Lieberman's Folly (24 page)

“What have you been drinking?” Lieberman whispered.

“What's the first bottle on the shelf over the stove?”

“Uh … Bailey's Irish Creme,” said Lieberman softly.

“I drank a couple of glasses. Tastes good. There's a little left.”

Now Todd was whispering too.

“What's going on?” asked Lieberman.

“‘The lady has with courage taken and fled to distant lands because she heard the Gods tell her she should be queen,'” said Todd, moving into the hum of soft light.

“Todd, no more Greek.”

“Wasn't Greek,” said Todd with a small laugh. “I just …You're right. I can't help it. Lisa's gone. We fought some more and when I, or did she, I don't remember which, but she said I should be responsible for a while and she was going back to the house. She left. And … here I … Bess said I should stay here tonight with the kids. We played Clue. I don't remember who won.”

“I'll talk to you in the morning,” said Lieberman. “Go to bed.”

“It is morning,” said Todd.

“Go to bed, Todd.”

And Todd went to bed.

It was almost four when Lieberman closed the door behind him in the bedroom, felt his way to the bed, put the gun away, locked the drawer, and got into bed.

“How is he?” asked Bess.

“Who, Bill or Todd?”

“You know Todd's here,” said Bess with a sigh. “I meant Bill.”

“Alive,” said Lieberman, reaching out for his wife in the dark. A soft breeze blew through the window, fluttering the curtains.

“You want to know about Todd and Lisa?” Bess asked softly.

“Definitely not,” said Lieberman.

A truck rumbled four blocks away on Howard Street. Lieberman found the sound reassuring.

“Rabbi Wass wants you to call in the morning,” she said.

“Did he tell you why? No. Don't answer. I don't want to know that either.”

“Are your knees all right, Abe?” Bess said. “I heard the shower. You took your pill?”

“I'm OK,” he said. “I took my pill. Give me your hand.”

He took his wife's hand. He knew her, felt her. Bess was, he was sure, considering saying something, probably about Lisa and Todd, but she changed her mind and instead turned toward him on her side. Her hand came over and he put it to his cheek.

“You shaved,” she whispered.

“I was filled with passion and expectation,” he said.

“Let me see,” she said, running her hand down his side. “You really want to, now?”

“You?” he asked back.

And they did.

There was no morning for Lieberman. He had slept through it and Bess had not awakened him. She got up early, unplugged the bedroom phone, gave Todd breakfast, and sent him to work. When Barry and Melisa woke up, she brought them into the kitchen, told them they had to be quiet, and fed them. She also took three phone messages for Lieberman, who got up just before noon and staggered into the kitchen trying to focus.

“Where are the kids?” he asked.

“Yetta took them shopping,” said Bess, handing Lieberman a cup of herbal tea. Bess was dressed, a dark skirt and yellow blouse with white pearls. He tried to smile at her, knew it came out lopsided, and put the cup to his lips. Lieberman barely tolerated herbal tea, but he made it a rule not to start the morning with coffee. Hot tea fooled his nerves and stomach for about half an hour.

Lieberman sat at the kitchen table and ran his hand through his hair.

“Forgot to comb my hair,” he said.

“You look like Einstein,” Bess said with a smile. The toaster popped.

“Anybody call? Or has my absence from duty gone completely unnoticed. Has it simply been assumed that I have retired and has my mail been forwarded to the home for burned-out cops? These are questions of great pith and moment,” said Lieberman.

“You want your calls or you want to feel sorry for yourself?” Bess asked, placing a plate in front of him with two pieces of white toast covered with orange marmalade.

“I'd like to spend about two or three more minutes feeling sorry for myself. Hospital call?”

He bit into a piece of toast and felt better.

“Maureen called,” said Bess, sitting across from him and reaching for one of the pieces of toast.

“You don't like orange marmalade.” he reminded her.

“Am I committing a felony or a misdemeanor, Dirty Harry?” she asked. “You want to hear what Maureen said or you want to complain?”

“I can do both,” he said.

“She said Bill is awake, that she was at home and that Iris was with her. Who is Iris?”

“Bill's new girlfriend,” explained Lieberman. “She's Chinese.”

Lieberman dipped his toast into the tea. It was, he discovered, not a good idea.

“Captain Hughes called, said I should let you sleep but you should see him as soon as you come in to work.”

Lieberman dropped the soggy toast onto his plate and got up. He could use, he decided, at least five days of sleep. Instead, he picked up his dishes, dumped the soggy remains into the garbage bag and the half cup of tea into the sink. Dishes and cup went into the dishwasher and Lieberman felt a minor sense of satisfaction. A domestic chore had been accomplished without mishap.

The phone rang. Lieberman looked at it. Bess reached over and picked it up.

Lieberman was on his way out of the kitchen.

“Abe,” she said. “Rabbi Wass. He wants to talk to you. He called last night. I told you, remember?”

“I remember,” he said, turning back into the kitchen.

Her hand was over the mouthpiece.

“What else do you remember?” she asked.

“Passion,” he said. “Torrid passion unmatched by any since Gable and Harlow in
Red Dust
.”

“Talk on the phone,” she said with a smile, handing it to him.

“Rabbi,” he said. “Do you know that my nickname is ‘Rabbi'?”

“No, Abraham, I didn't,” said Rabbi Wass with a hint of confusion.

“It's not relevant, Rabbi,” Lieberman said. “What can I do for you?”

“A great deal,” said Rabbi Wass.

This, Abraham Melvin Lieberman did not like.

“What?” asked Lieberman flatly, looking at Bess who was smiling at him.

She knows what he wants, Lieberman thought, and she likes it.

“The board,” began Rabbi Wass. “That is to say the board and I and some very active members of the congregation would like you to serve as president of Temple Mir Shavot when Israel Mitkowsky moves to California in September.”

“I'm overwhelmed,” said Lieberman, looking at his wife and seeing the frail hand of Ida Katzman at work.

“Then you will accept?” said Rabbi Wass, sensing that victory had come too easily.

Through Lieberman's mind flashed images of himself conducting meetings, going to services every week, reading from the Torah in his halting Hebrew, cajoling Irving “Rommel” Hamel to speak to the Sunday morning men's club.

“I don't deserve the honor,” said Lieberman.

“We think you do,” Rabbi Wass's voice beamed.

“Irving Hamel would make a better president,” said Lieberman with some despair. “He's young, wants—”

“He turned us down,” said Rabbi Wass sadly. “Too busy. He's a lawyer. Avrum, we need you. There is God's work to be done.”

Not only was he being pressured, Lieberman was not even first choice. And then Lieberman got an idea.

“I have a better choice,” he said.

“There really is no—” Rabbi Wass began sadly, ready to tick off the reasons why Syd Levan or Herschel Rosen had turned him down.

“My wife,” said Lieberman.

Bess's smile left her face. She stopped dead at the kitchen sink.

“She's a woman,” Rabbi Wass said, explaining the facts of life to the obviously confused Lieberman.

“I am aware of that, Rabbi,” he said.

“Being president is a great honor,” countered Rabbi Wass.

“An honor my dear wife richly deserves,” said Lieberman on the attack.

“We've never had a woman president,” the Rabbi explained.

“There are women rabbis,” said Lieberman, looking at his wife's astonished face. “I'm sure other congregations have women presidents. I'm sure Ida Katzman would love the idea.”

“I really don't think—” Rabbi Wass began.

“Ari,” said Lieberman softly. “I'm about to turn you down and report to the congregation that you won't consider a woman as president.”

“Blackmail?” asked the rabbi incredulously.

“You've got it,” said Lieberman.

Rabbi Wass laughed, a deep genuine laugh, that Abe Lieberman had never heard before.

“Then what can I do?” said the rabbi. “I accept. Confidentially, Avrum, I don't think you would have made that good of a president either. As the Catholics say, I don't think you have the calling. But Bess? I like it. Ask her to come see me, today if possible. Shalom, Abe.”

“Shalom, Rabbi,” said Lieberman and the two men hung up.

“Abe,” said Bess.

“Madame President,” said Lieberman, wondering what he was going to do about his hair. “You want the job?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Would that all life's problems were so easily solved.”

L
IEBERMAN CALLED THE STATION
where the ever-present Nestor Briggs reported that (a) José Vegas had been treated for head wounds, appeared before Judge Wilson Woolf, and been released on $50,000 bond posted by the Lewellyn Bond Agency on behalf of Vegas's mother, (b) Captain Hughes had left for a meeting with the chief of police less than twenty minutes ago. Lieberman told Briggs that he was heading for the hospital.

After reshowering, both to wake up and to tame his hair, Lieberman headed for Maish's T & L where the Alter Cockers were out in force.

“How's Bill, little brother?” asked Maish, sliding a cup of coffee across the counter. Lieberman took it.

“Alive,” said Lieberman. “Should make it.”

“Yetta took the kids to Toys ‘R' Us,” said Maish, who looked round and genuinely grieved.

“Buy you a cup?” called Rosen from the table.

“Got one,” said Lieberman holding up his coffee.

“Danish?” tried Rosen.

“Why not?” said Lieberman, accepting a cherry Danish from Maish and moving to the Alter Cocker table, where Herschel Rosen was holding court. Herschel was feeling solemn today. He had taken off the yellow cap he was wearing and placed it next to his coffee cup.

“Your partner OK?” asked Howie Chen.

“He'll live,” said Lieberman, who wondered whether he continued to say this because he thought that repeating it would make it true.

“God willing,” said Rosen.

“God willing,” agreed Howie Chen.

Bloombach and Stoltzer, the atheists, said nothing but looked at Lieberman with sympathy.

“You think it's Maish's coffee?” asked Syd Levan. “First the girl. Then the partner?”

“Not funny, Sydney,” said Rosen, ruling him out of order.

“Who's being—” Levan started and then stopped.

“It's all right,” said Lieberman, downing his coffee. “Cops do the same thing. You see a lot of death. You try to make jokes so it doesn't feel so real.”

“Like in the books with the homicide detectives who think they're funny,” said Bloombach, trying to remember the name of the books.

“All cops?” asked Howie.

“Not all,” said Lieberman. He put his cup down. “Gentlemen, I must bid you adieu.”

A hand touched Lieberman's sleeve. Lieberman turned.

“You'll find whoever did it?” asked Rosen gently.

“I'll find whoever did it,” Lieberman assured him.

Maish waved as his brother moved to the door.

“If you get a chance, stop by later,” said Maish, cleaning the counter with a sponge though Abe's coffee cup during its momentary rest had left no ring. “Let me know what's going on with Lisa and Todd.”

“We think they'll work it out,” said Bloombach.

Lieberman shook his head and looked at his brother, who shrugged. Lieberman went into the street, heard the distant sound of thunder, but looked up in the sky and saw no clouds.

Fifty-two minutes later he entered the University of Chicago Hospitals and went to Intensive Care. Dr. Deep was standing there in the hall talking to Maureen and her son Michael. Michael Hanrahan looked far more like his father than his mother, a clean, trim version of the way his father had probably looked a dozen years before Lieberman had met Bill Hanrahan.

Dr. Deep spotted Lieberman coming down the hall first and looked up. Maureen turned to follow Deep's eyes and saw Lieberman. Her eyes gave out a warning and Lieberman looked again at Michael and did not like what he saw.

Nurses flowed past. Somewhere down the hall and down an endless corridor a hospital transport bed with a wobbly wheel headed in their direction.

“How is he?” asked Lieberman.

“You should have been there with him,” said Michael.

Lieberman looked at the young man, remembered that he was twenty-six, no, twenty-seven, his father's son, and Irish.

“He went in that house with no backup because you were eating hot dogs at a baseball game,” said Michael defiantly.

“You may be right,” said Lieberman.

“Michael,” Maureen said. “You're not facing the—”

“You find this funny, Lieberman?” asked Michael.

“I'm not laughing,” said Lieberman. “And I'm not smiling because I find the situation funny. I'm smiling because life is arranged with surprises to keep everyone but children from getting a good night's sleep.”

“This,” reminded Dr. Deep gently, “is an Intensive Care area. We must be quiet.”

“Dad's right,” said Michael, turning to his mother. “He's a bullshit artist.”

Michael stalked off without looking back. He was headed for Deep's office at the end of the corridor.