He had concluded from the violence and hatred that had reduced his family and people that the meaning of his life was revenge—pure, simple revenge. He had no illusions that acts of violence would change the world or that changing the world was even important. There were always smaller particles of energy, always deeper regions of space, and always older pieces of matter than had been found before.
Stephen Hawking, lolling in a wheelchair and unable to speak, had come up with the theory that black holes did not simply take in and consume all that came over their rim. Hawking had concluded from his calculations that any mass of energy—a small star, an astronaut—entering a black hole would sink and stretch, hit bottom and bounce out of the hole as a particle of compact energy, rejoining the universe. Too abstract. Too distant.
No, revenge was its own payment. Not reward.
He prayed with the others, but his prayers were different. He envisioned his God as a chance coming together of the particles that formed the universe. The ideal state would be for the universe to be stable and, for whatever particle he was, he would be part of it. Chance, will, madness kept clashing with the ideal tranquil universe. Nothing seemed able to change that. It was eternal. The ideal state would never be reached, just as the delicate butterfly gently flapping its wings against a steel ball the size of the earth would never finish its task of returning the ball to the dust of the universe because millions of steel balls existed for the butterfly when it completed its initial task. The trick, he had concluded, was to accept one’s lot as that butterfly resigned to endlessly flapping his wings.
There were seven weapons. There would be six people, though not his people. He had made his pact with the devil. They would walk in and fire at whomever was at worship or meeting. The world would be appalled. Much of the world would hate him even more than they hated him already. Others would consider him and the Mongers heroes. And they would all fear him as they feared the lone mad butterfly that fluttered briefly from the iron ball and flew at the eyes of some leader of state.
The Torah lay in front of him on the table. He rolled it open randomly over the weapons. Oil from the weapons would surely stain the Torah. He didn’t care. His Hebrew was very good. As good as his Arabic, his English, and his German.
He pointed a finger at the text. Genesis 49:27, “Benjamin is a wolf that raveneth; In the morning he devoureth the prey. And at even he divideth the spoil.”
So be it. Benjamin was a realist. Monday, three days, there would be a devouring such as Benjamin never dreamed.
He rolled up the Torah. Then he closed the book, limped to the nearby bookcase, and put it away.
“A strike, a fucking strike. Everything is a strike, Viejo.”
Emiliano “El Perro” Del Sol sat at Lieberman’s side in the box seats fairly close to the Pirates bullpen so he and the Tentaculos could swear at the waiting pitchers, especially any of them unlucky enough to be told to warm up. Only the Hispanic pitchers escaped their grossest language, but they were not immune from attack.
The Tentaculos had all been sitting there, well into the first inning when Lieberman, using the ticket that had been left at his back door, found the box and sat down next to El Perro. Lieberman recognized most of the people in the box. Three of them sat in front of El Perro in the front row. One of them was Piedras, a hulk who had never learned English but knew how to kill with his hands and head. He had left his trademark more than once on a renegade Tentaculo, a rival gang member, or someone, El Perro just didn’t like because of a look or remark interpreted as offensive.
Behind El Perro sat three more Tentaculos. El Chuculo, whose real name was Fernandez, sat directly behind El Perro. It was rumored that El Chuculo carried three knives sharper than the finest razors and that he could move, cut, slice between breaths. It was rumored that a man, woman, or child could die standing in front of El Chuculo without even knowing that blood was gushing from his or her neck.
El Perro looked at Lieberman and did something that must have been a grin. It was hard to tell. El Perro was not yet thirty. His face was a map of wild scars leading to dead ends. A scar from who knows what battle ran from his right eye down across his nose to just below the left side of his mouth. His nose was rough; red, and broken so many times that there was little bone, no cartilage. El Perro, when lost in thought, played with his nose, flattening it with his thumb, pushing it to one side absentmindedly. His teeth were white but uneven except for the sharp eye teeth, which looked as if they belonged on a vampire. Emiliano’s black hair was brushed straight back. He thought it made him look like Pat Riley, the old New York Knicks coach or like Kurt Russell in Tequila Sunrise, one of his favorite movies.
Tonight, he wore a pair of gray designer slacks, an off-white shirt and a black silk zippered jacket. The rest of the gang wore their colors, blue satin jackets with a picture of an octopus on the back. The octopus had been designed and drawn by Emiliano himself. He had talent. He was also very crazy.
“They’re calling more strikes because they want to make the games faster,” Lieberman said, accepting some popcorn from El Perro who nodded his head in understanding.
“You’re right,” he said. “Since the strike, everyone is moving like they just woke up. You know?”
“I know,” said Lieberman, who loved Wrigley Field. He sometimes took off a few hours in the afternoon to pick up a single seat and watch anything from three or four innings to a whole game. Wrigley Field and reading in the bathtub were his meditations. As time passed, the hot baths had less and less effect. He had grown impatient with them unless he was also reading and they had done nothing for his chronic insomnia.
“Sammy Sosa,” said one of the Tentaculos in front of them. El Perro reached over and hit the young man who had spoken hard in the head with an open hand.
“I know it’s Sammy Sosa, for Chris’ fuckin’ sake,” said El Perro. “Sammy’s on a streak. We shut up when Sammy bats.”
Fans screamed and talked. Vendors hawked beer, popcorn, snow cones. The Tentaculos all went silent. The first pitch came. The ball went past Sosa. The umpire held out his hand as if pointing directly at the Tentaculos.
“See, a strike,” said Emiliano softly. “That ball was outside.”
Sosa hit the next pitch into center field just over the head of the shortstop. Sosa stopped at first.
“Hey,” Emiliano said with a grin.
“I’ve got something for you,” said Lieberman, pulling a thick package out of his jacket pocket. He handed the package to El Perro who opened it and began shuffling through the cards inside.
“Every Hispanic who ever played for the Cubs,” Lieberman said.
El Perro tapped Piedras on the shoulder and handed him the package.
“Be careful with those,” he said. “You check. See if everyone is in there. I trust you, Viejo, but it doesn’t hurt to check twice.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” said Lieberman.
The next batter struck out, stranding Sosa on first.
“Big guy like Grace,” said El Perro, “you’d think he’d hit home runs. I hear he has some movie star girlfriend.”
Lieberman shrugged. El Perro handed him a cup of beer. Lieberman took it and drank. Lieberman didn’t like beer very much.
“Manny is watching your house,” El Perro said. “He’s a good man. He fucks up, I’ll cut off his ear. I told him you were special. Manny doesn’t look Mexican. He looks like that guy on television with the wrenches. Cops see a Mexican watching a Korean in your neighborhood, they’ll haul both their asses in.”
“Thanks,” said Lieberman, taking a drink and watching the first Pirate batter defy the new odds by drawing a walk.
“I lost track, Viejo. Who owes who?”
“I’d say we’re about even,” said Lieberman, watching the Pirate runner take a big lead-off.
“Maybe,” said El Perro.
The gang leader clearly liked the old cop at his side, liked the old cop’s reputation in the community for being willing t
o get the law a little dirty to get what he wanted. Lieberman even had the reputation in El Perro’s community of being a little violent and crazy when he was crossed. El Perro had never witnessed this, but he had talked to others who had.
Lieberman had, more than once, gotten a Tentaculo out of trouble for everything from drug dealing to the murder of a drug dealer. In return, El Perro had passed on information and on at least one occasion, assisted someone who had crossed Lieberman into jumping from the roof of a hospital. El Perro never knew why or how the man had crossed Lieberman. He didn’t care.
“You know any of these Koreans?” asked Lieberman.
El Perro shrugged and shouted, “Pick off the son-of-a-bitch.”
“They call themselves something I can’t pronounce in Korean,” said Lieberman.
El Perro held up his cup of beer without turning his eyes from the game and said, “The Protectors,” drinking. “They stay on the North Side, out of our way, pick on their own people. Boss is a guy who thinks he’s Clint Eastwood or something. Slant wears sunglasses, long coat. Name is Kim.”
“Kim threatened to kill my family if I keep trying to stop him from robbing his people,” said Lieberman.
El Perro shrugged and shouted, “He’s taking off for second. He’s stealing second. Did I tell him or did I tell him?”
“You told him.”
“So, it’s easy, Viejo. You blow Kim away.”
“I’d have to blow them all away, Emiliano,” Lieberman said. “You know that.”
“I’d like to watch that,” said El Perro with a mangled grin.
“By the time I blew them away, they’d probably get to my family,” said Lieberman, who had no intention of killing a gang of up to twenty Koreans.
“And your buddies, your pals, your guys in the blue suits?”
“Can’t protect us forever,” said Lieberman.
“What do you want me to do about it?” asked El Perro. “Start a war?”
“Go to this guy and tell him to back away from my family for good,” said Lieberman, downing what was left of his beer. “I’m going to keep coming after him, but my family is out no matter what happens. Can you do this?”
El Perro laughed. “These guys don’t want a war with the Tentaculos,” El Perro said, watching an infield pop-up to Dunston. “I’ll talk to Kim.”
“Thanks,” said Lieberman, wanting to leave but knowing that he had to wait out the game till El Perro decided he had enough.
“You owe me big, Viejo,” El Perro said.
“I owe you big,” Lieberman agreed.
“You know how straight I’m trying to go?”
Lieberman knew that the Tentaculos had taken over small businesses in their near North Side neighborhood and even opened their own bingo parlor, but they still dealt in drugs, stolen cars, and death.
“I know,” said Lieberman.
“Enjoy the game,” El Perro said, patting Lieberman on the shoulder.
Lieberman nodded.
“You didn’t ask me something,” El Perro said as the inning ended with a weak ground ball.
“What?”
“Who busted up your churches,” said Emiliano.
“You know?”
“I could ask questions,” said El Perro. “Maybe. Maybe somebody who don’t like Arabs or maybe even Jews like I do shot some guys in Hyde Park. They got big guns in this. You can’t hide big firepower on the streets. Somebody knows. I’ll see.”
They sat through the entire game. The Cubs won 3-1. El Perro was happy. He stood up and so did Lieberman.
“We’re still in first,” El Perro said, slapping the head of a young man in front of him and showing a big smile.
Actually, the Cubs were tied for first with Cincinnati, but Lieberman had no intention of correcting Del Sol.
“You go first,” El Perro said.
Lieberman nodded and stepped into the concrete aisle.
EIGHT
HANRAHAN KNOCKED AT THE door. There had been a locked door downstairs in the lobby, but the detectives had not rung the bell of the apartment. Lieberman opened the lower lobby door with his credit card while Hanrahan looked out the window, admiring a dirty six-flat across the street.
“In,” said Lieberman.
Hanrahan had turned and the two had walked up the carpeted stairs of the apartment building. The hallway was well lighted and, though the dark green carpeting was well worn, it was clean.
Something or someone stirred inside the apartment. Hanrahan knocked again.
The door came open and there stood the young woman, a white bandage taped just behind her left ear, a clotted cut below her nose to the top of her lip. She wore jeans and a loose-fitting blue-and-green sweater. In her hand, she held a pistol aimed at Lieberman’s face.
“We’re the police,” Hanrahan said reaching toward his pocket to get his wallet and badge …
Hanrahan stopped and put his hand back at his side.
“You were at the rally,” Jara Mohammed said to Lieberman.
“Yes.”
“You’re a Jew,” she said.
“Yes,” said Lieberman.
“I don’t want to talk to either one of you,” she said.
“We’re here to talk to you,” said Lieberman. “If you don’t want to talk, we’ll arrest you and take you back to our station, all the way north.”
“Arrest me? For being beaten up by Jewish fanatics?” she asked.
“For criminal trespass, destruction of property, desecration of a house of worship, and probably four or five other things the city lawyers can come up with,” said Hanrahan. “And we can now add resisting arrest and threatening an officer with a weapon.”
“Unless you want to put the gun away now,” said Lieberman, “invite us in, and answer some questions.”
“No,” she said. “You cannot come in. You will have to arrest me.” She lowered the gun to her side. “I have a permit. This is a dangerous neighborhood, especially for a woman. Would you like to see the permit?”
“No,” said Lieberman. “But we’d like you to see a photograph.”
He reached slowly for his inner jacket pocket.
“Open the jacket all the way,” she said, holding up the pistol again.
Lieberman opened his jacket showing his gun and holster. He reached slowly into the inner jacket pocket opposite the weapon and pulled out a photograph. He handed the photograph to the young woman.
She held the gun steady and glanced at the photograph.
“So,” she said. “You have a photograph of me.”
“And the cooperation of the person who took the photograph of you coming out of Temple Mir Shavot just after it was torn apart last night,” said Lieberman. “That person is ready to testify to the time and date the photograph was taken and it’s a little hard for you to deny that you’re standing in front of the temple door. The dark letters on the glass door are pretty grainy, but there’s no doubt about where it is. And we’d like to know who that blurred bald man running past you might be.”
“This is a police trick, a Jewish police trick, a fake, a fraud,” she said. “I deny your accusation.”
“Then,” said Hanrahan, “we’ll take you into custody for questioning in connection with the charges I’ve already stated plus possible knowledge of and complicity in the murder of three Arab students no more than four blocks from here.”
“One of those students was a very active member of your group,” said Lieberman. “Even looked a little like that blurred bald man in this picture.”
“I will put the gun away but you will have to carry me,” she said, placing the weapon back at her side.
“Resisting arrest,” said Lieberman. “There isn’t anyone out there to see you being carried, but … I’m afraid that’ll have to be my partner’s job.”
“Anyone here with you?” asked Hanrahan.
She didn’t answer.
“So,” said Lieberman. “What’ll it be? You invite us in to talk or we carry you out?”
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She thought for several seconds and stepped back, opening the door wide enough for the detectives to step in. She certainly did not bother to hide the look of hatred she directed at both of them.
“Put the weapon back wherever you keep it,” said Hanrahan, pushing the door closed behind him and looking around, particularly at the two closed doors across the surprisingly large and oddly furnished room. A couch and several chairs sat in a circle in one corner near the windows facing the street. The rest of the room was taken by a large table, larger than a dining room table and somewhat scarred. Folding chairs were arranged neatly at the table with more such chairs stacked against a wall next to a small rolltop desk.
Hanrahan headed for the doors across the room, took out his gun and pushed open each one in spite of Jara Mohammed’s protests.
“Just put the weapon away,” Lieberman said softly.
“No one here,” said Hanrahan, putting his gun away. “Bedrooms. One has a computer and a copy machine.”
The young woman moved to the desk, opened it, put her gun inside and locked it, putting the key in her pocket.
“Ask your questions, then leave,” she said. “Or arrest me.”
Her back was to the desk with her hands resting on it behind her. Hanrahan thought she was very pretty, small breasts, scratch on her face, patch of white and all. He liked long, dark hair.
“We’re not here for a fight,” said Lieberman.
“Can we sit?” asked Hanrahan.
Jara nodded indifferently. Both policemen sat. The big one pulled out a chair and sat at the table where he could see both her and the front door. The Jew sat on the couch on the other side of the room.
“How is your head?” Lieberman asked.
“Shaved patch, seven stitches. Would you like to see?” she asked defiantly, reaching toward her bandage. “Would you like to see what your Zionist animals did?”
“I just want to know how you’re feeling,” said Lieberman. “I have a daughter a little older than you. I wouldn’t want to see her hurt in a brawl. You remind me of her.”
“Of a Jewish daughter?” asked Jara with a disbelieving smile.
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