Deadly Pedigree

8



Saturday afternoon Nick was finally able to summon the courage to call Corban, to break the news that their deal was off.

On the phone, Corban threatened, pleaded, and bribed. It seemed to Nick that discrediting Armiger had become the only thing in Corban’s life of misery. Did he even care any longer for the money he’d lost? Nick was no psychiatrist, but he sensed that somehow, in the old man’s crumbling mind, Armiger had come to represent all of the relentless terror he had seen striding across Europe, casting its deadly shadow on his life.

She might be an unpleasant woman who used questionable means, but did she deserve such harassment? Maybe Armiger was right after all: the old guy just might be bonkers.

For all his skillful rationalization, Nick couldn’t fight the feeling that he had become a genealogical gigolo, a mind and a conscience for hire to the highest bidder.

“I have something for you,” Corban said on the phone. “There is more that you must tell the world. I am too ill to come downtown…yes, yes, I lied to you! Big deal. What is my lie next to hers? A flea!”

Nick tried to interrupt with Armiger’s side of the story. But the old man became even more agitated and cut him off with a volley of impenetrable Yiddishisms that didn’t fail to express vehement disdain for Nick, Armiger, the world in general.

“God forbid she should be one of us! But once upon a time, yes, there was a landsman in her family. Oh, I could hurt her real bad with that.” He whispered confidentially: “Her rich goys, they hate Jews. But that’s not the whole schmeer. I got something better to fight with. I show you what I mean. You don’t understand. She has got to be stopped, before she does more evil! She is one of them, with blood on her hands. Come! I have no one else, except the yentes from the community center. You must come!”

Nick’s kind heart–and his curiosity–got the best of him. He agreed to see Max Corban the next morning.



That afternoon, though, as he worked alone at his office, he began to feel less sorry for Corban. Wasn’t it the old man’s fault that he had become involved in this mess?

From now on, he decided, no more weirdos for clients.





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