Chapter Four
T he next morning, Artur borrowed one of Abe’s old jackets, which didn’t fit, and headed over to the Briarwood synagogue in search of information.
A parking space was easy to find, but information was not.
“Rabbi Leibowitz is busy,” the temple administrator informed him, taking a break from moving papers around her desk to briefly look him in the eye. “Even though we are not heading toward our busy season, we are heading away from it, and it’s as if people have just discovered our existence.”
Which Artur could understand.
“Including,” the administrator continued, looking up once again, only to push her glasses up her nose, “hockey teams who don’t understand the meaning of Shabbas even though they’re…attempting to organize an event for the town.”
If he was a different person, the barb would have landed. But as he’d come in expecting to fix trouble, not assuming it didn’t exist, he smiled. “That’s what I’m here to fix.”
Clearly unconvinced, she said, “Which is all well and good, but the schedule is busy and you’re not seeing anybody. Until Thursday, at least.”
Thursday. At the meeting.
He nodded, understanding the underlying negativity. “Right.”
“But,” the administrator said, “I do have a note from the rabbi.”
That was unexpected. “Oh?”
“Rabbi Leibowitz did receive a note from Rabbi Engel of Rivertown, but he already knew you were a good guy from the virtual presentation you did two years ago about on-the-ground Tzedakah.”
The presentation.
He’d been on the ground, hoping he had internet.
But he’d been able to get a signal and talked for a few hours about what he was doing. He’d been exhausted, but it had felt good.
“And,” the administrator said, “once you’ve figured out what you’re doing with the event here, the rabbi would love to speak to you. He’ll have time next week.”
Artur nodded, relieved. “Good.”
“You should also expect an invitation from Jennifer Cohen. Jennifer’s the member of the sisterhood who brought the idea to the mayor and the team.”
He made another note. Jennifer Cohen wasn’t just a hockey parent; she was a member of the Briarwood Temple Sisterhood. Like the mayor, Jennifer Cohen was deeply intertwined with this town, and this was a glass ball he couldn’t drop.
*
After a visit to the library to look through information about older Briarwood cultural events, Artur discovered it was time for food. His destination of course was Levitan’s.
“One,” he told the person standing at the door before being directed to the bar/deli counter area. He sat down, took a breath and looked up into Paul Levitan’s eyes. He could see the stains on his apron, the glasses and the pen behind his ear.
No wonder why his best friend respected him. This was a professional, if Artur hadn’t figured it out on Sunday.
“Artur,” he said with a grin. “Good to see you back here again. Do you need some help? Information?”
“Lunch…dinner…some-thing.”
Levitan nodded. “Anything in particular?”
He shook his head. “Chef’s choice.”
“Good choice.”
Levitan worked the deli counter like a sushi chef, slicing meats and pounding rye bread strong enough for the smell to waft from behind the counter. “Heavier? Lighter?”
He couldn’t ask for sour cream; he didn’t want to jeopardize Paul’s hard earned meat serving license despite his love for the dairy delicacy. So he made a different choice. “Matzah balls?”
“You got it.”
A flick of a switch and within minutes, a window behind the man opened to reveal a steaming bowl.
The soup and sandwich were delivered shortly, and were heaven to his nose.
“You want I should give you advice?”
He laughed. Out came the Yiddishisms. “Sure,” he said because he was many things, but a fool wasn’t one of them. “Tell me.”
“You check the bookstore?”
“For?”
“Information,” he replied. “Store’s run by my wife’s friend. First branch was her passion project after she retired from teaching.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “Yep. First store’s near my wife’s diner in Hollowville; she started this one about maybe five years ago.”
Hmm. Interesting. He floated the name to confirm it. “Tales from Hollowville is the other one?”
“You catch on quick.”
Artur smiled. “Anybody else who’s probably open to talking?”
Levitan paused a moment; Artur could see the older man trying to pull the facts into his brain by sheer force. “Italian place. They had trouble a few years ago. They got some help from a place in Rivertown. Nobody knew because everybody was quiet.”
Thoughts ran around his head as Levitan shrugged.
“Only reason I know is because they needed someone who’d keep it between them to organize the paperwork.”
Because of course, Paul Levitan was an attorney by trade. He fell in love with the restaurant business because of his wife, owner of Hollowville’s famous Dairy restaurant. One more word and Levitan would be the subject of Batya’s TV show.
“Which,” Paul continued, “is how I got the heads-up on this space.”
And then his thoughts clicked. Which Italian restaurant did he know in Rivertown that was led by a family tradition of hearts bigger than the world? There could be only one.
“Fratelli’s?”
Predictably in the way of small-town gossip chains, Levitan nodded. “That’s the place. Anyway, start with the bookstore and then go to the Italian place. That’s where you’ll get information.”
Because of course he was an unknown quantity, but either way, he’d put Leo on a stake later—Leo Fratelli, his other best friend who did not tell him anything.
Now, he had to organize himself, make some notes and hope that Abe would forgive him if he didn’t eat much dinner.