Bullets Aren't Kosher: The Torah Codes, #4

Bullets Aren’t Kosher

Ezra Barany

Contents

Also by Ezra Barany

Note from the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Acknowledgments

How Does One Know if they are Good or Evil?

Introduction to Essays on What Makes a Person Good

The Ten Commandments

Top Ten Ways to be a Mensch (Good person)

A Good Person vs. a Bad Person

On Redemption

Sadism

Are You Good or Evil?

Also by Ezra Barany

About the Author

Also by Ezra Barany

Books in The Torah Codes series

The Torah Codes

36 Righteous: A Serial Killer’s Hit List

Deborah’s Number: A Bank Heist Mitzvah

Other books by Ezra Barany

6 Short Stories of Suspense

Plan Your Novel Like A Pro: And Have Fun Doing It!

Copyright © 2019 by Ezra Barany

Copyright © of Top Ten Ways to be a Mensch 2015 by Adrienne Gold Davis. Reprinted with permission of the author and of Momentum at MomentumUnlimited.org.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN #978-1-944841-24-9

To each of my students.

Keep striving to discover your true self.

Note from the Author

From the opening of the movie Dark City, to The Fifth Bullet episode in the Castle television series, to Bourne Identity, the stories that used the amnesia trope always grabbed me by the throat and wouldn’t let go. I loved them so much, I had to try incorporating that trope in one of my books.

It was exciting to see how my main character worked at figuring out who he was, and especially interesting to discover his inner struggle at determining if he was a good person or not.

I sprinkled in other characters: ones requiring redemption, and others who society deemed to be bad people. I poured this concoction of characters into a thick plot and stirred in a good helping of danger. Coming up with danger required dreaming up things. Disturbing things. Things like murder. And kidnapping. And romance.

This book has all those things, so be forewarned.

1

Ouch. My head.

One of my temples pounded like a hammer. A hammer hitting bundles of dynamite.

Where the hell was I?

The cold wooden floorboards pressed against my cheek, my whole body flush to the cool surface.

Why was I on the floor?

Mariachi music blared nearby. Was I in Mexico?

I wanted to go back to sleep. My head fogged with no lighthouse in sight. I would have fallen back to sleep if it weren’t for the other body lying on the floor. She lay face down. I could only see her blonde hair and ponytail.

Damn, I hoped she wasn’t dead. That would suck.

I struggled to push myself off the ground but my muscles whined, so I gave up. For some reason, my waist felt colder than the rest of me, I felt wet there. The small pool of blood answered some questions.

Also explained the sting. I was bleeding from the hip. Was that even a thing? I’ve heard of bleeding from the side, or shooting from the hip, but bleeding from the hip? Odd. And not very heroic. Surviving with a black eye, a broken nose, or a fractured rib sounded heroic. A bloody hip? Not so much.

The light at the window clued me in that it was still daytime. What was this place? Looked less of a home and more of an apartment by how small it was. I lay in the living room by the sofa.

What day it was, I had no idea. The clock on the wall read 4:40.

What month was it? My head blurred away the answer.

I decided to start easy. What year was it? The fog wasn’t letting me in on that one, either.

Okay. What was a simpler question? How about this: Who was I?

I ran through the database of names in my head, but there wasn’t a single search result in that thing.

Terrific.

I tried introducing myself by muttering, My name is… No name came to my lips, not even at the tip of my tongue.

Whatever. First things first. I had to patch myself up.

With all the strength I had, I pushed myself off the floor and nearly fell back down, clutching onto the side of the couch. Damn wound, making me weak.

The woman on the ground wasn’t moving, but she wasn’t bleeding. Either she was dead or asleep. Whatever she was, whether I helped her now or later probably wouldn’t make any difference. And unless I helped myself first, I might fall unconscious. What use would I be to her then?

While leaning on the couch, I tugged my slacks down a bit and checked my hip. Still bleeding, but the wound didn’t seem to be too big. Just a couple millimeters wide. Made a mess of the side of the off-white couch, though. Felt sorry for whoever owned the couch. Maybe I could pay the owner for damages once I got back on my feet. If I could afford it. Was I rich? No idea. I left that thought for another time.

I stumbled to where the bathroom might be. Found it. Unbuckling my belt and tugging down the side of my pants, I snagged some toilet paper and wiped off the blood. I made a note of the slacks, dress shirt, and tie. My clothes ruled out the possibility that I lived on the streets. I checked my reflection. Didn’t recognize the man. At least I wasn’t hideous to look at, just average. Brown hair, brown eyes, but a long neck. I saw how fast a guy could get bored of seeing that face over the years. Forgetting it may not have been due to a bout of amnesia.

I searched the medicine cabinet, found some rubbing alcohol. I explored the drawers and cabinets, taking a strange comfort in the way the sounds of the drawers and cabinets resounded off the tiles of the bathroom. I pictured the sound waves floating through the bathroom. Was it normal to think about such things?

Under the sink, I found a first aid kit. Leaning against the sink, I splashed a sharp dose of the rubbing alcohol on my bloody skin, despising the stinging pain of it, and taking comfort in seeing the skin clean around the wound. After taping a bandage on the spot, I already felt better. Still foggy, but the pain was less. I found headache meds in the kit. Swallowed a couple of those with some gulps of water from the sink.

With my pants back on, I moved to the living room to see how the woman on the floor fared.

My fingertips at her neck confirmed a pulse.

Hey, lady! Wake up!

No response.

Your pizza’s ready!

No response.

"Donde esta la piñata?"

No response.

Oh, well. If I was in Mexico, and she only understood Spanish, that was all the Spanish I knew.

She wore jeans and an olive-green t-shirt.

Who was this woman? Better yet, who was I?

I stood and checked my pockets. No wallet. That would have been too easy. The only thing in my pocket was a set of keys.

There was a wedding ring on my finger. I was married. My chest warmed to know that. But where was my wife? Crap. Was this woman on the floor my wife?

Think positive. Maybe my wife was at work or in our house, wherever that was.

I sat on the couch, inched off the ring, and examined the inside. It was engraved. SP + NY.

My head clouded as I worked on what it meant. Either those were two states–like New York plus, uh, Southern Pennsylvania, or whatever–or those were our initials. I was either S.P. or N.Y. Figuring the woman always went first, it was a good bet that N.Y. were my initials. So what was my name?

Norman? Neil? Norbert?

God, I hoped it wasn’t Norbert.

I slid the ring back on and sunk onto the soft couch. Sure felt good. Made me want to float away, let the curtains of my eyes close. A feeling nagged at me that I was in trouble, but there was so much smoke in my head I couldn’t see the forest fire for the flames.

I took a breath and sat up straight. Had to stay awake and fight gravity in case I was in trouble.

Who was the woman on the floor? Maybe she had a wallet. Of course, that meant digging into her pockets. I don’t know how my wife would feel about that. But then, maybe that was my wife on the floor. The way her left hand was tucked under her body, there was no way to tell if she was married. Best to find out. At this point, any clue as to who the hell I was would be welcome.

I nudged her petite frame over so that she lay face up. The young twenty-something face still didn’t ring a bell, if I even had a bell to ring.

Her hand didn’t have one. A ring, that is.

I dug into her bulging pocket and pulled out her wallet.

Strange. No credit cards, no health care card or other cards, just a driver’s license and hundreds of dollars in cash.

I checked the name on the driver’s license.

Holly Sampson.

Didn’t remember the name from anywhere, but it was more evidence she couldn’t have been my wife. My wife was S.P.

There was something in her other pocket. I reached in and removed a fold of leather. Another wallet? I opened it and sighed with relief.

It was a badge. The Berkeley Police Department. So I wasn’t in Mexico. That’s good. I was in Berkeley, California and better yet, this woman was a police officer and could help me with figuring out who I was.

I tapped her cheek, hoping light slaps would wake her.

Officer, wake up. You’ve been promoted to Captain.

No response.

Officer Sampson?

Her eyes fluttered, thank goodness. I kept repeating her name. She squinted. I stopped tapping her cheek.

I smiled. I’m glad you’re okay.

She shoved me away and jumped to her feet, fists up, eyeing me with daggers, dirks, and all sorts of pointy objects.

I’m not going to hurt you. I raised my palms up in surrender.

She scanned the room and jumped at something that lay on the floor in a corner. A hunting knife! I hadn’t noticed it.

She raised it, pointing it at me.

Officer, please! I’m not going to hurt you.

Got that right, she barked. I’m going to be the one doing all the hurting.

She lunged and swung the knife at me. I ducked out of the way. She staggered and leaned against the wall, as though too dizzy to stay upright.

What’s this all about, officer? Did I do something wrong? If so, arrest me. I’ll come in peacefully.

She saw her wallet and badge on the floor and scowled, still trying to make sense of what was going on. Keeping the knife aimed at me, she eased to a crouch and grabbed her wallet and badge.

You’re not going anywhere. She pocketed her belongings. You’re going to die here.

Damn, that sounded depressing. What about all the sandwiches I’d miss out on eating?

You know, dying is damn inconvenient, I said, inching to the front door. Could you at least tell me what I did, or what you think I did?

You know damn well what you did. The knife wavered. I couldn’t tell if she was nervous or fatigued. I’m Richard’s daughter.

Who’s Richard?

Why you— She lunged at me again.

I dodged and knocked her arm away.

She countered with a punch to my wounded hip.

I screamed out the pain.

I may not have known my name, but I knew when I overstayed my welcome. I dashed out the door and came upon flights of stairs. How high up were we? Four floors or forty, didn’t matter. I had to get down all of them.

Her steps echoed in the stairway chamber, as if stomping on me from above. I tried running down two, then three stairs at a time.

That was a mistake.

I fell down onto a landing right on my wounded hip.

You know, getting chased by the police with pain drilling in your side is a great way to take your mind off of such trivial questions as who the hell you are.

Her clomping was getting close. Pushing myself back up, I descended down the remaining stairs. Turned out to be only about ten flights.

I exited the building into a chilly day. A lake lay before me, and beyond the lake a slew of high-rise buildings. Dollars to dipshits, that was a downtown. There wasn’t a lake near downtown Berkeley, was there? Couldn’t remember.

For now, I needed to find a safe place to hide. Preferably a public place. A place where witnesses were a deterrent against stabbers.

I ran against the wind and passed a grocery store, a Korean BBQ joint that smelled of cooked pineapple, and a pedicure place whose acidic cleansers smelled like they were trying to hide a dead body.

I checked behind me. Good. The officer wasn’t there. I ducked into a nineteen-fifties-themed diner, Skylight Diner, and hid in the back corner booth with red seats. With all the customers in the way, my table was hard to see from the front door. Plus, I had a good vantage point.

Just to be safe, I examined the back and, sure enough, there was a back door I could run out if necessary. It had an alarm warning across the handle, but I had plenty of emergency in me to warrant opening that door.

I slunk low and moved the napkin dispenser, sugar jar, syrup, ketchup, and mustard bottles in front of me. I was still too tall for the items on the glitter-dust table to hide my face, but I felt safer.

A wailing toddler sat with her parents in a booth on the opposite side of the restaurant. The father murmured something to quiet her, but she wasn’t listening.

Ugh. That kid had a loud set of pipes.

I better not have any kids of my own. I could never tolerate a family life.

The waitress in her uniform, a dark green dress, approached. Heya, Ed. You’re here early.

I started. You know me? My name’s Ed?

What are you talking about? She put a hand on her hip and smiled. I’ve had just about enough of you pushing away my advances, I don’t need you to pretend you never met me.

She winked. That confirmed it. She knew me. I must have been a regular at this diner.

Miss, I read her name tag, Alessandra, I need your help.

You act like you don’t know me, and now you need me. You are one confusing player, big boy.

I don’t remember who I am. I shifted in my seat and winced at the pain at my hip. Thankfully, it hurt much less than before, and the headache was gone. I hit my head, I think. Is there anything you could tell me about myself?

What sort of game are you playing, Ed? I have seven other customers waiting for me. I don’t have time for games. Are you going to order, or what?

I had to convince her I needed her help. If that meant ordering something to have more time to extract what I needed from her, so be it. Fine. I’ll order something.

The usual?

Sure. Whatever that was.

After scribbling something down on her pad and putting in my order, she tended to the other customers.

I squeezed off my ring and examined the engraving inside. SP + NY. If one of those initials were mine, how come she called me Ed? What if the ring wasn’t really mine? What if it was stolen?

If I was wearing someone else’s ring, then perhaps I wasn’t married after all. My gut sank at that thought. A part of me really wanted to be married, and I didn’t know why.

Alessandra returned with my order. It was two eggs sunny side up, hash browns, bacon, and sourdough toast. She said I was early today? It was around five o’clock in the afternoon. That meant I normally ordered breakfast for dinner.

Are you going to eat it or stare at it? Alessandra asked.

I’m serious, Alessandra. I have no idea who I am, where I live, what I do for a living, how I got here, who my friends are, and why a cop is trying to kill me.

Alessandra leaned back, What do you mean a cop is trying to kill you?

I showed her the bandaged wound at my hip, the result of Officer Sampson’s blade skills.

You’re serious? You really don’t remember who you are?

I’m dead serious. I waited for her to complete her evaluation of my expression.

Alessandra sighed and sat in the seat across from me. All right, I think I can spare a few minutes to tell you what I know. But I’m afraid it’s not much.

Carl and Sarah Best’s Residence

Amsterdam, N.Y.

Sarah Best felt a kick in her belly. She paused from emptying a trash bin and rubbed the spot the little foot kicked. Being without Carl during the entire nine months of her pregnancy was not how she wanted her maternity leave to be like.

I hear you, Little One. I miss him too.

She had tried everything she could think of to find Carl. Searching under both Carl Best and Nathan Yirmorshy, she’d found nothing on the Internet, and she’d received no help from the police. She purposely didn’t tell WITSEC about Carl’s disappearance. Ignoring their warnings of leaving the city was a major no-no and could end their protection services.

Yes, she understood why he left. When she had been tortured by that crazed cop who wanted to know where Carl was, it’d put her life in danger. Carl wanted to make sure she wasn’t in harm’s way anymore, so his goal was simple: stop the cop. But Carl left without letting her have a say, dammit. He didn’t even know that she was pregnant.

Outside, she shook one of the rarely-used bins into the dumpster and a loose paper towel fell to the ground. She bent to pick it up and paused from throwing it in the trash. Carl’s handwriting was on it, and read, Master artist, and had a phone number.

She returned inside to study the napkin.

Whose phone number was this? Carl never kept secrets from her. Perhaps this had something to do with where he went?

She sat at the kitchen table, threaded a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, and called the number.

This is Brian.

She didn’t know a Brian. Brian who?

There was a pause.

Who is this? Brian asked.

This is Sarah Best, Carl Best’s wife. There was a napkin with your number on it. Something tells me you know where he is. Now who is this?

The line went dead.

What the hell?

2

Skylight Diner

Oakland, CA

As the sky darkened outside, I leaned toward Alessandra, eager to hear what she knew about me.

Okay, Alessandra said. Here it is. Your name is Ed. You come here every evening at six thirty and order the same thing. You always dodge my flirts by praising your wife. She lowered her voice imitating mine. She’s so great at this, she’s so great at that.

So I do have a wife.

Sure do. You talk about her all the time.

I tried to picture her. Couldn’t.

What did I say about her? I wrung my hands. Did I tell you where she is?

I asked you to describe her one time. You said she had blonde hair.

That Berkeley cop had blonde hair. But she couldn’t have been my wife. Her initials were all wrong.

She also had a dimple on one side of her mouth. Alessandra touched her cheek. Said it made her look… what did you call it? Asymmetrical! You said her face was asymmetrical because of that one dimple on her cheek.

I used that exact word? Asymmetrical?

Yep. You said she was a tarot reader. A good one, too.

That’s weird.

What’s weird?

I don’t feel as if I’d believe in tarot. But I guess I do.

You also said she was as smart as a whip who got her masters in whipping.

She whips people?

No, you were just making a joke. I remember that because in my line of work… She smirked. Well, I just remember you saying that.

Did I say where I live?

I asked. You said you lived in the big apartment building down the block next to Lake Merritt Grocery Store.

That was the building I had just come out of. That was my apartment building? I laughed.

What’s funny?

I’m the poor guy who has to deal with the blood on the couch.

The cop attacked you in your apartment?

Seems that way.

Why would he do that?

She.

What?

The cop was a woman.

Alessandra tilted her head as if figuring something out.

There a problem? I asked.

I bet you she found out you had a wife and went ballistic on your ass.

You think I had an affair with her?

She frowned. On second thought, I don’t think so. You love your wife too much, and you always turn me down. And let’s face it. Who in his right mind would turn down this? She ran her hands down her sides with ample curves upstairs and downstairs.

I sunk in the booth’s seat. If my name was Ed, why did the ring say SP + NY? Was it someone else’s ring I wore? Was I pretending to be married? Was it my way of turning down Alessandra’s advances?

I studied Alessandra. She had a point. Who in his right mind would turn down that?

What’s wrong? Alessandra asked.

I’m not completely sure I’m married. I showed her the ring and explained my reasoning about the initials not matching my name Ed.

But if you’re not married, then why pretend?

I don’t know. Am I some undercover agent who has to pretend he’s married? What if I work for the cops and have to pretend I’m a white collar criminal? What if I work for the FBI or the CIA?

All right, Mr. Bourne. She glared at me and stood. While I can’t say for certain you’re not a spy, you are definitely married. Unless you’re more of a sausage boy than an egg boy.

What?

She propped her foot on the seat beside me, hitched her dress to expose and offer her knee like a can-can dancer, and raised an eyebrow.

Oh, I’m an egg guy, I said. Definitely an egg guy.

Then if you can pass this up, you’re married. Now eat your food to get your head on straight while I tend to the other customers.

She moseyed off.

How did I like to eat my eggs? Did I mix the eggs with the hash browns? Did I eat the meal one item at a time? I had a bite of the hash browns. It tasted good, but bland. I snagged the salt and sprinkled the plate. The hash browns tasted better.

Then I gulped down a heavy thought. I didn’t have any cash or credit cards to pay for it.

Carl and Sarah Best’s Residence

Amsterdam, N.Y.

Sarah sat at the kitchen table, stared at her phone, and punched the number again.

After the seventh ring Brian answered. Yeah?

Listen, you want me to go to the police and have them make inquiries about you? She pressed her palm against the table, ready to slap it. Tell me where Carl is now!

No deal. You want to turn me in to the police, you go right ahead. But my customers trust me. They need to be able to trust me. I will not betray Carl.

Damn. That was the wrong approach.

I’m sorry, Brian. She huffed out a breath, put a hand on her belly. Obviously, I don’t want anything bad to happen to Carl either. He’s my husband, but that’s why I need your help.

No can do. He left clear instructions for me not to tell anyone where he went. Especially you.

Damn it, Carl.

She rubbed her belly. We’ll find him little guy.

Can you at least meet me face-to-face? she tried. I just want to talk about it with you. I promise. If you convince me to drop this pursuit, I will drop it.

The silence on the other end felt like waiting for a roulette wheel. Would it land on her number?

You won’t talk to the police?

I promise.

All right, then. Brian told her where and when to meet her and hung up.

Excitement sizzled through her body. She patted her belly. She might see Carl soon.

3

Skylight Diner

Oakland, CA

No wallet. How was I going to pay for this dinner?

Alessandra returned. I just remembered. You asked me to lock something up for you in the staff locker room. Wanna give me the key and we can see what it is?

Sounds good. I handed her my set of keys. She studied them.

None of these keys are for a locker. Do you have another set?

No. You think it’s something important?

She shrugged. All you said was that you couldn’t keep it in your apartment. I assumed it was just some kinky porn.

Oh, geez. My cheeks burned. I don’t think I need that right now.

She chuckled and ran a hand across my cheek. She eyed my plate of eggs, hash browns, and bacon.

You’re eating a lot slower than usual, she said.

I am? Probably because I forgot to tell you I have no money.

She laughed. Oh, darlin’. You almost never have your card with you. We have it on file. I just ring you up, you sign it, and we’re good to go.

That didn’t make sense. Why didn’t I carry my wallet?

You always went home first. Said you liked to have your pockets free when you were out and about in the afternoons. Eat up, Ed.

That explained why I only had keys in my pocket.

I looked at my plate.

She sighed. Now what’s wrong?

Do you remember how I ate it? I mean did I mix it up or what?

You used to mash it all together.

Yeah?

"And