Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [161]
Our mishpocheh, made up of seven “soul” bands, is feared, because bigots see us as the vanguard of a huge Black migration under the Law of Return. But, according to our Abba Gadol, there are at most 100,000 American Blacks who are of Israelite descent. True, Israelite tribes in Africa may number some five million, but we don’t expect more than half a million to join us here.
I wish to disown what one of our teenagers allegedly told a white reporter from Jerusalem Report:
“In the year 2,000 gonna be a big apocalypse. Volcanoes and everything. You gonna see Blacks comin’ in from all over the place back to Israel. Then we gonna run the country.”
Sisters, the reason why I’m writing to you is I am in need of a grant, say $10,000, so my bunch can begin work on composing a rap Haggadah, inspired by the poetry of Ice-T. This would be our gift to Eretz Yisroel. Sort of a latter-day Sixth Book of Mo.
Thanking you in advance I remain,
Respectfully yours,
ZIPPORAH BEN YEHUDAH
5
“My name’s Sean O’Hearne,” said the detective, who turned up a day after Boogie’s disappearance, extending his hand. “I think we should have us a little chat.”
His more-than-firm handshake was sufficient to put my finger bones at risk, and then he suddenly flipped over my throbbing hand as if he meant to read my palm. “Those are some blisters you’ve got there.”
O’Hearne, not yet gone to fat, or balding, or cursed with wet cough seizures that made his eyes bulge, wore a straw fedora and a racing-green gabardine jacket and tartan slacks. As he settled into a bamboo chair on my porch, I caught a glimpse of his two-tone golf shoes with tasselled tongues. He intended to spend the afternoon on the links. “That Arnold Palmer is something else,” he said. “I caught him once at the Canadian Open and figured to go home and make a bonfire of my clubs. What’s your handicap?”
“I don’t golf.”
“Oh, more fool me. I figured that’s how you got those blisters.”
“I’ve been digging a trench for an asparagus patch. Have you guys found Boogie yet?”
“They say no news is good news, but maybe not in this case, eh? The police launch and divers have both come up empty and, so far as we know, nobody has picked up a hitchhiker wearing a bathing suit and flippers.”
O’Hearne had arrived in an unmarked car, followed by two Sûreté du Québec cars. And now four young cops, feigning boredom, started to wander over the grounds, obviously looking for signs of freshly dug earth. “You’re damn lucky not to be stuck in the city in this heat,” said O’Hearne, removing his straw fedora and wiping his brow with a handkerchief.
“Your guys are wasting their time out there.”
“I had me a place once on Lake Echo. Not as grand as this, just a little shack. But I remember how you always got to worry about ants and field mice. So before leaving every weekend you got to clean up and bag the rubbish. Do you drive yours to a dump?”
“I leave it outside the kitchen door and Benoît O’Neil collects it. You want to go through it, be my guest.”
“You know, I can’t understand you’re not telling the first officers who came round —”
“They didn’t come round. I sent for them.”
“— what transpired here, given how upset you must have been, losing your friend like that, thinking he was drowned.”
“He’s not drowned. He’s broken into somebody’s cottage and he won’t be heard from until he’s finished every bottle of booze he can find.”
“Uh huh. Uh huh. But there have been no break-ins reported.”
“I fully expect a sobered Boogie to turn up here later today or tomorrow.”
“Hey, maybe Mr. Moscovitch is still somewhere out there in the woods in his bathing trunks. God, the mosquitoes must be driving him crazy. I’ll bet he’s getting hungry too. What do you think?”
“I think you should be covering every cottage on the lake until you find him.”
“That’s your considered opinion, eh?”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Nobody suggested you did. But maybe you could help me fill in some of the boring details, just for the record.”
“Would you care for a drink?