An Old Man's Game. Andy Weinberger

      

       Advance Praise

      “Andy Weinberger has done something extraordinary with his first novel: he’s written a truly great detective novel that is fresh and original but already feels like a classic. In the tradition of Walter Mosley, Raymond Chandler, and Sue Grafton, semi-retired private eye Amos Parisman roams LA’s seedy and not-so-seedy neighborhoods in pursuit of justice. I don’t want another Amos Parisman novel—I want a dozen more!”

      —Amy Stewart, author of Miss Kopp Just Won’t Quit and the other Kopp Sisters novels

      “I loved An Old Man’s Game. Amos Parisman must return!”

      —Cara Black, New York Times–bestselling author of Murder on the Quai and the other Aimée Leduc mysteries

      “Andy Weinberger has created an absolutely charming private investigator that readers will follow from book to book. LA’s Fairfax District—get ready for your close-up!”

      —Naomi Hirahara, author of the Edgar Award–winning Mas Arai mystery series

      “If Isaac Singer wrote an LA gumshoe novel, it would be in lively conversation with An Old Man’s Game, the first of what I hope is a series of Amos Parisman mysteries by the immensely talented Andy Weinberger. The writing here, to quote Sam Shepard, is ‘full of crazy and comical pathos,’ and the story itself brings the LA Jewish community fabulously and vividly alive. This is a ribald private-eye tale full of genius and originality.”

      —Howard Norman, Whiting-award-winning author of My Darling Detective and the upcoming The Ghost Clause

      “This is a reader’s delight. Bringing an old Jewish detective in Los Angeles, who doesn’t believe in God, out of retirement to investigate the potential murder of a charismatic rabbi is just the start of this funny, charming, moving, and engaging debut mystery. Add him to Michael Connelly, Walter Mosley, and Joe Ide, writers who embrace the under-represented people of LA, articulate the distortions of power, and cast a light on the darknesses we humans carry within us. Don’t miss this new mystery from a skillful new writer.”

      —John Evans, owner, Diesel Bookstore

      AN OLD MAN’S GAME

       An Amos Parisman Mystery

      ANDY WEINBERGER

      Copyright © 2019 by Andrew Weinberger

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Prospect Park Books 2359 Lincoln Avenue Altadena, California 91001 www.prospectparkbooks.com

      Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Distribution www.cbsd.com

       Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Names: Weinberger, Andy, author.

      Title: An old man’s game : an Amos Parisman mystery / Andy Weinberger.

      Description: Altadena, California : Prospect Park Books, 2019.

      Identifiers: LCCN 2019004630 (print) | LCCN 2019006983 (ebook) | ISBN 9781945551659 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781945551642 (pbk.)

      Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

      Classification: LCC PS3623.E4324234 (ebook) | LCC PS3623.

      E4324234 O43 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

      LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019004630

      Cover illustration by George Townley

      Cover design by Mimi Bark

      Interior design by Amy Inouye, Future Studio

      Printed in the United States of America

       For Lilla

      …for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.

      —EXODUS

       Chapter 1

      I’M NOT A BELIEVER, not unless you count the Dodgers. And I don’t count them anymore because they’re not from Brooklyn. They’re not from anywhere, really. Sure, they say LA, but it’s just a corporation, you know. LA Dodgers, big deal, I say. How can you get excited about a corporation? Guess what? You can’t. I can’t, at least. I wear their blue cap sometimes, that’s all. Keeps the sun out.

      When it comes to religion, too, I’ll say it again: I’m not a believer. That’s how I put it to Howie Rothbart, and he’s the president of the synagogue. “Howie,” I said—I’m sitting in his big plush high-rise office down on Wilshire—“I’ll be straight with you, I don’t give a shit. Look at me, I eat bacon and eggs just like always. My father, le sholem (may he rest in peace), he used to tell me, Jews didn’t eat pork because of trichinosis. God said, Don’t eat pork, you’ll get sick and die. When I was ten years old I believed him. I did. But it wasn’t till I turned thirty that it finally dawned on me. Nobody knew squat about trichinosis when Moses was running around in the desert. Trichinosis wasn’t even a goddamn word.” Howie was okay in the end, I’ll give him that much.

      “We still want you for the job, Amos.”

      “What job? The poor man’s dead. You think maybe he was murdered, or what? As long as you’re paying me, I’d kinda like to know what I’m doing.”

      “Hey, nobody’s saying murder. But when a person sits down to lunch and dies suddenly, with no explanation, well. And just between you and me, Ezra—the rabbi, I mean—he rubbed people the wrong way sometimes. Anyway, we need you to explore all the avenues. Check it out, all right? And don’t worry, you don’t have to contribute to the building fund. The guys on the Board, they just want answers.” That’s how it went down, so here I am.

      The walk from Park La Brea to Canter’s Deli on Fairfax takes maybe twenty minutes. Half an hour, if you’re an alte katchke, an old duck, like me. I try to walk every day. The doc says it’s good for my circulation, and besides, I like to keep my eye on the neighborhood, make sure it’s on the up and up. There’s still schmutz on the pavement, but in some ways it’s gotten tonier in the past few years. There’s a Trader Joe’s now, and a Peet’s Coffee. There’s Whole Foods on 3rd, and of course Nordstrom’s and the Grove have taken shopping to a whole new gluttonous level. I don’t go to any of those places, mind you, not if I can help it.

      The old Farmers Market is still around, thank God. I make it a point to amble through the outdoor stalls whenever I can, just to see what’s what; mostly I meditate on the cellophane bags of popcorn and nuts and dried apricots. It used to be a real farmers’ market, but now it’s gotten to be like a dowdy old lady. There are only a couple real produce stands left. A good butcher shop, okay. The rest is all coffee and doughnuts and dumb T-shirts made in China. Overpriced cheese and middle-of-the-road falafel. Oh, and tourists. Lots and lots and lots of tourists. Sometimes you can’t see the market for all the tourists.

      Loretta and I used to come here for dinner, back in the day when we were first courting. We were tourists then ourselves, I guess. We’d be fooling around, acting silly, and someone would ask, Where you from? And we’d make up anything, we’d say—Cucamonga. Far away. That always got a laugh.

      Now I’m walking through here all alone,