Lieberman's Day (8 page)

“I go in with the gun,” George said, pointing to himself. “And you stay in the car?”

“You've got it,” said Raymond, reaching for another handful of pretzels. He didn't even like pretzels, but it gave him something to do, something to concentrate on. “It's better if no one sees my face, puts two and two together. One black man robs, not two. The black man doing the robbing doesn't fit the description on TV. You hear what I'm saying?”

“I hear,” said George, scratching his stomach.

Something about this didn't sit right with George, but he didn't know quite what and even if he knew quite what he wasn't sure he could raise it with Raymond. George was afraid of Raymond. No lie, though he wasn't about to tell anyone. It wouldn't pay to cross Raymond. Didn't seem to pay much being on his side either, but maybe that was changing.

“When we goin'?”

“Get your coat on,” said Raymond.

“I gotta eat somethin',” said George.

Raymond nodded. “I'll get you a peanut butter sandwich,” he said, moving toward the small, rattling refrigerator in the corner.

Then, Raymond thought but didn't say, we'll see what we can do about going out and getting you killed.

They weren't coming, at least not on this shift. Frankie Kraylaw knew that before the first sunlight tried to get through the slow, fat, dark clouds.

Frankie gathered his rubbish, put it carefully into the plastic bag he had brought with him, and went to the back door of the reupholstery shop. He hadn't broken the lock, only forced it, and the door was such a banged-up mess anyway that he doubted anyone would notice. Besides, people who lived next door to or ran businesses across the street from police stations didn't think they had to be careful.

That was wrong. Frankie knew that was wrong. The Lord had told him, well, not exactly told him but let him feel, that he wanted Frankie to be careful, because Frankie had God's work to do. Not that everyone didn't have God's work to do. Thank the Lord Jesus. It's just that there were those chosen few like Frankie who could feel the truth, know it without talking or thinking. It was the way our Redeemer wanted it.

The alley behind the shop was clear. Cold and clear. No cars parked across the way in the small lot behind a 7-Eleven. Frankie closed the door quickly, made sure it clicked locked, and then hurried, didn't run but hurried into the alley where he pitched his plastic bag of garbage into an open trash can, sending a rat scurrying.

Hat over his face, hands plunged deeply into his pockets, Frankie felt the jingle of pocket change as he headed around the corner where the alley turned and made his way toward Wendy's. A hot coffee and vigilance. He stopped in front of the pickup truck, opened the door, and checked in all directions to be sure he wasn't being followed. He pulled the old Colt shotgun out from under his jacket and shoved it under the driver's seat. He locked the door, checked the street again, and hurried across the street toward the early-morning lights of the fast food restaurant.

They had to come sometime. They had to come.

A
BE LIEBERMAN CONSIDERED RAMMING
into the wooden chair with the big white card on it. The chair was protecting the space that Kim the Korean, who owned the Devon Television/VCR Repair Shop, had dug out of the ice and snow,
PARKING FOR TELEVISION REPAIR ONLY!!!!!!!
the sign read in bold blue crayon.

It was early. Abe inched forward past Discount Toys, Devon Animal World, and Rogers Park Fruits and Vegetables, all of which had illegally reserved public parking spaces they had dug out. Abe settled for the space in front of the fireplug near the corner by the barbershop, flipped up his
ON DUTY
sign, and stepped out, trying to avoid the ruts of snow lined with treacherous ice.

Abe entered the T&L to the familiar smell of coffee, corned beef, and warm bagels and bialys, and the unfamiliar sound of silence.

Manuel, the short-order cook, had learned his craft while serving as a busboy at The Bagel two blocks away. The Bagel was the biggest Jewish-style restaurant on the North Side and in the suburbs. It was a matter of pride to Maish that he had a chef who had apprenticed at The Bagel itself, even if the chef was a Mexican Catholic. Manuel looked through the food passageway from the kitchen as Abe entered. There was a plea in his dark face. Manuel's eyes moved to the left toward the silent, lumpish figure of Maish, his back turned to the door, his apron tied around his waist. Maish was carefully making up a list of the day's specials on the sheet of clear plastic over white board that hung above the counter near the cash register.

There were eight seats at the counter. All empty. It was still a little early for the on-the-way-to-work crowd, the once-in-a-whilers and the regulars, the working women like Gert Bloombach, Melody Rosen, and Sylvie Chen who came by to get their usuals and ignore their fathers at the Alter Cocker table. Too early for the regulars. Too early for the Alter Cockers, too, but some of them were there: Syd Levan, the golfer, stoop-shouldered, tan from the lamp, hair whiter than the sands on the beaches down in Sarasota where he would soon be headed with his wife to their time-share; Howie Chen, always ready to smile and take a joke, short, hefty, one eye ignoring any and all instructions from the brain; and the unelected but accepted leader of the group, Herschel Rosen himself, antiquated, wearing his blue woolen hat and a smile and a drooping, unlit cigar. Herschel was the group comic, and the Alter Cockers were his willing audience—but not today. Conversation was nonexistent. Herschel, Howie, and Syd looked up at Abe hopefully as the heavy door with the little bell closed behind him.

“Hey, look who's here,” Herschel tried. “The sheriff of West Rogers Park himself, Ricochet Lieberman. Howdy, pardner.”

Abe waved to the table of old men and moved to the counter, where he took a stool. Maish didn't move. Abe didn't speak.

“Lo siento, viejo,”
said Manuel from the grill.

“
Entiendo, gracias,
Manuel,” Lieberman answered.

“Su hermano es
…” Manuel started.

“Si, no tiene miedo.”

Maish finished his sign, held it up, turned to show it to his brother.

“Fine,” said Abe. “Perfect. Frame it. Brisket six-fifty, a thing of beauty.”

Maish nodded and placed the sign on the hook near the counter. He poured a cup of coffee from the pot of regular and brought it to his brother. Their eyes met.

“You should be with Yetta, Maish,” Abe said softly, lifting his cup.

“You should be out finding David's killer,” said Maish even more softly, unblinking.

“I finish my coffee, I go out and find them,” said Abe, holding up his cup.

“Good,” said Maish. “You got a reason to work, not to think. I got no reason but I've got to work or …”

He was an overweight bulldog of a man who at sixty-seven carried the family curse of looking older than his years.

“I understand,” said Abe.

“Bess's with Yetta,” said Maish, turning his back on his brother and lumbering toward the sink, wiping his hands on his apron. “I'm there and we just make each other worse. Yetta'll be busy cooking for the
minyon.
Bernard will be in, weather permitting, at noon. Rabbi Wass will … Yetta's better off without me there making her feel worse, making her feel she has to take care of me, worrying about me, asking me about my heart, my liver, my pancreas, my who-the-hell-knows.”

Maish never swore. Maish never even said “hell.” Abe sipped his coffee, let it burn the roof of his mouth. The coffee was bitter this morning. This morning it was right that the coffee should be bitter.

“You've got a
minyon?
” Abe asked, surprised that his brother had already gathered a contingent of the ten Jewish men required for prayer, in this case prayer for the dead.

“The Cockers, you, me. They'll tell me. Right now I want to be a little left alone, a little crazy. You know? I can use it. Humor me.”

“I'll humor you,” said Abe, looking at Manuel, who retreated behind the partition to the heat of his grill.

And, thought Lieberman, I won't tell you that there will have to be an autopsy, soon maybe, but maybe not until late in the day, maybe even the afternoon or night. They would have to sit
Shiva,
mourn the loss of the loved one in the house of Maish and Yetta with the mirrors covered and turned to the wall while someone in the medical examiner's office on Polk Street behind Cook County Hospital opened flaps on the body of David Lieberman in an effort to find something that would help locate the people who killed him.

“Carol's going to be fine,” said Maish. “We couldn't talk to her, but the doctor, he said … And the baby, a boy, he's going to be fine. Yetta's going to ask Carol to call him David. Not often a Jewish kid can be named for his father. Not often the father's dead so he can be.”

Maish was making himself busy, cleaning the clean cream-colored countertop with a wet rag, his jowls rumbling.

“How's it look?” he said, stepping back.

Abe finished the coffee and stood up.

“Almost as clean as when you started,” he said.

Maish nodded.

“I'll find them,” said Abe.

“Then what?” asked his brother, rubbing his eyes.

“Then … we go on living.”

“And if I ask you to shoot them down, make them beg for their lives and shoot them on their knees, would that be something you could do?” asked Maish.

“Would that make you feel better, Maish?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Maish, when did you ever hit anyone? In your whole life, when have you hurt anyone physically?”

“Never,” Maish said intently. “Never, and my reward is that my son who never hurt anyone is murdered.”

“The two aren't connected.”

“Everything is connected in here,” said Maish, pointing to his chest.

“We'll have four specials,” called Herschel Rosen.

“It's seven-thirty in the morning,” answered Maish, his eyes still fixed on his brother. “You want brisket seven-thirty in the morning?”

“You got it ready seven-thirty in the morning?” asked Howie Chen.

“Manny's got it ready,” Maish said aloud, and then whispered to his brother, “It's in here, Avrum. My heart. Like a, I don't know, a heavy thing. If I know whoever did it is dead, maybe … Forget I said anything.”

“Then we'll eat brisket at seven-thirty in the morning,” said Syd Levan showing clean, false white teeth through the tan.

“Four early-morning briskets, Manny,” Maish said, lost in thought.

“Leftover brisket in the morning,” said Abe. “Remember when there was any left we ate it cold in the morning with Kraft's Miracle Whip on Wonder Bread?”

Maish was recleaning the countertop.

“That's probably why I look like this,” said Maish. “But you, you eat like a garbage truck and you never gain weight.”

“Go ask God,” said Abe.

“I have, as recently as this morning,” said Maish, inspecting a problematic shadow near the sugar dispenser. “He had nothing to say on the subject. It's a good ploy. He don't answer, he can't be wrong.”

“I'll see you later, Maish,” said Abe.

“Wait,” said Maish.

Lieberman paused in front of the counter as Maish reached down and brought up a brown bag with grease stains.

“Mostly bialys, onions, poppies, and some cream cheese with chives. Jimmy just dropped by from the bakery. Maybe you could drop it off at the house. People'll be coming. Yetta'll need it.”

Lieberman took the still-warm package in his arms.

“Sure, Maish.”

“I'll go home in a little while,” Maish said, shaking his head and turning his back again. “Find them, Avrum,” he said. “Find them. I can't … The idea of them walking around, free, while David … Find them. Do your work.”

“Save a piece of brisket for me, Maish,” Lieberman said, moving to the door and buttoning his coat.

“Marshall Earp,” called Herschel Rosen, motioning to Lieberman. “Come over and share a few fingers of Folger's with the bunkhouse crew.”

Lieberman moved to the table and Herschel motioned him to lean over. He did, and smelled the dry cigar and aftershave.

“We'll keep an eye,” whispered Herschel.

“Some of us will be here all day,” said Syd.

“Eating brisket,” chimed in Howie Chen.

“And Izzy's on the way. You know the way Izzy makes Maish laugh,” whispered Syd.

Lieberman nodded. Izzy Zedel couldn't make the town idiot laugh.

“Thanks,” said Abe, knowing that each man he was facing had in his long life lost a wife, brother, sister, child, friend. Abe and Maish had been in their homes, apartments, paying condolences, weeping with them.

“Adios,”
said Herschel, as Abe went to the door.

“Hasta luego,”
answered Abe, waving at Manny, who was lining up the brisket breakfasts.

Manny nodded and went on working.

While the Alter Cockers were eating brisket, Bill Hanrahan, clean shaven, dressed in shirt, somber tie, and jacket, in keeping with his coming impersonation, sat down at his kitchen table for a breakfast of moo shu pork and eggs. Iris, slender, delicate, beautiful, and early, had appeared at the door with a bag full of Chinese morning treats, including almond cookies for Charlie.

They had all eaten with Jeanine, talking about her coworkers at McDonald's and her plans to take Charlie to Santa Fe, where Hanrahan knew a retired cop named Shea who would hire her as a waitress in his Tex-Mex restaurant. Charlie didn't talk. Hanrahan didn't talk. Iris didn't talk. Jeanine didn't notice. She thought that what she was saying was as interesting to the others as it was to her, and Hanrahan had no intention of dispelling her illusion. The girl had been through enough and back again for more. He marveled that after the hell Frankie Kraylaw had put her and her son through she could be this full of enthusiasm.