Wagner came through the wide glass doors, then stopped short, looking around uncertainly.

With his untucked white shirt, too-baggy wool pants, and scuffed loafers with the backs bent in so that he was barely even wearing them, he didn’t fit in at The Spa. Gabi, the manager, immediately pegged him as a Moish Melberg client, a yeshivah guy who needed cash fast. Maybe his car had sputtered and died, or he’d found a house to buy and he was scrambling to get cash wherever he could find it.

Gabi didn’t make a big production — no reason to make people uncomfortable — but he looked up from the desk in front and quietly said, “If you’re looking for Melberg, he sits in the corner table over in the café.”

Wagner nodded his thanks and made a half-hearted attempt at pushing his shirt back into his pants, succeeding only in part. The restaurant was empty at 4:30 p.m., only one guy at the white table in the corner working on an iPad.

“You Melberg?” Wagner asked, and Moish Melberg looked up.

“Yeah, hey, make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.” He pointed to the metal chair attached to the table from the other side and went back to his screen.

Wagner felt bad about coming alone. Kivi had wanted to be a part of this. But some things weren’t for Kivi.

Melberg looked up, closed the iPad, and extended his hand, all business.

“Hi, I’m Moish Melberg. How can I help you?”

Impressive, Wagner thought, how a kid who’d been driving tuna platters for a living three months ago had become as confident as a senior loan officer at Wachovia.

“Not sure you can. I guess we’ll see.”

Wagner was pleased to see that Melberg looked a little less certain now. This wasn’t the usual script. Wagner spoke with none of the vulnerability and mild panic Melberg was used to hearing.

“Listen, you look like a nice kid. I’m not sure you realize this, so I’m going to do you the service of explaining it for you,” Wagner spoke with deliberate condescension. “Do you have any idea what it is you do for a living? Like, what you really do?”

Melberg bounced back. “Hmmm… a free lesson? Nice. Can I order you a coffee while you preach? The smoothies here are also really good.”

Wagner pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “Nah, it’s hard to eat when I’m discussing good, erliche frum Jews losing their homes and maybe their marriages and who knows what else because of the greed of people who stand next to them in shul and shuckel. It’s sort of gross, don’t you think?”

Melberg hunched forward, his eyes radiating hostility.

“Ah, so you’re like a rebbi, you go around giving mussar, so nice,” he said. “And today’s my turn. So let me tell you something, whatever your name is. You know nothing. I work hard to feed my family, and this is honest work. People need cash, they have opportunities, and we help them. I’m proud of that, yes. And it’s also a business, and a business is allowed to make money. They need it, we have it. That’s it.” He shook his head in disgust. “I don’t even know who you are and what you want. Why am I even answering you?”

(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 749)