Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) by Vincent Zandri
Authors: Vincent Zandri
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do what works for you. I do what works for me. You’re my brother, not my Rabbi.”
James goes into the kitchen, pulls out a bottle of whiskey from one of the cabinets above the sink, pours some into a glass. He brings the glass with him to the table, slides his left hand under Moshe’s head, brings the glass to his lips.
“Down the hatch, Moshe,” he says.
Moshe opens his mouth wide, and James upends the glass. The whiskey is gone in an instant. Laying the head back down gently, James tosses the empty glass onto the couch. He then picks the scalpel back up, and aims the tip for the wound, without actually touching it with the blade.
“You feel this, Moshe?” he says.
Moshe jumps a little.
“I’m not sure,” he says, his pale brow covered in droplets of sweat. “Maybe a little.”
He shoots Magda and me a glance, then slowly sticks the blade into the wound.
“What about now?”
“Not really. When are you going to do this already?” Moshe says.
“We’ll try for her now,” James says. Then, once more looking at the three of us. “You know what to do.”
Using his free hand, James pulls a wood tongue depressor from out of the kit, holds it over Moshe’s mouth. Moshe opens and without having to ask what it’s for, bites down on the depressor.
Once again I take the shoulders and, this time, Magda holds the forearms, while Itzy takes the legs.
“On three,” James says. “One, two . . .”
James buries the blade, twists.
Moshe lurches upwards like every nerve ending in his body is connected to a live electric current. His screams can be heard all the way to Jordan and Syria. They are that intense, that loud. James twists once more, sticks his index finger and thumb into the wound, comes back out with a led slug that, although damaged, is entirely intact.
Moshe’s body relaxes while he passes out.
“Itzy,” James says, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead with his forearm, “please retrieve that glass I tossed onto the couch.”
Itzy grabs the glass, hands it to him. James tosses the spent bullet into it. The metal against glass makes a pleasant clinking noise considering the pain Moshe was forced to endure in order to extract it.
“He’s lucky,” James says. “It didn’t shatter any bone or sever the femoral artery. I’d bet the rent, that bullet was a ricochet.”
“Can’t thank you enough, James,” I say.
“I’ll second that,” Magda says.
“He’s going to have to get some rest,” James says. “I’ll sew him up while he’s out. Meanwhile, Magda, maybe you can mix us up a little lunch?”
Her brown eyes go wide.
“And why is it that the woman is always expected to make lunch?” she says. “I am a doctor of Biblical history, you know.”
“I know you are,” James says. “But I also know you were handed down the gift of the culinary arts from your Jewish mother.”
“Snagged,” she says. “So what do you have for ingredients in that kitchen of yours?”
“You’ll find some eggs and fresh vegetables in the refrigerator. And Gold Star beer.”
“I love Gold Star,” Itzy says.
“I thought Hasidic Jews didn’t partake?” I say.
“I’m a New Yorker first,” Itzy says, heading straight to the fridge. “I prefer Pabst Blue Ribbon. But when in Rome . . . Now, for the love of Moses, who’s having a beer with me?”
CHAPTER 24
Magda prepares a feast of cheese omelets with fresh tomatoes, olives, and hummus on the side. We wash everything down with cold liter bottles of Gold Star beer. By the time lunch is over, we’re feeling no pain and Moshe is sleeping soundly inside the far end bedroom. Itzy has joined his brother and is currently praying over him.
After clearing the dishes, Magda serves us coffee and we sit around the table in silence that isn’t quite silent, but more like a prelude to the questions I know are about to be lodged by the man who saved Moshe’s leg.
“Okay,” James says, “who wants to go
James goes into the kitchen, pulls out a bottle of whiskey from one of the cabinets above the sink, pours some into a glass. He brings the glass with him to the table, slides his left hand under Moshe’s head, brings the glass to his lips.
“Down the hatch, Moshe,” he says.
Moshe opens his mouth wide, and James upends the glass. The whiskey is gone in an instant. Laying the head back down gently, James tosses the empty glass onto the couch. He then picks the scalpel back up, and aims the tip for the wound, without actually touching it with the blade.
“You feel this, Moshe?” he says.
Moshe jumps a little.
“I’m not sure,” he says, his pale brow covered in droplets of sweat. “Maybe a little.”
He shoots Magda and me a glance, then slowly sticks the blade into the wound.
“What about now?”
“Not really. When are you going to do this already?” Moshe says.
“We’ll try for her now,” James says. Then, once more looking at the three of us. “You know what to do.”
Using his free hand, James pulls a wood tongue depressor from out of the kit, holds it over Moshe’s mouth. Moshe opens and without having to ask what it’s for, bites down on the depressor.
Once again I take the shoulders and, this time, Magda holds the forearms, while Itzy takes the legs.
“On three,” James says. “One, two . . .”
James buries the blade, twists.
Moshe lurches upwards like every nerve ending in his body is connected to a live electric current. His screams can be heard all the way to Jordan and Syria. They are that intense, that loud. James twists once more, sticks his index finger and thumb into the wound, comes back out with a led slug that, although damaged, is entirely intact.
Moshe’s body relaxes while he passes out.
“Itzy,” James says, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead with his forearm, “please retrieve that glass I tossed onto the couch.”
Itzy grabs the glass, hands it to him. James tosses the spent bullet into it. The metal against glass makes a pleasant clinking noise considering the pain Moshe was forced to endure in order to extract it.
“He’s lucky,” James says. “It didn’t shatter any bone or sever the femoral artery. I’d bet the rent, that bullet was a ricochet.”
“Can’t thank you enough, James,” I say.
“I’ll second that,” Magda says.
“He’s going to have to get some rest,” James says. “I’ll sew him up while he’s out. Meanwhile, Magda, maybe you can mix us up a little lunch?”
Her brown eyes go wide.
“And why is it that the woman is always expected to make lunch?” she says. “I am a doctor of Biblical history, you know.”
“I know you are,” James says. “But I also know you were handed down the gift of the culinary arts from your Jewish mother.”
“Snagged,” she says. “So what do you have for ingredients in that kitchen of yours?”
“You’ll find some eggs and fresh vegetables in the refrigerator. And Gold Star beer.”
“I love Gold Star,” Itzy says.
“I thought Hasidic Jews didn’t partake?” I say.
“I’m a New Yorker first,” Itzy says, heading straight to the fridge. “I prefer Pabst Blue Ribbon. But when in Rome . . . Now, for the love of Moses, who’s having a beer with me?”
CHAPTER 24
Magda prepares a feast of cheese omelets with fresh tomatoes, olives, and hummus on the side. We wash everything down with cold liter bottles of Gold Star beer. By the time lunch is over, we’re feeling no pain and Moshe is sleeping soundly inside the far end bedroom. Itzy has joined his brother and is currently praying over him.
After clearing the dishes, Magda serves us coffee and we sit around the table in silence that isn’t quite silent, but more like a prelude to the questions I know are about to be lodged by the man who saved Moshe’s leg.
“Okay,” James says, “who wants to go
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