Big Silence (21 page)

“I noticed.”

“I think it’s good,” she said. “How do I look?”

She was wearing a peach suit with a pearl necklace and pearl earrings. Her still-dark hair was cut short and off her neck the way he liked it.

“Great,” he said, getting up. “Meeting?”

“Temple presidents of the North Shore,” she said. “Brunch. Now that the temple is in Skokie, we’re North Shore. What can I tell you?”

“Calls?”

“None,” she said. “Abe, I’ve got to run.”

They came together, the same height with her heels. Maybe she was even a little taller. He kissed her and he said, “Quick coffee?”

“No time,” she said. “Stop and see Maish before you go in. I’m very worried about him, and so is Yetta.”

“I’ll stop,” he said.

He had shaved with the electric razor though it wasn’t as close as a blade. No reason it should be. The electric was almost thirty years old. He tried not to look in the mirror when he shaved, but he couldn’t resist. There was his father. The depressing thing was that even after he had finished shaving, his father was still in the mirror.

And so he walked into Maish’s deli on Devon at the height of the convening of the
Alter Cockers.

“Nice jacket,” said Al Bloombach.

“Matches the pants,” said Rosen.

Howie Chen added, “You look like a real goddammit, Abe.”

“I appreciate the compliment, gentlemen, and I will try to continue to live up to my present state of sartorial splendor,” Abe said, looking around.

Except for the Cockers, the place was empty. The breakfast crowd was gone. It was a nice day and people weren’t ducking in to get out of the rain, cold, snow, or mad winds. Lieberman moved to his usual booth and Maish came out from behind the counter carrying a bowl, which he placed in front of his brother with a spoon.

“What’s this?” Abe asked, looking at the thick tan soupy mixture.

“Oatmeal,” said Maish. “Bess called. Said give Abe oatmeal.”

“I had something with oats last night,” Lieberman said, shaking his head and putting two spoons of sugar into the steaming oatmeal. The sugar did not alter texture or color. “I think I read somewhere you could go into convulsions from an overdose of oats.”

“I’ll call the paramedics,” Maish said, starting to turn.

“Sit, Maish,” Abe said. “You can watch to be sure I eat it all and don’t pour it someplace unsanitary.”

Maish shrugged and slid his 240 pounds into the seat across from his brother. Before his son David’s death, he had weighed more than 300.

“Heard Lisa’s back,” said Bloombach.

“For a few days,” Lieberman said, taking a spoon of oatmeal. He had eaten the stuff before and it wasn’t so bad. It just wasn’t all that good when one was yearning for a lox, onion, and cream cheese omelette. “She’s going back today.”

Terrell came from the kitchen with a cup and a pot of coffee. He put the cup in front of Abe and poured.

“Talk to the man,” Terrell said, nodding at Maish. “He needs some new tires. He’s skidding all over the place.”

“I’ll talk, Terrell. How’s it going?”

“Fine,” said Terrell. “My ex-wife sent me a card. My son Ben is graduating from high school this summer back in Texas. He’s goin’ to the University of Texas. First one on either side to go to college.”

“It’s good to have a son,” said Maish. “But watch out for God, Terrell. I told you. He’s evil.”

“Congratulations, Terrell,” Abe said, thinking that oatmeal wouldn’t exactly become a staple in his diet but it wasn’t as bad as he remembered.

Time moved so damn fast. He remembered Terrell as a kid. Now he was a father with a boy going to college.

Terrell walked back toward the kitchen.

“We’re giving Terrell a bachelor party when his son graduates,” called Bloombach.

“We considered a graduation party but Weintraub, that dirty old man, said we’d have more fun at a bachelor party and Terrell qualifies.”

Weintraub, eighty-one years old, shook his head knowingly. Weintraub husbanded his smiles, but when he gave one, it was a sincere reward. The other
Alter Cockers
courted his approval. There was, however, no chance that Weintraub would ever suggest a bachelor party.

“I’ll be there,” said Abe.

“What’s that song?” asked Bloombach. “I’ll be there in the morning if I live. I’ll be there in the morning if I don’t get killed.”

“Change of subject,” said Rosen, and the
Alter Cockers
lowered their collective voice to a level where it would remain for three whole minutes.

“So, Maish?” asked Abe.

“So?”

Today Maish looked more like a bloodhound than a bulldog. He always looked like some kind of sad-faced dog.

Until his son David, Abe’s nephew, was murdered a year earlier, everyone called him Nothing-Bothers Maish. It had seemed to be true. It wasn’t any longer.

“So, you remember Mickey Gornitz?”

“High school,” Maish said without interest.

“His son’s been kidnapped.” Abe worked on his oatmeal. “He was working for some bad people and he wants to be a witness against them. They took his kid. They want Mickey to kill himself before they let the kid go. Personally, I don’t think they’re going to let the kid go. I think we’ve got to find him.”

“So?” asked Maish. “This you’re telling me? You’re supposed to be arguing with me, telling me to snap out of it, be good old Maish again, stop disrupting religious classes, find a hobby. Avrum, I tried. For a year I tried, but I’m never going to forget or forgive God for what happened to David.”

“I’m not going to argue with you, Maish,” Lieberman said. “Do what you want to do, what you have to do. Who cares if you start going crazy? Me, your wife, your other son, Bess, those Cockers by the window? Terrell? Do what you have to do, Maish. I could never talk you into anything you didn’t want to do.”

“Avrum,” Maish whispered. “I know who I’m hurting, but I have to curse God. It’s all that’s keeping me sane.”

“Maybe it’s what’s driving you crazy?” Lieberman finished his coffee. He wanted to check his watch, but he didn’t.

“Maybe,” Maish said with a shrug. “More oatmeal?”

“A little.”

Maish got up, took the bowl, and came back with a serving even bigger than the first.

“Minor point,” said Maish. “But you know what else isn’t fair? We’re brothers. I hardly eat and I’m fat. You eat like a … Florida State lineman and you’re a skinny little thing.”

“Like Pa,” said Lieberman. “You take after Ma’s side. Would you be happier if I was fat?”

“No,” said Maish. “I’m just making a small point about ‘fair.’ ”

“Don’t wait for me to say ‘Who said life was fair?’ I’m not saying it. I’m a cop. I don’t walk into traps that obvious. I want you to see a friend of mine, a psychiatrist.”

“Never,” said Maish.

“Enjoying your misery too much?”

“You better go to work, Avrum,” Maish said, getting up.

“This isn’t an ordinary psychiatrist,” said Abe. “He lost his wife and little daughter in a car accident. Only daughter. He’ll understand. Can it hurt? I’ll pay. I’ll set it up. I’ll even carry you to meet him. No, I’ll get Bill to carry you.”

“He couldn’t do it,” said Maish.

“Probably not,” agreed Abe standing and facing his brother. “I just happen to have his card with me. Took me an extra ten minutes to find it this morning. Take it. What can it hurt? You can tell him about God. You can get angry in front of him. It’s what he’s paid for.”

“A man who lost his wife and only child?” Maish said, taking the card.

“For Yetta, for me, for whoever but mostly for you. You’re my only brother, literally my big brother. See the man. Tell him you’re my brother. He’ll give you a rate.”

“I’ll consider.” Maish looked at the card. “He’s not Jewish.”

“No,” said Lieberman. “Dr. Mustapha Aziz is an Arab, a devout Muslim. You two should have a lot to talk about.”

Abe touched his brother’s shoulder and moved past him toward the door where the
Alter Cocker
chorus gave him one last warning,

“Watch out for pickle pockets,” Bloombach called.

Weintraub did not smile. It was one of Bloombach’s recurring jokes.

“We decided Terrell’s bachelor party will be at your house, Lieberman,” said Rosen.

“My pleasure,” said Lieberman. “And you’re all going to get invitations to my grandson’s Bar Mitzvah. Come and bring a nice present. He’s planning to say something insulting about you, but I think he can be bribed out of it.”

“Blackmail,” said Howie Chen.

“ ‘That,’ as my granddaughter would say, ‘is what Tiggers do best,’ ” Lieberman said, walking out into the morning and hurrying to his car.

The squad room of the Clark Street station was eerily quiet. Harley Buel and Rene Catolino were the only ones at their desks. Harley, who looked like a school principal complete with rimless glasses, was talking quietly to a thin Hispanic young man in a leather jacket. Harley played his role well. When you had a suspect or reluctant witness who looked like he or she would fall for an interrogation tone of disappointment, you got Harley on the job. People didn’t want to disappoint their favorite teacher. Rene was the only woman on the squad. Dark, pretty, maybe a touch hard, she never turned away from a case and she could curse with the best in the squad, though Abe was sure the cursing was just self-defense.

No Hanrahan. Lieberman went to Kearney’s office and knocked.

“Come in.”

Kearney and Hanrahan sat at the small table. Kearney hardly ever went behind his desk anymore. He was either standing at the window or sitting at the small conference desk unless he was catching a few hours of restless sleep on the less-than-comfortable couch.

Hanrahan’s eyes were a little baggy, but he was clean shaven, soaped, and neat. He was drinking coffee.

“Detective Hanrahan has been busy,” said Kearney.

Hanrahan held a sheet of paper out to his partner. Lieberman took it. It was a message from Desk Sergeant Nestor Briggs dated the day before and with the time of the call in the right-hand corner, 5:50 P.M. The message was for Hardrock Hanrahan. It read:

COULDN’T COME TO THE PARK. I’M GONNA DO THIS ON MY OWN. NO FREE BUS TICKETS. NO COPS TAKING ME TO BE SURE I LEAVE. I’LL CALL YOU FROM GEORGIA SO YOU KNOW I’M NOT LYING.

The message was from Clark Mills.

“Son of a —” Lieberman started.

“The murder weapon is Chinese,” said Hanrahan. “Lab tech knows all about them. Old Weapon. There’s a name scratched on the handle. No prints. Name is in Korean. Weapon was standard issue to North Korean officers.”

“Looks like a Korean War souvenir,” said Kearney. “Whoever fired it was lucky it didn’t explode in his hand.”

Lieberman wanted a cup of coffee, a
good
cup of coffee, not the stuff that was brewing in the squad room in the seldom-cleaned ancient coffeemaker. He wanted to sit, drink, close his eyes, and not be bothered by the world in general and his job and family in particular, and he had good reason.

“I may know a suspect,” said Lieberman. “May be nothing, but it’s probably worth checking.”

“Well?” the captain asked.

“I’m probably wrong,” said Lieberman. “I’ll check it out. If it looks like something, I’ll follow through.”

“See the papers this morning?” Kearney asked.

Lieberman now felt like sitting down. Was he feeling his age or the weight caused by his suspicion? Lieberman, in fact, was not the oldest detective in the department. O’Neill on the West Side was almost sixty-five and came in early every day and was the last to leave at night. Some people said O’Neill worked harder every year just to prove he could handle the load. Lieberman thought it was easier. The department and job were his life. Then there was Albert “Big Bells” Bertinelli in the Organized Crime Division. Big Bells might be even older than O’Neill. Now that the old mobsters, whom he knew personally on a first-name basis, were dying off, Big Bells wasn’t quite as essential, but as long as there were a few left and a second and third generation coming up, Bertinelli was too valuable to push into retirement. There were others. At the moment, Lieberman didn’t feel like pulling them up for scrutiny. There would come a time soon when some sixty-year-old detective would be thinking or saying “Lieberman up on Clark is a hell of a lot older than I am.”

Lieberman sat at the table knowing that Kearney was talking but not really hearing.

“I don’t know how they got it,” Kearney was saying when Lieberman forced himself to concentrate on the captain’s words. “My guess is it’s a leak in the department.”

“Maybe a good reporter,” said Hanrahan.

“Maybe,” agreed Kearney. “But I like to think the worst so it doesn’t come up behind you and kick you in the ass when you’re not looking.”

Hanrahan took the
Sun-Times
from Kearney and passed it to Lieberman. The paper was folded to page two. On the lower half of the page was a story and a photograph of a smiling young black man in a football uniform. The headline read: “Ex-Football Star Murdered. Clark Mills Was Living Homeless.”

“Long headline,” said Lieberman, handing the paper back to the captain.

“Hey, they had half a page to fill,” said Kearney. “You’ve got a suspect?”

“Maybe,” said Lieberman.

“Go for it, both of you. Now. Shit. Druggies, drunks, and homeless drifters get murdered every day and don’t even make a paragraph in the papers.”

“Clark Mills finally gets his moment of fame,” murmured Lieberman.

Hanrahan looked at his partner. Hanrahan didn’t want a half page in the
Sun-Times
if he died on duty. He didn’t want a headline that said: “Detective Hardrock Hanrahan, Ex-Football Star, Found shot in Sewage Canal.” They’d probably use some ancient file photograph of him in a Southern Illinois uniform a thousand years ago. Hanrahan had a good smile back then, like Clark Mills.

The bags under Lieberman’s eyes were heavier than usual and there was no doubt that the man was showing signs that some heavy weights were coming down on his thin shoulders.

“Let’s go.” Hanrahan got up.

“Let’s,” Lieberman agreed joining him.

“Nothing new from Carbin on the Gornitz kid,” said Kearney. “Carbin called early. May want you to go talk to Gornitz again. Keeps changing his mind about you, Abe. Now he thinks you said something that’s got Gornitz thinking of staying alive.”