Lieberman's thief al-4

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Satisfied, Lonny took the gun from his pocket and leveled it at the man.

  "I have a wife, a mother, and three small children," the man said, as he had said the last two times he was robbed.

  "I ain't no widow maker," Lonny said. "Just put bills on the table, fast All the bills, under the tray too, and don't go pushing no buttons or buzzers or that shit, you understand?"

  "Yes," the man said and began removing bills and laying them on the counter.

  Gun in his left hand leveled at the frightened man, Lonny scooped bills and shoved them into his jacket pockets.

  "You know who I am?"

  "No," said the man.

  "Good," said Lonny. "We keep it that way. You wait five minutes before you call the cops, you hear?"

  "Yes," said the man.

  "And you ever see me again you keep sayin' you don't know me, understand?"

  Lonny was backing toward the door.

  " 'Cause you ever ID me I'll get you or my friends will. You understand?"

  "Yes," the man said again.

  This is easy, and I'm good at it, Lonny thought. I get that car, head for Georgia, and do this again when I need cash. Me and Dalbert and lago should have done this a long time ago.

  He reached behind him for the door, and turned his head to look into the lot to be sure no one was coming. Far away in the hospital lot a man was running through the rain for his car.

  And then Mohammed Achman Izar shot Lonny Wayne and ended Lonny's dream.

  Lonny turned and fired at the storekeeper, but all he hit was the glass front of a dairy cabinet. Mohammed was a much better shot. He'd had more practice.

  Lonny went through the door running, hearing an alarm behind him, dropping bills and hoping they were singles, wondering if there was a bullet in his head. He ran, ducked between cars, shoved the gun back in his pocket. Ran.

  The forest of familiar high-rises, garbage bins, and traffic was a few blocks away. He ran, wondering if he would suddenly fall dead. Lonny panted, breathing hard. He slipped and went down, keeping his hand in his pocket to hold the bulge of bills. And then he was up again, hand to his ear. It came down with blood.

  Lonny touched his scalp and couldn't find a hole.

  "Everyone has a fuckin' gun," he panted, racing for the high-rises, the alarm behind him prodding him to exhaustion, "lago, the doc, even the goddamn Indian."

  He made it. The sound of the alarm behind him grew more faint. He made it. Between two dirt-gardened high-rises, behind an overflowing dumpster. Lonny leaned against a wall where he couldn't be seen, rain pelting, and in the eave of the dumpster he caught his breath and let his weary legs tremble as he counted the bills in his pocket. Two hundred and eighty-three dollars.

  It would have to be enough for Skilly Parker.

  Lonny touched his ear. It was bleeding, the part of it that was left. Lonny held his hand to his ear and looked around. He pressed his soaking sleeve to the wound and forced himself to move. He was alive. He still had a chance. But God, it had suddenly gotten awfully cold in Chicago.

  They would follow him. Harvey Rozier was sure now that the police would follow him. But he would have to get away, have to go to Patniks's house, have to kill him-but more carefully, smarter than what he had done to Dana. He had made Dana's murder too complicated.

  Lieberman was probably sitting outside waiting for him to come out and drive to work. Let him wait. Let him wonder. Harvey moved to the window, where he could see the driveway and street Yes, a car was parked across the street, its motor idling. Exhaust fumes mixing with cold rain and turning to steam. Lieberman.

  Harvey had managed to convince Betty Franklin that she needed to go home and rest. He had assured her with kisses that he loved her and that he had nothing, nothing to do with Dana's death. She believed because she wanted to believe, because it was necessary for her to believe.

  Harvey crossed the bedroom and turned on the television. Images of war and soap operas skittered by, a cartoon about a dog, an old movie. He turned the television set off.

  If Betty didn't believe him, if Betty abandoned him, he would have killed Dana for nothing. Ken had told Harvey that he had no more than six months or a year at best, and Betty had confirmed that one night in a bedroom at the Palmer House. Harvey had wept, and Betty had comforted her lover over the prospect of losing his closest friend, his confidant.

  Rain hit the windows, thudded on the roof. Thunder rattled in the distance.

  Dana was no saint, and their marriage had, at least for the past five years, been for show only. But, he had to admit, Dana had played her part well and she had been rewarded for it. She had never fought with him, had seldom even talked to him, which had been fine with Rozier. They had never discussed divorce. Harvey never could have afforded to pay her what she would have asked even if she had agreed, and he doubted that she would have agreed.

  If he could have told Lieberman, Harvey would have said that it was she, Dana, who had repeatedly and openly been unfaithful, Dana who had picked up his friends, employees, and had even said that she was considering old Ken just to see how he would take the invitation.

  The phone rang.

  Harvey had been reasonably constant in his marriage.

  The phone was still ringing. The answering machine clicked on, but the person calling didn't leave a message.

  It was that suggestion by Dana that had set him thinking about Betty Franklin and the millions she would inherit when Ken died, not to mention the family money she already had.

  Harvey did not believe in eternal life or eternal damnation. Harvey believed that whatever heaven or hell existed, it was on earth and one molded it or was its victim. They would all die. Ken sooner. Betty, perhaps with some subtle help, a little later, and Harvey last of all. If the police didn't catch him, there would be no punishment, onJy reward and the distant prospect of meaningless death.

  The phone rang again. Harvey picked it up.

  "Yes," said Harvey.

  "This is Mr. Edgar, Mr. Rozier. I heard about your grief. I'm very sorry to trouble you now, but I need to pick up all that paperwork I left at your house during my visit the other day. You remember, the file where I caught that big mistake of yours? There's nothing for you to worry about now, but I'm leaving town and need to clear things up before I go."

  Harvey sat and sucked in air.

  "I'm afraid you can't come now," he said, reasonably certain, as his caller obviously was, that the police had tapped the phone.

  "And I'm afraid I have to insist on getting it back before I go. In fact, I can't leave without it," the man said. "I didn't want to just drop by unannounced, so I'm calling you from the phone booth at the Shell station across from the church. I hope you understand."

  "I think so," said Harvey. "I'll do what I can to help you out."

  "Good," the man said, and hung up the phone.

  Harvey moved to the bedroom window again. Lieber-man, or whoever it was, was still out there. Betty would be back with Ken in an hour or two. Harvey had to hurry, had to hurry, and hoped he had understood the man's message.

  Harvey moved to me closet, pulled out his sneakers, an old raincoat, and folded a pair of leather driving gloves into his pocket. Then he went downstairs, through the library, and into the garage. Harvey had removed the red toolbox from the safe and it now sat openly on a shelf next to an aluminum toolbox. Harvey moved around his Lexus, opened the red toolbox, removed the small crowbar, and placed it inside the deep pocket of his raincoat. Then he opened the back door, checking to be sure it wasn't being watched. There was no reason for it to be watched, no reason for the police to think he would be running off, certainly not on foot.

  Harvey pulled his collar up against the rain and hurried across the lawn and through a slight break in the bushes, die same route he had used just two nights ago when he murdered his wife. Through the wild, dead-end growth of trees and bushes, he wound his way, coming out on the cul-de-sac of Camino Real Road.

  He leaped p
uddles and quickstepped down the street to the comer in front of the First Methodist Church. He crossed to the Shell station, looking both ways for Patniks. Nothing. Patniks had mentioned the phone. Harvey dodged through swishing traffic across the street and to the phone booth. The phone was ringing. Harvey picked it up.

  "Hello," he said.

  "I've got a problem, Mr. Rozier," Patniks said. "I've got to run. Cops came, put pressure on me, threatened, said they knew I knew something, offered me deals that were a crock of shit. I played along and went out my bathroom window. They're looking for me, Mr. Rozier, and if they catch me, I'm not going down for your wife's murder."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, whoever you are, but if you know anything about my wife's murder, I think you should turn yourself in."

  "I understand," said George. "But you understand me. I'm gonna have to leave my life behind, my mother, my work. I'm gonna have to break parole and run. How about you come get me? I'll think about turning myself in and talking about what I saw. You think about bringing ten thousand in cash. Animal barn in the Lincoln Park Zoo. Four o'clock. That gives you a few hours to get to the bank."

  "I can't-" Harvey started, but George Patniks had hung up.

  Harvey couldn't go home to get his car. He pulled out a quarter and called the Franklin house. Ken answered.

  "Ken," Harvey said. "I've got to do some thinking. I'm going for a walk in the rain. You and Betty come over, let yourselves in. I'll be back before six."

  "Well," said Franklin, "are you sure you want to be alone? Betty tells me that Liebowitz-"

  "Lieberman," Harvey corrected.

  "Liebowitz, Lieberman-a Jew name. What difference does it make? The man upset Betty, accused you-"

  "He didn't accuse me, Ken," Harvey said. "He was careful not to accuse me. He said others were accusing me."

  "Hearsay, clever," Franklin said with a sigh. "Those people are cunning. I have to deal with them more than you imagine, and they are cunning."

  Harvey kept from responding to Franklin's prejudice. He had heard it before, disagreed with it, and made his disagreement known. Race, religion, belief meant nothing to Harvey Rozier. Everyone was equal. Everyone lived and died and was nothing. In the greater scheme of things, race and belief were small differences, not worth the extension of prejudice, the time and effort, A waste of time. Prejudice was stupid and unproductive.

  "Just let yourselves in," Harvey said. "I'll be back by six. I promise."

  "By six, Harvey," Ken emphasized like a concerned father hearing that his son might be home late from a date.

  Harvey hung up and checked his wallet. A little under four hundred dollars. He called a cab and went into the station to wait.

  He would have the cab drive him to Rush Street From Rush Street he would jog to the zoo. Plenty of time.

  At the zoo he would get George Patniks to go with him through the bushes to Harvey's supposedly parked car where the money and toolbox were in the trunk. In the bushes Harvey would beat George Patniks to death with his own crowbar.

  Harvey didn't want the rain to stop. He wanted it to come down hard. A monsoon would have suited him, something that would keep people indoors and out of the park.

  When the cab pulled into the Shell station, Harvey was outwardly calm, determined. He would keep it simple mis time. Into the bushes, strike, throw the crowbar down a sewer, catch a cab back to the Shell station and home, free.

  It could be done. It had to be done.

  Circles and Confrontations

  Three old men in baseball caps smoking cigars sat on rickety chairs under the awning of Uncle Will's Used Furniture. With nothing else to do but talk about old enemies and watch the rain, they watched Lonny Wayne swaying down the street muttering to himself.

  "That there's a crazy boy," said Herbie McCallister, pointing his wet cigar at Lonny,

  "That there's a street junkie, is all," answered Eddie Jackson. "Ain't you see 'nough of 'em to know? You gettin' shortchanged by the Lord in your old age?"

  "Crazy boy," insisted Herbie as Lonny almost went into the curb.

  "You both blind as snakes," said Little Whitney Styles, a near dwarf with thick glasses. "That boy's bleedin' from the head."

  "No he ain't," said Herbie with contempt.

  "I ain't lyin'. You'll see."

  Lonny stumbled past them, and the three men went silent till he was a good twenty yards away, and even then they whispered.

  "Bleedin' all right," said Eddie Jackson.

  "Dispute ended," said Little Whitney. "Pay up, gents."

  "You a damn fool or what?" asked Herbie. "Ain't no one bet with you."

  "Herbie's right," echoed Eddie Jackson.

  "He's goin' into the Ease Inn, look," said Little Whitney.

  They looked, and Lonny Wayne pushed open the tavern door and staggered in, swallowed by darkness.

  Rain and sweat and maybe a little blood were trickling into Lonny's eyes as he tried to adjust to die near darkness. In the corner over the bar a guy on television was giving baseball scores and saying that games all over the Midwest were being canceled by rain.

  "Man," a voice came from behind the bar. "You know you lost your ear? You're bleedin' all over my floor."

  "Skilly Parker, you here?" Lonny said, making out shapes now, a shape at the bar, two or three shapes in one of the booths near the front.

  Signs for Coors, Bud, and Swedish vodka were lit up over the bar. Photographs of boxers, all autographed, were taped to the mirror behind the bar. John Mogabi, Kid Gavilan, Randy Sandy, Joe Louis. The only one Lonny had heard of was Joe Louis, but he didn't know much about him other than he had been champ and had died crazy thinking the wop gangs were trying to kill him.

  "Skilly," Lonny insisted, feeling heavy and dizzy. The smell of alcohol wasn't helping any.

  "Here," called the bartender, and something hit Lonny.

  He yelped and pulled out his gun.

  "Hey, man, easy," the bartender said. "Just a towel to clean yourself and slow the bleeding. You can put the piece away."

  Lonny could see better now. The bartender, Howard Caroline, who also owned the place, stood behind the bar. At the end of the bar sat Skilly Parker nursing a drink, wearing black pants and a black sweater, his hair konked back like an Uncle Tom. Skilly couldn't have been more than twenty.

  "What's happenin', Lonny my man?" Skilly said brightly.

  Lonny pressed the towel to his ear. First a stab of pain and then warm comfort "I got two hundred eighty-three dollars," said Lonny, walking toward Skilly, the gun at his side.

  "No problem," Skilly said. "I can live with that."

  Lonny was swaying in front of Skilly Parker now.

  "Here's the key. Car's right outside around the corner," Skilly went on, pulling a lone key from his pocket and sliding it down the bar to Lonny, who almost missed it.

  Skilly tamed IBS eyes away from Lonny and examined the list of rain outs on the television.

  "You want your money or you don't?" asked Lonny, confused.

  "Just put it on the bar. Howard'll take out what I owe him and give me the rest. Car's full of gas. Needs oil every hundred fifty miles or about. Papers in the glove compartment."

  "Take your keys and go, boy," Howard said. "Keep the towel."

  Lonny tore bills out of his pocket and dropped them willy-nilly on the counter. He pocketed the key and began backing out of the Ease Inn when an arm came around his neck and he felt something press against his still-good ear.

  "You got one ear left, man," the man behind him said with a Spanish accent "You wanna keep it or you wanna look like the snake boy in the circus?"

  Lonny tried to point his pistol over his shoulder into the face of the man behind him, but something hard and heavy hit his hand and the gun was torn away. In front of Lonny were two men. They were very black and very similar.

  "Hombre," said the older of the two, "don't be an asshole. Put your hands down, keep what you got left of your eyes and your balls
. You know what I'm saying?"

  "Get him out of here," said Howard the bartender.

  "We're goin'," said the man in front of Lonny, the one who had spoken.

  The man behind Lonny holding a knife to his ear reached into Lonny's pocket, pulled out the car key, and threw it to Skilly Parker, who caught it in two hands.

  "Lonny my man," said Skilly. "They didn't give me no choice."

  Lonny Wayne began to cry.

  The weather was with Harvey Rozier. It was raining, raining hard when he pulled the hood of his raincoat over his head and crossed Rush Street Lightning cracked. Thunder roared and Harvey's heart pounded as he put on his leather gloves as he moved and felt die crowbar bounce against his thigh through the raincoat.

  Cabs and cars, their lights on, swished along the road along the west side of Lincoln Park near the zoo. Harvey hurried along, head covered, face in the shadow of his hood.

  He could see the zoo barn up ahead, down the slope, through the trees. He could hear the cows inside mooing at the storm, could already smell the animals as he approached.

  To his left toward Goethe Street just beyond the empty playground was a patch of bushes, not as thick as he had remembered, but they would have to do. Walking along the slope and partly covered by the trees, Harvey eased out the crowbar and carefully wiped it under his raincoat. His leather gloves squeaked against the iron. Rain clapped loudly off the leaves and the top of the barn.

  Harvey moved at an angle to the open barn door toward the children's zoo and glanced back. There was someone in there. Just one person. He had been afraid that a family might have taken refuge from the rain, but the rain had been coming down hard most of the afternoon and anyone who had been trapped by it had taken their chances by now.

  Harvey looked around quickly and hurried to the open barn door. George Patniks stood at the end of the short corridor of cow and horse pens. He stepped away from the nearest pen and put his hands in his pockets.