Chapter 1

And there was Evening and there was Morning, a First day.

Rushing down the marble stairs to the street, Montana Greene fitted his NY Yankee cap squarely on his head, and turned the brim behind. Outside, drops of rain descended from darkened clouds, and a thickening milky white fog shrouded Wenceslas Square.

 “Mr. Greene. Over here. Professor Greene. … Over here.”

The young driver from the U.S. Embassy in Prague waved furiously from a gray Chevy sedan, parked across the street, its yellow lights turning on and off with measured precision.

Montana figured the embassy people would sandbag him for an hour maybe, and after that, a leisurely lunch with Bel-Hart. Finally, he got Miriam Bel-Hart, a soprano with the Metropolitan Opera, and his student in Kabbalah back in New York to join him; Bel-Hart was in Prague for a series of concerts scheduled for next week at Smetana Hall. All this summer, while Montana studied with Professor Augsburg, Bel-Hart flitted among European cities, and three times prior to today, - the day of his scheduled return flight to New York - rebuffed him on arranging this get-together.

It didn’t make any sense why Bel-Hart had wished to avoid him; especially after her remarks at dinner in New York a few months back, in late May. Do you think we could be lovers? she had asked. Montana had mentioned his frustration to his professor during a lull in a study session in the professor’s small apartment, overlooking the Altneu Cemetery. “The woman is gorgeous. She is smart. She is creative. She is flirtatious,” he went on. “Bel-Hart mystifies me, first being forward, now acting removed.” The old man had pushed his lower lip out, shook his head and had recited the cliché that there is “a time and a place for everything.”

But all that took a back seat as Montana’s seven summers of study came to a conclusion; yesterday afternoon, Augsburg signed all papers, dotted the proverbial i s and crossed the ts approving his thesis on Mysticism and Trends in Kabbalah for his doctorate. At that moment, the absolute joy Montana experienced of resuming his teaching post at New York’s Columbia University, with the newly accredited title, Doctor of Philosophy in Mysticism and Kabbalah consumed him.

Except, the damned phone call he received earlier this morning that changed everything. Billy Shooter, the caller from the U.S. Embassy came right to the point. “Your professor was murdered, last night. We’re sending a car for you. Get downstairs in fifteen minutes. The police may suspect you in the crime. You may have been the last person to see him alive.”

               Now as Montana approached the vehicle he could not keep his stomach from feeling as if it were squeezed between two iron jaws. Still he had Miriam Bel-Hart to look forward to before his flight, and that kept him going. 

               The driver greeted Montana with a shaky voice as if unsure what to say to the man absorbed in thought. “Sorry for your loss.”

               “Academics will appreciate your kind words,” Montana replied.

               “Really?” the young man asked. “Who was the man, anyway?”

               “Professor Augsburg wrote the great text books on Kabbalah.”  

                “The what?”

               “The text books used for the study of Kabbalah.”

               The driver clutched the car’s steering wheel, revved the engine, ignored a streetlight, and ran the LED number on the accelerator dial on the dashboard. “I don’t know what the books signify. I’m not sure what I’m saying. Maybe I shouldn’t have heard any of this.”

               “Slow down cowboy. What did you say that you believe you ought not?”

               “This is my first day, sir, on the job,” the driver said. “I’m supposed to drive you to the embassy. I was trying to be friendly. I know you received shocking news this morning. Anyway, it is not my place to talk. Maybe that‘s my problem.”

                “I understand,” Montana said as another jolt of anxiety penetrated, and he felt choked up as he had seventeen years ago, when the family laid Grandpa Nathan to rest. That event had been his first confrontation with the death of a loved one and Montana’s eyes had gushed heavily then and even more so when his turn had come to shovel dirt from the grave onto the casket.

               Montana slumped in the back seat of the Chevy sedan, his brain blazing, as he combed through yesterday’s concluding exegesis. Was Augsburg warning me of trouble to come? If anything terrible happens to me, find the Golem’s true resting place and the parchment with God’s holy name written on it. “Those were his last words to me, “ he mumbled.

At forty-one years old, Montana Greene was darkly handsome with an urchin smile, curly brown hair, big brown eyes exuding a lure, and perennial stubble of black beard. As a boy, his therapists and psychiatrist had prescribed Ritalin, observing Montana as a dreamer, with a concurrent regression to attention deficit disorder. When he was twelve years old, the year his parents’ marriage faltered, he had arrived at Grandpa Nathan’s door on East Seventy-Ninth Street in New York, from his parents place in Beverly Hills. There, Marjorie Greene was a theatrical agent and Paul Greene, head of development at Warners Studios.

               Montana soon learned that Nathan had little tolerance for A.D.D. Sitting in the dining room at an old mahogany table with thick rounded legs, Nathan had told him on the day he had arrived, “Focus, that’s what’s important.” Grandpa Nathan had quickly weaned the boy off pills with strong talk.

               In subsequent years Montana had gone on to Columbia University earning a bachelor and masters degrees and had joined the University staff as a lecturer on Kabbalah.

               If you were student in Montana’s class on the last day before summer vacation, this past semester, you would have heard him announce, “I’m aware most of you need to fulfill the requirements for your degree. I know many of you considered this course an easy A,” he had told the class in Ossining Hall that day. “Be that as it may, we have begun to learn, to study, to delve into the mysteries, the theories and practices of Kabbalah.” He had looked around at the sea of students, many slouching in their seats, and then glanced up seeing two female students sitting in the back row whose raised banner read, We Want To Have Your Children. Montana had cracked the faintest smile and bit his lower lip.

               “Jeffers. Yes, you. Let’s review basics.” At first, several students had chuckled. Montana had tended to pick on Bill Jeffers, a wiry young man with a scraggily blond beard. “What well known Kabbalah phrase, which every child knows, is said to have been used to create a human being?”

               “Abra kadabrah,” Jeffers had quickly responded.

               “Exactly. And what does that phrase mean?”

               “It is a Hebrew phrase. I will create as I speak.”

               “Precisely.” 

               Montana had looked down at his seating chart. “Levy.”

               A well-dressed female student had responded. “Here I am.”

               “What does the term Kabbalah mean?”

               “To receive,” she had replied.

               “And how many paths of wisdom are there?” 

               “Thirty-two.”

               “In your learned opinion, which notion is central to Kabbalistic tradition? Bel-Hart.” Miriam Bel-Hart had hesitated, allowing Montana time to let his eyes rein in on her.        “That there are no coincidences in life and that every waking moment is a potential doorway to divine stimulus,” Bel-Hart had said.

               He had wished he could savor her deliciousness. Beauty is her reason for being,” he had told himself. “And I’m inside its grasp. “

               In time, he had hoped, opportunities with each other would increase. They would meet up in Prague in ten weeks at a planned rendezvous: Miriam Bel-Hart was scheduled to sing arias by Bellini and Verdi in concert; and he would be finishing studies for his doctorate. At this very moment, standing behind his lectern at Lakey Hall, he couldn’t see any possibility that she could turn away from him

               “Excellent,” he had announced to the class, shocking himself back to reality. “Now Jeffers. How many spheres of consciousness?”

               “Ten.”

               “And what are these called?”

               “Sefirot.”

               “Which “Sefirah, designates sexuality? Jeffers put away your smart phone. You should know the answer instinctively.”

               Laughter was loud. The class bell rang.

               Montana had shouted above the din. “I’m sure you’ll all be focusing on sexuality and come up with the correct answer next semester. A great summer to all of you.” Later that evening he had flown out of New York’s JFK to Prague’s Ruzyne Airport to complete studies for his doctorate with the renowned Professor Augsburg.

Chapter 2

The U.S. Embassy in the former Schoenborn Palace, at Trziste number 15 in the Mala Strana district, sits at the foot of Petrin Hill. Behind the palace, seven acres of cascading gardens extend up a hillside topped by a third garden above the embassy with great views of Prague and from which Old Glory, the red white and blue American flag flies.

               In the bowels of the Palace, Billy Shooter swiped his access card, put his head in the correct position for a retinal scan and pushed open a thick steel door. Shooter moved his muscular frame into the underground room with white walls and exposed metal ceiling ducts. His blue eyes focused on civilians sitting around a horseshoe shaped table, staring at laptops. Shooter, a big boned, six-foot-two, thirty-two year old, with a piercing chin had spent the last three years in gyms, strenuously engaging with free weights, molding his body and mind in a precise and daily rhythm. For Shooter this exercise was a necessity to clean out subconscious intrusions, which he told Strawberry, had led to a cocaine habit and debilitating night dreams in Afghanistan.

               In Shooter’s past, there seemed much to suggest a descent in anti-social behavior. Son of an Army captain he had moved from base to base, as a youngster, rarely experiencing enough time to forge friendships. A scrawny kid, he was bullied by ethnic youngsters, who moved about the school building in hordes of rowdy groups. In later years, Shooter, become fiercely loyal to his commanders, and outspoken in his opposition to illicit narcotics. “Our sons and daughters must be protected from the damn drug cartels and the murderers and conspirators.

               Shooter’s boss, the director, Jimmy Strawberry sat in a motorized wheel chair behind a large mahogany desk, in the secured room, carefully dipping ashes from his Monte Christo in a Bohemian crystal ashtray, with the seal of the CIA in its center.  “Tell me good news,” he demanded.

               “Don’t have any, sir.”

               “Goddamnit.” The ashtray almost grazed Shooter’s cheek and crashed against a partition behind him. Strawberry punched a button on his desk and the far wall revealed a giant screen. On it was a map, with several countries highlighted. 

”Our man is Yevgeny Ivanchenko, former Russian Bio-warrior -- alias Professor Alfred Augsburg. We know he has been working to stabilize a virus marked TX132728149472 … as a weapon. Five weeks ago, cargo shipped from Marseille, arrived in Prague carrying medical supplies. We know they have been working on a delivery system. Has Ivanchenko hit pay dirt? Give me data.” All five fingers of Strawberry’s left hand thumped vigorously on his desk.

               Shooter stood military style in front of Strawberry. “Begging your pardon, sir.”

               “Yeah, what is it?”

               “Professor Augsburg ... Ivanchenko ... is dead. He was murdered at midnight in the Altneu Cemetery, here in Prague.” Shooter paused. “I may have some good news, sir.”

               “Well, give it to me,” Strawberry snapped.

               “The professor’s American protégé is on his way here.”

               Strawberry was silent for a moment. “Let’s move to my office.”

               Shooter pushed the man in the wheel chair through the security exits on their way upstairs, but then excused himself, telling Strawberry he’ll be waiting outside for Montana Greene to arrive.

At the entrance to the embassy, visitors, some wearing yellow colored slickers this colorless morning, struggled against a surging current of air. A taxicab pulled up and a family of four jumped out with cameras, snapping pictures.

               As the gray sedan approached the U.S. Embassy, Montana assured his driver, “Everything is cool.” 

               “Sorry, I gave you a rough ride.”

               ”Shit happens,” Montana said, hoping to quell any fears the young man might have.

               The driver nodded with a smile and parked behind the taxicab.  

               “I’m Billy Shooter,” Montana soon heard. “What’s in the backpack?” 

               “My books, personal items and stuff I carry around.”

                Once inside the elaborate lobby, Shooter ordered, “Leave it here. It will be scanned.” Montana handed the backpack to a marine guard at the desk and followed Shooter. The entrance foyer at the Embassy seemed like a movie’s set-up shot; a grand foyer, ceilings maybe thirty feet high, a marble staircase with red carpeting. 

               At the top of the stairs, with Shooter leading the way, they marched down a marble walled corridor to the fourth office. There was no sign on the mahogany door. Shooter knocked with three jabs of a solid fist. They waited a moment and entered after a voice called out, “Yeah come in.” 

               The room was painted a light green, florescent lighting hung from the high ceiling, and the only furniture, was a metal table for a desk, another table against a wall, with small piles of government manuals, and a picture of the President of the United States with two facing American flags above. Behind the makeshift desk, a huge window framed the lush green, sculpted garden in the courtyard below.

               Montana noted that the man in the chromium wheel chair, with rubber tires like mountain bike wheels, was heavy set with a wavy full head of white hair.

               “My expert is here now. Got to go.”  Jimmy Strawberry hung up the phone and extended a large hand. “I trust your ride was comfortable.”

               Montana took Strawberry’s hand and nodded at the puffy cheeked, fifty-two year old paralyzed man, who looked like a WWE Smackdown TV wrestler. 

               “I want a crash course on the Golem of Prague,” Strawberry said, pointing to Montana to sit opposite him. 

               Strawberry sounded gruff. Montana watched the man’s broad shoulders, and black eyes size him up.  He began mulling over Strawberry‘s request. “A crash course?” he sighed, knowing a study of the Golem as a sound bite is impossible.  “Can’t be done.” 

               Strawberry leaned forward, raising his finger to make a point. The other day he ordered Shooter to scout the internet giving him a bunch of printouts he could read quickly about the myth of the Golem. “Our guys looked up the legend about the rabbi in the sixteenth century who formed this human-like figure from mud near the Vltava River. And when the creature died he was buried it in the attic of the Altnneu Schul, the old synagogue. Ok? We did a little homework. What puzzles me, is why a Dubai shipping tycoon would fund research on ... this ...  Golem.” The wheel chair bound man slowly turned the ashtray on his desk with the same finger he raised a moment ago.

               Montana recalled Augsburg telling him that a wealthy philanthropist funded his research. But he never paid much attention, since he often discussed with the old man the Golem myth; that it is bunk, a fairy tale, worthy of a comic book story. 

               “Are you with me, so far,” Strawberry added.

“I didn’t know that a guy from Dubai was involved in this research,” Montana said. “Anyway, you wanted to see me, right away. About Professor Augsburg?  He’s dead, I was told. What about this ridiculous accusation, calling me a suspect?”

               Strawberry leaned forward again, this time shaking his head as if to imply that Montana was engaged in a diversion tactic. “Are you keeping something from me? “

               “You’re losing me,” said a startled Montana. He began to smack his right fist, as hard as he could into his left hand. Montana recalled that Augsburg also told him, jealous scholars had been hurling insults lately in order to discredit him, and the old professor didn’t understand why.

               Strawberry pulled a pencil from a pile some papers on his desk and began tapping in a rhythmic count. “I’m looking for facts.”

               “Mr. Shooter told me on the phone you guys wanted to see me right away.” Montana spoke slowly. “That’s the reason I’m here. You were going to fill me in on what happened to Augsburg. What is going on?”

               “I‘ve learned …” Strawberry hesitated a moment, “that in your classes in New York young female students throw their panties at you.” Shooter heard this story from Strawberry earlier, and told his boss he doubted tossing the remark at Montana would break him. “You’re wrong,” Strawberry said. “Slap a twenty on the desk, if you’re so convinced.” Shooter came up with the twenty-dollar bill.

               Montana’s face reddened. This is bullshit. All I want, is to get out of here, meet up with Bel-Hart this afternoon, and get back to New York City, he was thinking. “Your facts are crazy. And what has this to do with Professor Augsburg’s death?” The Golem of Prague and all of Kabbalah seemed far away from Montana’s then reality. “Somehow, I’m in a parallel universe,” he said.  A few moments ago, Montana thought he would learn what happened to Augsburg, and now he didn’t know what the hell Strawberry was after. “Nobody throws panties at me. I teach a serious subject at a serious university,” he said.               Montana glared at the man in the wheel chair. Who the hell does he think he is? At once Montana placed his fingertips on his forehead and his thumbs on his cheeks, as if shielding more insults from penetrating.

               Strawberry scrunched his eyebrows. He had mastered intimidation with calculated moves, the kinds you might learn in acting class. Strawberry’s moves were intuitive, though; his mantra, “there’s no time to think twice, don’t let an opponent get an advantage, he had warned Shooter, over and over.” 

               Jimmy Strawberry lived with a health care aide, in a well-kept new apartment along the Vltava River. His only daughter, Meredith, steadfast like her dad, with her partner Gwen and a large family of adopted children, visited twice every year. The grandkids, a United Nations, as he called the three boys and two girls, running through the large apartment or along the river’s edge, warmed his heart. The women and the grandchildren visited for the month of July and winter break. When his daughter wasn’t with him, he received e-mails and phones calls, regularly. 

               Shooter approached, trying to calm a now agitated Montana. “Can I get you anything? Some water.”

               “No, thanks,“ Montana said, shifting his gaze to the large window. He had stopped a daily habit of chewing gum, but bought some for the flight home; and now Montana popped a piece in his mouth. He heard a man’s voice speaking Czech with a woman replying in English, from the courtyard below. Montana found his calm. Often, when a wave of tumult hit, he breathed in, stared ahead and settled his energies, by simply counting to ten.

               Strawberry was unyielding. “Who was the woman you had dinner with on May 22, in New York the night before you flew here?”  

                Montana now spoke every word guardedly. “You are scaring the hell out of me. I came here to get facts about my professor’s collapse and death. Give me a break. What do your questions have to do with anything?” Even as he spoke he vowed to himself to consult an American attorney as soon as he left. He looked sternly over to Shooter as if to say, why the hell didn’t you warn me what I might be up against?

               The metaphoric punch in the gut aroused Montana’s anger. “I came here for information. You’re supposed to give me facts. That’s what Shooter told me. Can’t talk on the phone, get to the embassy, we’ll discuss details of Augsburg’s death.” He looked at Shooter expecting a reply that made sense.

“Shooter moved towards him. “We’re here to help. Don’t let the questions get to you.”

               Montana had an arsenal of weapons in dealing with frustration. When damning inner verbalizations invaded his thoughts and swelled with enough anxiety, one tactic Montana would unleash involved repeating, Neutralize your thoughts. Say this aloud. Neutralize your thoughts. Feel some self-love, not loathing. Grandpa Nathan instilled this in him early in his teenage years.

               Strawberry eye-balled Montana and kept his stare fixed for the moment. “Sit down, for God’s sake. “

                “What the hell is this about? You tell me, Mr. Strawberry. “

               “Things happen for a reason,” Strawberry said in a low voice.

               “Do they?” Montana asked.

               “You’re the Kabbalah expert.”

               “So, I am.  I’d appreciate some answers and don’t give me bullshit about Kabbalah or the Golem.  Ok?”

               “So would I appreciate answers,” Strawberry mimicked. “Well, I hoped you could give us more of a four-one-one on the Golem project that this fellow is involved in. Your Professor Augsburg’s research, we know, is funded by Abu al-Khalil, the tycoon from Dubai.” Strawberry went on.

               “Mr. Strawberry, … “. Montana clasped his hands making a slight sound.

               “Jimmy, Ok.  Jimmy,” Strawberry interrupted. “We’re  friends. Call me Jimmy.”

               “Friends? You know Professor Augsburg was my teacher. I studied with him to complete a doctoral program.”

               “I understand,” said the man in the wheel chair. “Did you know, Augsburg had an office at the Biologic Technicon Institute, in Prague?”

               “The what?”

               Finally, Strawberry said, “Good day, and thanks for your time.”

               ”That’s it?” Montana responded with disgust, eager to get the hell as far from this place as possible. Must get an attorney. Must get an attorney, immediately. Augsburg, he remembered, on their last week of study, slipped into long periods of silence, looking out his window to the street and over to the cemetery.

               “Shooter tells me you’ll delay your flight to New York, so we can sort out this situation,” Strawberry said.

               “I will what?” Montana felt his blood flowing into his cheeks, his eyes staring into the man in the wheelchair. “Never said anything remotely connected.”

               Montana‘s outburst didn’t seem to surprise Strawberry. “And I appreciate that. We’ll need you later today, after I check out more information on this Golem and your professor. I assure you, we’ll meet shortly. Good day, gentlemen.”

               When they left, Strawberry pressed a button on a phone connected to Shooter’s earpiece, “I shook him up him. Didn’t I? ” Billy Shooter kept a poker face and marched with Montana down the plush red carpeted staircase to the front door, where the marine at the desk handed Montana his backpack. “You have a pleasant day now, sir.”

               “Thanks. You have a pleasant day too,” Montana said attempting to evince the same mixture of sincerity and formality as the marine.

                “He gave you a rough time. Listen, Strawberry is like that.” Shooter said once they were outside.

               Montana shook his head, believing his best bet was to keep his mouth shut. What is this guy’s job, anyway? Or for that matter Strawberry’s? “I need a drink,” he finally said, shaking his head from side to side.

               The rain abated, allowing a crack or two in the grey sky overhead. More tourists showed up at the door to the Embassy. After a moment, a bright red Corvette, with its black top pulled down, parked out front. The same kid who drove Montana here earlier got out and held the door for Shooter. “Hop in,” Shooter called to Montana.

               “Where are you taking me?” Montana asked.

               “Wherever you want to go. Oh. This isn’t government issue,” Shooter remarked quickly.

               “I didn’t think it was,” Montana replied.

               The car was Shooter’s pride and joy, he later told Montana. He had no kids and was not married, and being stationed in Prague, he wanted something very American.

The red ‘Vette soon linked up with patches of persistent fog as they drove off. When Montana looked back, the embassy was out of his sight line. Lush green trees now dotted the streets they drove on, with a warm wind hitting Montana’s face.

               “I’ll have to stick around, you know,  to give Augsburg a proper burial,” Montana said.  “The old man told me he had no family. So, I’ll need to extend my stay. It’s the right thing to do.”

               “I hoped that would be the case. However you reason it, I’m glad you’re staying on voluntarily. It makes life easier for all of us. Look, don’t misread anything. We’re here to help. Like I said before, don’t let Strawberry’s bluster get to you. That’s his way,” Shooter said.

               Still a bit put off from the morning’s meeting, Montana cleared his throat. “Why is your guy Strawberry looking for a corrupt link between Augsburg and the Dubai tycoon?”

               “Hey man, my job was to get you to the embassy. Strawberry took over from that point. But let me steady your nerves. Strawberry is all right. He’s on a mission, yes, and you better believe that. But he is your friend. I’ll repeat, he is your friend.”

               Montana nodded, and in a seven-second lull in conversation almost let Shooter know of his intention to seek an attorney. But his anxiety made him muzzle his thoughts and words. Montana had been a disbeliever in sharing feelings. Maybe it was because his parents divorced, he had reasoned. Anyway, would Shooter attempt to talk him out of it, or worse prevent him from finding an helpful lawyer?         

               “Where  to?” Shooter finally asked.

               “The Saloon, at the Hotel U Prince.”

               “You are serious about getting drunk. I see you’re still anxious. Listen, Strawberry’s got to learn some bedside manners like a good doctor, I suppose. He is a good guy. Trust me.”

               “Yeah, if you say so,” Montana said.

               “Trust me. Will you?”

               ”Look, I don’t know you fellows. I assume staff at the U.S. embassy is there to help American citizens. In a perfect world, maybe I could feel you’re all trustworthy. The last I heard we don’t live in a perfect world.”

               Now, Strawberry’s remarks imploded on Montana’s mind, making him feel fearful once more. Why bring up Miriam Bel-Hart? Were they following me or her, in New York? This was all before Augsburg died. Within moments, this internal monologue took a sharp turn and Montana began to fixate on the night before he had flown to Prague when he had dined with Miriam. Perhaps we could become lovers. Wasn’t that what she said? 

               And it was that very evening in New York, in late May, Montana remembered, that Miriam had arrived in a chauffeured driven black and tan Maybach. Montana had been waiting at the entrance to Bouley on West Broadway. He had noticed an older man in the car as Miriam stepped out. Her chauffer, a muscular young guy with longish brown hair, wearing an opened leather jacket, had walked her inside and had waited at the reservations desk, hand over hand, cupping his balls until Montana and Miriam were seated. When the waiter had served their drinks, the chauffeur was gone.

               At dinner, she had seemed very much as she had appeared in class: elegant, spirited an auburn haired beauty in her late thirties. Montana had none of the misgivings of a teacher dating a student. Miriam was an adult, he was an adult, but in the service of propriety, he had to think it through before he had asked her out, and had decided to let his hormones dictate a kind of celebration for the semester’s end.

               “Do you go out to dinner with your students, often?” she had asked, resting her fingers on her shoulder length hair. He had watched Miriam’s every movement, her stunning figure in black silk; and he had been intoxicated by the smell of vanilla that had surrounded her hair as she tilted her head awaiting his answer. “Thanks for being my student,” he had answered, realizing the hollow phrase signified a lack of an imaginative reply.

               Though from that moment on, their conversation was fluid as they had each revealed bits of their personal biography, Miriam a mid-west daughter of music teacher parents and an only child; he as a teenager attempted forming a rock ‘n roll band. Montana was pleased with himself that he had opened up to her. He had the feeling that something came fluttering out between them; maybe it was a sense of trust that he ardently had longed for; or maybe it was the age-old powerful feelings of lust.

               “Did you have long hair, tattoos?” Miriam went on, her voice, a kind of tease. “Did you wear mascara on your eye lids? Let’s see I remember a friend in high school who loved Guns n’ Roses. Did you?”

               “Are you mocking me for my taste in music  … at that time?”

               “Oh, no. Not at all.  You are so different now. A scholar. I can’t imagine you in a band, let alone a rock band.”

               “Well, to answer some of your questions … no I didn’t wear mascara. I don’t have any tattoos, and I was also reading Alan Ginsburg’s poetry at the time.”

               He wasn’t offended by her ragging him.  Her smile, her story telling abilities, the way she had tilted her head and had run her fingers through her hair, won him over. Or maybe it was a couple of glasses of Saint Emilion that had done the trick, he was thinking.

               Miriam had shifted toward a fuller disclosure of her biography. “My great-grandparents came here from Amsterdam and my parents met and married in Bloomington, Indiana. I studied music at the University of Indiana and after graduation went on to Julliard for a master class. We always had music at home, whether it was Beethoven or Debussy or Callas, or chamber music. Both my parents were ardent music lovers. My mother’s love for choral music influenced me a lot. I attended public schools and was in my middle school choral society, when the idea of opera bit me. I purchased my first Compact Disc at thirteen of Renate Tebaldi, singing Tosca.

               “Oh, I almost forgot. At seventeen, I worked for the summer at a tennis camp. I remember my main job was to pick up the balls left on the courts after lessons.” Miriam had smiled so overwhelmingly, her green eyes so irresistibly alive.        He then had told her about his parents’ divorce and moving in with his grandfather and his education at Columbia and desire for a doctorate in Kabbalah.

               After more glasses of wine, Miriam, with an air of mystery and penetrating, yet gleaming eyes, had asked demurely, “Do you think we could be lovers?”  His spine had stung the way a spine would sting when one is up against a forward, but alluring remark, and Montana had replied with all his studious Kabbalistic wisdom, “If that’s our destiny.”  Thinking back now, he regretted the remark, chiding himself: hey, that’s the best you could come up with?

               “I asked you earlier, if perhaps we could become lovers.” she had paused, glanced it seemed to him shyly upward, then had returned her gaze directly at him. “I have a mentor. A businessman. He spends most of his time building research labs all over Europe and parts of Asia and assembling great scientists to conquer the world’s diseases.”

               “Was he the guy in the limousine?” Montana had quickly interjected.

               “Yes. He had to rush off. I’m sure he would have enjoyed meeting you.”

               “I’m sure.”

               “He’s not glamorous at all,” Miriam went on, as if to justify her relationship. “Just a banker type. He owns a great  big yacht, and when we travel we don’t bother with hotels.”

               “Be careful,” Montana admonished.

               “Why? That’s an odd remark.”

               Montana had smiled. “You might become a snob.”

               “I have become spoiled. Little Miss Bel-Hart from South Street in Bloomington. My mentor is good looking, though. A sixty-two year-old Paul Newman, with the same watery blue eyes.”

               When Montana had looked up, there was the chauffeur again, at he front desk, hand over hand over his groin. “Is it your curfew?” he had asked.

               “What do you mean?”

               “Your driver is at the reservation desk.”

               “I’ll tell him to leave. You’ll escort me home,” she had said and had walked over to the driver. Montana had watched as the driver nodded, and had shot a threatening stare, as if saying, “Don’t let things get out of hand.”

               “The party isn’t over,” Miriam said as she had returned to the table.

               “Let’s have some champagne,” he had said, though wishing to follow her into bed.  He had raised his hand to signal the captain. When they were significantly drunk, it seemed on booze and conversation she had asked if he would hail a cab. She wanted to drive somewhere, anywhere just to extend the evening, she had told him.

               Montana had flagged a taxicab that night in New York, back in May, and had told him to cross over to Brooklyn, to get on the Belt Parkway, drive south and then onto the Verrazano Bridge to Staten Island and to find the ferry back to Manhattan. He remembered the driver turning around to look at the two with a smirk on his lips. In the cab, Miriam had placed her head on Montana’s shoulder – again the scent of vanilla, which had intoxicated him earlier – and placed her hand in his. She had said nothing as they had rode alongside the waterfront under a star laden sky and crescent moon.

               When they had arrived on Staten Island, a ferryboat to Manhattan had been revving its motors ready to return. They sat on an open-air bench. Again, she had snuggled with him, but had said nothing. He had noticed her eyes closed and he had kissed her warm lips.

Montana fixed his hands behind his head as Shooter raced toward the Hotel U Prince. He leaned his back on the car seat, stretching his spine. Shooter must have caught a relaxed expression on his face and a faint smile. “What’s funny.” 

               Montana shook his head. ”Just thinking about lunch.”

               “Bet it’s with the woman in New York that Strawberry mentioned. Things are looking up all ready, aren’t they, you rascal.” Shooter swung the ‘Vette around, turning into the entrance of the Saloon. “I know you’re not ready to believe this. Man, we don’t know each other yet. But I’ve got a good feeling. So, remember one thing. I’m your buddy, and I’m here for you. Here’s my card. I’m only a phone call away. If you need to get around town, call. Me and my ‘Vette, will get you where you want to go. You can believe that.”     

               Montana managed a quick look at Shooter, and didn’t say a word for a few seconds, noting the angles of his face his strong forward thrusting chin, a straight nose and blond hair that the wind blew in strands across his forehead. He concluded there was something bland about the guy. Maybe it was Shooter’s Nordic features and coloring, Montana reasoned. Finally, he nodded his head and told Shooter, “I hear you.”

               “In time, you’ll see. I’m your friend,” Shooter replied.  “Hey, cheer up. Will you?”

               “Thanks.” But Montana’s thoughts about Miriam already put him in good spirits. Nothing more was necessary. He waved as Shooter sped off in his red ‘Vette.

Chapter 3

Twenty minutes or so before Montana’s arrival, the bartender at the U-Prince placed Miriam’s drink in front of her and went about his business, straightening and wiping bottles of liquor on the mirrored wall behind the bar. With air-conditioning just beginning to pump for the luncheon crowd, the place still smelled of stale air, heavy wood and spilled wine.

               Miriam Bel-Hart, her friends called her Miki wore a casual summer dress and denim jacket. Her face, unadorned, glowed with a faint touch of peach. She sipped Absinthe slowly. Miki would never walk into a bar alone in New York, without a colleague or lover. Miki Bel-Hart was not a diva, but believed a woman should arrive in the company of another.     The thirty–nine year old soprano with the Metropolitan Opera sat on a heavy dark wood barstool checking her watch, a gift from her mentor. “For our seventh year together,” Abu told her last week when he placed the diamond studded Cartier on her wrist. Instead of feeling closer, she felt disquieted. Abu’s growing bursts of anger, a reproach aimed mainly at his aides, stung her like a lit firecracker. Regardless, Abu had become possessive, and Miki was beginning to believe she had enough of his endless efforts of overprotection.

               Miki twirled her watch around her wrist, her thoughts floating, and the diamonds sparkling under the warm lights of the Saloon; she quickly pulled her sleeve forward with her thumb, lifted her glass with her other hand letting the aroma of the Absinthe fill her senses. Staring in the mirror in front of her, she wished for a friendly break with Abu.  But she feared something she believed deeply; that Abu’s worldliness was his cover for a delusion about his persona. Miki looked into her little glass with green liquid: We all have of a dark side, she murmured to herself.

               When she saw Montana approaching, she swiftly turned to greet him with a wet kiss on his lips. Montana kissed back. Both Miki’s and Montana’s joy at seeing one another swept over their facial expressions. If one were prone to say, Miki lit up the room just by being there, here was such a visual experience.

(The Golem Code Copyright ©2011 by Roll Robot Roll Corp All rights reserved. Unauthorized distribution, transmission or republication in any form is strictly prohibited.)

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