More in desperation than belief, I showed the old woman the three pictures of Esther, the two from Manny Orrin and the one of her and Willie I'd lifted from the police report. "Remember her, by any chance? She used to dance here."

The woman squinted so hard at the pictures, it looked like she'd fallen asleep on her feet. The lines on her face deepened to canals. Then she shook her head, handing the pictures back to me.

"Don't remember seeing her. Who is she?"

"Her name was Esther," I said, the bitter taste of disappointment on my tongue.

"What's she done?"

"She died."

"Oh." The news didn't seem to faze her. "So many people have been dying lately."

20

Punching Manny Orrin had earned me a night of undisturbed sleep. I awoke at six, feeling almost fresh, and stayed in bed, smoking and reading one of the westerns Goldberg had sold me. The protagonist, a Texas cowboy with a shock of blond hair and a sun-beaten face, seemed to never be without a cigarette in his mouth. He smoked when he rode, when he was gunning down bad guys, even while he was having dinner in a cabin with the pretty rancher's widow he was helping out. It was a good yarn. Not the best I'd read, and certainly not original in terms of plot, but still enjoyable. It was seven thirty when I turned the last page and set the book aside with a sense of satisfaction. Then I got up, washed and shaved, and went to the kitchen. I boiled an egg and sliced it into strips, which, along with a couple of juicy sardines, I slapped between two buttered slices of dark bread. After eating, I slipped on some clothes and went in search of more people who had known Esther.

On Dizengoff Street, sandwiched between an accounting firm and a dentist's clinic, stood the offices of Becker & Strauss, the law firm where Esther had worked as a secretary. It occupied a two-story square building, with tall windows and no balconies. A sign on the door proclaimed that the firm had been established in 1907, which meant that it had once had a different location, since the city of Tel Aviv was founded in 1909.

Beyond the door was a reception room, at the far end of which was a large desk topped by a typewriter and stacks of paper. Behind the desk sat a young, pretty secretary, and behind her stood a row of filing cabinets.

I stepped up to the desk, introduced myself, and asked if I could see Mr. Strauss, Esther's boss. The secretary told me he was out and wouldn't be in before noon. "But if it's a legal issue, maybe one of the associates can help you."

Maybe they could, I told her, and asked if either of the two associates who had worked in the firm ten years ago were around—Itamar Levine and Alex Fishman.