The Glory Read Free Page B

beautiful Israeli girl.”
    As Barkowe was finishing his breakfast the telephone rang. “Mr. Barkowe? You having trouble with the Mekhess?”
    “Who are you?”
    “Avi Shammai, of Shammai Brothers. We solve Mekhess problems. Our specialty is automobiles.”
    “Come right up.”
    Avi Shammai was a big stout blond man, in a striped short-sleeved shirt, brown pants, and sandals on bare feet. “It’s no problem,”
     he said. “We run into this all the time.”
    “How can you help me?”
    Avi Shammai’s English was rapid but cloudy. His proposal involved temporarily transferring ownership of the Porsche to the
     Shammai Brothers, who would take it to Cyprus, adjust the odometer to show more mileage, perform other alterations, and bring
     it back in as a secondhand car. Something like that. Barkowe found him hard to follow, but through the verbiage three points
     gradually became clear. First, it was no problem; second, the cost would be five thousand American dollars; third, Barkowe
     would pay twenty-five hundred dollars now, the balance when Shammai Brothers delivered him the car.
    “When will that be?”
    “In a month, guaranteed.”
    “What’s your phone number?”
    “Mr. Barkowe, Shammai Brothers is a busy firm. I’ve brought all the necessary documents —”
    “Just your number, please.” Barkowe pulled from his pocket the card the Israeli had given him on the ferry. “Write it on here.”
    Shammai took the card and glanced at it. With a strange expression mingling amazement and horror he said, “You know Guli?”
    “Who?”
    The agent extended the card, printed all in Hebrew except for two words,
Avram Gulinkoff
. “Him. Where did you get this card?”
    None of this fellow’s business, Barkowe thought. “Oh, friend of my father’s. Why?”
    Avi Shammai dropped the card on the breakfast table and hurried out, his sandals loudly flapping. Barkowe was puzzling over
     this bizarre turn when the phone rang again. Another helpful agent? Was his predicament the talk of Haifa?
    “Dzeck Barkowe?” A girl’s voice, peppy and sweet.
    “I’m Jack Barkowe. Who is this?”
    “My name’s Daphna Luria. I’m Noah Barak’s friend, and I’m here in the lobby. You’re having problems with the Mekhess?”
    “I’ll be right down. Tan jacket.”
    “I’ll find you, Dzecki.”
    Barkowe had never liked the familiar “Jackie.” It was his custom to growl, “The name’s Jack,” when people used it. But
Dzecki
, as this girl said it, sounded sort of piquant.
    The elevator door opened on pandemonium. From big snorting busses tourists were pouring into the hotel, and more tourists
     were pouring out into other enormous busses spouting black fumes. The lobby was festooned with banners — KING DAVID TOURS, HOLY LAND TOURS, SCHEINBAUM TOURS, PARADISE TOURS — under which mountains of luggage rose. Shouldering through the tumultuous lobby, looking for someone who might be Daphna,
     Barkowe heard a babble of tongues, English predominating. A tap on his shoulder. “Here I am, Dzecki.” She was a smallish girl
     in a beige uniform, with heavy blond hair on which perched a little black cap. Her bosom was marked, her figure slender, her
     eyes lively and amused. A dish, at first glance. “Do we talk Hebrew or English?” she inquired.
    “N’nasseh Ivrit,”
he said. (“Let’s try Hebrew.”)
    “Ah. Very good. Noah thinks,” she said, as they pushed toward the lobby entrance, “that maybe I can help you. He can’t leave
     the ship until tomorrow, when the Mekhess will be closed.” She glanced pertly at him. “Shabbat. Understand?”
    “Every word.”
    “Lovely.”
    Soon they were riding in a small slanted subwaylike car going down a steep tunnel. “This is the Carmelit,” she said. “Don’t
     waste your money on taxis while you’re at the Dan. We can walk from the bottom to the Mekhess.”
    They did, and found the huge shed vacant and quiet; no cars, no inspectors, all windows but one closed.