The Crying Machine. Greg Chivers
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Peres strikes a match and holds it to the tip of a thin, straggly cigarette. The flash of orange match-light reveals a man of no more than twenty-one with a scant beard that lends its wearer none of the intended gravitas. The shadowed figure leans back in its seat with exaggerated ease. Bravado is a wonderful thing – so useful.
‘You know who I am. Can we talk somewhere privately?’
Levi gestures around expansively. ‘This is my office. We can talk here.’
One of the trio of old men sitting on leather pouffes at the other end of the room takes a deep drag on the shisha pipe and coughs. The bulky barman stands silent, unashamedly listening.
‘All right, that’s up to you. The thing you have to understand is that listening to this job description connotes acceptance. There are obligations and liabilities that go with that and they’ll apply to your hefty friend if he’s in.’
The youngster gives a little jerk of the head and the big man purses his lips, then shrugs and drifts to the other side of the bar, out of earshot.
‘Yusuf’s a good guy. If he’s not around I get nervous. Tell me a big number to make me feel better.’
‘Fifty thousand shekels. One fifth now to cover expenses and make life more enjoyable. The rest on completion.’ Silas watches for a reaction but this Levi character has at least got front. Fifty thousand would be maybe two and a half years’ labour for an honest working man. It represents a little under half a per cent of what Silas ultimately stands to make on this deal.
Levi plucks a fibre of unburnt tobacco from his tongue. ‘Two hundred thousand. Forty up front. If I don’t know what I’m getting into, I need to know it’s worth it.’
Small-time. A few seconds feigned agonizing serves to avoid making the victory look too easy. ‘OK, two hundred, but twenty’s as much as I can do up front.’ Any more than that and young Levi Peres will disappear from Jerusalem for good. So would anyone. The youngster performs his own little act of silent mental arithmetic before nodding. ‘There is an artefact I wish to have removed from the city. I have a buyer, but the item is sufficiently high profile that its loss will be noticed sooner or later. Later is better. It is currently in the museum’s storage facility. I have taken steps to withdraw it from public view and reduce the security surrounding it, but you will have to effect its removal.’
Levi’s expression darkens and his hands spread in denial. ‘No way. You want a break-in, you find yourself a thief. Who do you think I am?’
He smells the trap, but he can’t see it. ‘I know exactly who you are, Levi Peres. I know who you owe money to, how much, and what they’ll do to you if you don’t pay, and I know you’re just about smart enough to pull this off. Besides …’ His voice softens; no need to puncture that useful bravado yet. ‘You’re not a foot soldier on this job. There’s enough in that pot for you to get help.’
The thin cigarette in Levi’s hand twitches and half-burnt ash tumbles onto his loose-checked keffiyeh. ‘You should have said up front if you wanted a crew.’
Too late for remorse, boy, and you know it. ‘The money told you that. Or were we not having the same conversation?’ Silas’s fingers glide against the silk of his European-style jacket, pull out two solid blocks of pre-counted money and slide them across the table. He stands with slightly stagey formality. ‘One of my people will be in touch with details.’
Habit, more than any genuine fear of being followed, steers him through a skewed dogleg route back to his office. A light breeze carries the odour of the Old City away to the east. There is always a sense of relief that comes with the moment of putting a plan into action, as if the ideas had carried weight from the moment of their conception. Not that there’s any guarantee of success, not at all, but the omens are good. Levi Peres is perfect. Of course, there are better smugglers and better thieves in Jerusalem, but the best ones have a certain traction in the city – they could make things difficult if they chose. No, he didn’t need the best. Levi Peres was good enough, and entirely disposable.
‘Shouldn’t you be working on your masterplan?’
Yusuf turns a chair around the wrong way and sits. The curved wicker frame creaks under the weight of those bear arms folded across the backrest. He leans in too close, like a man who wants to hear a secret.
‘I’m thinking. You should try it sometime.’
He watches me for a few seconds. He doesn’t care that I’m not looking at him.
‘It’s the woman, isn’t it? You thinking maybe you should’ve helped her out?’
‘Sure, like I’ve got time to burn on every ghreeb who wanders in off the street.’
‘Come on! You got to be curious! She comes in here, from Marseille, asking for you by name? And you don’t want to know what her deal is?’
A knot of a hundred tiny metal chains chinks between my fingers. He won’t drop this thing about the girl. He never does. It’s kind of an unwritten agreement between Yusuf and me that I bring excitement into his life in exchange for him letting me run the business from his place. The problem with unwritten contracts is they’re subject to interpretation. ‘Forget her. I’m working on a plan. That’s all you need to know. Right now, I have other work to do.’
‘Yeah, looks important. What is that shit?’
‘Religious souvenirs, for the tourists. I got a variety box of a thousand from China for nothing, but they got tangled in transit, and selling crucifixes to Muslims is a quick way to go out of business.’
‘What business? There’s no tourists.’
‘Because you’re so busy with all these customers you can waste time talking to me.’ That shuts him up for a second. Nobody’s making any money since Europe blew up again and the tourists stopped coming to Jerusalem, but nobody wants to let on they’re hurting; it’s a little bit about pride, and a lot about not letting the sharks see you bleed. Another smoker’s cough from one of the old geezers at the back breaks the silence of the empty bar.
‘You’re an idiot, you know that?’ Yusuf plucks a peanut from the bowl on his bar, leans back and flicks it into the air with his thumbnail. It bounces off his lip and falls onto the floor. He looks at it a second before deciding not to pick it up. ‘You should know better than to mess with Silas Mizrachi.’
‘And that’s your professional assessment as what? A bartender?’ He always does this; he can’t help himself. Telling me I’m wrong is like a nervous tic for him.
‘It’s my professional assessment as someone who knows how to add up – professionally. A job like this takes money. He gives you the change in his back pocket, and suddenly you’re a gangster. You’re not a gangster, Levi. If Silas came to you, it’s because he wants someone he can screw. Take the money and get out of town – Gaza or something. Silas is nothing outside of Jerusalem.’
‘Yeah, that’s a fun idea, but it’s not going to work. The money’s not enough.’
‘Enough for what?’
‘You heard what he said about me owing someone.’
‘Yeah, that was news to me. Who do you owe?’
‘Maurice Safar.’
Yusuf’s face goes tight at the name. In the wider landscape of Jerusalem, Safar doesn’t even figure, he’s a neighbourhood guy, but he’s connected everywhere. Skipping town is not an option. ‘Eesh! How much?’
‘Does it matter? More than Silas just put on the table.’