Lieberman's Law

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Lisa’s friend,” Hanrahan asked immediately.

  “They’re married,” said Abe.

  “You were right,” said Hanrahan. “First impressions?”

  “I like him,” said Lieberman with a shrug looking at the cup of coffee in front of him, afraid to drink it but already feeling the first stages of the agony of withdrawal which led him to ask, “Michael?”

  “Holding his own,” said Hanrahan sitting.

  “Good, I like Michael. You want this cup of coffee? Just poured it. Still hot. Haven’t touched it. Stomach’s acting up.”

  “Sure,” said Hanrahan, reaching over to accept the cup.

  “How did the kids take it?” Hanrahan asked.

  “Barry was OK,” said Lieberman. “Asked him if he liked the Cubs. If he played basketball, baseball.”

  “Does he?” Hanrahan asked.

  “A little, not enough to be very impressive, at least according to my new son-in-law. Seems to be good for Lisa so far. Melisa reminded all present that Todd was her daddy. No one contradicted her. Lisa handled it reasonably well. Alexander said he understood everyone’s discomfort if not its degree.”

  “So far, so good,” said. Hanrahan.

  “He says he’s considering turning Jewish,” said Lieberman. “Speaks Hebrew. Spent almost two years in Israel. I can’t speak Hebrew. Bess can’t speak it.”

  “Something you’re not saying, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan.

  “Maish,” Lieberman said, shaking his head. “A black man killed David. I think it may be a problem with Maish. We’ll see. Dr. Marvin Alexander will have the opportunity to meet the entire family and Rabbi Wass tomorrow night. You’re invited. So is Michael. I advise you to stay away.”

  “We may come,” said Hanrahan, drinking the coffee and ignoring the advice.

  The call came at four in the afternoon. Before Pig Sticker even told them, they both knew. The time was right. It was to be the board meeting of the African Muslim Church, Martin Abdul, meeting to start at 5:30 P.M. at the mosque in plain sight from the Dan Ryan just south of the Loop.

  “Six of us,” Pig Sticker whispered. “Automatic weapons. Uzis. We’ve got wigs, little Jew hats. I don’t know where we’re going, but Berk said we had some niggers who needed killing. All I got for you.”

  He hung up.

  “They’ve got some niggers to kill,” said Hanrahan, hanging up the phone and standing up.

  Lieberman stood too. There were things to be done very quickly and plans to be confirmed.

  It was Ibraham Said’s job to call Martin Abdul. Said did not consider Abdul’s people true Muslims. Fortunately, that was not an issue that need come up now. Said got through to Abdul via a highly suspicious man who answered the phone after ten rings. Abdul said in his famous, or infamous, deep voice that he was well aware of who Ibraham Said was, well aware that he was a police officer, well aware that he was a devout Muslim, well aware that he had a reputation for honesty. It was a bit surprising to both men that they had not spoken to each other before this moment.

  Said went through brief amenities and said, “We have reason to believe that a small group of neo-Nazis disguised as Jews and carrying Uzis intend to crash into your board meeting and murder you, blaming it on the Jews.”

  “I knew of the possibility. A good plan,” Martin Abdul said calmly. “Murder me and fifteen or more of their black enemies, blame the Jews, start a race war, and stand back to watch the results.”

  “Precisely,” said Said.

  “I assume you know that with your warning we are quite capable of protecting ourselves, of surprising these enemies, of killing them within our walls in self-defense,” said Abdul.

  “I know,” said Said.

  “We would welcome the opportunity,” said Abdul.

  “I know,” said Said.

  “But you have something else in mind,” said Martin Abdul.

  “I do. We do,” said Said. “We wish to place a SWAT team inside your mosque with some police officers. We wish to surprise the assassins, take them in the act of attempted murder, perhaps get them to reveal those who support them. A link to information about neo-Nazi and other racist groups and possible statements of crimes they have committed would be more valuable than simply killing them, though I understand what you would gain psychologically by protecting yourselves. I believe you would gain more politically, however, by allowing us to trap the intruders. If you do not agree, we will take them outside your mosque and have more difficulty with indictments for attempted assassination.”

  “The opportunity to gain national publicity and sympathy for our cause will be very valuable in either case,” said Abdul.

  “It would appear so,” said Said.

  “Then come. And bring your people. I plan to go ahead with our meeting, inside of which will be four heavily armed men who will be prepared to act if you fail. I want no charges brought against my men, who have permits for their weapons. I want no charges brought if they are forced to protect us.”

  “You have my word,” said Said.

  “I hear that your word is good. Salaam Alechem.”

  “Alechem Salaam,” said Said, hanging up the phone and looking at the people assembled in the squad room.

  Kearney looked at Special Agent Triplett of the FBI, who nodded his approval. And the plan went into action.

  Charles Kenneth Leary sat in the rear of the car Fallon was driving. Berk sat next to Fallon in the front seat. Leary sat in the center of the back seat flanked by two young men who did not look appreciably different from him. Each had a wig and little cap on his lap. Each had an Uzi between his legs. It was not a weapon that any of them was particularly familiar with, but the Arab, Massad, who looked like death, had demonstrated how easy it was to use the weapon. He also said that in the confined space of a boardroom, five Uzis firing at the same time would need no great accuracy; just pulling back the trigger and spraying would take care of business.

  The five in this car would do the killing.

  The car behind was being driven by Massad, who Berk had decided would not join in the massacre. Massad had protested, but Berk had said given his condition, he would be a liability. He was wounded. When the killing was over, Massad could enter the boardroom and have the pleasure of placing the stolen Torah in the center of the table of dead niggers.

  Massad, now full of painkillers, was really given no choice. He had turned over the weapons, demonstrated them, and barely had the energy to get to the car Berk had told him to drive. The blue velvet Torah lay on the seat next to Massad. He had handled it with care and in spite of himself admired the object and felt that something sacred did live within it. The scroll, after all, was not inconsistent with his own religion.

  He drove behind the other car, fighting to stay alert, awake. His shoulder ached, a dull pain. The old Shultz woman who was dying of cancer had done a remarkable job. The bleeding had stopped. He should, of course, see a doctor, go to a hospital. He was well aware of the dangers of infection, the possibility that internal, permanent damage had been done, but that would have to wait. It might have to wait forever. Though there was little religion left in him, he told himself that if it was the will of Allah that he should die, then it would be so. Others would soon be dying too.

  The two cars drove within the speed limit. The sun was out. They had hoped for rain, but that couldn’t be helped. It took them almost forty minutes to get to the mosque. They parked next to the iron mesh fence across the street. Beyond the fence was a grassy hill that went down sharply to the expressway, where cars were jammed but moving in Monday rush hour, the start of the evening traffic rush. The Mongers had purposely avoided the expressway and its possible delays.

  There was time. Fallon stuffed the keys to the car in the space behind the driver side cushion and the men in the first car got out, wigs and caps already on their heads in case someone appeared on the street. The Uzis were held discreetly at their sides. Except for Muslims coming to the mosque early the street
was not in great use, and the mosque, the adjacent headquarters building, and offices took up most of the remaining street. On the block to the south was an empty lot and to the north was an abandoned ironworks. Martin Abdul had made a fair bid for the property and was now waiting for an answer. He expected it to be affirmative. He planned to build a school on the site, a large building, accredited for grades from kindergarten up to as high as he could obtain official certification. African-American children of members would get the best secular and religious education. There would be a big campaign. There would be no tuition or fees and lunches would be free. They would learn the basics and they would learn the truth of the world, including who should be hated and why.

  Massad watched the five armed men move across the street looking both ways. They moved to the large door up twelve stone steps. The door was ornate. It was always open to worshipers. The men who burst in were not worshipers. Berk knew the layout of the mosque. He had paid a black junkie forty dollars for it and paid another junkie fifty dollars for his version of the interior layout of the mosque. The two junkies had posed as potential converts and had been welcomed, shown the mosque, and directed toward the drug rehabilitation room in the next building. Both versions of the layout of the mosque coincided.

  The first room was more than a room. It was a huge domed space with colors beaming down from the richly colored glass in the dome. There were no chairs or pews in the room, just a floor tiled in a massive and beautiful mosaic with white as the dominant color and shapes suggesting the moon, stars, and planets.

  The five men moved to the door on the right and opened it. They were in a long corridor with doors on either side. The boardroom was directly ahead of them. All five men wore soft-soled shoes instead of their usual boots. Berk was in back, Fallon in front, single file. In front of the boardroom door, they would line up side by side. Fallon was about ten feet from the door when the doors on both sides of the corridor opened and men began springing out, more than a dozen, rifles at the ready, each man wearing a cap and flack jacket indicating that they were a SWAT team. Two men aiming directly at each of the lined up Mongers.

  “Drop the weapons,” one of the SWAT men said. “Now.”

  One thing that Charles Kenneth Leary had decided was that when this moment came he did not want to be the first to put down his weapon. Fallon saved him from that, not only lowering his Uzi but letting it drop to the floor and putting his hands behind his head. Pig Sticker immediately did the same. Berk was last, at the end of the line nearest the door they had come through to get into the corridor. He dropped his weapon and ran for the open door. Two bullets were fired. Neither hit Berk, who threw the heavy doors closed behind him. Another bullet thudded into the wood near his hand as he turned the bolt. The men behind the door could get a key from Martin Abdul but that would take them half a minute, maybe longer by the time they actually got the heavy door open.

  Betrayed. No doubt. No other answer. But no time to think about it now. Berk ran for the front door of the mosque, opened it and ran into the street, wondering if they had thought to cover the exit. No policeman or woman was there with a gun. Berk ran for his car glancing at Massad in the car behind, but not pausing.

  There was a Mauser under the seat of the car. Berk was going to need it if he got away. He had already decided that if he were pursued and surrounded, he would give up. He looked in the rearview mirror as he screeched away. At that time, a car pulled out from what must have been the driveway on the other side of the headquarters building.

  Massad was confused, fighting delirium, not certain of why Berk had come out alone and was fleeing. Something had gone wrong. Massad started his car, seeing Berk make a dangerous tire-squealing left turn at the next corner. Just as Massad started, another car pulled out behind him, a flashing light on top. Massad pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

  Lieberman was in the driver’s seat. The order from Kearney through the FBI was that they should stay back. This was going to be an FBI bust in cooperation with the Chicago police. The Clark Street Station detectives were now officially out of what was sure to be a front page, TV news lead-in story. That wasn’t necessarily bad. What was bad was that from where they sat in their car, they saw Berk dash from the mosque and jump in the car. A moment later, Massad’s car, parked directly behind Berk’s, took off as if it were going for a new acceleration record.

  “Which one?” Hanrahan said, since the second car was going straight and the other had turned.

  “The one we can see,” said Lieberman. “We’ve got the ID on Berk. It’s the other fellow who didn’t go in who has me worried. Besides, I think we can catch him.”

  “Drive away, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan.

  Mr. Grits was packed. He was watching the news. It was unlikely that anything would come on till ten, not even a bulletin, but it might. He checked his watch. A little after eight. He’d give it ten more minutes and then go out and call Berk from a mall phone. He’d browse for a few minutes, put something expensive on the counter, and ask if he could use the store phone, local call, very quick to ask his wife about the purchase. He wouldn’t be turned down. If all had gone well, Berk would be at the gas station on Touhy and Sheridan waiting in front of the outdoor pay phone.

  There was a knock at the door. Mr. Grits placed his gun between the pillows of the small hotel sofa. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Plumber,” came a bored voice. “Leak. Bad. Both floors up. Checking lines.”

  Mr. Grits got up, walked over to the door, looked through the peephole, saw an engineer’s cap, and opened the door. Berk burst in.

  “Surprise, Mr. Grits,” he said, taking off his cap and pointing his Mauser at the well-dressed man.

  “This is not a good idea, Mr. Berk,” Grits said sadly.

  “Aren’t you going to ask how I found you?” Berk said.

  “Later,” said Grits calmly. “I have your money. I was going to deliver it as promised. I have exactly eleven hundred and twenty dollars beyond that. Are you risking your life for an extra eleven hundred and twenty dollars, Mr. Berk?”

  “Lift the jacket,” said Berk. “In fact, take it off slow.”

  Mr. Grits took off his jacket. He wasn’t wearing a weapon, at least not one Berk could see.

  “Hands against the wall, spread eagle.”

  Mr. Grits calmly complied and Berk patted him down. He was clean. Berk lifted the eleven hundred from the wallet. He left twenty dollars and the credit cards and checked the driver’s license.

  “Luckenbill,” said Berk. “Harold Luckenbill. That your real name?”

  “No,” said Mr. Grits, pushing away from the wall and moving to the sofa. He offered his guest the armchair in the corner. Berk took it, Mauser still in his hand.

  “You’re a piece of work, Mr. Grits,” Berk said, shaking his head.

  “You’re not here because you distrust me,” Mr. Grits said. “You’re here because you’ve failed and you know you will not be paid.”

  “We were set up,” Berk agreed. “I’m here to take that money from you.”

  “And then kill me?” asked Grits.

  “No,” said Berk. “You dead, the money gone, the job a bust? No. Your friends will figure me right away. Killing you won’t help. Doesn’t mean I won’t if you’re not cooperative.”

  Mr. Grits smiled confidently, though he was beginning to feel his own fear, a fear almost equal to that of the piece of trash across from him. He would have to call his own people as soon as possible, tell them that the plan had gone wrong. It had happened before, but not to Mr. Grits and not to anyone in the link at this level, not a dispatcher. But Mr. Grits smiled confidently. He would not be physically punished, simply given an unofficial demotion. He had worked hard for his present position and now this creature across from him had ruined it. Mr. Grits kept smiling as he said, “On the table, in the briefcase, just as I promised you.”

  Berk got up, still watching Mr. Grits, who crossed his legs and uncreased his pants as Berk
tried to do a quick count of the money. The television was going, a nondistraction.

  “There aren’t many places you can hide where we can’t find you,” said Mr. Grits calmly.

  “I’ll just have to try,” said Berk. “I don’t see any choice, do you? And with the money you already gave me and this briefcase full, I should be able to get pretty far away.”

  “Not sufficiently far,” said Mr. Grits. “What now?”

  “Like I said, I tie you up, gag you, and get as far away as fast as I can,” said Berk. “I’m a rich man. Life’s full of fuckin’ little ironies, you know?”

  “I know,” said Mr. Grits, lifting his weapon from between the cushions of the sofa.

  Berk’s gun was only loosely aimed in Mr. Grits’s direction. He didn’t get off a shot. Four silenced bullets struck Berk before he could shoot and, fortunately for Mr. Grits, the dying Berk’s finger did not tighten around the trigger. Two shots had hit Berk in the face. One to the right side of his nose. The other on a spot just above his right eye. The other two were body shots aimed at and entering the heart. Berk went down hard.

  Mr. Grits got up with a sigh, checked to be sure Berk was dead, and then looked at the blood. He was in a hotel room with a man he had just shot. People from the hotel had seen him. Not often, not clearly, but they had seen him and might be able to identify him from a photograph. Mr. Grits had been in situations not unlike this in the past. He thought he had risen above it. Now he was back. He put his weapon down on the sofa, went to the door, locked it behind him and put on the “Do Not Disturb” sign. He had a very difficult call to make after which he would have to return to this room, clean up the mess, decide which of several ways to get Berk’s body out of the hotel and into the trunk of Mr. Grits’s rented car, without leaving traces of blood. The process would require some purchases. The whole task would be thankless.