Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Coat and cap in place, Shᾱmus took the elevator to the building entrance - precisely 45 seconds from the ninth to the first floor when no one on a lower floor programmed a stop. Stepping out, there was perky Mrs. Greenleaf from #1. She was the building manager.  In her hurry she collided with Levene's wide bulk.

“Oh, Detective, there you are!” She threw up her hands in surprise. In her left she held long stalks of dark green celery and in the right, several whole, blood-red beets with stalks and leaves flopping. She was oldish-youngish with a bright, healthy skin tone. Her body seemed to move while she stood still. Darting black eyes shone with vigor. Heir to a chain of exercise equipment, she was ever busy with growing, harvesting, feeding and worrying over the tenants like they were also crops to be tended. Her husband, somewhat of a mule, preferred wine to vitamin water. He hadn’t been seen in a while and it was a whispered rumor among the older tenants of Levene’s building that Mr. Greenleaf was the latest contribution to his wife’s garden. Of course, this was just scuttlebutt.

Mrs. Greenleaf’s hair resembled ripened cauliflower. In the yard behind her first floor apartment she labored over an award-winning vegan garden, which produce she happily forced upon the numerous residents of their building. She owned and operated multiple blenders, mashers, spinners, shakers, Vitamix machines. She presided over cabinets overflowing with foul-smelling herbal powders and capsules – some of these she gave away to those she preferred. For all Levene knew, she had a secret plan to invade his apartment, steal his hamentashen and pastrami and convert his favorite deli into a vegetarian restaurant.  Levene was afraid of her and kept out of her way. “She’s a balaboosta,  he secretly whispered to his neighbors in the building, and most quietly agreed.

Unable to avoid the impending collision, Levene feinted. Mrs. Greenleaf hit his stomach and bounced off with an “ooph!”

"What good timing! I was just bringing these to Margaret on six. Red blood cell problem, you know. Lots of healthy stuff in the ground for us! Are you going out for a walk?” Always curious of other tenants, Mrs. Greenleaf looked into Levene's large black-rimmed glasses below the black hat’s black visor, but saw only her bright reflection there. Her smile did little to mask perpetual curiosity.

Levene was nothing if not professionally polite. He managed an emotionless grimace that hid his newly implanted molar from view, endeavoring to sidestep her. His large teeth, stained with years of slurping tea and coffee, had a slight yellow gleam.

"Fine, fine, thank you. Off to see a client, you know. Work to be done, done..." He nervously pushed past her with a nod and bustled on his way, glad to be out of her presence.

 Mrs. Greenleaf turned round and waved the beets at his back, hurrying to the staircase that ran near the elevator wall and which Levene studiously avoided. She straddled the stairs two at a time on her mission to the 6^th floor, flailing veggies in tow and over her back she imparted:  “Wishing success, Detective, dig up the roots!”

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Levene’s new client met him at the library near the less-visited books on Russian-Ukrainian history. This was an ideal place for an introductory visit. If Levene took the case, further meetings would be moved to his apartment office where clients and detective could gaze at the oak tree-lined park below as they discussed the whereabouts of their dead.

 The man was aged, of medium height, warmly dressed. He wore an overcoat though the weather outside was mild. He spoke softly. Levene had the impression this new acquaintance never raised his voice. He had the countenance of one who has looked through the long mirror of life and, realizing that his was near its end, shrugged in relief.

They shook hands, exchanged greetings in Hebrew and sat at a table near the back of the room. The man lifted his heavy, weather-beaten travel bag onto the table. He spoke softly but haltingly, as one does who learns English as a second or a foreign language.

"Shalom again, Mr. Levene. Name is Moskovitz. I am Russian, descendant of Kievan Jews, and you?

Levene acknowledged his identity with a wide grin and then responded sadly that he knew only of his father’s birthplace somewhere in southwestern Ukraine, but most of his family had dispersed or been disposed of in the uprisings of the 1880s, 1900s and 1930s. Genealogical records from that area and time were most hard to discover. He assumed they’d been destroyed in the country’s tumult.

“Thank you for answering so soon the rebbe's request. I am here in your city only a few weeks. How you can help me, I come to learn.  I leave again soon.”

Leaning forward as he spoke, the stranger glanced around the room, especially at the doors that led to exits or to study rooms. Was he being followed?

"I am of course familiar with it, as with Ukraine. A small country with brave and self-sufficient people who fought to become independent of Russia in the 1990s, and they are still under attack.  They are a rich land. Belarus and Kiev also are major contributors to the breadbasket of Ukraine. Many reasons for enemies to eye them with greed.”

"You are correct.  Continuous graft and power grabs in our capitals. Many rivers contaminated, from Chernobyl accident, 1986.  Russia is millions of miles, rich in minerals, still many starve. Like Russia to east, my Kiev in west - many mysteries. Today I bring you old case to solve that spans country. I fear only not enough time…" his voice wandered off.

Levene was intrigued. The area Moskovitz referred to - would he as the shamus, the mystery-solver - be required to travel should he accept the assignment?

"Please, Mr. Moskovitz, I sense there is much to your story.  How can I help you from here?"

The stranger sighed. Slowly he loosened his coat, it fell from his shoulders. Levene saw that he was quite thin. With great care the visitor unzipped his worn briefcase and produced a sheaf of papers and pictures, organized and clipped together in groups. These he laid out upon the dark wide library table. It was obvious he took great care to keep his treasure private and protected.

"Family history very old. Patience, please, Mr. Shamus.  Much to tell."  He sighed heavily and began his tale.