Big Silence (17 page)

“Saviello,” called Lieberman.

“Go away,” said Irwin. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“We’re the police,” said Hanrahan.

“Who gives a shit?” said Irwin.

“Antoine’s not coming,” said Lieberman. “He’s in the hospital. How do you think we found you? He told us. He told us you made him commit those robberies, that he was afraid of you, that he never wanted to do it, but you beat him, raped him.”

“He’s a lyin’ bastard,” Saviello said angrily. “I don’t rape anybody. I didn’t hit him. He planned it all. Then he left me standing in that parking lot. I’m gonna kill him.”

“I don’t think so,” said Lieberman. “But you can hurt him. Confess, make a statement about what he did.”

“He’s not coming?”

“In the hospital,” said Hanrahan.

“He’ll get sent back to prison?”

“No doubt,” said Hanrahan.

“My arm’s broke,” said Saviello. “She broke my arm. I can see the bone under the skin ready to just pop out like that thing from space
in Alien.”

“Drop your gun, put your hands high, and we’ll get you to a doctor,” said Lieberman.

“Same hospital where Antoine is?” Irwin asked eagerly.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” said Lieberman.

“I can’t lift my bad arm,” said Saviello. “Broke. I told you. I try to lift it and that bone’ll pop through.”

“Then just drop the gun on the floor,” said Lieberman.

“You’ll kill me,” said Irwin. “I know.”

“We won’t kill you,” said Lieberman. “We need you to help us put Antoine in prison. Antoine left you standing. We want to get him. You want to get him. We kill you and we have nothing. Drop the gun.”

“I’m eating a Ho-Ho.”

“You can bring it with you,” said Lieberman.

“I got lots of stuff left to eat.”

“Saviello,” said Hanrahan, “drop the gun now.”

Lieberman looked at his partner. That was not the way this was supposed to go down. Lieberman had been getting to the near halfwit inside the room beyond the door. Hanrahan was risking blowing it.

“Irwin —” Lieberman began again, but it was too late.

Hanrahan reached over with his left hand, weapon in his right, and opened the door with a hard push. He went into a quick crouch aiming at the man seated in the chair facing the door. The shotgun was in Saviello’s lap. He had a Ho-Ho in his one usable hand. The floor was littered with wrappers and small rectangles of cardboard with traces of chocolate cupcake and cream filling.

“Push the gun on the floor now,” Hanrahan said, aiming at Saviello’s chest. “Push or die.”

Lieberman was in the doorway, weapon also leveled, backing his partner.

There was a moment, just an instant, in which both detectives and probably even Irwin Saviello thought the robber was going to go for the shotgun with his one good hand. He reached down, still holding the Ho-Ho, and pushed the gun on the floor.

It was over.

T
HE MESSAGE FROM CAPTAIN
Kearney to go to the new hotel room where Mickey Gornitz was being held in protective custody came just as Lieberman was about to sign out. The note also said “See me.”

“I’ll book Saviello,” said Hanrahan.

They had brought Irwin to Edgewater Hospital, where his broken arm had been set and a cast applied. Irwin had shown no signs of pain or any further willingness to talk. Both detectives were sure that he would the next day, after a night in the lockup and the hint of special treatment if he turned on Antoine Dodson who had abandoned him in the parking lot.

In the waiting room of the hospital emergency room where they had taken Irwin Saviello, the two detectives had sat apart from those waiting.

“Father Murphy, what’s going on?”

They both knew what Abe was talking about. Hanrahan had unnecessarily risked his life breaking into Saviello’s room and facing him.

“Truth, Rabbi? I don’t know.”

“The cop’s death wish?” Lieberman whispered, sipping bitter coffee from a plastic cup.

“Maybe,” said Hanrahan.

“The usual. You feel guilty. You think you’re getting people killed. You want to make up for it by getting yourself killed. I thought you were working all this out with Father Parker.”

“You should have been a rabbi,” said Hanrahan.

“Some rabbis have the insight of a telephone book,” said Lieberman. “That’s a secret. We tell outsiders like you and we risk getting picked up in the middle of the night and taken to a secret camp in Wisconsin where we’re brainwashed into thinking all rabbis are brilliant.”

“Same for priests,” said Hanrahan.

“Sam Parker seems pretty sharp,” said Lieberman.

“He is. And could he run. You ever see him play?”

“Don’t think so,” said Abe, working on his coffee. “I’m a baseball man, remember? Go talk to Sam again. Keep talking to him.”

Hanrahan nodded. He had no coffee to play with. He had taken a cup from Abe and placed it on a table next to his metal-armed chair. The cup was growing cold on a two-year-old copy of
Harper’s Bazaar.

“Tonight,” said Lieberman.

“Tomorrow morning,” said Hanrahan. “First thing.”

“Promise?”

“My word. If I fail to do so, I’ll take lessons and convert to Judaism. Even have a Bar Mitzvah. Hell, at this point I must know a few hundred words in Yiddish from working with you.”

“And every one of them of the utmost utility,” said Abe.

It was almost time for dinner when they got back to the squad room and Lieberman found the message about Mickey Gornitz. Hanrahan was at his desk. He had agreed to write the reports on both Dodson and Saviello and go home. It had, all in all, been a pretty good day, and Hanrahan felt a sudden drain in his soul. It would be a struggle to finish the reports, drive home, and go to bed. He would call Iris, tell her he’d see her tomorrow, and hope that he had no dreams. Hanrahan had thought he had himself under control, but when Saviello had hesitated in that apartment, he had lost it and risked his and his partner’s life.

When Lieberman had gone into Captain Kearney’s office, Kearney, eyes dark from lack of sleep, had moved from the window where he had been standing to the small conference table where he sat, brushing his straight black hair back from his eyes and returning to the world. He looked even more weary than Hanrahan. He pointed to a chair and Lieberman sat.

“Good work on the Salt and Pepper,” Kearney said.

“Thanks,” said Lieberman.

“Your partner all right?”

“Perfect,” said Lieberman. “Tired. Been through a lot.”

Kearney had nodded, looked up, and said, “Call came through to Carbin’s office a few hours ago. Caller said Gornitz’s son wanted to talk to him. Caller said if he didn’t, the kid was going to suffer and die. Simple as that. Carbin gave him a cell phone number, told the guy at the other end to call in an hour. Carbin went to the room with the cell phone. About an hour ago, the same guy called back from a pay phone and said that Gornitz should come on the phone fast. No chitchat. Carbin taped the call. Gornitz took it. His son came on, voice breaking, afraid, and said if Mickey wasn’t dead in twenty-four hours, Matthew would be killed. That was it. Phone went dead.”

“Twenty-four-hour suicide watch on Gornitz?” said Lieberman.

“Of course,” said Kearney. “But that could get the kid killed. Carbin told Gornitz that if they hurt Matthew, he would have all the more reason to testify and get Stashall. That didn’t seem to make Gornitz feel any better. Gornitz wants to talk to you. Now.”

Kearney handed Abe a sheet of paper with an address and room number written in pencil. Abe knew the hotel. Used to be a class hotel on Sheridan two decades ago when George Halas lived less than a mile away and some of the best weddings took place there. Now the place was hanging on and would have been leveled years ago if anyone had wanted to put something else up in its place.

Abe headed for the hotel, stopping at the drive-through window of a taco stand where he ordered two vegetarian tacos with sour cream. He drove the remaining few blocks to the hotel where Gornitz was being held and sat eating the tasteless tacos and feeling hungrier as he ate.

What the hell had happened to Clark Mills? What could he say to Mickey Gornitz? What would he do if one of his grandchildren were kidnapped and he was given the same demand?

Lieberman knew he wouldn’t kill himself. He knew he would stall, lie, work the twenty-four hours knowing that they probably would kill his grandchild no matter what he did. Then he would find them, find them and make his own law. Mickey Gornitz probably knew the same things, but it’s hard to tell a man not to take his only chance to save his only son.

Lieberman had recognized the two men from the state attorney’s office standing in the hall. They had been expecting him. One of the men knocked at the door of Room 654, two hard taps, two soft ones.

“Detective Lieberman’s here,” said the man.

The door opened and Lieberman entered. The door was immediately closed and locked, a metal bar placed under the doorknob.

There were two more people from the state attorney’s office, one was the man who had opened the door. The other was a young woman in a skirt and sweater. Lieberman didn’t know her. She had naturally curly hair and was reasonably pretty with a no-nonsense look on her face. She nodded and moved to a chair at the window. The man who had answered the door checked the iron bar and took a seat next to the door facing into the room in which Mickey Gornitz sat on a worn sofa, a plastic tray with barbecued ribs, fries, and cole slaw untouched in front of him.

“Abe,” Mickey said, standing.

Mickey looked terrible. His eyes were set deep, sleepless and dark. He needed a shave and he definitely needed his remaining hair brushed.

Lieberman sat next to Gornitz on the sofa. The food looked and smelled good. Lieberman resisted.

“Abe,” Gornitz whispered softly. “You heard?”

“I heard.”

“What can I do?” Mickey pleaded, clapping his hands together. “Carbin was here. He told me they were bluffing. That they wouldn’t dare kill Matt because it would be the one sure thing to make me talk. He said they’d call back and just keep holding him, maybe hurt him a little to make me suffer.”

“He’s probably right,” said Lieberman.

“But that can’t go on forever,” Mickey said, rubbing his forehead with both hands.

“Well,” Lieberman said very softly, “you could go through the window.”

“Yes,” Mickey said, looking up at Lieberman who was smoothing his mustache with a single finger.

“Problem is,” said Lieberman, “you’re dead and you’ll never know if Stashall’ll let your boy go. My guess is —”

“He won’t,” said Mickey, looking around the room in pain. “I know Stashall. I’m dead. My boy’s dead, but I can save Matt from torture. You know the things they can do to people. And maybe, just maybe Stashall let him go if I’m dead. It’s worth a chance, maybe, you know?”

Lieberman knew. He had seen the bodies in shallow graves in Indiana and the trunks of cars.

“Mickey,” he said, “I think the only chance of your son staying alive is if you’re alive. Carbin’s right. They call back and you tell them that if anything happens to Matt, you tell everything. If they let him go, you’ll think about holding back, at least on some things.”

“Stashall won’t buy it,” Mickey said, starting to get up, then clasping his knees and sitting again. “If Carbin’s thinking about putting me in a strait jacket or fill me with drugs to keep me quiet and to keep me from trying to kill myself and, so help me God, I won’t talk.”

“He won’t do that,” Lieberman said reassuringly, though he had no idea what Eugene Carbin could or would do. “We’ve got twenty-four hours. Let’s use them. When they call back, one of us talks to them, says you’re alive, and puts you on. You make the deal. They’ll take it.”

“They won’t.” Gornitz sobbed.

“You got a better idea, Mickey?”

Mickey didn’t answer. He finally shook his head. He had no better idea.

“I’m just a bookkeeper,” he said, holding his hands out for understanding. “A CPA. I don’t know how all this happened. I don’t want to die. It just —”

“You see the Crane game in forty-nine?” asked Lieberman.

Mickey paused, thought, and said, “Forty-nine? That’s the one where your brother had fifty. Most outside jumpers. Picture of Maish, two columns and a big headline in the
Sun.”

“That’s the one. Maish’s biggest game.”

“You had a bunch of assists,” said Mickey, showing interest. “But they didn’t count assists or rebounds back then. Only offense, scoring. Was Bosco coaching that year?”

“Perz,” said Lieberman.

“It was great to be a Marshall Commando,” said Mickey. “All
shvartza
now. Has been since the fifties. You even had them on your team.”

“Yeah,” said Lieberman, considering pointing out that of the three black players on his team, one had gone on to get a Ph.D. from Pepperdine and was now a full professor of psychology, another had started a soul food restaurant with his parents and brothers and branched out all over the country before selling out for millions and investing his part in a series of highly successful McDonald’s franchises, and the last had become a lawyer and still worked for the ACLU. It was not the time to destroy Mickey’s prejudices.

“Those were great days, Abe,” Mickey said.

“Great days,” Abe said, putting a hand on the man’s sagging shoulder.

Abe did not remember them as great days, but it wasn’t the time or place to go into the dangers of living in a Jewish ghetto surrounded by hostile Poles to the south, anti-Semitic Cicero to the west, blacks to the east, and an unknown commercial world of shops, movies, and neighborhood restaurants to the north, an area that was supposed to be neutral but never was. One night on Madison, on the way to the Marboro Theater, Abe and Maish had been surrounded by a gang of Irish kids who lived around St. Finnbar’s Church. They had demanded money and Abe’s new hat. Before he could consider turning over the hat, Maish had laid out two of the Irish kids. Abe had run head down into the face of the leader, and the four who were still standing rushed the brothers and may well have killed them if a crowd hadn’t started to gather and the Irish kids hadn’t run away. They got Abe’s hat. The great times.