"Doyle took the boat home and then a train, and on a summer's night almost fifty years after he had left Galway," said Hanrahan, nodding to Ramona, who had returned to place a full, cool stein before him, "he stepped off the train, set down his suitcase, and looked down the platform, where an old man was moving slowly toward him. When the old man was half a dozen feet from Doyle, Doyle recognized him as his boyhood friend Conan Frazier. 'Doyle,' says Conan, 'is mat you?' 'It is,' said Doyle, standing tall in his handmade silk suit. 'Well,' said Conan, 'I see you got your suitcase. Where are you off to then?' "
Nestor Briggs took his drink from his lips and looked puzzled. Hanrahan looked down at his beer and put his big hands around it.
"I think I'm back in Galway," he said.
"I heard you were riding the wagon, William," Briggs said.
"Well… I tell you, Nestor, it's hard to go home to an empty house. It's hard to be a saint. It's hard to lie to yourself and not believe your lies."
"… our love won't wait," Elvis belted.
"I know," said Briggs, shoving an almost empty blue bowl of nachos in front of Hanrahan. "Truth is," he went on, lowering his voice and biting his lower lip, "I live right around the corner, you know, and the only thing waiting up for me is my dog. You know why I'm whispering? You a Catholic?"
"Yeah," said Hanrahan.
"I hate the fucking dog, hate him," Nestor Briggs confessed. "I pretend I like him and maybe some ways I do, but he's old and he farts and I have to walk him and feed him and be home with him. When my wife died I figured I needed companionship. Everyone thought I should have a dog. Old Nestor should have a dog. So I got a dog. Now I hate to go home and take care of him. You want a dog?"
"You make it sound tempting, Nestor my friend, but I'm going to have to control my boyish urge and say no thanks."
"Ever change your mind, you know where to find me. I throw in his bed, blanket, all the dog food I've got stored. He has his shots. He… shit, who'm I kiddin'. I couldn't give nun away. I'd feel…"
Nestor didn't know how he'd feel. He finished his drink, sucked his teeth, and looked at the empty glass. Then he stood up.
"I'm going home," he said, fumbling for his wallet.
"Want me to walk you?" asked Hanrahan.
"On our first date?" Nestor said with a slurred laugh. "Never."
"I'll cover the drink," said Hanrahan. "Me and Doyle Murphy."
"Doyle…? The guy from Galway? Whatever happened to him?" asked Briggs, looking up at Bill Nicholson over the bar.
"He went back to Australia," said Hanrahan, rising. He fished a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and dropped it on the table. "I'm walking you home, first date or no, and I promise not to kiss you or get in your jockey shorts."
Nestor Briggs shrugged and allowed himself to be led toward the door.
"Hanrahan," Applegate shouted. "You're Irish. You'll know this one. When you get Briggs home, come back and we'll settle this."
Johnny Cash was walking the line with his eyes wide open. The stein of Coors on tap bubbled on the table, untouched, as the doors of the Blue Parrot closed behind Hanrahan and the weaving Nestor Briggs.
The rain had slowed to near mist.
Somewhere nearby a lonely dog was waiting.
When Mothers Dream
"You know, Gregor," Wanda Skutnik said to her son as she sat in her favorite chair and tried to talk over Jenny Jones. "Those things on the things."
She held out her hand and moved it about as if she had developed a regional palsy.
"I don't know, Ma," George said.
"Oh," Wanda said in exasperation, trying to find the right words. "The ones my sister gave me when she came in… nineteen and eighty-two."
"The coasters? Little round things with flowers on them?"
Wanda nodded, relieved.
"You gave them to Mr. and Mrs. Karawan for Christmas, before I went back… Look, Ma, I want to talk about Seattle again."
"I know," Wanda said, sitting up, eyes not leaving the television screen, where Jenny was arguing with a fat, bearded man who had a wife and a mistress who used to be a man.
"Look, Ma."
She held up her hand. "I know what I was trying to think of before the little round things. A mouse."
"Ma, we don't have any mice."
"Not the animals," she said, shaking her head at her son's denseness. "The ones on the typewriters with the screens."
"You mean the mouse on the computer?" asked George.
"Yes," she said, relieved. "If you have more than one mouse, is it mouses or mice?"
"Why would anyone have more?"
"If you sold them you would have more," she said patiently. "If you were the person at the computer store who sold them and you had to order more."
"I don't know," said George. "I don't know what you'd call them."
George Patniks was defeated.
He hadn't slept well last night Dreams, fears, and shadows. He had gotten up a little after four, taken a shower, gotten on some reasonably clean sweats, and gone back to the painting. By a few minutes before eight, when he heard his mother's feet shuffling across the floor above him, George finished the painting. He stepped back and examined it, waiting for the release he wanted.
The woman was vivid now, her face pleading with horror, and the robed figure above her, knife in hand, was looking out of the canvas as if he had discovered the painter. Harvey Rozier's face was as vivid as his wife's. The white-white of the kitchen hi the painting contrasted with the deep pool of dark blood on the terrazzo floor. Things were reflected hi the blood, dark, grinning things only suggested by light and shadow. And in the midst of the blood sat George's toolbox, mundane, out of place, inappropriate for the horror depicted.
It was probably the best work George Patniks had ever done, but he'd never be able to show it. He didn't want to show it. He wanted to take the image from his memory and banish it to the canvas.
Should he have jumped out and gone for Rozier, tried to save the woman? He had been surprised, hypnotized, as if watching a horror movie suddenly thrown up on his ceiling hi the middle of the night. Even if he had jumped out, George had reasoned as he looked at his painting, the woman was nearly dead already, wasn't she? And the floor was covered with blood. George would have slipped and Rozier would have been all over him. George shuddered. That picture was clear and sudden. He hoped he didn't have to paint it. Wait, Rozier had a knife and Rozier was in better shape and outweighed George. George had done all he could do. He had saved himself.
But the phone. George had cut the phone line. Dana Rozier had gone for the phone, her last chance, and had gotten nothing. Rozier had been through the door and had attacked her within seconds, but would those seconds on the phone been enough for her to call 911 and simply say, "My husband's killing me"?
"You should take a shower, Gregor," Wanda said.
"I already took one," he answered, looking at himself and realizing that he was, once again, covered in paint. "Ma, I want to pack today and go to Seattle for that art fair. You don't want to come, OK. I'll call Tommy. He and Sissy can look in on you, maybe stay awhile."
The doorbell rang.
George's hands clutched the arms of the chair, knuckles and hands white under dabs of blue and red paint "The mistress is better looking than the wife," Wanda said, looking at the television screen and clearly not hearing the doorbell. "And she ain't even a woman. I see that all the time."
The doorbell rang again.
This time she heard it.
"Gregor, the door. It's ringing,'' she said, looking at her son. "Gregor, are you OK? Get the door. It's probably Mrs. Vivlachki or someone."
The doorbell rang again and George got up. His mother was right He couldn't go through mis every time the doorbell rang. Rozier couldn't have found him this quickly. Rozier would probably never find him, especially if he moved to Seattle for awhile. He'd have to tell his latest parole officer, but…
The doorbell rang once more.
> George shuffled past his mother and into the little hallway with the tiny faded fringe rug. George took a deep breath and opened the door.
The rain had stopped but the dark skies suggested that it was only a temporary halt.
Before him stood a man about George's size, maybe sixty-five or older, curly white hair and a little white mustache. The man looked weary and bored, and George knew with certainty that the man was a cop.
"Gregor Eupatniaks?" asked Lieberman.
"Yes, but my legal name is George, George Patniks."
Lieberman was wearing an open raincoat over his brown jacket and a tie he had gotten for his birthday from Barry and Melisa. The tie depicted little brown World War I airplanes circling purple clouds against a dark blue background.
"Name's Lieberman. I'm a detective with the Clark Street Station in Rogers Park. I think you know the neighborhood."
Lieberman took out his wallet and showed his ID card.
"Yes," said George.
"Can I come in?" asked Lieberman.
"My mother's watching TV. She gets upset cops come around. You know?"
"We can get in my car, go for a coffee," offered Lieberman reasonably.
"OK, sure," Patniks said. "Let me just tell my mother."
Lieberman nodded and stepped into the house.
"I hear you're a painter," Lieberman said.
"Yeah."
"I like painting. Things that look real. Is that the way you paint or do you do things that don't look like anything?"
"My paintings look like things," George said nervously.
"I'd like to see them," said Lieberman.
This was a nightmare. Not the one George had anticipated, but a nightmare. You go on a job and suddenly a man is murdering his wife. You hear the doorbell ring and there's a cop wanting to look at the painting you did of the guy who killed his wife. Nightmare. George's legs went weak.
"Maybe sometime. I'll tell my mother," he said.
From the hallway Lieberman watched the man move to a heavy woman planted in front of a Sony television set.
George leaned over and said, "I'm going out for a half hour or so. This man wants to talk to me."
Wanda Skutnik turned heavily in her chair without turning her neck. The chair creaked. Jenny Jones was shouting, "Wait a minute. Wait a minute."
"OK if I change my shirt, pants-just take a minute?" George asked.
Lieberman nodded and George hurried for the door that led down to his room.
"You're a police," Wanda said.
"Yes."
"You are old for police," she observed.
"I just look old," Lieberman said. "The job does it to you."
"Mrs. Maniaks's nephew, Stan. He was a policeman. You knew him?"
"Don't think so," said Lieberman.
"He took money from the stores on Division. And then he wasn't a policeman."
The woman nodded and Lieberman asked, "Is there a way to the street from George's room?"
"Door," she said. "Stand by the window over there and you can see it, but George isn't going to run away."
Lieberman moved to the window and looked out.
A commercial came on. A woman was wild with enthusiasm for the Home Shopping Network.
"You can get some good buys on Home Shopping," Wanda said. '1 got a clock that looks like a soldier, alarm clock. Screams at you, 'Get up. Rise and shine.' "
"Sounds cute," said Lieberman.
"What?"
"Sounds cute," Lieberman repeated loudly.
"Gave it to one of my sons, Tommy, for last Christmas. You think they have Home Shopping in Seattle?"
"Probably," said Lieberman.
The woman sighed deeply.
"I don't think I want to go to Seattle,'' she said. "My legs, it's far. Who needs travel at my age?"
"You've been thinking about visiting Seattle?" he said.
"Gregor, he's got this vishmite, this thing about going to an art show, fair, something in Seattle. Gregor is an artist, a painter. He had ribbons and one time…"
Her voice trailed off and then she sighed and asked, "What did Gregor do this time?"
Below him through the thin floor, Lieberman could hear George Patniks shuffling around, moving things. What could he be moving?
"I don't know that he did anything," Lieberman said. "I just need some information from him. Night before last. You remember if he was home?"
"Night before…" Wanda Skutnik turned to the television set for inspiration. "Not last night, but… He was home. All night."
"Good," Lieberman said with a smile.
With George Patniks having his own entrance and a hard-of-hearing mother, the woman's information didn't mean much. Lieberman checked his watch. Almost two minutes. He was about to go after Patniks when he heard the sound of footsteps coming up from below. George, now wearing jeans and a neatly ironed white shirt, came through the door. There were still dabs of paint on his forehead and hands.
"Wear a jacket," Wanda said as George moved toward Lieberman.
"I will, Ma," he said, opening a closet and pulling out a zippered blue jacket. "I'll be right back."
"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Lieberman said.
Of the five men whom Harvey Rozier had asked about as he looked through the tapes and books of mug shots, one was dead, one was in the Federal Security Prison in Marion, another had moved to a farm in Tennessee. Lieberman had found one of the two remaining men, Sandoval "Sandy" Borchers, in his apartment on Claremont. Borchers, a born-again Christian, told Lieberman that he worked nights, including the night of the murder, at the Toddle House on Howard Street. A call to the night manager, who had to be awakened by his wife, confirmed that Borchers had been working with the manager and another worker all night, no time away from the restaurant from eight at night till four the next morning. That left George Patniks, who was proving to be a promising prospect.
"You want to know why I'm here?" Lieberman asked as they got into the car parked in front of the house.
"Sure," said George with a shrug.
"You seemed curiously uncurious," said Lieberman. "You want a coffee?"
George shrugged again. Lieberman reached down, removed two Dunkin' Donuts coffees from a bag, and handed one to George.
"Thanks," he said.
The coffee was warm but no longer hot. The two men drank and watched the thin rain that had returned in the last few seconds. Across the street someone peeked through first-floor curtains. All of the houses on the block were small, wooden, and old with little front yards enclosed by low fences.
"You know a man named Rozier?" Lieberman asked.
"No," George answered, looking straight out the window at nothing and shaking his head. "Knew a con named Rozell. That be the guy?"
"No," said Lieberman, pausing to take a sip of tepid coffee. "Your entire life you're sure you've never run into someone named Rozier?"
"Not that I recall. You meet a lot of people."
"You want to know why I'm asking?"
George shrugged to show that he didn't care.
"Your mother says you're planning a trip to Seattle."
"Thinkin' about it."
"What's in Seattle?"
"Art fair. Chance to sell some of my paintings. I do pretty good at paintings. Learned it inside."
Lieberman looked over at the person watching them through the parted curtains across the street.
"Everyone here know you're a con?"
"Most everybody. We've got no neighborhood newspaper. Lot of people couldn't read it if we did," said George.
"What's the name of this fair in Seattle?" asked Lieberman. "My wife's an art lover. Maybe we can fly up for a day or two, see the sights, taste the wares, go to an art show."
A young woman holding a coat over her head with one hand and the hand of a small white-haired boy with the other came out of the house next door. The rain was a little harder now, more than a drizzle. The woman hurried, dragging the boy along and across the stree
t in front of Lieberman's car. The boy's eyes met the detective's. Then mother and child were gone.
"Cute kid," said Lieberman.
"Peter, Peter Wascaboinik," said George, resisting the urge to rub his hands together or play with his ring.
"The art fair, George. We were talking about an art fair in Seattle," said Lieberman. "You were going to give me the name of the fair and maybe a name and number of someone running it."
"Off the top?" George asked, still not meeting Lieberman's eyes. "Who remembers?"
"You got it written down. We can go look," Lieberman said reasonably.
George laughed, afraid his voice would break and give him away.
"What is all this?" he said, finally turning to meet the detective's waiting eyes. "OK, there is no art fair in Seattle. I just want to get away from here for a week or so, pick up a woman. I've got a little saved. Seattle, that's just something I told my mother. And what difference it make if I shack up with a whore in the Loop or go to Seattle? What's it prove one way or the other? What you want from me?"
All said with a combination of pain, indignation, and self-righteousness.
Lieberman kept looking at George Patniks and drinking his coffee.
George blinked first, turned his head forward, hit the dashboard and said, "Damn."
"Woman was found dead night before last," said Lieberman. "Murdered. Mutilated. Good-looking lady before it happened."
"Sorry to hear it," George said, sounding genuinely sorry.
"Her husband said a man came around early part of last week looking for handyman jobs. Man fits your description. You a handyman now, George?"
"No," he said.
"You mind being in a lineup?"
"I never went to no one's house saying I was a handyman. This is nuts."
"Then you won't mind a lineup."
George shrugged and said, "I'm busy."
"An hour. No more. Maybe a little less. You know I can get the papers and have you uptown by this afternoon. You have something to be afraid of, George?"
"Oh, Jesus," George groaned.
Lieberman's thief al-4 Page 11
