An Old Man's Game Read online

  Advance Praise

  “Andy Weinberger has done something extraordinary with his first novel: he’s written a truly great detective novel that is fresh and original but already feels like a classic. In the tradition of Walter Mosley, Raymond Chandler, and Sue Grafton, semi-retired private eye Amos Parisman roams LA’s seedy and not-so-seedy neighborhoods in pursuit of justice. I don’t want another Amos Parisman novel—I want a dozen more!”

  —Amy Stewart, author of Miss Kopp Just Won’t Quit and the other Kopp Sisters novels

  “I loved An Old Man’s Game. Amos Parisman must return!”

  —Cara Black, New York Times–bestselling author of Murder on the Quai and the other Aimée Leduc mysteries

  “Andy Weinberger has created an absolutely charming private investigator that readers will follow from book to book. LA’s Fairfax District—get ready for your close-up!”

  —Naomi Hirahara, author of the Edgar Award–winning Mas Arai mystery series

  “If Isaac Singer wrote an LA gumshoe novel, it would be in lively conversation with An Old Man’s Game, the first of what I hope is a series of Amos Parisman mysteries by the immensely talented Andy Weinberger. The writing here, to quote Sam Shepard, is ‘full of crazy and comical pathos,’ and the story itself brings the LA Jewish community fabulously and vividly alive. This is a ribald private-eye tale full of genius and originality.”

  —Howard Norman, Whiting-award-winning author of My Darling Detective and the upcoming The Ghost Clause

  “This is a reader’s delight. Bringing an old Jewish detective in Los Angeles, who doesn’t believe in God, out of retirement to investigate the potential murder of a charismatic rabbi is just the start of this funny, charming, moving, and engaging debut mystery. Add him to Michael Connelly, Walter Mosley, and Joe Ide, writers who embrace the under-represented people of LA, articulate the distortions of power, and cast a light on the darknesses we humans carry within us. Don’t miss this new mystery from a skillful new writer.”

  —John Evans, owner, Diesel Bookstore

  AN OLD MAN’S GAME

  An Amos Parisman Mystery

  ANDY WEINBERGER

  Copyright © 2019 by Andrew Weinberger

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Prospect Park Books

  2359 Lincoln Avenue

  Altadena, California 91001

  www.prospectparkbooks.com

  Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Distribution www.cbsd.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Weinberger, Andy, author.

  Title: An old man’s game : an Amos Parisman mystery / Andy Weinberger.

  Description: Altadena, California : Prospect Park Books, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019004630 (print) | LCCN 2019006983 (ebook) | ISBN 9781945551659 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781945551642 (pbk.)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3623.E4324234 (ebook) | LCC PS3623.

  E4324234 O43 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019004630

  Cover illustration by George Townley

  Cover design by Mimi Bark

  Interior design by Amy Inouye, Future Studio

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Lilla

  …for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.

  —EXODUS

  Chapter 1

  I’M NOT A BELIEVER, not unless you count the Dodgers. And I don’t count them anymore because they’re not from Brooklyn. They’re not from anywhere, really. Sure, they say LA, but it’s just a corporation, you know. LA Dodgers, big deal, I say. How can you get excited about a corporation? Guess what? You can’t. I can’t, at least. I wear their blue cap sometimes, that’s all. Keeps the sun out.

  When it comes to religion, too, I’ll say it again: I’m not a believer. That’s how I put it to Howie Rothbart, and he’s the president of the synagogue. “Howie,” I said—I’m sitting in his big plush high-rise office down on Wilshire—“I’ll be straight with you, I don’t give a shit. Look at me, I eat bacon and eggs just like always. My father, le sholem (may he rest in peace), he used to tell me, Jews didn’t eat pork because of trichinosis. God said, Don’t eat pork, you’ll get sick and die. When I was ten years old I believed him. I did. But it wasn’t till I turned thirty that it finally dawned on me. Nobody knew squat about trichinosis when Moses was running around in the desert. Trichinosis wasn’t even a goddamn word.” Howie was okay in the end, I’ll give him that much.

  “We still want you for the job, Amos.”

  “What job? The poor man’s dead. You think maybe he was murdered, or what? As long as you’re paying me, I’d kinda like to know what I’m doing.”

  “Hey, nobody’s saying murder. But when a person sits down to lunch and dies suddenly, with no explanation, well. And just between you and me, Ezra—the rabbi, I mean—he rubbed people the wrong way sometimes. Anyway, we need you to explore all the avenues. Check it out, all right? And don’t worry, you don’t have to contribute to the building fund. The guys on the Board, they just want answers.” That’s how it went down, so here I am.

  The walk from Park La Brea to Canter’s Deli on Fairfax takes maybe twenty minutes. Half an hour, if you’re an alte katchke, an old duck, like me. I try to walk every day. The doc says it’s good for my circulation, and besides, I like to keep my eye on the neighborhood, make sure it’s on the up and up. There’s still schmutz on the pavement, but in some ways it’s gotten tonier in the past few years. There’s a Trader Joe’s now, and a Peet’s Coffee. There’s Whole Foods on 3rd, and of course Nordstrom’s and the Grove have taken shopping to a whole new gluttonous level. I don’t go to any of those places, mind you, not if I can help it.

  The old Farmers Market is still around, thank God. I make it a point to amble through the outdoor stalls whenever I can, just to see what’s what; mostly I meditate on the cellophane bags of popcorn and nuts and dried apricots. It used to be a real farmers’ market, but now it’s gotten to be like a dowdy old lady. There are only a couple real produce stands left. A good butcher shop, okay. The rest is all coffee and doughnuts and dumb T-shirts made in China. Overpriced cheese and middle-of-the-road falafel. Oh, and tourists. Lots and lots and lots of tourists. Sometimes you can’t see the market for all the tourists.

  Loretta and I used to come here for dinner, back in the day when we were first courting. We were tourists then ourselves, I guess. We’d be fooling around, acting silly, and someone would ask, Where you from? And we’d make up anything, we’d say—Cucamonga. Far away. That always got a laugh.

  Now I’m walking through here all alone, past the agua fresca stand and the hundred-year-old Mexican guy who still repairs leather handbags, and tears are welling up in my eyes. I’m trying not to think about Loretta, not because I don’t still love her, but because it’s painful, and to tell you the honest truth, I’m sick and tired of feeling pain. When you reach a certain age, well, that’s how it is.

  When I reach the corner, I stop and take myself a short breather. I’ve made it all the way to Fairfax, and I’m not completely out of steam, which is good. I can see Canter’s off in the distance. They keep trying to revive this street, but I dunno, something always seems to be dragging it down. Today there are these herds of nubile twentysomethings walking around in their shorts and flip-flops and sunglasses. A kid on a skateboard. A pair of bare-armed young women with blue hair and way too many tattoos brush by me, smoking, tappin
g their ashes on the sidewalk, talking, reeking of indifference. Most everyone around me, though, I should say, looks extra tanned and healthy. Then I spot her: she’s pulled back from the crowd, crouched and withdrawn like a tortoise—a timeless black lady on a metal bus bench, her bundle of schmattes, everything she owns, piled up pell-mell beside her in a shopping cart. And she’s clutching this crude cardboard sign for dear life—HOMELESS PEOPLE MATTER. AS I pass her, she tilts her head and locks eyes with me. I stop, sigh, fish around in my pocket, and finally pull out a rumpled five. And I have to tell you, you can chalk it up to guilt or my heritage if you want, but whatever, it’s almost a pleasure to press it into her palm.

  “Homeless people do matter,” I agree. “Everybody matters.”

  “That’s so right.” She grins. One of her eyes is clouded over and she’s missing a few critical teeth up front, but still she’s grinning. “God bless you, God bless you.” Something has brought her to life. She rises, lifts herself from the bench, and breaks into a spontaneous little soft shoe on the sidewalk. If there’s music playing, it’s all inside her head. Was it my words? I wonder. The money? The sudden presence of another human being? Who the hell knows.

  Critics say the food at Canter’s isn’t what it used to be, meaning it’s not how they remember. You’ll excuse me, but I’ve been coming here since the dinosaurs started slipping and sliding into the La Brea Tar Pits, and the truth is, the food is just the same as it’s always been. It’s their memories that are shot, farblunget, gone to hell in a hand basket. But you wanna know what’s the first thing I notice about this place? Every single time? Not the food. It’s the air-conditioning. The air-conditioning is nothing short of magnificent. Such a relief after being outside in the unrelenting noise and glare. They must have thought a lot about Canter’s even before they laid the first brick. Canter’s didn’t just happen. The floors are speckled linoleum, and the cool molded lights in the ceiling remind me how people figured UFOs might look like in, say, 1961, when they probably got around to remodeling. In fact, come to think of it, the restaurant is almost all from that era. Loretta couldn’t get enough of it. She used to say, “You walk in, and just like that you’re back in another era. A lost episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show.” That’s what she called it one time.

  I ease into my usual booth on the left and take in the expanse of my surroundings. Everything runs on automatic here. There’s no need at all for a menu, but they give me one anyway. I peek around at some of the regulars. One gruff old fellow in a Greek sailor’s hat and orange sneakers nods at me. I nod back. That’s as far as our friendship has ever gone, which is probably okay for both of us.

  I’m early for my meeting with Lieutenant Malloy, but then again, I’m always early. I’m convinced that’s the way it is with most Jews. My father was always early. Irving Parisman’s philosophy in life, if I had to sum it up was, let’s get it over with. And if he was going to do that, well, he wanted to do it ahead of time.

  I glance at the menu, and because the heat has yet to let up, I order an iced coffee and a side of kasha varnishkes. By the time it arrives, Lieutenant Malloy is there as well, towering over me. He’s wearing a dark blue suit, which makes him seem formidable. Probably also makes him uncomfortable on a warm October day like today.

  “Bill.” I stand and extend my hand. “So nice of you. It’s been a while.”

  “Too long, Amos.” He unbuttons his coat, slides in opposite. He looks me up and down the way cops instinctively do. Then he somehow remembers he’s not just a cop but an old friend, and nods. “So how’s Loretta coming along?”

  “About the same,” I say. “Some days are better than others. You know.”

  “It’s like that with my Jess.”

  He’s just saying that to be polite. I understand. It’s not at all like that with his Jess, who has arthritis in her knees and a few other assorted ailments, but nothing to write home about. The old lieutenant is a generous soul; this is his way of showing empathy. And he doesn’t really want to hear me tell him what I’m going through. But then I’d rather not talk about it, either, so there you are.

  The waitress steps forward. Her name is Naomi. She’s been here forever, her face is always red and damp, and she always has a sweater on because the air-conditioning drives her crazy. Malloy asks her for hot pastrami on rye, coleslaw, and a big tall orange juice, extra ice. When she’s out of earshot, he turns all business-like. “You wanted to see me? What’s up?”

  I fiddle with the wrapper to my straw. “Ezra Diamant,” I say.

  Malloy’s lips tighten ever so slightly. “The rabbi who died last week?”

  “How many rabbis you know, Bill? That rabbi, yes, exactly.”

  “Happened right over there, I understand.” He motions with his finger toward an empty table nearby.

  “I read the paper. They say it was a heart attack.”

  “Yeah. So it would seem.”

  “He died on your beat, didn’t he?”

  “I’m the one in charge. You got that right.” There’s a hint of annoyance in his voice, or is it resignation now? With Malloy, it’s always hard to tell. “Okay, so what do you want to know? One minute he was eating his lunch, talking to his pals, waving his hands around, and next thing anybody knew, he was facedown in a bowl of soup.”

  “What kind of soup?”

  A thin smile. “Matzo ball, what the hell else? That’s what I heard anyway. It happens.”

  He says this so matter-of-factly that I almost miss the supercilious glint in his eye, the little look that says, come on, man, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.

  “Sure it happens,” I say. “To maybe one in a couple million. Fifty-three-year-old man. Picture of health. Suddenly just drops dead. Hey, why not?”

  “You’re suggesting otherwise?”

  I take a sip of my iced coffee, tap my chest to clear my throat. “I’m asking.”

  “Since when is it your job to ask anymore?” he says. “I thought you were retired.”

  “Since the temple Board decided to hire me,” I say. “Look at me, Bill, I’m born-again.”

  “At your age?” He shakes his head and chuckles.

  “Good help is hard to find,” I say.

  His sandwich arrives, and he dives in. For a minute neither of us talk. Then Malloy leans toward me, and I can make out the vein in his forehead starting to pulse. “Amos, I saw the pictures of the body. He was hardly healthy. He was overweight. His wife said he lived for cigarettes. That he’s had hypertension as long as she could remember. That he was taking something for cholesterol. Now, what else you wanna know?” He holds up the uneaten half of his hot pastrami and lays it back down on his plate. “Maybe this is the culprit right here,” he offers.

  “That what the doctor’s report said?”

  “Pretty much. Probable heart attack. Could have been an aneurysm, I suppose. Either way you’re dead.”

  “What about an autopsy. They even bother to do an autopsy?”

  “No. No, the family didn’t want it. Orthodox folks don’t go in for that kind of stuff. Put em in the ground quick. That’s what they do.”

  “He wasn’t that orthodox.”

  Malloy shrugs. “Yeah, well, he wasn’t a Presbyterian, either. I know that much.”

  “Did you at least talk with his doctor? Check exactly what meds he was on?”

  “Oh, sure. We spoke with the doc. I put Jason and Remo on that detail. They went out to her office a couple days later. Somebody at the temple asked us if we wouldn’t mind, so we did. They didn’t see much, nothing in his file that raised eyebrows. The doctor was young, that’s all they said, a real looker. Just out of school. I’m forgetting her name.”

  I consult the little cardboard spiral notepad I always carry around. “The president of the shul gave it to me already. Her name is Ewing. Dora Ewing. I’m going to chat with her next. Right after I sit down with some Board members. I made an appointment with her—day after tomorrow.”

  “That was
quick. How’d you ever manage that?”

  “I lied, that’s how. I told her I had symptoms in the night. You know, a tingly feeling in my arms. Thought I might be a candidate for a heart attack.”

  “Usually they tell you to go straight to the Emergency Room, they hear that.”

  “They did. And I said I went, and by the time I got there—guess what?—I was fine. What can you do?”

  “And so you decided to call her and do a follow-up, is that it?”

  “Better safe than sorry, huh? A man my age needs to be careful.”

  Malloy’s face is growing more serious by the minute. “You’re wasting your time,” he says. “She won’t tell you anything, even if she knew. Same goes for the family. Wait, are you saying this wasn’t done according to Hoyle? That we missed something?”

  “You might have,” I say quietly. “It’s happened before.” I take a deep breath before I continue. “The Board at Shir Emet seems to think so.”

  “And why’s that?” he asks. Now I can definitely hear a little snarl, the sarcasm creeping in. “What kind of learned opinions do they have?”

  Bill Malloy takes great pride in what he does. Twenty years on the job, maybe more. He doesn’t like being accused of sloppy police work. “They knew the rabbi,” I say. “They were close. They played pinochle together on Wednesday nights. They probably argued about politics. What can I say? There was a bond.”

  “That’s quaint,” he says. “Nice.” Then, as an afterthought—“You even a member of this temple?”

  “Me? Nah. I used to be, long ago. But I got tired of all the back and forth. You know this neighborhood, how it is with Jews. We can be difficult sometimes.”

  “Just like the Irish,” he says. Now he’s genial again. He takes a healthy gulp of orange juice and pushes the remainder of the coleslaw around on his plate. “Okay, so for the sake of argument, let’s pretend this rabbi of yours didn’t just drop dead, at least not the way they wrote it up in the Times obit. What then, Sherlock? You think he was murdered? Where’s your evidence? You still believe in evidence, don’t you? Or have you suddenly joined hands with the mystics in the boardroom?”