Gangster Nation. Tod Goldberg
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lived in an apartment in an “Active Senior Living” complex off Charleston now, on the second floor with a view of the courtyard between the two sides of the facility—the “active living” portion, which was three stories and held about seventy-five people who needed only to have someone cook their meals or remind them to take their pills—and the “assisted living” side, which held another hundred people on a rotating basis, seeing as it was reserved for those sliding into death, mostly in full dementia or straight-up hospice care. David thinking that if he needed to be assisted in order to live, he’d fix that quick.
“Sarah bumped into him at Smith’s a while back.” Jordan pulled out another book, read the back for a few seconds. “Said he was confused as hell.”
“Some days he’s good,” David said, “some days, not.” That was the problem with Rabbi Kales—he wasn’t getting actual dementia fast enough. He could pretend pretty well when he needed to, but then pride would take over. David reminded him periodically that if he wanted to stay aboveground, he needed to spend a bit more time out in the world acting inconsistent, particularly once his son-in-law, Bennie, was free. Rabbi Kales couldn’t drive anymore—that was part of the plan, couldn’t very well have him diagnosed as having early onset dementia and also let him keep his license—so his daughter, Rachel, either drove him places or paid for a Town Car.
“He still makes it to services fairly regularly.” David hadn’t seen Jordan at services since his youngest, Tricia, went off to college at Berkeley last fall. She used to come, help out with the little ones, tutor, that sort of thing. She also worked down at the Bagel Café, too, telling David she liked making her own money. David missed seeing her around. He also missed the fact that she was a shitty waitress and occasionally got his order wrong, which meant he was periodically able to wolf down a piece of bacon or sausage on the down low.
“Well, tell him I said hello,” Jordan said. He turned the book in his hand back over, looked at the cover, then held it up. “You mind if I borrow this one?”
It was a collection of notable transcripts from the Nuremberg trials. Not exactly light reading.
“Be my guest,” David said.
Jordan tucked the book under one arm, then took his wallet out and thumbed through his cash, pulled out two hundreds and two fifties and set them on the coffee table. “Appreciate the counsel, Rabbi. Come by the car wash this week,” he said. “Donny Osmond is signing autographs.”
Now Naomi and Michael were exchanging a series of vows that David was pretty sure were cribbed from a pop song. The three of them stood under a chuppah in the Rosens’ backyard . . . if you could call anything with an acre of grass with an outdoor wine bar surrounding a private lake a yard. The Rosens lived in the Vineyards at Summerlin, a few doors down from Bennie Savone and his family, in an exclusive development that was supposed to evoke the Italian countryside except with German cars and Mexican domestic staff. David had never been to Italy, never even made it to the Venetian on the Strip to ride in a gondola, on account of the facial recognition cameras all the casinos had—they weren’t looking for average bad guys, by and large, but Bennie told him it was a no-go zone—but he couldn’t help wondering if there were housing developments being built on the Amalfi Coast modeled after Las Vegas, Italians living in peach-colored tract homes with brown lawns.
David viewed weddings as sacred affairs and took his role seriously—of all the vows he’d taken in his own life, it was the only one that had actually stuck—and if Naomi and Michael wanted to seal their love by quoting Kid Rock in front of a few hundred of their closest friends and family members, who was he to judge? Those were just words. A vow was something you believed in, and that didn’t require spoken words. Besides, it was David’s job to give them the true blessing, the sense that what they were doing had some continuity with history, so even though they weren’t particularly faithful Jews, and they exchanged bullshit vows, at least David was doing his part.
Which was the problem.
There was going to come a time, pretty soon if David had his way, when Rabbi David Cohen would be replaced again by Sal Cupertine, and by no fault of their own, Naomi and Michael’s marriage would be a sham: David’s blessings upon them little more than a minor fraud perpetuated by a professional Mob killer, this otherwise mild summer day a footnote in a series of criminal acts, and no matter how much David wanted Naomi and Michael to have a good life, free of the shit and violence and deception he’d been party to since he was ten years old . . . man, one day? There they would be, right in it, forever.
David could see the Dateline episode already: Keith Morrison sitting across from Naomi and Michael, asking them if they’d ever noticed anything . . . odd . . . about Rabbi David Cohen, a man they’d trusted to bless their union, bless their unborn child. Hadn’t he seemed . . . different? Though, of course, it wasn’t as if Naomi’s father would want anyone poking too far into his life, what with his business relationship with Bennie. A couple years earlier, Jordan had become infatuated with a dancer at Bennie’s club, the Wild Horse, and ended up owing a hundred thousand dollars, plus an increasing vig, for lap dances and VIP-room hand jobs, which wasn’t exactly a check he could write without his wife noticing. So now Bennie was a silent partner in some of Jordan’s real estate holdings out on what used to be the butthole end of North Las Vegas, down on Craig Road, but which was suddenly a hot property. Trilogy and a dozen other developers were talking about building their own master-planned communities out there, 2002 promising to be the year that everyone moved into supermax prison complexes in the desert, replete with open-concept floor plans, travertine floors, and armed rent-a-cops patrolling 24/7.
So . . . maybe it wouldn’t be Naomi and Michael on camera.
Maybe it would be Rochelle and Lee.
Andrea and Brent.
Tara and Neil.
How many couples had he married in the last three years? Twenty? Thirty? Which didn’t make David feel any better. His entire life as Sal Cupertine had been lived as a ghost, and now here he was, rolled up in the lives of common civilians.
“That was beautiful,” Rabbi Cohen said when Michael finished his vows, something about Naomi’s smile making him think of brighter days ahead. David was pretty sure Michael was high. His eyes were almost entirely black, nothing but pupils staring back. Probably did a couple bumps before the ceremony, or chopped up his little brother’s Ritalin, maybe stole a prescription pad from his father’s office and got himself and his best men Adderall for the big day, since all six of them were fidgeting messes.
Or maybe it was just that Michael was shit-scared. David had seen that look once or twice before in people, back in his old line of work. This kid is fucked, David thought, but wasn’t absolutely certain who he was thinking of: Michael, Naomi, or the unborn child in Naomi’s belly, who was already named Dakota, even though they didn’t yet know the sex.
David poured two glasses of wine and set them between the bride and groom, along with a third empty glass.
“In our tradition,” he said, “wine is a symbol of the transformations we go through as people. From the dirt grows the vine, which grows the grape, which is picked and goes through the sour period of fermentation, and then becomes the wine itself, which becomes the warmth of your body when you drink, which creates a sense of euphoria in your mind.” David paused then, as he always did during this portion of the ceremony, and made a point to look directly at both the bride and groom, as Rabbi Kales had taught him: Tilt your head, smile, but not with too much joy. Think of something sad at the same time, so that there is also something slightly mournful in your face. Sigh before you begin again. Lower your voice an octave. It will sound like you’re quoting something even if you are not.
“Such is the beautiful journey we make as people, and, together, Michael and Naomi, you’ll make as husband and wife.” David poured both glasses of wine into the third glass, then held it up. “From many, we have one.”
He handed the glass to Naomi and she took a tiny sip, barely enough to wet her lips. Naomi gave the wine to Michael, who downed it like he was doing a shot, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and pumped his fist.