Baltimore Noir - Laura Lippman [71]
“They don’t ask questions, so it shouldn’t be a problem.” The rabbi gave me a meaningful look. “Nor should your task.”
“I can only try, rabbi.”
We finished our meals in silence. He picked up the check and stood first.
“Rabbi, one more thing,” I called.
He turned around.
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“And I hope I’m not,” he said, before leaving me to stare at the last strands of fettuccini on my plate.
Many families went for the pomp and circumstance that a hotel could provide, but not Rabbi Brenner. A synagogue was the only place for a wedding, he’d told me during our meeting the week before, and the Beth Jacob Synagogue on Park Heights Avenue was his choice. By the time I arrived, the place was packed. I hadn’t wanted to drive in my rented tux so I’d brought it with me, assuming I’d be able to find a bathroom to change in.
I wasn’t the only one with the same thought. A couple of other dancers from the agency I’d paid lip service to a few days earlier were also changing in the bathroom. A young boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen looked completely stunned at what he was seeing.
“Why are you changing into your suits?” he asked.
The other guys exchanged looks so I elected to answer the question. “We’re here to dance. You been to a wedding in this synagogue before?”
The boy shook his head. “Not here, usually at a hotel in Pikesville.”
“Well, anyway,” I continued, “they want people to be really excited for the bride and groom, but sometimes there aren’t enough invited guests. That’s why we’re brought in to help.”
“Wow, that’s really cool!”
When the boy finally took off, the other two ringers laughed.
“Couldn’t have explained it better,” said the first, a short, stocky bruiser with blond hair.
“Poor kid,” said the other, taller man. “He might be traumatized!”
“I hope not, and hell, someone had to.” I didn’t want to make small talk: I had work to do.
What work exactly, I still wasn’t sure. Moshe would be sequestered in a back room somewhere, being prepared by his family and friends. There was no way I could just walk in and make myself a part of the group. I thought about trying to watch him during the pre-wedding ceremony where he would “uncover” Beryl’s veil to show she was his real bride and not an impostor, but couldn’t find an opportunity. All I could do was watch, and wait for some signal, whatever it was.
But all that watching allowed me one extra pleasure: checking out the girls. This was a wedding, so they’d be dressed up more elaborately and formally than girls I hung out with. I didn’t know what was in the water, but Beryl was far from the only beautiful girl present. There were plenty, most of them obviously preening for the mostly male crowd.
The girls waited by the canopy where the bride and groom would be married. Unlike more ultra-Orthodox places, this synagogue’s seating was allowed to be mixed when the wedding, like this one, took place on a weekday, so everyone could mingle freely. As a girl passed a boy, she flashed her brightest smile and hoped it would be reciprocated in turn. I even benefited from a couple of those smiles, so I did the only proper thing: I smiled back.
“What is this, a meat market?” I asked Sam, who was sitting next to me. The rest of his family was on his other side.
“You might say that,” he replied, a faint Russian accent inflecting his voice. “But how else are young women supposed to meet men? Weddings are the best times to do so.”
I certainly knew that. When my best friend got married right before I was sent up, I’d become instant friends—well, if you call it that, though after several rounds of JD I certainly didn’t—with the maid of honor. Never saw her again after the next morning, but I’d always remember her, and her mouth, vividly.
The ceremony began with the cantor’s intonation and the room quieted down. I’d never been to a Jewish wedding before,