One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross by Harry Kemelman Read Free Book Online

the Watertown section of Boston, in the back room of a mom-and-pop variety store, the elderly proprietor was having his lunch while his wife waited on trade. As he stared blankly at the curtain that separated the room from the store—the curtain billowed as the outer door opened and closed—he chewed mechanically at a bit of meat, his whole face contracting, collapsing each time he bit.
    His wife parted the curtain enough to poke her head in. “Ali,” she said.
    â€œHave him come in.”
    A stout young man with a round red face sidled into the room. He doffed the linen cap he was wearing and held it against his chest with both hands as he looked uncertainly at the old man who stared back at him. After a moment, the old man nodded toward one of the plastic soda bottle carriers that were the sole furniture of the room, serving as both chairs and a table for the old man’s lunch. Ali nodded gratefully and sat down. Leaning forward eagerly, he said, “El Dhamouri was at the Château last night. He was with another man. Not one of us.”
    â€œDid you hear what they were talking about?”
    â€œI am in the kitchen,” he said deprecatingly. “But Giuseppe waited on them.”
    â€œAnd did the Italian hear anything?”
    â€œOnly that the other one was going on a trip to the Mideast and would be in Jerusalem.”
    â€œAnd his name?”
    â€œGiuseppe said he called him ‘My dear Grenish.’”
    â€œAnything said about when he was leaving?”
    â€œGiuseppe got the impression that it was the next day—that is, today.”
    â€œThat’s it? Anything else?”
    Ali’s small mouth spread into a wide smile and his fat cheeks all but concealed his eyes. “Only that in Jerusalem, he will be staying at the Excelsior.”
    â€œAt the Excelsior! Well, well, well. Very considerate of him. Very good, Ali. I am pleased. You will let the Italian know. Do something for him if you can. A present, perhaps. Maybe a little hashish, or a girl.”

7
    Between the Jewish rabbi of Barnard’s crossing and its Catholic chief of police, Hugh Lanigan, there was a friendship that went back to the first year the rabbi had arrived in town. At first the relationship had been purely official, and over the years there had developed a number of situations that called for the police chief to see the rabbi on official business. But there were also any number of occasions when the police chief would ring the bell of the Small residence and say, “I was in the neighborhood,” and either the rabbi or Miriam, whoever opened the door, immediately ushered him into the living room and set about brewing tea or coffee. And similarly, when the rabbi happened to be downtown, walking along Main Street on a summer’s afternoon, he was apt to be hailed by Hugh Lanigan taking his ease on the front porch of his house, and when the rabbi opened the gate, Lanigan would call out to his wife, “David Small, Amy. Rustle up some drinks, will you?”
    With a ruddy, square face surmounted by prematurely white hair cut in a whiffle so that at the top, pink scalp was visible, Hugh Lanigan was not much older than Rabbi Small. Although his formal education beyond high school had consisted of only a few college extension courses, he was of an intellectual and even philosophical turn of mind, and he enjoyed talking to the rabbi about their respective religions. That the rabbi’s insight had occasionally been of professional interest and help to the police chief served to cement their friendship all the more strongly.
    So it was not to be wondered at that the Lanigans were guests at the home of the Smalls at dinner one evening shortly before their departure for Israel. The talk had been general, but now, over coffee, they talked about the coming trip.
    â€œIt would be nice if we could make the trip sometime, Hugh,” said Amy, “and see all those ancient places.