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The Cutting Room

By Robert Rosenberg

Chapter Three

he pilot thanked the tail winds for getting them to LA on time and thanked the passengers for trusting him with their lives. "It's ninety-eight point six out there. Body temperature," he quipped over the loudspeaker as the plane nudged into its slot at the terminal.

Cohen was the first passenger out of his seat, and the first out of the plane. The customs officer raised an eyebrow at the long-distance, first-class traveler with only a single bag of clothes. But noticing Cohen's profession listed in his passport, the officer asked only a perfunctory "business or pleasure" as he handed back the brand-new Israeli passport with the single visa that had been stamped into the blue book at the U.S. consulate in Jerusalem.

"Personal," Cohen said, adding "I'm retired" in an almost apologetic tone, immediately embarrassed by what felt to him like a confession.

"Lucky you," the gray-haired official said, smiling broadly as he handed back the passport. Cohen didn't smile back. He followed the signs to the main exit. Through glass doors at the end of a long corridor, he could see the expectant faces of people waiting for arriving travelers, and as he pushed through the doors, he was already scanning for Der Bruder's face. Planning ahead was one of Der Bruder's keener qualities, a compulsion that tried to cover every detail. Only those who plan can improvise, Der Bruder taught.

The plane was on time. Broder would have been five minutes early. So it took only a few minutes for Cohen to realize his friend was not at the airport. He carefully checked the blackboards and placards held up by a row of chauffeurs waiting for arriving travelers. Even Broder could have miscalculated his plans, and might have sent a driver instead of personally picking up Cohen as he had promised. But no sign advertised Avram Cohen's name.

He used his free hand to reach for his flask and a taste of the sweet burn of cognac on his tongue. Shaking Goldie Stein's tales out of his ears, he headed for a carousel of pay phones across the wide corridor. After a moment's fumble for the proper coin, he punched in the phone number. A gruff, impatient "Yeah?" answered. It wasn't Der Bruder's voice.

Cohen identified himself and asked for Max Broder.

"Avram Cohen, you said?" asked the man.

"Yes."

"Hold on."

Cohen's hearing was dulled, his ears still ringing from the pressurized cabin. But he was aware of voices in the background. "You're the friend from Israel?" the man asked. "The cop?"

"Is Max there?" Cohen demanded impatiently.

"I asked you a question," the man insisted.

"Yes, yes," Cohen said impatiently. "From Jerusalem, yes."

"I'm afraid there's some bad news," said the stranger.

Cohen gripped the receiver tightly. "Yes?"

"Your friend's dead," he said. "He hanged himself." A half-beat later, the man added, "I'm sorry."

The air conditioning in the lounge was powerful, but sweat gathered quickly in the hollow of Cohen's palm clutching the receiver. "Pardon?" he asked, hopeful that he had misunderstood. He shifted the receiver to the other ear. "Again please?" he asked.

"He hanged himself," the man repeated. "I'm sorry."

Cohen slumped slightly, grasping the phone booth panel with one hand. "That's impossible," he said reflexively.

"It happened," said the stranger at the end of the line.

"Who are you?" Cohen asked in a shocked whisper.

"Madden. Detective Sergeant Mike Madden. Beverly Hills Police."

"I'm on my way," Cohen answered, hanging up without waiting for a response from the American policeman. He grabbed his bag up from the floor, and strode blindly away from the phones. But his mind was reeling, and he careened with it, walking twice as fast as everyone around him, dodging the pedestrian traffic like a racer moving through the pack. All the claustrophobia he had felt in the plane exploded into a need to get out of the airport building. Grief propelled him forward blindly. Der Bruder. Dead. Suicide. It was so illogical, so preposterous and so impossible that he suddenly froze in place, paralyzed by the contradictions.

Immediately someone bumped into him from behind. Cohen spun, ready to strike. "Hey man, I'm sorry, it's cool," the young man said, holding up a guitar case to protect himself and backing away from the fury on Cohen's face. He gave Cohen a strange look and then, mumbling about crazies on the coast, gave Cohen a wide berth as he passed the bewildered Jerusalemite.

Deadlocked at an intersection of four brightly-lit hallways and a confusion of signs pointing to terminals and avenues, exits and parking lots, Cohen stared into his own darkness. The airport bustle was dull and inarticulate around him. Faces passed, voices spoke. But he heard nothing and saw nothing.

He had the return ticket back to Israel. Get out of here. Leave, he thought. Go home. He looked up at the signs but all he saw were blurred letters and stubby arrows. His mouth was as dry as Jerusalem in September. He realized he was shaking, and a cold sweat was pouring from his forehead. His heart was beating erratically. He felt dizzy, and tried to control the panic, looking around for somewhere to sit down. Plastic chairs lined the nearby wall. He forced himself to move first one foot and then the other. It was only a few steps. His knees gave way and he fell into the seat. A memory of young Max Broder, whispering harshly at him, came into his mind. "You want to kill yourself?" Broder had whispered sarcastically. "I'll tell you how."

The dizziness was making him nauseous. Max Broder's face was suddenly replaced by the face of another young man's. Ori, the doctor who had treated him less than a year ago for the knife wounds in his belly. Seeing Cohen's intake of cigarettes, had run some tests. "You're trying to kill yourself," the doctor's voice echoed in Cohen's mind. Cohen convinced the doctor not to pass on the results to the police medical board. Not that it had mattered. A month later, the prime minister himself made the decision that Cohen's career was over.

"Sir, sir?" a woman's voice was in his ear. "Are you alright?"

His eyes fluttered open and he had to concentrate to focus. She was wearing an airline's cap on top of her coiled blonde hair. Behind severe glasses, she had worried eyes.

He blinked. There was a sour taste in his mouth and though the dizziness was gone, he felt light-headed. He realized he had slumped over the arm rest of the chair into the next seat. He started to sit up and she helped him, putting an arm under his to lift him upright. Pain made of self-pity crossed his face.

"Let me get you a doctor," the stewardess said.

"No doctor," he answered hoarsely. "I'm fine."

"You fainted," she said. "That man over there saw it." She pointed toward a platinum-haired man standing beside a phone booth across the corridor. He was wearing a black sports jacket, a white, tie-less shirt, and black trousers. If not for his uncovered head he might have been one of the ultra-orthodox of Jerusalem.

"I'm alright," Cohen insisted. His throat felt raw, as if he had just been shouting. He cleared it, before repeating the assertion in a stronger voice. He fought the impulse to shout her away.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Anything?"

"It's happened before to me," he lied. "I didn't eat very much on the airplane," he added. That was the truth.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," she whispered conspiratorially. "I can't eat it myself. Maybe you need something fresh and healthy," she suggested.

He rubbed a hand over his clammy forehead. "A washroom?" he asked, and she pointed across the wide corridor. "Thank you," he said. He took a breath and stood up, surprised at the wooziness.

She rose with him. "You sure you're alright?" she asked earnestly, touching his elbow for support.

The light-headed feeling passed. "Yes. I'm fine. Really. Thank you."

She picked up his bag. "There's an airport doctor," she offered again.

"No doctor," he snapped back, grabbing his bag. Her expression made him apologize. "I'm sorry. I'm just tired. That's all," he said, backing away from her. "Tired. Thank you. Thank you," he repeated, and then turned away, concentrating on the door to the lavatory across the corridor.

He stood in front of the mirror at the first of a long line of sinks, and stared at his gaunt face. The bags under his eyes were deep and dark. He ran cold water and cupped his hands under the stream, then rubbed the chilly water into his face, as if he could wash away the age and pain that gnarled his face like an old olive tree. But it wasn't enough. He plugged the sink with paper towels and filled it with water. He dunked his head, once, twice, three times, each douse driving away another cloud of fog that had gathered thickly in his mind. Finally, he pulled a towel from his bag to wipe his face dry, and looked into the mirror again.

But instead of his own face, he saw Max Broder's. It was long and narrow, with its deepset haunted eyes, even when grinning, wry and full of secrets. Cohen gripped the porcelain sink for support, closing his own eyes tightly. In that darkness he saw worse than Broder's grinning face.

He saw the hanging victims. Cohen had seen too many of those. And so had Broder, he knew.

He blinked in the fluorescent light until all he saw was his own familiar gaze, the permanent imprint of weariness in his eyes. Der Bruder a suicide. Impossible, he thought. But there was only one way to know the truth. He picked up his bag and headed out of the lavatory to look for a taxi.

Just outside the men's room door, in the wide corridor of the airport, he saw the concerned citizen who had pointed him out to the stewardess. Cohen smiled weakly, nodding silent thanks. But the man didn't seem to notice, disappearing past a line of departing travelers.

he cabbie studied a book of maps as thick as Jerusalem's phone directory, before announcing that it would cost seventy dollars for the hour's ride to the Beverly Hills address. Maybe it was the look in Cohen's eye, or maybe it was a slow night, but the driver didn't put up an argument when Cohen pulled open the back door, saying "fifty dollars and no talking."

The seat was lumpy and the air conditioning made him rifle in the canvas bag for his windbreaker. They rode north on a wide highway thick with cars. He leaned against the windowpane, the glassy chill a memory of the cold sweat he had felt when he went faint inside the airport.

He no longer felt the nausea. But his mind continued to twirl crazily. The car transported him like a lifeless bundle, and that, like the hunger in his belly, reminded him of another time, long before, when he had been certain that they were riding to death. But Broder had been at his side then. Calm and already calculating, by then he was already Der Bruder to Cohen. Barely moving his lips, Cohen cursed softly. First himself, for making the trip. Then Der Bruder.

The scenery beyond the speeding car window was a blur of headlights and shopping malls, neon signs and skyscrapers, all as anonymous and as meaningless to him as the stars. There was a salty taste on his lips. He thought about how far he had traveled, halfway around the world to the edge of this continent, aware that just to the west, where the earthbound stars of the city came to an abrupt halt, was the ocean. He told himself the salty taste was either the ocean's breath or his own sweat, and wiped it away from his cheek, concentrating on the instinct that told him to order the policeman on the phone to wait.

For years he had been telling junior officers the exact same thing. He searched deeply within for feelings that had been dormant for six months. Disbelief merged with instincts embedded during years of investigation. He would see for himself. It's all he could do. He owed it to Der Bruder. Maximum, he decided, he would stay for the funeral. And go to the ocean. That was something he wanted to see. An ocean. He'd never seen one before.

He closed his eyes and tried to force his mind to sink into darkness, below the turbulence of the surface waters. On the way down into the depths, he realized he was trying to think about anything except Broder. But just before touching the black bottom of sleep, he understood that he was trying to think about anything except himself.

It only seemed like a moment later that a sharp turn knocked his cheek painfully against the window pane, waking him from a familiar nightmare that always ended just before Cohen thought he had finally understood its meaning.

They were off the highway. He checked his watch. If the driver had told the truth, the journey was finally coming to an end. He was surprised to learn that Beverly Hills actually did have hills. He had thought that everything in Hollywood was make-believe. Maybe the policeman on the phone was make-believe, he thought. Maybe the suicide was make-believe.

The car sped onto a ridge line road that gave him a sudden view of the city below. Streets and commercial strips, skyscrapers and vast plains of roads and highways pulsated with lights and color. He fought the passivity that had overtaken him months before. He had prepared himself for the rendezvous with Der Bruder, but not for the city itself. Just before the taxi entered a short patch of thick fog, he looked down on the lights below and wondered where exactly was Hollywood, remembering Goldie's condescension. "You don't know Hollywood," she had said, as if it were a state of mind for which no road map could be drawn. And when he answered "You don't know Max Broder," he had meant she didn't know Der Bruder.

The car came out of a dip and he grabbed at the hand-grip over the door when the taxi turned sharply into a left-hand turn. The headlights lit up thousands of tiny white objects on the black road ahead. Straining to look out the rear window, Cohen realized that they were broken blossoms from a stretch of oleander bushes lining the road. The petals flurried in the wake of the car, and for the first time, as he turned back in his seat, Cohen started paying attention to Broder's neighborhood. They passed wrought iron gates and long circular driveways leading up to white haciendas, gray mansions, and strange architectural experiments, all illuminated by lights set into landscaped gardens. All the estates were walled, either with shrubbery or stone, wooden fencing or stucco walls topped with broken glass.

He was thinking of the hidden courtyards of Jerusalem, when the taxi driver spoke for the first time since Cohen had settled into the back seat. "You with the cops?" he asked, startling Cohen as they pulled into a circular driveway fronting a stone-gray building more castle than house, with a tower at each end, and a turret-topped portal at the entrance.

A patrol car and four expensive sedans were parked around the circle. The taxi drove slowly past the cars. Cohen recognized none of the makes, except a Mercedes like the one driven by a politician Cohen had always suspected but not quite caught. He scowled, as the taxi halted in front of the broad wooden door. On the patio, three steps above the gravel driveway, a short, square-jawed policewoman stood at attention in front of the arched doorway. She uncrossed her arms and propped her fists on her hips. "Weird," the driver mumbled.

Cohen sighed as he pulled the fifty dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the driver. He yanked at the canvas bag and opened the door.

"You have business here?" the policewoman drawled gruffly before Cohen was out of the car.

"Avram Cohen. For Madden," he said.

The policewoman hefted the heavy holster on her hips. "Wait here," she ordered, then opened the door to the house, disappearing inside.

Cohen closed the door to the taxi, and the driver immediately revved the engine, making Cohen step instinctively backward. The yellow cab spat gravel as it fishtailed around the circular driveway. The red brake-lights flickered once at the end of the drive, and then the car was gone. Cohen turned back to the house. Broder was proud of it, bringing Polaroid pictures to show Cohen in Jerusalem in the summer of 1967, the year after he bought it.

A large man was watching from the doorway, a silhouette in bright lights spilling from the portal. The policewoman was back in her sentinel's position on the porch.

Cohen sighed. He felt bedraggled. He needed food, a shower, a bed. He needed Der Bruder to explain where he was. He needed his life back. He nodded to the tall American.

"I'm Madden," the man said, backing up in the doorway as a gesture of invitation. Cohen picked up his bag, smiled weakly at the policewoman and then crossing the threshold, he limply accepted the American detective's handshake.

They were in a foyer lit by a huge chandelier hanging overhead. The bright light emphasized Madden's square-jawed face, and shined off both his balding spots and the thinning red hair turning gray. His clothes hung on him as limply as his hair. He had worn them past the point where they could pretend to trim a paunch or emphasize height. His shoes were a brushed leather that didn't need polishing, with rubber soles as silent as Cohen's sneakers on the stone tile floors.

"I've been waiting for you," Madden said, closing the door to the policewoman outside. They were alone in the silent chill of air conditioning. The polished flagstone reflected the thousand lights of the chandelier hanging above. Directly in front of Cohen was a wide staircase leading to a second story landing. To his left was a wide entrance to a baronial living room. A vaulted ceiling exposed beams like an angry dog's bared teeth. To his right was a dining room, dominated by a long, burnished table with high-backed chairs for twenty guests.

"Again, sorry about your friend," Madden said behind him. "I hear you knew him a long time," he added sympathetically.

Cohen was looking at a tapestry hanging on the far wall of the dining room. Broder had bought it in the Old City shuk two weeks after the Six Day War, on the same trip he had told Cohen about the house. It was more than four hundred years old, and showed St. George slaying a dragon to free the maiden on the rock of Jaffa port. It had been a quarter century since such discoveries could be made in the open market of Jerusalem, Cohen thought, sighing. "Yes, a very long time," he said softly. He voice was hoarse. He coughed once deeply, feeling an ache in his ribs.

"If you could speak up, please," Madden said behind him.

"Since the war," Cohen said louder. He was hearing his own words as if they were coming from outside his body. He realized his ears were still clogged from the pressurized cabin. He swallowed hard, trying to free the wax. He glanced at Madden. The American was at least ten years younger than him, he decided. A sergeant, he remembered. So he added a clarification. "The second world war."

"Yeah, they told me," Madden said. There was admiration in his voice. "And the last time you saw him?" he asked, pulling a pen and pad out of his inside jacket pocket. He flipped through the pages, and poised his pen to write.

"Four years ago," Cohen said. The American was a head taller than him. In the bright light of the chandelier, Cohen could see the broken red capillaries on Madden's bulbous nose. "In Jerusalem," Cohen added. "But I spoke with him several times in the last few days," he said, looking back at the tapestry. Grief filled his chest as he counted each call in his mind. "Six times," he said, speaking to St. George.

Behind him he heard Madden's book slap shut, and then the sharp hiss of a match being lit. He turned just as Madden tilted his head back to blow a thick cloud of blue smoke up toward the chandelier.

Cohen shivered, even though he was still wearing the jacket from the taxi ride. In the few moments he had waited outside in the heat, he had started sweating. Now he was feeling cold again. His body was as confused as his mind. He pulled his silver flask from his pocket, and took a long sip. Madden smirked. Cohen looked down at the flask in his hand and then held it out, offering Madden a swig.

Madden deliberated silently for a second, looking from Cohen's eyes to the gleaming flask. "Fuck it," he said, reaching out. He sniffed once at the small opening, then smiled at Cohen before pouring a short stream of the cognac into his open mouth. He smacked his lips, then scowled at the taste as he handed it back to Cohen.

"I want to see the body," Cohen said, after replacing the flask in his hands with a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

"Shit," muttered the American. But before he could add anything, a shrill shout came from the dining room.

"Commander Cohen!" the man's high-pitched voice squawked loudly.

"Fuck," Madden snarled under his breath, but Cohen wasn't sure if it was because of the voice, or the mention of his rank.

Cohen turned to identify the voice. Under different circumstances, he might have laughed at the metallic-lycra track suit that only emphasized the tiny man's roly-poly shape. The track-suit would have been more appropriate on an Olympic competitor thirty years younger than on the short man with the barrel thighs, balloon belly and weak chest. His tiny round spectacles reminded Cohen of the posters of the rock and roll musicians on the walls of the record stores he frequented in Jerusalem. It was as if he had no idea of his age. He stepped delicately past Madden as if the detective were something more than furniture but less than a person. Madden looked down with his own distaste, exhaling a tiny stream of smoke at the little man's back, and with a haughty smile dared Cohen to protest.

"Leo, Leo Hirsh," the little man announced from a few steps away, holding out his arms as if to embrace the Jerusalemite like a long lost brother. Cohen didn't reciprocate the gesture. But the producer wasn't deterred. He grabbed Cohen's hand and pumped as he spoke. "We had no idea you were coming. None at all," he said, rising on the balls of his feet to make him tall enough to look straight into Cohen's eyes. "If Max had only told me I would have had a limo waiting for you. What am I saying? `If Max had only told me'" Hirsh suddenly bawled, dropping back to his normal height. "I can't believe what I'm saying. `If Max had only told me,'" he repeated, and then reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a crumpled tissue. He blew his nose loudly, took a deep breath, and was about to continue when he turned on Madden. "Do you have to smoke?" he snapped cattily at Madden.

But the American detective was ignoring the producer, instead studying something beyond the narrow window beside the front door. From where Cohen was standing he could only see the rear end of a red convertible pulling up in front of the house. As Hirsh joined Madden at the window, Cohen noticed the producer wore his hair in a small gray ponytail that only accentuated the absurd fight against age. Cohen unconsciously raked a hand through his own hair, guessing that he and Hirsh were close to the same age.

"Shit," Madden hissed.

"Oh, God, how'd she find out?" Hirsh cried. "Whatever you do, don't let her in," he said, back-pedaling toward the dining room. "At least not until I get Vicki out the back door. Vicki will kill me if she finds her here," he said, talking as much to himself as to them, "and she'll kill me if she finds out Vicki was here and I didn't tell her." He turned and ran bobbingly through the banquet hall to the rear of the house as Madden opened the front door. Cohen stepped into place beside him.

"Don't tell me," Goldie Stein called out cheerfully to Cohen, her high heels crunching on the gravel as she walked around the car. She had changed into a pink jump-suit, unzipped to create a dark backdrop for a rope of gold hanging knotted around her neck, its casual noose dipping into her deep cleavage. "You got a police escort from the airport. So?" she asked, approaching them "Where's Max? How'd the reunion go?" she added. "I decided it was too good an item to miss so I..."

The policewoman stepped into Goldie's advance as the gossip reached the front step. "I'm sorry ma'am, you'll have to stop right there."

"Don't be absurd," Goldie said disdainfully, and tried to move up one more step. The policewoman held up her hands to stop the gossip. "Avram, will you tell this person that I can come in," Goldie ordered over the policewoman's head. But before either he or Madden could say anything, Goldie's expression changed to relief and she was looking past the two men to someone approaching from behind them.

"Phyllis," she called out, relief in her voice. "Thank God, at least there's someone here who'll tell me what's going on."

Cohen turned. Like Leo Hirsh, the woman was dressed in the costume of a professional athlete. But while the producer's tight track suit emphasized the grotesque shape of his body, hers smoothed out all the curves into a too-sleek physique of flat plains instead of curves. Diets and exercise controlled her body. She was almost as tall as Madden, with the slightly hunched shoulders of a woman who had been ashamed of her size as a young girl. Her hair was drawn tightly back into a bun, tightening the skin of her face, which was pockmarked, but tanned as leathery as Goldie's. She was way past thirty, Cohen thought, wondering how close she was to fifty.

She looked as if she'd be far more comfortable in a suit, offering a professional handshake as she ignored gossip, going to Cohen first.

"Commander," she said, offering a large hand. "I'm Phyllis Fine. Max's lawyer." Cohen took the chilly handshake automatically, noticing that unlike Hirsh, there was no redness in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped. "We had no idea you were coming, and to arrive to something like this..." she said, letting a sigh finish the sentence.

"Phyl-lis!" Goldie whined from the driveway.

"I'm sorry. Goldie, this is Commander Cohen, he's..."

"I know who he is, goddammit. I spent eighteen hours on a frigging plane with him. What I want to know is what's going on here?"

The lawyer didn't break the news softly. "Max's dead," she said simply. Cohen noticed the lawyer cocking her head immediately after she said it, as if studying Goldie's reaction.

"Yeah, sure. Who did it?" Goldie joked, disbelieving. "Andy Blakely? Gimme a break. What's really going on?" She took a step forward. "Max!?" she called out into the vast house. "Max, are you there? It's Goldie!" Half an echo came back. She looked back at Fine, Cohen and Madden, confused.

"He's gone," Fine said solemnly. "They took him away an hour ago."

Cohen glared at Madden, but the American was watching Goldie. She gulped, and her hand went to her throat. Her eyes scanned them all, stopping at Cohen. It was as if she needed his confirmation before she could believe it. She touched her breast-bone contritely, the question in her eye. Cohen nodded gravely. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Madden and Fine exchanging their own glances. Madden finally raised an eyebrow, handing over the responsibility to Fine.

"It was suicide," Fine said softly.

Goldie's eyes darted back and forth between Fine and Cohen, finally settling again on Cohen for confirmation. But he remained stone-faced, only nodding slightly. "I guess he got his cop too late," she said softly. Suddenly, her expression changed to worry. "Sophie?" she asked anxiously. "What about Sophie?"

he name startled Cohen. He hadn't thought about Sophie Levine since Broder had told him that Bernard Levine's daughter was finally safe. He felt like he was being ambushed by ghosts. He tried to remember when Der Bruder had said that he had finally avenged Bernard's death, taking in the girl. Two years ago? Three? He wondered if like his body, his mind was beginning to fail him. But noticing the slight sneer that crossed Fine's face at Goldie's mention of Sophie Levine, he forced himself to stay attentive.

"She found the body," Hirsh piped in behind Cohen, startling them all. The producer was slightly breathless. "Hello, Goldie," he added.

"That poor girl. Twice an orphan," Goldie lamented, adding with resolve, "I've got to see her."

Hirsh frowned at the idea. "Not now, Goldie. Please," he said. "The coroner gave her some sedatives. And there are still a hundred calls to make. To let people know." Goldie started to interrupt, but Hirsh guessed what she was going to say. "It's true," he confessed. "I started calling around. I didn't know you were back, so I even tried your hotel in Jerusalem," he tried.

"Bullshit," Goldie snapped.

"But he hasn't told Chucky yet," Fine offered.

"That's right," Hirsh nodded enthusiastically. "So you still have it ahead of him. It's your story right now."

"Thank God for small favors," Goldie said cynically.

"Come on," Hirsh said, stepping onto the porch, past Cohen, Madden and Fine. Edging Goldie away from the policewoman by taking the gossip's arm, he started to lead her back toward her car. "I'll you what Andy said."

"As if I couldn't tell you," Goldie said contemptuously, halting in her tracks. "`It's a terrible tragedy,'" she said, dropping her voice into the same kind of falsetto basso that she had used to imitate the leering businessman in the movie on the airplane. "`A loss for the studio and the entire industry.' Shit, Leo," she suddenly added in her own reedy voice, "I wouldn't be surprised if the son of a bitch said that he had no idea Max Broder was so, so, `troubled,' that's right. That's what the fucker would say. Troubled my ass," she said with contempt. "Come on, Leo, tell me something I don't know," she demanded. "Tell me about the movie. Max's dead. The secrets can come out now. Start with something simple. Like the title. Or the story line. I know it's about the Holocaust. But give me something more. Why'd he make everybody sign those secrecy clauses in their contracts? And why didn't he let me on the set?"

"You weren't the only one," Hirsh protested. "He didn't let Chucky, either. You know that. It wasn't personal. It was policy."

Cohen shivered, but it wasn't his body that was troubled. Some of Max Broder's secrets were his, too.

"Leo, why don't you tell her what Laszlo Katz had to say," Fine suggested.

" Now you're talking," Goldie said, smiling coolly at Fine. "What did his majesty have to say?"

Hirsh was about to begin, when Cohen spoke up, surprising them all. He knew the name. "Why does it matter what Laszlo Katz said?" he rumbled.

"Laszlo owns Epica," Hirsh said turning back to the Jerusalemite. "Well, he's the chairman of Oceanic and Oceanic owns Epica. He's always been interested in the movie. In fact, Max wanted to show it at the benefit. For Hai " Hirsh explained, using the Hebrew word for life. "You know," the producer said to Cohen's questioning eyes. "The Holocaust Education Institute. H.E.I.? We call it Hai for short. It's this coming weekend, Saturday night. Max wanted you," Hirsh added with a solemn gulp at the mention of Broder's name, "as one of the guests of honor."

Again Cohen cursed Der Bruder and then himself for the folly of believing Broder's promises. Katz's name was on marble and brass plaques all over Israel. Some were in hospitals, others in universities. But it was Holocaust studies and memorials that most profited from Katz' philanthropy. A full-fledged Shoah Business affair, Cohen thought bitterly. At Laszlo Katz's house, no less. Cohen hated such events and Broder knew it. He wondered if he would have won the fight with Der Bruder over attending, realizing he was feeling queasy thinking about what other ambushes Der Bruder had planned. The possibility that the suicide itself was one of Broder's surprises tried prying at Cohen's mind. But he clamped down hard on its icy grasp and it melted away.

"Max had this idea that Katz might over-rule Blakely," Hirsh was saying. "I tried to explain it to him. But he wouldn't listen. Blakely made a business decision when he canned it. That's all. Business. Laszlo had to stick by his man."

"Laszlo," Goldie scoffed. "You make him sound like he's a regular pal of yours. I'll bet he didn't even talk to you. I'll bet," she added, pleased with herself, "you got it from one of his secretaries ."

"That's not true!" Hirsh protested. "I spoke directly with him," he said proudly.

"So? What are you waiting for?" Goldie exclaimed. "What did he say?" she demanded, grabbing Hirsh's arm and pulling him away. Cohen heard the slight sigh of relief from Fine before she stepped off the porch to join Hirsh and the gossip. Politics, he thought, disgusted. He touched Madden's arm, a signal to step back into the house for their own conversation.

"They were trying to con Vicki Strong into going to the funeral," Madden said softly as they went back into the house. "She lives next door, and came over when the first siren pulled up. And everybody knows Vicki hates Goldie."

Even Cohen had heard of Vicki Strong. But he shoved her aside, rumbling, "he knew I was coming. Maybe they didn't. But he did. He sent me the tickets. It doesn't make any sense that he would do this on the day I was coming."

Madden lit his cigar again, considering Cohen's statement. Exhaling the cloud of smoke he rejected Cohen's suggestion. "Tell you the truth," Madden said, "You showing up gave them more of a jolt than him taking the big jump." He puffed at the cigar again, eying Cohen over the burning end, silently asking why Broder didn't tell anyone in Hollywood in advance about Cohen's trip.

Cohen had been asking himself the same question from the moment he met Leo Hirsh. He ran through the possibilities in his mind. Who did Der Bruder want to surprise? And what was the surprise?

But Madden had already made up his mind. "Fuck, a guy jumps, who knows why he does what he does?"

Cohen sighed to himself. "Please," he said, "I must sit down," he said. He went to the banquet table, running his hand over the luxuriously polished wood. He wondered if it was mahogany, pulling out one of the matching tall-backed chairs. At the end of the room to his left, he saw a pair of swinging doors that he decided went into a kitchen. But his hunger had to wait.

"From what they say," Madden said behind him, "it sounds like your friend was in deep shit. They worked with him daily, If you want to call what they do work," he added resentfully. "You saw him, what was it?"

"Four years ago," Cohen admitted.

"And talked with him a couple of times on the phone," Madden added. "You got to admit, they knew him better."

"Six times," Cohen said softly.

"What's that?"

"A note? A letter?" Cohen said, louder.

"Nope," Madden said. "Sorry."

Cohen sensed the American's sympathy was turning impatient, and something in his tone added to Cohen's suspicion. "You searched?" he asked, studying the American's ruddy face.

The question startled Madden. "I looked around," he said defensively.

"You looked around," Cohen repeated slowly. Any of his former subordinates would have recognized the reprimand.

Madden did, too. "They said you were some kind of Dick Tracy back in Israel," the American snapped. "Well, this isn't Israel. Fuck, up here sometimes," he said, looking around at the stately room, "I wonder if we're even in America. But those people out there say the guy killed himself and I can't find any reason to argue with them."

Cohen tried to interrupt, but Madden cut him off. "This is Hollywood, man," the American continued. "People do funny things here. Like punching their own tickets because of a movie. The guy's masterpiece went down the tubes." He used the term as if he didn't understand artists but knew what they could do if their work was ruined.

"That's what Leo Hirsh says. And I'll tell you straight. I read the trades. Got to, if I want to keep score in this town. So, I know who Leo Hirsh is, and Phyllis Fine. But you?" he added, as if he had stumbled onto the conclusion, "You? I don't know you. Or why you're here," he stated, trying to use the accusation as a lever.

But Cohen paid it no mind. He was struggling with the memories. Der Bruder had saved him from death many times. And once he had rescued Cohen from suicide. Cohen shook his head no, exasperating Madden.

"Alright," the Irishman blustered. "Here's something for you to chew on. He yanked his notebook out of his inside pocket and pulled out his notebook. "Barbara something," he mumbled to himself. "Yeah, Darnaby. Barbara Darnaby. Ever hear of her?"

Cohen bowed over the table, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand. He too was frustrated. "Sergeant," he hissed. "Until tonight, I had never heard of Goldie Stein, Leo Hirsh or Phyllis Fine. Vicki Strong I heard of." He sighed deeply.

"Darnaby. Right. An English broad," Madden said, looking up from his notebook. "Worked for Broder as a line producer. That's the official line. But unofficially? It was probably something more than just work. That's what I heard between the lines the lady lawyer was showing off. And last week the broad rolled him over. For Blakely, no less. According to Fine, when Darnaby showed up with Blakely at some business luncheon they were having, Broder went over the deep end. Completely. Old guy, young dame. I've seen it a million times. Speaking of which, there's the German broad. Sophie Levine. Now there's a chick who could make a guy blow his brains out."

Cohen peered through his fingers at Madden's leer. He felt hatred for the American pass through him. But he couldn't complain about Madden. It was just one more day on the job for the American. Thirty years of sunburns instead of tans were creased across Madden's brow. He wondered how much longer it was before it was the American's turn to retire.

Not long, Cohen decided, sitting up straight. He had searched within himself for strength. For now, it was enough that he wanted to prove Madden wrong. He would be the first to admit that he didn't know, nor wanted to know, anything about Hollywood, and that he certainly knew nothing about Max Broder's life there. He summoned the only piece of evidence he so far had, and looked up at Madden from the corner of his eye.

The American was standing at the end of the table, admiring his reflection in the sheen of the table-top.

"He couldn't commit suicide," Cohen said softly, his silver gray eyes grabbing Madden's. "Not over a movie," he said, holding up his thumb, "and not over a woman," he added, extending a forefinger. It was as if he could have ticked off a dozen other reasons that might be perfectly normal for suicide in Beverly Hills but which would have had no effect on Max Broder. "He did not survive Dachau concentration camp in order to commit suicide," Cohen grumbled, trying to control his temper as he explained what was to him the obvious.

"I don't know about that," Madden admitted dubiously. "But I do know about this place," he added with more conviction. "You know how many suicides we get in this town? We get 'em with ropes, dope, guns, razors, we get 'em with cars, and you know what, nowadays we get it with sex. Fuck, suicide's a way of life around here. You just don't hear about it, that's all. You know why?" He leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, and answered his own question when Cohen remained silent. "Money. Suicide's a fucking embarrassment for the assholes left behind. You saw them," Madden said bitterly, jerking his head toward the outdoors, where Goldie was still huddled with Hirsh and Fine. "They know they can't cover this one up, so they're at work on Vicki Strong, and God knows what else, trying to figure out how to make a new deal out of the situation. Jesus," he groaned, "I don't know why I have to tell you all this. They're your people. You ought to know better than me what I'm talking about."

Cohen's eyes narrowed as he grasped the implication. But before he could say anything, the American went on, "Don't get me wrong," Madden said. "I got nothing against you. Hell, I wish America stood up for itself the way you people do. Shit, we're both cops. Right? So, if you don't mind a word of advice, I think maybe you're letting your emotions fuck up your judgment. Because I'm telling you, it's a straightforward suicide we got here. Nothing more, nothing less."

His speech over, Madden relit his cigar and not seeing an ashtray, dropped the burnt match into his jacket pocket. He spat a piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. A blue cloud of smoke hovered between them. "Now, you still want to see where she found him?" he asked.

Goldie had said Cohen didn't know anything about Hollywood, and now Madden was telling him the same thing. Their patronizing condescension was infuriating. But Cohen knew they were right. He didn't know Hollywood. The proportions were different here, Cohen thought, thinking of the endless sprawl of the city he had seen from the taxi. Jerusalem could fit into that basin and there would still be room for the rest of Israel. But the truths always remained the same. Madden was right about one thing, he knew. It was wrong for a policeman to be emotionally involved in an investigation. But it was his very involvement that gave him certainty. For the first time in six months, he felt a familiar stirring deep inside. He lookel up. Beyond Madden, in the driveway outside the dining room window, he could see Fine and Goldie leaning against the car, Hirsh bobbing and feinting in front of them, feeding Goldie's appetite. The lawyer was looking over the gossip's shoulder as Goldie wrote it all down in a pink notebook.

"Show me," Cohen said quietly, pushing himself away from the table.

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