Legends

“We must ascertain verbally that you understand what you have signed,” explained Shulman.

“That you were not coerced into signing,” added one of his colleagues.

“According to the terms of the divorce,” the rabbi continued, “you are putting on deposit with this rabbinical board one million dollars in bearer shares, with the intention that the said one million dollars, less a generous $25,000 donation to a Jewish program to relocate Jews to Israel, will be transferred to the ownership of your wife, Ya’ara Ugor-Zhilov.”

Samat glanced at Martin, who nodded imperceptibly. “I agree, I agree to it all,” Samat said hurriedly.

“That being the case,” the rabbi said, “we will now prepare the scroll of the get for your signature. The document, along with the $975,000 in bearer shares, will be sent by Federal Express to rabbi Ben Zion in Kiryat Arba. Ya’ara will be summoned before a rabbinical board there to sign the get, at which point you and your wife will be formally divorced.”

“How long will it take to prepare the scroll?” Martin asked from the door.

“Forty-five minutes, give or take,” Shulman said. “Can we offer you gentlemen and the lady coffee while we prepare the document?”

Later, Martin and Samat waited outside the Synagogue while Stella brought around the Packard. Martin slid into the backseat alongside Samat. “Where are we off to now?” Stella asked.

“Take us to Little Odessa.”

“Why are we going to the Russian section of Brooklyn?” Stella asked.

“Get us there and you’ll see,” Martin said.

Stella shrugged. “Why not?” she said. “You certainly knew what you were doing up to now.”

She piloted the large Packard through rush-hour traffic on Ocean Parkway, past block after block of nearly identical gray-grim tenements with colorful laundry flapping from lines on the roofs. Twice Samat tried to start a conversation with Martin, who sat with the butt of the Tula-Tokarev in his right fist and his left hand gripping Samat’s right wrist. Each time Martin cut him off with a curt uh-huh. Up front Stella had to laugh. “You won’t get far with him when he’s in his one of his uh-huh moods,” she called over her shoulder.

“Turn left when you get to Brighton Beach Avenue,” Martin instructed her. “It’s the next traffic light.”

“You’ve been here before,” Samat said.

“Had two clients in Little Odessa before I became a famous international detective tracking down missing husbands,” Martin said. “One involved a kidnapped Rottweiler. The other involved a neighborhood crematorium run by Chechen immigrants.”

Samat pulled a face. “I do not comprehend why America lets Chechens into this country. The only good Chechens are dead Chechens.”

Stella asked Samat, “Have you been to Chechnya?”

Samat said, “Did not need to go to Chechnya to come across Chechens. Moscow was swarming with them.”

Martin couldn’t resist. “Like the one they called the Ottoman.”

The seaweed in Samat’s eyes turned dark, as if they had caught the reflection of a storm cloud. “What do you know about the Ottoman?”

“I know what everyone knows,” Martin said guilelessly. “That he and his lady friend were found one fine morning hanging upside down from a lamppost near the Kremlin wall.”

“The Ottoman was not an innocent.”

“I heard he’d been caught doing fifty in a forty-kilometer zone.”

Samat finally figured out his leg was being pulled. “Speeding in Moscow can be dangerous for your health,” he agreed. “Also littering.”

“Turn left on Fifth Street, just ahead. Park on the left where it says no parking anytime.”

“In front of the crematorium?” Stella asked as she turned into the street.

“Uh-huh.”

“Who are we meeting?” Samat inquired uneasily as Stella eased the Packard alongside the curb and killed the motor.

“It’s almost eight,” Martin said. “We’ll wait here until it’s dark and the streets are empty.”

“I’m going to close my eyes for a few minutes,” Stella announced.

Stella’s forty winks turned into an hour-and-ten-minute nap; all the driving she’d done that day, not to mention the worrying, had taken its toll on her. Samat, too, dozed, or appeared to, his chin sinking onto his chest, his shut eyelids fluttering. Martin kept a tight grip on the butt of the Tula-Tokarev. Curiously, he didn’t feel bushed despite his having slept fitfully on Samat’s couch the night before (woken every few hours by Samat calling from the locked closet that he needed to go to the toilet). What kept Martin alert, what kept the adrenalin flowing, was his conviction that revenge was a manifestation of sanity; that if he played this thing out, his days of being imperfectly sane were numbered.