Big Silence (26 page)

“Andy, it’s Abe Lieberman.”

“Abe, broken any of my laws lately?”

“They’re my laws, Andy.”

“Our laws, then.”

“Every day.” Lieberman looked at El Perro, who continued to stroke his scar and listen to Julio wail plaintively behind him.

“What you need, Abe?” asked Moore.

“Willie Coles.”

“He’s a sweetheart,” said Moore. “Beat up a girl and her mother who wouldn’t let him get ahead of them in line at a hot dog stand. Willie’s got a list of priors as long as my
schmuck.”

“I’m impressed,” said Abe. “If it were as long as mine, on the other hand, you’d have to let him go with an apology and a cash bonus.”

“I’ve got to run, Abe. Not that I don’t like talking about the relative length of our bodily appendages. What can I do for you?”

“Can you let Willie Coles walk?”

“It can be arranged,” said Moore. “He’ll probably beat the charge anyway. The girl and her mother will probably get a visit or a phone call from one of the Lawndale Razors as soon as they get out of the hospital, maybe before. I won’t ask you why you want our creature from the Black Lagoon walking down Cermak Road, but I’ll do it after I have a sincere private talk with him about why he should become a better person. After that you owe me one, Abe.”

“I owe you, Andy. Thanks.”

Lieberman hung up and looked at El Perro, who stopped touching his scar and looked at the detective.

“He’ll be out today,” said Lieberman. “A few bruises, maybe a sore stomach, but he’ll be out.”

“Bueno,”
cried El Perro, taking the phone back and dialing a number written with Magic Marker on the back of a menu. Someone must have picked up almost immediately. “I wanna talk to J.T. Tell him it’s El Perro … J.T.? He’ll be out today. Now you do what you said you’d do. Good. Maybe we do business again.”

El Perro hung up grinning. His was a grin to frighten even a hungry alligator.

“I’m not going to ask you what you want J.T. to do.”

“You don’ wanna know,” said El Perro. “I think I’ll have a Coke. You wan’ another one?”

“No, thanks. I want to tell you what you can do for me. There’s a man named Mike or Mikhail Pinescu, lives up on the North Side, on Nordica. I’ll give you the address. Mike has a van, a white van with ‘Mike’s Driveways’ written on the side. It might say ‘Mike’s Roofs.’ Something like that. I heard that my friend Mike’s vehicle was going to be totally destroyed by vandals tonight, very late. It’ll be done very quickly and someone, maybe three or four someones, will knock on Mike’s door and politely tell him that his truck has been destroyed and that he is out of business. They’re going to tell him that he is out of business forever or he’ll wind up like his truck.”

“Sounds like fun,
Viejo,”
said El Perro.

“I thought you might like it.”

“Why you wan’ this done?”

“He’s a bad man,” said Lieberman. “My job is to put bad men out of business. Once in a while the system doesn’t help me do that.”

“So we need each other again,” Emiliano said happily.

“Let’s say that our relationship has continued to be mutually beneficial.” Lieberman accepted the Coke that another member of the Tentaculos had brought to him. “By the way, our Korean friend has left town. Won’t be back.”

“Woulda been more easy to shoot him in the head,” said El Perro. “I tell you he’s comin’ back.”

“What can I say?” asked Lieberman. “I’m a sweetheart.”

“You always been this funny,
Viejo?”

“It’s a gift,” Lieberman said, drinking his Coke and enjoying the plaintive singing of some woman in Spanish. Her heart was broken. There was nothing left for her in the world. There was nothing to live for. She was through with men forever.

“You know the odds against the Cubs winning the World Series next year?” asked El Perro.

“No.”

“Fifteen to one,” El Perro said, leaning over to whisper louder than he had been talking. “You’re a fan, you bet on things like that, you know? I’m gonna put down a few hundred bucks before the odds drop.”

“They may go up,” said Lieberman.

“Then I’ll bet more,” said El Perro.

Lieberman rose and took a small brown paper bag out of his pocket. He handed it to Emiliano.

“What’s this?”

“A present,” said Lieberman. “I picked it up on my way here.”

The gang leader reached inside and pulled a compact disc from the bag. He held it up and read, “Klaz … Kless.
Viejo, no puedo de leerlo.”

“Klezmer,” said Lieberman.

“What’s that?”

“Jew music,” said Lieberman. “Next time I come, put it on, another favor.”

El Perro examined the photograph on the front of the CD, a young woman and three young men all with beards, all smiling.

“I’ll listen,” Emiliano said.

Three minutes later, almost unable to hear, his stomach punishing him with jalapeño sauce, Lieberman was back on North Avenue. The sky was overcast and thunder rumbled. Three young Latinos walked toward the little old man as he headed for his car. Lieberman sighed and before they were ten feet away, pulled his gun from underneath his jacket, and pointed it at them. The trio stopped.

“I’m a cop. I’ve got a headache. I’ve got a stomachache and I’ve got a hell of a lot to do. Go away. Mug someone else.
¿Comprende?”

“Sí,”
said the smallest of the three.

They were all wearing light jackets and black jeans.

“Andale entonces,”
said Lieberman. “I haven’t shot anyone in weeks. Shooting people is like
la leche de mi madre por mi.
Just ask El Perro. Go.”

The three looked at each other, turned around, and walked away. Lieberman would have liked them to walk faster. He was in a foul mood. He even considered firing his gun in the air, but they might be armed and decide that they had to fight it out or die, and more than one stray bullet had hit an innocent or guilty bystander over the last few decades. He got in his car and drove. He didn’t turn on the radio.

The meeting was not going well. The group was small — Irving Hammel, the lawyer whom Abe called Rommel, Rabbi Wass, and Ida Katzman who was nearing ninety and remained the primary contributor to everything Temple Mir Shavot did. Ida was wealthy. Ida’s husband had left her a string of successful jewelry stores throughout the city. Ida had sold the stores to a chain. Ida was good for about three or four million, maybe more. Bess didn’t know. She was sure Irving Hammel, who wasn’t even forty yet, knew exactly what Ida Katzman was worth.

The meeting was in Rabbi Wass’s office. The rabbi sat behind his desk, slightly pale, dressed in a conservative blue suit and a raven-black
kepuh
on his head, trying to look very rabbinical and wise and failing miserably, Bess Lieberman thought. Ida Katzman was definitely showing signs of problems with her aging. Her hearing had always been good. It was going rapidly. She was beginning to have trouble sorting out arguments and positions. It was a shame that tore at Bess’s heart. Ida had been a rock. She and her husband had once had a son. He died in Vietnam. Now, Irving Hammel was certain, when she died she would leave all or most of her money and assets to the temple. In his heart, Rabbi Wass agreed.

It was Bess’s plan to honor Ida while she could still possibly enjoy the honor. Hammel and the rabbi were enthusiastic. Ida didn’t care for the idea. Bess promised that it could be small and tasteful or big, whatever Ida wanted.

“Money can be spent better on the temple, the religious school,” said Ida. “I don’t need a party. I don’t want a party.”

“Well,” Bess tried, “how about we have a very small ceremony to officially recognize your contributions and to dedicate a plaque in the temple lobby honoring you and your husband for your years of support?”

The very office in which they sat had a plaque on the wall indicating that the room had been bought and paid for in honor of Ida’s son.

“How small?” asked Ida, her hands resting on the cane in her lap.

“As small as you like,” said Bess. “Maybe just the temple officers.”

“The president, vice president, president of the men’s club, president of the women’s club, chair of the fund-raising committee, all of you and who knows who else,” Ida Katzman said. “You want a plaque.
Gey gezundt.
A plaque. Maybe dinner with you and Lieberman.”

“Ida,” Irving Hammel said gently. He wanted a big bash, a fund-raiser. He wanted to run it. He wanted to invite prominent Jews, potential clients, to the gala at a big hotel. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you Ida. We’ve known each other and worked together for more than five years now.”

“You can call me Mrs. Katzman,” the old woman said. “When you’re maybe ten years older, if I’m still alive, which would be a miracle and a joke played by God, you can call me Ida. You’re a good boy, Hammel, but you are a devious good boy and I think you should have more run. Fats Waller was dead when he was your age. He had run. That’s all I have to say.”

The old woman stood with the help of her cane and looked at the rabbi and then at Bess. Everyone had joined Ida in standing.

“Whatever you want to do, Ida, we’ll do,” said Bess.

“I want to die in my sleep and find out there’s a heaven,” Ida Katzman said. “I hope that I’m there because I belong there and not because the Lord keeps a book of those who donated enough to a synagogue building fund to make a hundred heaven points. Mr. Small is waiting outside to drive me home. I’m tired. Good-bye.”

Bess accompanied the old woman to her car where Mr. Small, her driver and guardian, opened the door for her.

“Driving Miss Daisy,” Ida said, getting in with the help of Mr. Small, who defied the remark by the fact that he was white and as dedicated to the old woman as he had been to her husband. Mr. Small had been the manager of one of the jewelry stores. He had suffered a pair of small strokes and the Katzmans had taken him into their house and helped him as much as he helped them.

The car drove off and Bess straightened her dress, took a deep breath, stood upright, and went back to face the always wavering rabbi and the always determined Rommel who was, she was sure, ready with some plan to save the idea of a big fund-raiser and law practice builder in honor of Ida Katzman.

Bess was now equally determined that such an event would not be if Ida didn’t want it. There would be no surprise parties, no visit from the women’s auxiliary board, not even a visit from old Rabbi Wass who was retired but could always be persuaded to come back from Florida to save the Jewish people.

Bess was the president of the temple. She would bully the rabbi and persuade the board while Irving Hammel did the same.

It never stops, Bess thought, going back into the rabbi’s office. She glanced at her watch. She had to pick up the children at school at three.

The call came at four. The caller had said he wanted to talk to Gornitz very soon. Carbin gave him a number and told him to call at four. Gornitz would answer. The caller had hung up.

Now it was four and the phone in the hotel room was ringing.

Mickey Gornitz picked up the phone and said, “Hello.”

“You’re still alive,” the male voice said. “We’re disappointed. Very disappointed. We keep our word, Mickey. Matthew dies in fifteen minutes and his body will be someplace where it won’t look pretty and it might not be found for weeks, maybe longer.”

“Give me a little more time,” Mickey pleaded.

“No more time,” said the caller. “Talk to your son for the last time.”

“Dad” came Matthew’s voice. “He’s going to kill me.”

The boy began to sob and the phone was taken from him by the caller.

“You didn’t say ‘good-bye,’ ” the caller said.

There was a sudden, loud howl from Mickey and the sound of the phone dropping. Then the caller heard a male voice say “Stop him. Stop —”

The sound of breaking glass and a howl of fear fading away.

“Oh, Christ” came a man’s voice.

The caller was about to hang up. Gornitz had gone through the window. The caller hoped the window was high enough.

“This is Eugene Carbin in the state attorney’s office, you son of a bitch” came the deep, steady voice of a man obviously making an attempt to remain calm. Behind him were voices arguing and what sounded like someone crying. “Let the boy go now. If anything happens to him, when we catch you, and we
will
catch you, there won’t be any goddamn plea bargains.”

The man who had called himself Eugene Carbin hung up the phone. Hard.

“Iris and I are getting married a week from Sunday,” said Bill Hanrahan, sitting in the chair next to Abe Lieberman’s desk. “Unitarian. Ex-priest Vince DiPino. His church is out in Des Plaines.”

“Iris’s father?” asked Abe drinking one of the two coffees he had picked up at Dunkin’ Donuts. Bill had the other.

“He’ll come around,” Hanrahan said with what sounded like less than total conviction.

The squad room was relatively quiet. Two uniforms were standing near the water fountain arguing about something. Detectives were doing paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. Typewriters were clattering. They had been told for years that they were all getting computers … sometime. Only Lorber really wanted one. The others were used to the typewriters. Cops don’t change easily.

“Woo?”

“He’ll come around too, and if he doesn’t, the hell with him. Iris and I want to get married. We don’t want to wait.”

“Your life, Father Murphy. Congratulations.”

“Rabbi, let me ask you something.”

“Ask,” said Lieberman.

“You think I’m suicidal?”

Lieberman had some more coffee, thought for a few seconds. “Yes, I do. I also think you want to stay alive. You don’t know why you do things? Welcome to the congregation. People get hurt, killed because you think you screwed up. You’ve made it to the board of directors of the Society of Screwed-Up Police Officers. You’ve got a conscience you don’t think you can live with. Congratulations on that too. You’re the president of the human race, Father Murphy.”

“Not that easy, Abe.”

“I should have taped this conversation. When did I say it was easy? When did I say you’d find answers? One day I’m in a good mood and I let three kids who want to mug me get away. Another day I feel like Darth Vader — my grandson’s favorite character of all time — and I pull in a woman for standing in the middle of the street and impeding traffic.”