The Merchants of Zion Read Online Free PDF Page A

Berkeley.
    “It's not a problem,” I said.
    “Thank you so much, Cliff. I don't know what we'd do without you.”
    “Um... what should we do for dinner?” Elly grinned from ear to ear when she those words. The outcome was inevitable.
    “What does Elly want?”
    “Ells Bells. Your mother is asking what you want for dinner,” I said, cupping the phone with my hand.
    “Pizza!” Her parents, or rather Helen, watched her diet carefully, emphasizing produce and fish. But when Helen left Elly with me for an extended period the suspicion that she was being a bad mother and the ensuing guilt caused her to loosen her grip, and she allowed her daughter to eat whatever she wanted. Nine times out of ten this meant pizza, specifically pizza with pepperoni and green olives, which just so happened to be my favorite as well. Six months ago the two of us went to the Met and afterwards I let her have a piece as a secret treat. It had been her go-to food ever since.
    “She wants pizza.”
    “Of course she does. Why do I even ask?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Oh, and one more thing. Could you water the plants in my office?”
    “Of course.”
    “Bye Cliff.”
    “Bye Helen.” I put away my phone. “Do you want to get the pizza delivered or go out?”
    “Can we go to Pi?”
    “Sure thing.”
    Helen's office was a mess. Her desk was strewn with stacks of unorganized papers, and three enormous monitors stuck out like half-buried desert relics. Pink and yellow post-it notes were plastered everywhere. Her degree from Princeton hung prominently on the wall, flanked by an MFA from Iowa and the first cover of her magazine, featuring the novelist William Stamp in his final interview before his tragic and untimely death in Chicago.
    An old-fashioned picture frame on her desk held a photograph of Helen as a young mother, holding a baby Ryan and looking gorgeous and determined, ready to take on the world. I'd seen the picture the first time I visited the house. My own mother had also succumbed to that event in Chicago and, not feeling up to seeing my father and sister, I'd been preparing to spend a lonely Thanksgiving in New York. When I told Ryan my holiday plans he insisted I have dinner with his family. I'd teased him afterwards about how hot his mom used to be.
    I watered the plants—a few hypoallergenic ferns—and closed the door behind me. Skittles was playing with Elly in the kitchen, staying out of reach as she tried to grab him to put him away. After helping her and getting nowhere, I bribed him into my arms with a piece of Brie pilfered from the fridge. I put him in his cage, and he hadn't quit barking by the time we left the house.
    “Do you think Skittles is sad when we leave him home by himself?”
    “Yes. But think how much happier it makes him when we come back.”
    “What kind of pizza are we getting?” she asked, her interest in the previous subject thoroughly mined.
    “Whatever you want.”
    “Can we get pepperoni and green olives?”
    “Sure.”
    “Can we buy a piece for Skittles?”
    “No. Dogs shouldn't eat people food.”
    “But you gave him cheese.”
    “That was an emergency.”
    Pi was all black walls and low lights, stark metal furniture and soft music with a heavy beat. It was empty except for a table of mid-twenties suits—finance grunts off early—and a short, balding Hispanic man peering from behind the counter. He asked what we wanted. They were out of green olives, but Elly was a trooper and didn't mind having black ones instead. I ordered three slices and two small sodas.
    When we sat down Elly asked if I liked pizza with pepperoni and black olives. I told her I did, but not as much as with green olives. She agreed.
    I asked if she had any crushes on the boys at school. She turned scarlet. There was a boy she did math with who was really nice. He liked volcanoes and had told her about one he'd made with his tutor after school.
    “Is that why you're reading that book?” She giggled and