David began the chant of the Sheva Brachot, the Seven Blessings, first in Hebrew—Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-olam, bo’rei p’ri ha-gafen—and then in English. David thought the blessings were fine, if a little generic—thanking God for creating everything, essentially—but it was the sixth one where he really had a beef: Blessed art Thou, O Lord, King of the universe, who has created joy and gladness, bridegroom and bride, mirth and exultation, pleasure and delight, love, brotherhood, peace, and fellowship. Soon may there be heard in the cities of Judah and in the streets of Jerusalem the voice of joy and gladness, the voice of the bridegroom and the voice of the bride, the jubilant voice of bridegrooms from their canopies, and of youths from their feasts of song. Blessed art Thou, O Lord, who makest the bridegroom to rejoice with the bride.
David didn’t believe God created joy and gladness any more than he thought God was responsible for pain and suffering. He’d dealt enough in those last two to know that God was very rarely involved. It wasn’t God who’d put Sal Cupertine on the streets of Chicago disposing of people for the Family. It wasn’t God who packed Sal Cupertine into a frozen meat truck and hustled him off to Las Vegas, sold him into this long con after he killed three feds and a CI. No, that was his cousin Ronnie.
However, if God was responsible for anything these days, David thought it was for moments like today—when there was a real spirit in the air, when love felt like a tangible thing, yet somehow otherworldly—and the fact was he felt pretty Jewish in those situations, since he was the one who was supposed to be keeping the candle lit, so to speak, and if there was one thing he did, it was his fucking job.
David finished the blessings. Took in the guests. What Rabbi Kales called “accounting”: See who is being moved. Add them to your list. Then, at a later date, make them account.
Jordan Rosen openly sobbed with joy, clutched his wife’s hand, kissed it.
Tricia Rosen, back from Berkeley with short hair now, dabbed at her eyes and nodded at Rabbi Cohen in that way young people do when they believe in something beyond their present emotional experience.
The flower girl was asleep across Mrs. Solomon’s lap, Mr. Solomon stroking her hair.
The grandparents, the aunts, the uncles, the cousins, the second cousins, the friends, the alter kockers who flew in from Portland and Seattle and New York and Toronto and Israel, everyone paying a debt for having shown up for some other distant cousin’s wedding or bris or funeral. Jews were pretty good about showing up, no matter the occasion. They all looked too much alike for David’s comfort. All brown hair, thick eyebrows, pale-to-light-olive complexion, too much hair on their forearms, too many gold necklaces, too many Coach handbags, too many of those pimp watches with gold bracelets young men seemed to be favoring of late, constantly spinning them around their wrists, the links catching hits off the sun. Not enough men in ties. Too many women in sandals. It just wasn’t right. You come to a wedding, you should dress with the dignity of a funeral, because who the fuck knows when you’ll ever see the couple again, and who the fuck knows when they’ll see you again. So you get your look right, you don’t glam it up, you don’t whore it up, even though it’s Las Vegas. No one ever got kicked out of a place in Las Vegas for dressing elegantly. If David was going to wear the tallith, the least everyone else could do was put on a fucking tie and some closed-toe shoes.
In the back were the professionals: the lawyers, the accountants, the doctors, the investment guys, the real estate team, the city councilmen, the casino executives, Andy from Summerlin Rolls-Royce, Carter from JetVegas, Kendra from Caesars Palace Forum Shops Private Shopping Concierge Services, the local ABC meteorologist—Ginger or Bianca or something in between those names—in a plunging red dress, all of them clustered near the bar, talking the whole fucking time, but pausing now, David’s eyes on them, sensing that the big moment was about to happen, when God left and the party started. Behind the professionals, the tuxedoed catering staff set up the elaborate dinner under pitched white tents. The three-piece wind ensemble unpacked their instruments.
And, watching from his lawn, stood Bennie Savone.
David wrapped the wineglass in a clean white towel and held it aloft for all the guests to see. “Talmud says the breaking of the glass is a symbol of the fall of the Temple of Jerusalem,” David said. “But I believe it is to remind us that there are sharp edges in life.” Pause. Chin tilted up half an inch. “Thus.” Pause. Octave down. “We must temper joy with the remembrance of and preparation for sorrow.” David found the oldest person in the audience—one of the Solomon clan, David had met him earlier, cousin Louis from New York, wearing a yarmulke made of fine silk, Louis telling David its entire provenance, which involved a tragic summer in Poland, a month stuck at Ellis Island, his mother dying at thirty-seven, and then, eventually, a very successful furniture business in upstate New York, where he was considered the Sleeper-Sofa King of Troy—and extended a hand in his general direction, everyone turning to look at the old codger, as if he were the living embodiment of the Exodus. “For we are the witnesses of history.” Pause. Raise the voice. Smile. Tilt the head back down half an inch. “Love needs no permission. For we are taught that ahev is a natural convergence of giving and being open to emotion. And so, Michael and Naomi, I tell you to make your own traditions, but keep, too, our shared history close, remembering, always, that your people are our people.”
Rabbi David Cohen set the wineglass down in front of Michael and Naomi and was just about to tell them they could kiss, but he didn’t get the chance. The couple both began to curb-stomp the living shit out of the wineglass. Then Michael swooped Naomi up into his arms and kissed her flush on the mouth, both of them wide-eyed and laughing through the kiss, everyone shouting Mazel tov! Mazel tov! even though Naomi had sliced her foot open on the glass and had stained the hem of her wedding dress with blood.
2
Lovely ceremony, Rabbi,” Bennie Savone said. He was standing at the bottom of his lawn, eating from a bag of sunflower seeds and watching Sophie, the youngest of his two daughters, pedal boat around the lake. He wore a polo shirt and shorts, no shoes, a court-mandated ankle bracelet. Technically, David could visit Bennie whenever he wanted, since house arrest allowed for visits from clergy, but Bennie didn’t want to take that chance. He’d done six months inside on a Conspiracy to Obstruct Justice beef related to the vicious beating of a patron at the Wild Horse by two of his bouncers, still had another five months of home detention, and didn’t want to give the feds any reason to start looking at his associates. But he’d sent a message through Rabbi Kales.
“I expected to see your wife at the ceremony,” David said.
Bennie said, “Rachel and Sarah aren’t currently speaking.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t know,” Bennie said. “Rachel doesn’t tell me shit these days.” He offered Rabbi Cohen the bag of sunflower seeds, but David demurred. “My guess is that Sarah told Rachel something she didn’t want to hear, like maybe she didn’t want some criminal’s wife at her daughter’s blessed day.”
“There were plenty of criminals there,” David said.
“Maybe she just doesn’t like me,” Bennie said, which was probably true, too. She had good reason.
Bennie had been picked up in 1999 and charged with conspiracy, which meant the feds had free rein to find whatever shit they could uncover, though the only thing that stuck was the obstruction charge on the beating, which wasn’t even a federal charge. Bennie kept his books clean, paid his taxes, made sure his boys at the club paid theirs, made sure the girls did, too. Not that they were running an entirely legal enterprise, only that Bennie wasn’t dumb enough to make it obvious. Bennie’s lawyer, Vincent Zangari, got him a quickie plea deal just in case the dentist died before they could get to trial, which would have been bad, since then Bennie would be looking at an accessory charge on a murder, which was a mandatory twelve-year RICO sentence. As it was, the fucker was paralyzed and breathing through a hole in his neck, which made him a pretty convincing