’s head to her left hand, upon which still shone her wedding ring. She tried to take the jewel from her finger, but was shaking so badly that Robert did it for her and then dropped it into the trunk. Arthur lowered his gun.

  “I forgot,” Robert’s wife said.

  The talker said, “Sit down.”

  Steinman walked up to the trunk. He held his breath as he withdrew and tossed the sixteen thousand dollars of legal tender atop the pile of bills, gold and jewels. He did not breathe until he had added the heirlooms and dumped the diamonds inside. He pulled his timepiece from his watch pocket and cast it atop the pile, as if it were a garnish.

  The talker asked, “That’s it?”

  “That is everything.”

  “No it ain’t,” the talker replied.

  “It is. I gave you—” The butt of Arthur’s pistol slammed into Steinman’s forehead before he could finish his sentence.

  The talker walked away from the trunk, up the dais steps and said to the entire congregation, “I want everybody to watch what happens to someone who holds out on us.”

  Steinman, holding his throbbing cheek, shook his head in horror and disbelief.

  “I gave you everything! I promise that I gave you all of my—” Arthur cracked a pistol against the side of his skull; he felt dizzy.

  An Indian with scars on his face and a vest made of wolf skins walked into the church; he stood next to Steinman.

  “This is Shagawa. He’s one of the agents who checks your homes,” the talker announced. “What did you find in this fella’s place that he kept from us?”

  The Indian raised a golden necklace and a bracelet adorned with rubies; Steinman had never before seen either piece of jewelry.

  The brave said, “This is what he kept for himself.”

  Steinman cried, “Those are not—,” but Arthur struck him across the mouth with the butt of his pistol before he could finish his protest. His front teeth buckled in his gums; blood filled his mouth; he swallowed his incisors and gagged.

  In his pain, the hatmaker knew the truth. The robbers did not have people on the outside checking homes . . . yet this bit of theater would convince everyone that they did. Perhaps somebody on side one had held out, but certainly nobody on side two would risk it. Steinman was to be the goat.

  He was not surprised when Arthur pressed the barrel of a gun to his forehead and thumbed the trigger.

  Several women screamed.

  A few men called out “No!” or “Stop!” or “There’s a mistake!”

  The people in line behind him dropped to the floor.

  Steinman did not know Hebrew, but he had learned the Jewish prayer that one was supposed to say preceding death—the Shema. He opened his bleeding mouth to begin it; a muzzle flash scorched his eyes; his head jerked back on his neck; the gunshot was lightning.

  The world was dark; a coldness rushed into his head; he heard distant screams and something heavy thud upon the ground.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Pendulous Boots

  Oswell watched the Indian grab the dead man’s ankle and drag him to the corner behind the last pew on the left. The execution had silenced the congregation. Those who wept did so quietly.

  The talker looked at the remainder of the line and said, “Put your stuff in.”

  Terrified people dumped their jewels and watches and cash into the trunk; the vessel was heavy with wealth.

  Presently, the aisle was cleared, excepting the brigands with sawed-off shotguns, who faced the pews; the pair with revolvers, who guarded the doors; and the twins, directly behind the trunks.

  The talker said, “So that’s it for side one. Uncle!”

  “Yes,” the minister said from the piano bench, his arm around Beatrice.

  “Start counting. Let me know if I need to execute anyone in side two.”

  The minister faced side one and counted, tapping his gun barrel upon his thick fingertips for tabulation. The congregation was still and silent throughout the endeavor. The minister finished his appraisal.

  The talker asked, “We got everybody?”

  “We’re missing one.”

  “Don’t forget that dead fella in the back.”

  “Right. They’re all here then.”

  “Glad to hear it,” the talker said. He turned to the congregation and explained, “You try a setup like this in Boston or Philly, half of ’em don’t come back, we learned. Lots of people get executed. But in small towns, the people know each other and are much better Christians.” The talker pulled out his watch and said, “Side two, get going. You have until five after twelve.”

  The people in side two—including the limping sheriff, Deputy Goodstead and the mayor—filed along their pews, into the aisle and out of the church.

  Oswell looked over at Quinlan, who stood leaning upon the lectern. The Irishman was almost unrecognizable with his defor
mities.

  Lingham had been correct—the Appanuqis had turned him into a grotesque, and it looked as if he had endured a lot of doctoring to turn him back into something that was passably human after he had won his freedom. The man’s wretched form was the horrible confluence of agony and determination.

  The Irishman’s good eye and his eye slit watched Alphonse descend the ladder rungs. The little Frenchman had secured four nooses to the central beam above the dais.

  Alphonse, holding the loose end of a cord attached to the bottom rung of the ladder, walked over to Quinlan. The Frenchman gave his boss the tether; the Irishman wrapped it around his left hand, the one covered over by a bronze gauntlet.

  “Merci,” Quinlan said to the little man.

  “De rien.”

  Alphonse returned to the stepladder and climbed up the close side, so that his back was to the congregation.

  Quinlan turned his asymmetrical head; he looked at the captives; the sound of his breathing whistled wetly, as if he suffered from pneumonia. With his good hand, the Irishman rubbed the scars that crisscrossed his bare scalp.

  To Arthur, he said, “Hang James.”

  Beatrice wailed. The dire, rending pain in her voice made Oswell shrink. The rancher looked at Lingham’s face; he was silent and accepting.

  The giant glanced at Oswell and said, “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Dicky said, “Good-bye, Lingham,” but did not look at him.

  Godfrey, head down, said, “See you.”

  Arthur grabbed Lingham’s tie and pulled him from the quartet of captives. The man walked without protest. Lingham did not look up at his bride or anyone else, but simply stared at his boots. Oswell knew that if the giant saw Beatrice he would break.

  Lingham reached the far side of the ladder; Alphonse waited for him at the top like a crow.

  “Climb,” Quinlan said. “Misbehave and we’ll start hurting innocents.”