Big Silence (33 page)

“So?” asked Hanrahan. “It’s cold. Let’s go.”

“He look like anyone we know?” asked Lieberman.

“No,” said Hanrahan. “Abe, can we do something besides watching a stray dog eat a bagel?”

“He reminds me of me, Father Murph,” said Lieberman.

Hanrahan looked at the dog again and said, “I see the resemblance. Now that you point it out.”

“If he’s willing to come with us, I’m taking him to Augustino, the vet, for cleaning and shots or whatever,” Lieberman said, standing up.

“You know what that costs?” Hanrahan said.

“Money is no object,” said Lieberman, “not when one finds a soul mate.”

“It’s just a dog, Abe.”

“We shall see. We shall see.”

An omelette sat before Abraham Lieberman, an omelette with onions and just a touch of lox and cream cheese, real cream cheese, not the low-fat kind with the wrong texture and no taste. And the omelette was perfect, not brown. Terrell had created a work of art. Lieberman poured ketchup on the side and looked at the twin of his omelette on the plate in front of Hanrahan.

“So Iris took it all right?” Lieberman asked, digging in.

“I told you. She took it fine,” said Hanrahan. “She takes everything fine.”

“You are a fortunate man.” Lieberman closed his eyes in ecstasy.

“Abe,” Herschel Rosen called from the
Alter Cocker
table. “Howie’s got a fortune cookie for you. You want I should read it?”

The
Alter Cocker
table was full: Rosen, Bloombach, Chen, Hurvitz the psychologist, and the quiet Sy Weintraub who had probably walked his five or ten miles hours ago.

“Read,” said Abe, not bothering to look at the old men at the table.

“Says,” said Rosen, “ ‘Beware of cholesterol or you’ll die young.’ ”

“Too late for me to die young,” said Lieberman.

“Too early for you to die old,” Hurvitz said, looking over his glasses.

“I am touched by your concern,” Lieberman said between bites.

“So what’s with Blitzstein?” asked Bloombach.

“Irving Hammel’s his lawyer,” said Abe.

“Hammel?” asked Rosen. “He does criminal?”

“For friends,” said Bloombach. “Friends with a chain of children’s furniture stores. He handled Al Herskowitz’s brother’s case. The one where he backed his car into the guy who was pushing a cart at the supermarket. Got him off. Herskowitz’s brother has
gelt
from his wife’s insurance money. I don’t trust Hammel. What is it you call him, Abe?”

“Rommel,” said Howie Chen.

“Good name,” said Bloombach. “Blitzkriegs and all that stuff. I was in North Africa in the war, the real war.”

“We know,” said Howie Chen.

“I can fill in details,” said Bloombach.

“We wait in anticipation,” said Rosen, who called to Lieberman. “Abe, we decided you got enough
tsuoris.
We talked it over. Retire early. Join the table. You’re a born
kibitzer.”

“I’m touched,” Lieberman said, finishing his omelette.

Hanrahan was still working on his between sips of coffee.

“What about the Irish?” said Rosen.

“Ask him,” said Abe.

“Irish, you want to be an
Alter Cocker?
We can talk it over. We never had
goyim
at the table — except for the illustrious and honorary Jew, Howie Chen. Consider the honor. An Irish Catholic, a first. But you’d have to retire.”

“He’s too young,” said Weintraub.

“He’s lookin’ older every day,” said Rosen.

“Gentlemen, I appreciate the offer,” said Hanrahan, “and I may consider it at some point in the future.”

“No, you won’t,” said Hurvitz.

“I said ‘may,’ ” Hanrahan countered. “But for now, I choose to sow my cultivated oats and say prayers for the endangered souls of all of you.”

“Woe unto you, Irish,” said Rosen. “We don’t offer twice. Honors are difficult to come by in this life.”

“I appreciate that,” said Hanrahan. “I’m deeply touched.”

“For now,” said Bloombach, “we’ll accept your decision to postpone making a decision.”

“Without a vote?” said Rosen.

“Without a vote,” said Bloombach.

At that moment, Maish came through the front door carrying two big brown paper shopping bags.

“The return of the Portugal,” said Rosen.

“Ulysses back from his travels bearing treasure,” said Chen.

Maish ignored them and moved to his brother’s table. He put the shopping bags down. There was a series of clinking sounds from the bags.

“Just came from Aziz the shrink,” said Maish. “He’s a crazy person, Avrum.”

“Why?”

“He told me to buy cheap pottery, go in the alley, and throw it against the wall. He said it would help if I yelled or screamed when I did it. If I run out of pottery, I’m supposed to throw eggs.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Hanrahan.

“You’ve done it?” Maish asked, looking at the policeman.

“Many times,” Hanrahan said. “Inside my house. Ten minutes of ‘who the hell cares’ and forty-five minutes of cleaning up. Always helps. Well, almost.”

“Meshuganah auf tait.”
Maish shook his head.

“He says —” Abe began.

“That I’m crazy in the head,” said Hanrahan. “Try it Maish, now.”

“Now?” asked Maish.

“Now,” said Hanrahan. “All by yourself. Smash the holy shit out of that stuff.”

“How’re the omelettes?” Maish asked.

“Delicious,” Lieberman replied.

“Perfect,” said Hanrahan.

“Maish,” Bloombach called. “What’s in the bags?”

“My salvation, according to a crazy shrink and an Irish cop,” he answered.

“Good,” said Rosen.

Terrell stood behind the counter pouring coffee for a cab driver who was reading the paper and paying no attention to the banter behind him.

“Terrell,” said Maish, “I’ll be in the alley.”

“Throw one small cup for me,” said Hanrahan.

“And a big pitcher for mankind,” added Lieberman.

When Lieberman and Hanrahan appeared at the door with the dog, Bess knew she was in for trouble. Before they even entered the house, she said, “What’s that?”

“A dog,” said her husband.

“It’s not a dog,” said Bess. “It’s a … a … I don’t know. You can’t bring it in until you get it cleaned up.”

“It
is
cleaned up,” said Abe. “And he has all his shots.”

The dog looked up at Bess. She was unmoved.

“I’ve got to go pick up the kids,” she said. “I don’t want it here when I get back, Abe.”

“What makes you think I want to keep him?” asked Lieberman.

“Abe?”

“Let’s make a deal,” he said, still standing in the doorway with his silent partner. “I take on the Katzman dinner and charm her completely. We keep the dog on a trial basis.”

“You already agreed to do the Katzman dinner tonight,” she said. “Abe, I’m sorry. If we took all the strays you’ve brought home over the years — human and animal — the house would be under investigation from the Board of Health and I’d be a nervous wreck. Abe, you know I’m right. It’s not just because he’s such an ugly creature.”

“You’re right,” Abe said in defeat. “But maybe we can work something out.”

“Abe. I love you. I always will. No dog and don’t stall till the children come home and take your side. Go get a goldfish. I’ll even talk about a cat, but no dog.”

“I’ll take him,” said Hanrahan. “If he’ll go with me.”

Bess found her car keys in her purse and moved past the two men, closing the door behind her.

“Bless you, William,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Avrum, you can visit the creature whenever you like.”

Bess was down the stairs and getting into her car when the two detectives looked at each other.

“You sure, Father Murph?”

“I could use the company, Rabbi.”

“Then he’s yours,” said Lieberman.

“No, he’s nobody’s, Abe. He can live with me if it suits him.”

Lieberman’s partner turned and walked back down the stairs. The dog with no name followed him.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Abe Lieberman Mysteries

July 16, 1969

T
HE LITTLE OLD MAN
was nodding his head and mumbling to himself as he walked down the gray corridor of the synagogue. It was not an unusual sight, but this particular old man was unfamiliar to Morrie Greenblatt, who approached him.

Morrie towered over the old man, who wore a black yarmulke atop his freckled, nearly bald head and a white-fringed
tallis
over his shoulders. Under his arm the old man was carrying a black prayer book.

From the main sanctuary, the sound of voices, a man and a woman, went back and forth nervously.

“Excuse me,” said Morrie.

The old man stopped and looked up at the tall slope-shouldered man who had stopped him.

“We need you,” Morrie said, glancing at his watch.

“Me?” asked the old man in a voice that sounded raspy from too many hours of prayer.

“We need one more for the morning minyan,” Morrie said. “A tenth man.”

“But I …,” the old man began, looking toward the main sanctuary.

“It won’t take long. I promise. Prayers and then if you have time we have bagels and coffee. We need you. Sid Applebaum was supposed to be here but he has a stomach something and with the rain …”

“You need me?” the old man said.

“Yes.”

The old man shrugged and said, “Then I’ll come.”

Ten Jewish men who had been bar mitzvahed at the age of thirteen were required to meet the minimum number set forth in the Holy Bible for morning prayers. Morrie, who owned a bath and tile store on Lawrence Avenue, was the congregation’s unofficial
gabai,
the one who saw to it that things got done.

No one, not even Morrie, was sure whether Morrie had volunteered for this job or it had simply evolved. Morrie, now almost fifty, accepted the responsibility, the principal task of which was to see to it that there was a minyan for each morning’s prayers.

The regulars, if they were healthy, were no problem. He could always count on Rabbi Wass and his son, Cal Schwartz, Marvin Stein, Hyman Lieberman, Joshua Kornpelt, Sid Applebaum, and himself. He would check the night before with phone calls and if it looked as if they would be short, Morrie would ask Marv Stein to bring his brother or Hy Lieberman to bring his sons. Some days they had as many as sixteen or more. Some days they had walk-ins who were from out of town or regular congregation members there to observe
yahrzeit,
the anniversary of a loved one’s death.

When he had counted this morning, Morrie had been sweating. Both of Lieberman’s sons had come, looking none-too-happy to be there. Maish Lieberman explained that their father Hyman wasn’t feeling well. Maish was thirty-six and by this time in the early morning was usually at the T&L, the new deli he had opened with a loan from his father and Sid Applebaum. Abe, at thirty, was the puzzle of the lot. Short and lean like his father with the same dark curly hair, Abe was a policeman who came to services only when his father pressured him into doing so. Only last week Abe had been promoted to detective and an unimposing detective he was, a shrimp beanstalk with a sad face too old for his years. A few minutes ago, Maish, his yarmulke perched precariously atop his head, had nodded and talked about the price of eggs and the courage of astronauts. Abe in a sport jacket and tie looking like a shoe salesman had politely asked Morrie, “You want me to call Alex?”

“I’ll find someone,” Morrie had answered. It was a matter of pride, but time was against him.

“Alex can be here in ten minutes,” said Abe.

“I’ll find,” Morrie had repeated.

“Morrie, this is my third day on the job. I’ve got to be downtown in an hour and a half.”

“You’ll be there,” Morrie assured him. “The bad guys’ll wait.”

“Bad guys don’t wait,” Abe said. “Let me call Alex.”

“I’ll find,” Morrie repeated. “With God’s help, I’ll find.”

Abe Lieberman had shrugged and moved over to talk to Rabbi Wass’s son, who at the age of thirteen was almost as tall as the policeman. The boy wore thin glasses that kept creeping down his nose. A sudden jab and they were back up again ready to start slipping.

Now, less than five minutes after he had left, Morrie entered the small chapel across from the central sanctuary and announced,

“We have a minyan.”

As Morrie ushered his treasured old man in, Marv Stein let out a loud sigh of relief. Marv was reliable, but he was also retired and Marv had a tee-off time in a little over an hour. God willing the rain would stop. “This is Mr. …,” Morrie began.

“Green,” the old man said, taking Marvin’s outstretched hand.

“Nice to meet you, Green,” Marv said, and then added, “Let’s get started.”

The rabbi moved to the front of the small room, lectern before him, son at his side. The eight men and the rabbi’s son sat in the chairs facing Rabbi Wass, a somber man with well-trimmed white hair, clean-shaven. To Abe, Wass looked like Lee J. Cobb with a stomachache.

Morrie smiled in relief, ready to lose himself in the comfort of daily prayer, looking forward to a poppy seed bagel with cream cheese and arguing with Josh Kornpelt on some point about the U.S. role in Vietnam and God’s role in JFK’s murder or why none of the astronauts were Jewish. They would move on to the Cubs’ hope for a pennant next.