Big Silence (27 page)

Hanrahan finished his coffee and dropped the paper cup in the trash can near his feet. The can was almost overflowing.

“My old friend Woo isn’t going to like this,” he said.

“As we’ve already observed. Then maybe we should go see Mr. Woo and soothe his moral indignation.” Abe nursed his coffee.

“Won’t do any good, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan.

“Won’t know if we don’t try,” said Lieberman. “We’re off in a few minutes. Let’s pick up some hot and sour soup in Chinatown and engage in some friendly discussion with Mr. Woo.”

“If I’m living and Iris doesn’t change her mind, I’d like you to be best man and Bess to stand up with us. You know, bridesmaid, something like that.”

“Okay with Iris?”

“More than okay.”

“Then you’ve got yourself —”

The phone on the desk rang. Lieberman reached over and picked it up.

“Lieberman,” he said. And then he listened for a long time before he spoke again. “What do I think? It’s your call. No surprise. In a few years when I’m ready for retirement, I’ll run into those two and they’ll shoot a big hole in me or I’ll shoot a big hole in them … know you don’t have to get my permission. You’re just feeling like a compromising … forget it. Have a nice day.”

Lieberman hung up the phone and looked at his partner.

“One day,” he said, “one day and Salt and Pepper’s public defender plea-bargains them down to attempted robbery. The prisons are full. They’d both appear in court with cast, bandages, their mothers, their ministers — who they haven’t seen before in —”

“Saviello’s a Catholic,” said Hanrahan.

“His lawyer would find a priest. They’ll both be out in less than two years, probably one year. They’re going to kill some poor Pakistani some time, probably not together. Maybe if the State of Illinois is lucky, they’ll kill each other. Hell, William, you should have shot the bastard.
I
should have shot the bastard.”

“I’ve done enough of that for a while, Rabbi.”

Lieberman got up, dropped his cup in the garbage where it teetered precariously and decided to remain magically balanced within the ring of garbage.

“Let’s go see Mr. Woo,” he said.

It was after five.

“You are a remarkably well informed Jewish detective,” Woo said a little more than an hour after Abe and Bill had left the Clark Street station. The hot and sour soup was in two white pint cartons in the backseat of their car. They would drink it like coffee when they finished talking to the ancient man.

They were in a room behind the Chinese import shop that Liao Woo owned and that was a front for activities both legal and questionable. Lieberman had the bad taste to have brought up some of the questionable activities to their host in the office tastefully decorated with teak furniture, a large Oriental rug, and Chinese paintings on the wall. Woo was wearing dark slacks and a black silk Chinese shirt that buttoned to his neck.

“I’m a remarkably well informed detective,” said Lieberman.

The two detectives had sat in large finely polished wooden chairs with sturdy carved arms. Woo sat in a plainer version of the two chairs facing the men.

“It comes from living a long time and paying attention to the past,” said Lieberman. “I think we share that.”

Woo nodded and looked at Hanrahan.

“I am disappointed in you, William Hanrahan,” he said. “We have always conducted our conversations in a civilized manner and between the two of us.”

“Things have changed,” said Hanrahan. “Iris and I don’t want to wait. It’s got nothing to do with you. We can step back and respect each other and you can give Iris a nice wedding present, or my partner and I …”

Woo smiled.

“Officers,” he said, “I cannot be intimidated. I’ll not bore you with my boyhood and youth in China, but for every horror you have witnessed, I have witnessed a hundred. For every threat that you issue, I have survived a dozen. I have come near starvation and have engaged in acts which were beneath me, but one survives. Do not threaten me with misery. Do not bother to hint at it. You have no experience of real misery. I need not remind you that I am old, that my knees and back are beyond the help of physicians or acupuncture. William Hanrahan, you agreed to my proposal in your own home. You agreed to wait. You will live by that agreement. That is not a threat. It is what shall be whatever I must do to make it so.”

“When was it, Woo? Back in the early eighties, a cocaine shipment,” said Lieberman. “Narcotics tore this place apart, found one of those big vases sitting right out in your shop filled with packages of cocaine.”

Woo rose and looked at Lieberman. There was no emotion in Woo’s face.

“That was an error,” said Woo. “My attorneys rectified the error.”

“You’ve done a lot of rectifying,” said Lieberman. “You were a poor street kid in a little town in China where, I understand, people survived by eating each other. You made it to Shanghai and found out how to stay alive in the dark alleys, and now you’re playing Fu Man Chu right up to the top of your silk shirt, which, I must say, is quite classy.”

“I do not know what you seek in this attempt at provocation,” said Woo leaning on his cane. “I believe it is a characteristic of your race. It has seemed so in my experience. Jews have a tendency toward abrupt transitions. I assure you, neither flattery nor threats will sway me from my duty, and it should not sway Detective Hanrahan from his promise.”

“Mr. Woo,” said Lieberman. “They don’t want to wait.”

“Then he should not have promised,” said Woo. “I have a modest but sufficient income and am able to help friends in my community and to chastise those who would take advantage of me or my friends in this community. It is not my access to money which has brought me respect. It is that I keep my word. Always. I would prefer to die than break my word.”

“You’ve got a point,” Lieberman said.

“If you like,” Woo said, “I will have coffee or tea brought in to you and you may take as much time as you wish. Meanwhile, I have other business.”

“More important than this?” asked Lieberman.

“No,” said Woo. “Simply more likely to have an affirmative conclusion.”

“We’ll leave,” Hanrahan said, rising.

“I think I might like some coffee,” said Lieberman. “Provided it’s good coffee.”

“Espresso.” Woo went through a door behind the desk and closed it. “Egyptian. Very strong.”

And the old man was gone.

“Abe,” Hanrahan said with some exasperation when the door had closed. “You were supposed to help me.”

“I like the old guy,” Lieberman said, sitting comfortably and admiring the chair. “I didn’t know I’d like him, and he has a point, Father Murphy.”

“I know.” Hanrahan got up and moved to the desk. He turned to face his partner and leaned back against the solid support.

“Woo has a reputation for being reasonable,” said Lieberman. “Had it from the first time I first heard of him back in the late sixties. I’ve seen him around, but this was the first time I’ve really talked to him.”

“He’s not reasonable when it comes to Iris,” Hanrahan said. “He’d have me killed on the street tomorrow if I weren’t a cop and he thought it would win him Iris. He’s old enough to be her father.”

“If he started young,” said Lieberman.

At that moment the coffee was brought in by one of Woo’s two young men. He wore a perfectly pressed dark suit and conservative tie. He placed the tray between the two policemen on a solid, dark small table. There were little cookies on a plate on the tray.

“Thanks,” said Lieberman.

The young man stared. The man was considerably younger than his employer and far less able to hide his feelings, not that he wanted to. He definitely did not like the gray-haired policeman. The young man left without a word. The two detectives drank strong coffee and ate cookies.

“He loves her, Abe. I think that old man really damn loves her. Can you imagine the two of them together? I’d —”

“And I used to be in love with Cyd Charisse.”

“But you got over it, Rabbi.”

“Who says? Let’s go home, Father Murph. I’ve got a daughter to say good-bye to and a science project I promised to work on with Melisa.”

“You came here to help me and you wind up almost agreeing with Woo.”

“I like him,” said Lieberman. “I also know he can have bad things done. Now, after he has six or seven men cut you into forty or fifty pieces, I promise I’ll come here and shoot him right in the face, but that won’t do you and Iris any good. Besides, Murph, I think he’s right.”

“Maybe, Rabbi,” Hanrahan said with a deep sigh. “I’ll think about it.”

“If you don’t, you just prove to him that he was right about your being reckless, suicidal, and unwilling to learn the game of gin rummy. Back away from it, partner. I got a feeling the Unitarian Universalist minister may well have an opening after you live up to your agreement.”

“Damn it, Abe.” Hanrahan clenched his fist.

“Damn it, indeed,” said Lieberman. “One more cookie. Let’s go. Our soup is getting cold.”

They left their empty cups and went back through the door leading to the shop. It seemed to be empty. They were out on the street when Woo stepped back into the shop with both of the young men who protected him.

“I like the Jewish policeman,” said Woo.

Both of the young men wanted to ask what they should do about the two detectives, about Iris, about her father, but they had learned long ago to initiate nothing unless it was absolutely necessary. This was not such a case. They would do what they were told.

T
HAT NIGHT TWO POLICE
officers in uniform in an official vehicle drove to O’Hare Airport, met a man with a bulging blue carry-on. The man was named Carlo. He was short, bald, fat in a tight-fitting suit. Carlo handed the carry-on to one of the officers and, without a word, wheezed toward the crowded moving walkway to retrieve his luggage. The two policemen, one very young, the other no more than forty, took the bag to their illegally parked car, placed it in the backseat, and drove to a far-north suburb to personally deliver the bag containing over a million dollars skimmed from Vegas gambling houses. The two policemen had no idea what, if anything, their reward for the delivery would be. They both hoped and assumed it would be generous. The younger man had a very pregnant wife and very heavy debts.

That night a drunken man named Suede Nichols put on his gloves and got in the car parked in front of the bar on Ashland Avenue. Suede tried to drive carefully and thought he was succeeding. He definitely did not want to be stopped. Suede Nichols did not own the car. He was a burglar who had stolen the neat little Mazda for the night. His tools and the goods he had collected from the house in Winnetka were in the backseat. Suede did not have a driver’s license. In addition to two short sentences for breaking and entering, he had three times been nailed on DUI charges.

Traffic wasn’t heavy that late at night, especially not on Ashland. Suede sang, a wordless song with no melody that simply came to him. He would drive home with his goods, hide them, and dump the car about four or five blocks away. The take had been good, very good. Suede would make a nice profit from Wasko the fence. They had a good relationship. Wasko would cheat him only a little bit. Suede told himself as he sang “Bum biddle bee, now, now” that he would send some of the money to his daughter in Bakersfield. He would give her a call and say she was getting a present. He imagined her asking him to come for a visit, see his grandchildren, but he knew she wouldn’t. Oh hell, Suede liked living alone, at night, when honest people were sleeping.

When he made the left turn on Leland, he saw the woman crossing the street at the corner. She seemed to be crying. She was crossing slowly. Suede’s plan was to let her get across and go behind her. He stepped on the brake to slow down, but hit the gas instead. When the car struck the woman, she went flying straight up about five feet in the air and landed on his hood as he tried to find the brake. She looked directly at him, blood oozing from her nose and mouth, a look of surprise on her face. She was young, younger than his daughter. Suede hit the gas again, this time on purpose, and the young woman, who looked dark and foreign, slid from the hood into the street. Suede’s car bounced off a pickup truck and then he straightened it out. He didn’t want to look in the rearview mirror, but he couldn’t stop himself. She was lying in the street not moving. She kept getting smaller and smaller.

He pulled himself together, drove home, got the tools and goods from the backseat, and took them into the apartment. He went out quickly and drove four blocks to Leavitt, where he parked next to the Ravenswood El tracks. When he got out, he tore off his gloves, threw them into some bushes, and pushed the door closed. His left handprint on the window was clear enough for any moderately intelligent person to notice. Suede had no little finger on his left hand, never mind the fingerprints.

On that night, a nineteen-year-old black drug dealer named Butchie Courts stood on his usual corner with a couple of friends waiting for customers. It was getting cold. Butchie and his friends weren’t worried about the police. There were dealers all around, and it wasn’t worth picking them up for the little they had in their pockets. The dealers with brains had a spot where they stashed and went to, from time to time. People came and went, bought and pleaded. One of Butchie’s friends, who was fourteen but big for his age, kept his hand on the nine millimeter in his pocket. It was a heavy two pounds and the love of his short life. The three of them talked shit, mostly about people they were going to get even with and girls they were going to get or had already gotten. Tisa Lings, hands in pockets, crossed the street and headed for Butchie Courts. The three saw her coming and Butchie grinned. Tisa was young. Tisa was light-skinned and pretty and she had a body. You could tell that even with the jacket she was wearing. She didn’t need money to collect a bag, a good bag.

“Tisa,” Butchie said. “I’ll tell you what I can do for you and you tell me what you can do for — ”

Butchie never finished. The kitchen knife had come out from behind Tisa’s back and she plunged it deeply into Butchie’s neck. The fourteen-year-old with the gun and his friend turned and ran down the street. Butchie staggered to the brick wall of the housing project in front of which he had been dealing for four years. Tisa watched him try to get the knife out of his neck, but his hands wouldn’t listen to his need. His lips moved forming a word “Why?”