The Question of the Absentee Father Page 14

  Her comment puzzled me. “I am happy to accommodate you whenever possible,” I told Ms. Washburn, “but I am not doing this for you. I am doing this to answer Mother’s question so we can go home.”

  “I meant changing the site of the meeting so I could see the Chinese Theatre,” she explained. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I did not want Kaplan to lure us to a location away from view,” I said. “This seemed like the most public area possible.”

  Indeed, the street itself was crowded with pedestrians, very few of whom appeared to be native Angelenos. Many stopped to take pictures of themselves with their telephones. Others simply stared.

  The forecourt in front of the building, which had started as Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in its Hollywood heyday and was now the TCL Chinese Theatre, was undoubtedly covered in the famous concrete slabs bearing the imprints of many film stars and affiliated celebrities. It was not easy to confirm this fact, however, as the area was almost completely overrun with tourists snapping photographs and pointing at particular slabs with what appeared to be delight.

  I felt my elbows tighten involuntarily. I am not fond of crowds or tight spaces.

  I glanced away from the forecourt toward the street. People dressed in rather seedy costumes depicting popular culture characters were posing for pictures with children and families. In many cases I saw the people being photographed give the people in the costumes money after the picture was taken.

  One such performer, dressed in a red costume meant to evoke the Sesame Street character Elmo was wandering around the area without soliciting photographs. The person in that costume appeared restless, pacing back and forth and not waving hands or leaning in toward children to better facilitate the transfer of funds.

  I considered that unusual but not entirely unexpected.

  Ms. Washburn strode purposefully toward the exhibits. She had expressed a particular desire to see those commemorating the Marx Brothers and Cary Grant. Ms. Washburn has what I would classify as a special interest in films made before 1990.

  My interests run toward the New York Yankees, the Beatles, and the criminal justice system, but I do have some affection for the Marx Brothers. I did not understand, however, how seeing a concrete slab with impressions of their hands (and Groucho Marx’s cigar) would enhance that feeling. But given our impending meeting with a man named after a minor character from North by Northwest, the Cary Grant exhibit seemed apt.

  I stayed back, keeping a very keen eye on Ms. Washburn so as not to lose my sense of her location. I did not know when George Kaplan and Reuben Hoenig would arrive. And I did not know what Kaplan intended to do. Ms. Washburn and I were acting in good faith, even if we had not been foolish enough to assume Kaplan would do the same. I had no idea how ruthless the man could be.

  So I watched Ms. Washburn from a distance and never lost sight of her.

  She did not seem at all perturbed by the impending event or the idea that it might bring some level of danger. Instead she would point at one of the sidewalk slabs, look over her shoulder, see that I had not moved, and then text me a name: Anthony Quinn. Fred Astaire. Elizabeth Taylor. Julie Andrews. Mel Brooks.

  I was glad she was enjoying the moment even if its pleasures eluded me. I took a quick glance at the red Elmo performer, but could not locate the character anywhere. People dressed as Darth Vader, Batman, a character from a Disney animated motion picture I did not recognize, Spider-Man, and Shrek the ogre dominated the tourist traffic.

  When I looked back after only a moment, Ms. Washburn was still visible, looking down at the pavement. Most of the people in the forecourt were doing the same, and it made for an amusing tableau. I appreciated it silently.

  At precisely six p.m., a black sport utility vehicle arrived in front of the theater. It stopped and three men exited. I did not recognize any of them, but they were clearly scanning the crowd. They were not here to see the sights.

  As soon as they closed the front and rear passenger doors the driver moved the sport utility vehicle away, no doubt to avoid a confrontation with one of the many uniformed police officers in the area.

  I looked at Ms. Washburn, who was still examining the slabs. I would not walk into the teeming crowd, but texted her that our meeting was about to begin. She looked up from her phone, found my location and headed for me at the same time as the three men did.

  Ms. Washburn arrived first but not much ahead. I did not recognize any of the three men who walked to us, but they did not hesitate at all, which indicated they were aware of what Ms. Washburn and I looked like. I chose to dismiss that thought because it was mildly disturbing.

  They were led by a man of medium height wearing a dark gray suit incongruous with the sea of tourists in Bermuda shorts and colorful t-shirts bearing slogans of supposed wit. Behind him and to his left was a slimmer, older man in casual trousers and a light blue polo shirt. The third man was large and had dark, bushy eyebrows. He wore a perpetual scowl.

  “Samuel Hoenig,” the man in the suit said. It was not a question but it did cause me to hesitate briefly because people often say their own names when approaching a new acquaintance. I am aware of only four other people named Samuel Hoenig in the United States. It took less than a second for me to understand this was not one of them.

  There was no advantage to denying my identity; the purpose of this meeting was to establish the validity of the person George Kaplan would call Reuben Hoenig and retrieve his address. It was not to gain anything else. “Yes,” I said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Hoenig.”

  The man in the suit and the man with the bushy eyebrows stared at me without comprehension for a moment. The older man smiled strangely.

  The man in the suit extended his hand. “George Kaplan,” he said. I had anticipated his manner of speech this time and did not believe he was assuming that was my name. I did not accept his hand.

  I looked at the older man, who was the only one in the appropriate age group. “Are you Reuben Hoenig?” I asked.

  “Don’t say anything,” Kaplan ordered the older man. “Until I get my money nobody does anything.”

  “That makes no sense,” I told him. “If no one here does anything there is no way for you to receive the cash you are demanding.”

  Again there was the odd stare. I took the opportunity in the pause. “This is Ms. Washburn, my associate,” I told the older man.

  He offered his hand and Ms. Washburn took it. “Janet,” she told him. “Are you Reuben?”

  Kaplan held up his hand as a warning. I saw the man with the bushy eyebrows flinch a bit. His hand seemed to be twitching toward the pocket of the jacket he was wearing. It was a very warm day and the probability was that he did not require an outer garment to concentrate radiated body heat. But he stopped his hand and dropped it to his side again.

  “I said, you’re not going to find out where your dad is until I get my money,” Kaplan said.

  “You did not say that,” I reminded him. “You said until you get what you refer to as your money, nobody will do anything. That statement still does not make grammatical or logical sense.”

  “What is the deal with you?” Kaplan asked.

  “The deal, as you put it, is that you will get the cash from Ms. Washburn and me once I get to talk to Reuben Hoenig. And since this man is the only one here who is the proper age as described by people who know him, I can only assume this is Reuben.” I looked at the older man.

  “That’s very good,” he said. “You established my identity using the facts.”

  “Stop talking,” warned Kaplan.

  I turned toward him. “If you want to get the cash, Mr. Kaplan, this is how it will happen. Mr. Hoenig and I will step aside for a moment to have a private conversation. I expect it will require less than three minutes to complete our business. Then we will return to this spot and I will ask Ms. Washburn to retriev
e the cash, which we will be perfectly willing to turn over to you. These conditions are not negotiable. So if you will excuse this man and me, we will return shortly.”

  I turned to walk away from the group and toward the least frantically crowded corner of the forecourt. But I had not completed taking my second step when Kaplan spoke in a harsh, hoarse tone that could not be heard more than a few feet away.

  “I get the money now or your dad isn’t going to walk away at all,” he said. “And neither is your girlfriend.”

  The man with the bushy eyebrows maneuvered himself to stand behind Ms. Washburn, effectively blocking her path away from the group. This time his hand went to his inside pocket. Ms. Washburn looked angry.

  “Perhaps you didn’t understand what I just explained,” I said to Kaplan. “We have no objection to giving the money to you. But I do not trust you enough to make the transfer before I have the conversation I need to conclude my business in Southern California. So Mr. Hoenig and I are going to walk to that potted plant and speak for a very brief time, and then you will get your money. Is that more understandable?”

  “I got it the first time,” Kaplan said. “But it’s not gonna happen that way. You’re going to give me my money and then I’m going to decide whether my friend here decides to let the three of you live past this afternoon.”

  I looked away from him to avoid eye contact and saw the person in the red Elmo costume again. The costumed person was walking toward us in a circular pattern. This was not uncommon among the performers, as young children were sometimes frightened by large cartoon characters approaching them directly.

  “That is not an acceptable arrangement,” I said.

  “Imagine how much I care,” Kaplan said.

  Reuben Hoenig appeared to be either medicated or sedated. His reactions were slow and his speech was carefully considered. He mostly stared at the space directly in front of his feet and appeared almost uninterested in the proceedings around him.

  “He gives the impression of being a violent person,” he said quietly. It was either a warning or an idle observation. It was possible he was not even speaking about Kaplan.

  “We’re not giving you something for nothing,” Ms. Washburn said, taking a step forward and looking stern. “Samuel just wants to talk to his father for a minute and then you’ll definitely get your money back. What’s your issue?”

  I saw the costumed Elmo performer stop circling and get positioned near the man with the bushy eyebrows. The red fur on the Elmo costume had not been recently washed.

  “I don’t get outplayed,” Kaplan said. “You don’t get to dictate terms. I get my money and then I decide if you get to talk to your dad. That’s the way it’s going to play.”

  I saw no reason to agree to those terms. A three-minute conversation was not equivalent to a forty-thousand-dollar payment.

  “I think not,” I said. “You have my word that the money will be returned as soon as my conversation with Mr. Hoenig is concluded. That should be good enough for you.”

  Kaplan folded his arms. “Well, you have my word that you’ll talk to him after I get my forty grand back and not before.”

  I shook my head. “I believe that my word is more trustworthy than yours,” I told him.

  “I don’t mind telling you I like talking to a man who likes to talk,” said Reuben Hoenig. The sentence sounded vaguely familiar but I did not have time to place the wording.

  “My way or the highway,” Kaplan said. His associate with the generous eyebrows stiffened a bit but remained silent as he had been since arriving. Again, it took me a moment to understand what his axiom meant in context to our conversation. He was saying that if we did not comply with his terms, we should leave.

  I looked at Ms. Washburn and shrugged my shoulders. “The highway, then.” I turned to walk away from the group and the red Elmo seemed to lose interest, walking away from us.

  “You’re serious?” Kaplan sputtered.

  “Perfectly. But my offer still stands,” I said. “I will be glad to give you back your money as soon as I have a brief talk with Mr. Hoenig.”

  Kaplan looked surprised and angry. His faced was red and as a resident of the area, it was probable that was not due to unusual exposure to the sun. No doubt he had been outdoors every day for months.

  “You don’t get to beat me,” he hissed at me.

  Elmo now wandered back to us.

  “I am not attempting to do so,” I assured him. “My aim is simply to talk to Mr. Hoenig, answer the question I have pending, and give you back your forty thousand dollars. We can both walk away from here with what we want.”

  “Fine.” The word was released rather than spoken. “Go talk. You have two minutes.” He gestured with his head toward an unoccupied corner of the forecourt.

  I approached Reuben Hoenig and noticed that Ms. Washburn maneuvered herself behind Elmo so anyone trying to get to her would have to deal with him first, which I considered a very intelligent decision.

  “May we speak for a moment?” I said to Reuben.

  “Very well. We’ll talk about the black bird.”

  That was the speech that made a connection in my mind. Almost everything Reuben Hoenig had said to me had been a quote from the film or the Dashiell Hammett novel The Maltese Falcon. For some reason he was speaking almost exclusively in the dialogue from that detective story.

  Still he allowed me to lead him to the relatively quiet corner, although no area of the forecourt could be considered secluded or private. No one here, about thirty feet from the gathered group, would be able to hear what was said between us.

  “My mother is concerned about you,” I said to Reuben. “Please tell me your address.”

  “My address.” Reuben at least did not respond in a Sam Spade reference, but his words were simply an echo of my own. That was not terribly helpful.

  “Yes.” Perhaps he did not know I was his son. “Vivian Hoenig wants to know where you are living. She received a letter in the mail from you and it contained wording that made her believe you are in danger. Are you in danger?”

  “Ah, now you are dangerous.” He quoted Hammett again. This was going to be difficult, as The Maltese Falcon is not among my special interests and therefore I would not necessarily know every line and its significance.

  “What is your favorite Beatles song?” I asked Reuben. Perhaps I could find some insight into Reuben’s thought process or some common ground.

  The question seemed to stump him just as I saw Kaplan hold up one finger and then point at his wrist. I assumed that was a signal about the amount of time I had been allotted to talk to Reuben. It was hard to be certain because Kaplan’s wrist did not have a watch on it, but there seemed to be no alternative explanation.

  “Beatles song?” Reuben said.

  “Yes. Quickly. If you had to choose one song by the Beatles, what would it be?” I did not know how long the man with the full eyebrows could be held in check before the police in the forecourt noticed.

  Reuben Hoenig closed his eyes tightly. His head vibrated a bit as he thought. Then he opened his eyes and smiled. “‘Strawberry Fields Forever,’” he said.

  I stopped for a moment to absorb that information. Now that I had refocused Reuben’s mind perhaps I could gain some information in the seconds I had left. “Your address,” I said. “How can my mother reach you?”

  “I’ll ring four times; long, short, long, short,” he said. “And you needn’t bother to come to the door. I’ll let myself in.”

  “Reuben, this is not The Maltese Falcon,” I said with an air of desperation. “Please tell me how I can find you.”

  He bit his lower lip lightly. “I’m moving around,” he said. “I don’t have an address.”

  “Time!” shouted Kaplan. “Get back here now!”

  “A phone number?” I asked. “Can she call you? Vivian
is very worried about you. She thinks you’re going to die.”

  “I am,” Reuben Hoenig said. “We all are.”

  Then he walked off toward Kaplan, who was gesturing insistently. I had no choice but to follow in Reuben Hoenig’s path.

  It took only eight seconds to arrive back at the central area where Elmo still lurked by the man with the full eyebrows. Kaplan wasted no time on my arrival. “Where’s my money?” he demanded.

  “It is in a safe place,” I assured him. “And Ms. Washburn will be happy to retrieve it for you now. But I will require a longer conversation with Mr. Hoenig after the funds have been delivered.” I nodded toward Ms. Washburn and she took a step toward Hollywood Boulevard so she could walk to the parking garage where the rented Kia Soul was waiting.

  Kaplan held up a hand and Ms. Washburn, looking surprised, stopped. “I thought you said you were the only one who knew where the money was,” he said to me.

  “I lied,” I told him. “It was a fabrication intended to strengthen my bargaining position and it worked. Now Ms. Washburn will bring you the cash. I don’t understand your objection.”

  “How do I know she’s not going to get a cop?” Kaplan asked.

  Reuben Hoenig had taken to studying the pavement just ahead of his shoes again.

  “If Ms. Washburn or I had intended to call a police officer, we have had ample opportunities to do so right here,” I pointed out. “We have not done so. We have no intention of trying to keep the forty thousand dollars. But I am asking for more time with Mr. Hoenig because that conversation was not sufficient to conclude my business.”

  Ms. Washburn took two more steps toward the street and looked absolutely astonished when Kaplan reached for her arm and stopped her progress. He grabbed both her wrists and pulled them behind her back.

  “Hey!” she said.

  Taken by surprise, I stepped back.

  “She stays here,” Kaplan growled. “You want her to go get my money so there must be a reason I don’t want her to.”