This Thing of Darkness by Barbara Fradkin Page B

people? Or Jews?”
    Tolner’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Attacks against Jews? You think it was a hate crime?”
    â€œNo, we don’t,” Green said, moving quickly to squelch Tolner’s overactive imagination. “I’m casting a broad net, looking at all possibilities. You hear things. Anyone had a minor attack or threat?”
    â€œWhat’s an attack? ‘Hitler should have finished the job, pig’? We get a few of those, mostly those of us who wear a yarmulke or other visible sign.”
    â€œAnything worse? Intimidation? Physical threats?”
    Tolner bent over his bike and spun the wheel, watching its alignment. “Nothing much. Every time Israel does something not so nice to the Palestinians, we feel it on the streets. Mostly a glare here, a slur there.” He raised his head thoughtfully to study Green. “Intimidation is a subtle thing, Mike. A group of youths come the other way down the street, black kids swaggering along, or Arabs talking loud and excitedly, and I feel afraid. They stare me down, and I want to take my kippeh off, cross the street and keep my eyes on the ground. I don’t. I force myself to walk towards them, and in my head I pretend they’re a group of chattering school girls. I smile at them, and I step out of their way. So far nothing has ever happened to me. Not even a muttered racial slur. But they own that little strip of street that we’re on, and boy, you feel it.”
    â€œWhat if you didn’t step aside? What if you tried to stare them down?”
    â€œI’m not fool enough to test the idea. You’re a cop, you know all about this top dog game. They don’t want to beat you up, they just want you under their heel. All the rest—the Swastikas on the graves, the eggs on the synagogue door—is designed to further put you down. So they can build themselves up.”
    Green nodded. He was very familiar with the psyche of the bully and the street punk, who used the only tools at hand —their size, numbers and body language— to capture some of the power that belonged to others. It was primitive, caveman psychology, but on a dark street corner, all of us were hardwired to respond. Fight or flight.
    Green could almost hear Sharon shaking her head and muttering “you men”. Since the caveman days, men had banded together, puffed up their team and strutted in front of the other side, testing their power and comparing their strength. Society was more complex now, and power was measured not just in brute strength but in money, possessions, jobs and trophy women, but that basic instinct still lay just below the surface. How did a man feel when his power faded? When he was alone, old and frail, no longer with the job and status he had enjoyed? How would he respond to a group of young men swaggering down the street as if they owned it all? Flight, like Tolner?
    Not Rosenthal.

Eight
    L ook, Daddy! I tied my new shoes all by myself!” Green bolted awake just in time to intercept his son, who was making a flying leap into the middle of his parents’ bed. Grey daylight was barely peeking around the edges of the blinds, and Green shivered as he groped his way to peer out the window. Wednesday morning looked blustery and raw, an early hint of the winter to come. Charcoal storm clouds were billowing in from the west, scattering dry leaves along the street. Overhead a horde of Canada geese honked southward.
    Sharon was still fast asleep, and with her stretch of evening shifts, he knew she needed all the sleep she could manage. In the background, he could hear the sound of the shower running. Miraculously, Hannah was up.
    Tony talked in dramatic stage whispers as Green led him back into his own room and helped him select some of his brand new X-Games clothes for school. The choice proved so difficult that they had no time for breakfast, and Green ended up piling Tony into the car with only a bagel and