Prologue
No sooner had the rain stopped, a full moon revealed itself through seemingly
suspended mist. The night sky overflowed with celebratory fountains; pyrotechnic flashes of color observed by the Stranger through the vertical slits of open space separating skyscrapers. His dark suit and tight fitting Hasidic Black Hat pressed tight against his skin and hair as he maneuvered through the heavy traffic. Anxiety and anger drilled deep into his shoulders and his head throbbed; not surprising considering he had a rendezvous with Satan himself.
He rolled into the parking garage and swirled upward seven levels causing his throbbing head to spin before finding a space in subdued shadows hidden from the moonlight adjacent the stairs down. Wedging himself out from behind the wheel took time, but once he reached the landing, he grabbed the railing with one hand. With the other he unbuttoned his suit jacket and pulled down the front of his hat making it still tighter. From one landing to the next he limped downward, each clunk of the foot echoing within the hollow of the staircase. Upon reaching an exit opening at ground level, all the familiar sounds of the Fourth of July, POP, BOOM, CRACK, welcomed him back to the blueness of the moon and humidity after a storm.
The Stranger caught his breath before exiting the parking garage, peeked out knowing he had something to hide, and slinked up the street still wet with reflecting store lights until he reached the front entrance to the Park Hotel, one of the more majestic structures overlooking Central Park. He stared at its rising façade and darkened windows that mirrored the fireworks at his back, POP, BAM, CRACK, SWOOSH, before stepping into the grandiose lobby and his portal to the devil’s den. Once inside, he buttoned up his suit jacket and made sure his hat covered most of his forehead before hobbling toward a marquee entitled Calendar of Events. His eyeballs scanned downward until they reached the desired destination: WJO Conference, Speaker’s Dinner – Gold Room, 2nd Floor.
He traveled on a nearby escalator to the second level where an arrow directed him down a hall to the right, then limped toward a bank of elevators and another arrow pointing to the left. As the Stranger rounded the corner he froze. The Gold Room stood less than twenty feet away
along with a reception table outside its entrance. A blue banner with yellow writing, WORLD JEWISH ORTHODOXY, hung down from the table’s front edge. A young woman with bleach blonde hair and thick magenta lips sat behind the table and an armed guard hovered over her.
The Stranger nonchalantly stepped into the entry opening of a vending area, as if that were his intention all along. From where he stood, within its shadows, he watched Rebbe Abraham Schoenfeld holding a cane as if it were a weapon approach the Gold Room from the other direction.
The Rebbe, in his early eighties and fifteen or twenty pounds overweight, had dressed in a black suit and wore the typical Hasidic black hat, side curls and a bushy gray beard. The guard jumped to attention upon hearing him clear his throat loud enough to reach the Stranger’s ears.
Rebbe Schoenfeld merely nodded as he peered over his bifocals then stopped to primp himself for his grand entrance. The guard followed him in, which allowed the Stranger to edge forward and peep through the opened double doors while the receptionist busied herself with turquois nails long enough to do serious damage.
The room buzzed with the chatter of Hasidic Rabbis, all at least in their sixties, bearded, and dressed similar to the Rebbe. They stood around elegantly set dinner tables, some wearing yarmulkas, others donning the more traditional black hats. The instant Rebbe Schoenfeld strolled in, the room went silent, as if to pay proper homage to its guest of honor. Seconds later an outburst of greetings exploded into handshakes, hugs and a loud chorus of clapping hands causing crystal to shiver on the tables. Clearly the Rebbe was the man of the hour.
The Stranger crept back into a corner near the bank of elevators hoping no one would notice and stood vigil. He had a long wait but was afraid to leave his post. He should have brought a chair, his foot ached, and a book, yes a book, maybe the Old Testament. That way he could have studied up on Job and his battle with Satan, something the Rebbe knew all about.
A COUPLE HOURS LATER the Stranger observed Rebbe Schoenfeld approaching the elevators with several others. He had managed to crouch in the corner and now needed to rise faster than his joints would allow. Slowly he stood, painfully erect, as some members of the group passed him while others including the Rebbe waited for an elevator to arrive. When it did, they all stepped in and the Stranger followed them, reaching in with his hand before the doors could close. Buttons 7, 9, 10, and 27 lit up almost at once. The Stranger hugged the back wall
hoping for some relief from his aching joints. By the time Floor 10 came and went, the Rebbe and the Stranger were alone, as an unseen motor hummed and hoisted them toward their destination. During the journey upward, the Stranger noticed the Rebbe glancing nervously over his shoulder when not struggling to make out the blurred reflections across the elevator doors.
The elevator travelled its pre-established course, stopping at floor 27. The two remaining occupants came to a jerking stop, and after what seemed like aftershocks, the doors disappeared into their respective side panels swallowing the human reflections in their burnished surfaces.
The Rebbe practically tripped into the hall and raced toward his room taking larger strides than seemed natural. With a shaking hand even the stranger witnessed from some distance, he pulled his room key from a pocket but then dropped it and his cane. As he turned back to pick both up, he glared at the Stranger who slowed down pretending to search for his own room. The Rebbe reached his final destination visibly trembling in his attempt to navigate the keyhole. Again his room key fumbled to the floor and again he peered over his shoulder as he picked it up and finally unlocked the door.
Seeing this, the Stranger raced forward making an ominous HOBBLING sound, causing the Rebbe to fall against the heavy door in his haste to push it open. The Stranger followed him in, thrusting forward as a fullback might hoping for extra yardage, until the door SLAMMED behind him. He quickly found the light switch and the room lit up.
The Rebbe spun around holding his cane as if it were a weapon once again and stepped away staring at the intruder whose back was to the window overlooking Central Park. At first his words, filled with panic, competed with the attenuated POP, POP, CRACK, BOOM emanating from the celebration in Central Park. But then the Stranger took off his hat and spoke, transforming the Rebbe’s panic into anger. They argued with one another as the popping and cracking and booming continued through the Park’s grand finale. The Stranger glanced over his shoulder acknowledging the noise behind him, then pulled a revolver from his coat pocket and brandished it while the confrontation continued and the grand finale came to an end. He pulled the trigger twice as the celebratory fireworks outside reached a climax. POP, CRACK, BOOM, BOOM. Rebbe Schoenfeld grabbed his chest and fell to his knees causing the Stranger to step backwards leaving a trail of terror as he edged toward the door.
THE STRANGER PASSED a newsstand the following morning. The newsboy, waving the Times in one hand, was hollering, “Read all about it. Jerusalem Rabbi found in his hotel room in critical condition. Read all about it. Jerusalem …”
