“I will kill you,” Kim said. “I have vowed. You destroyed my honor, turned me from my family, made my friends desert me, taken my self-respect.”
“Wrong,” Lieberman said, reaching over for Lisa’s untouched cup of coffee. It was still warm. He drank. “You are a really incompetent criminal. My partner and I kept setting you up. Your own people, the ones you were preying on, turned you in. You could have made twice the money working in a factory instead of walking around in suits, ties, and dark glasses with big guns trying to get tribute from Korean businesses.”
“I will kill you,” Kim repeated. “You put me in disgrace. I cannot walk down Devon without people smiling at my dishonor or turning their heads. I am a one-armed parah.”
“You mean ‘pariah,’ ” Lieberman corrected. “You like the Cubs?”
“The Cubs?”
“Baseball,” Abe explained.
“No.” Kim, confused, was trying not to show it.
“Listen, I have family business to take care of and I’d like, if possible, which seems unlikely, to watch the last inning or two of the baseball game. So, I’ve got your gun, which I feel confident is not registered. I don’t want to get my shoes on and take you in for carrying a concealed illegal weapon. I don’t like paperwork and I don’t think it would get you more than a few months in jail if anything. That missing arm is good for at least five percent sympathy. So I’m going to let you walk out of that door. If you want a job out West, I’ll make some calls, but I have a feeling you won’t take help from me. So, think about it and take a warning instead. You come near here again, you’re dead. I think it’s better to be alive than dead, but you make up your own mind.”
“I can go?” Kim asked warily.
“I wish you would. I’ve got an important phone call to make.”
Kim rose, confused. “You won’t even arrest me?”
“No.”
Lieberman’s foot was driving him crazy. He had to scratch it, and he did.
“So, more dishonor from the Jew devil,” Kim said.
“You get your dialogue from very bad Hong Kong movies,” Lieberman said. “You need a slightly higher grade of culture. You ever see Mildred Pierce?”
“Mildred …?” Kim said.
“Forget it.”
“You’re ridiculing me again,” Kim said angrily.
“Maybe,” Lieberman said. “I’m tired and I think I have a long night ahead with my family problems. You know how that is. Go now, and don’t say ‘I’ll be back.’ ”
Kim stood in confusion trying to think of something to say while Lieberman finished Lisa’s coffee. Lieberman wondered what, if anything, was sweet in the kitchen. He knew there was a Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia frozen yogurt, but he had a taste for something baked and comforting. All he could remember in the pantry were Fig Newtons, which was the last resort.
Kim blinked once and looked around the room, not to remember it but to make sure he was really here, that this was really happening. And then he moved slowly, nearly shuffling, to the door.
“Don’t turn around,” Lieberman said, still seated at the dining room table. “Just leave and close the door.”
Kim paused at the door, defeated, and then opened it quickly and left, closing the door behind him. Lieberman had to give the young man some credit. He hadn’t slammed the door. Maybe there was a small sign of hope. Frankly, and only to himself, Lieberman didn’t believe that Kim would give up. It would all probably end with Kim dead, which Lieberman regretted since he had developed some sense of what the Korean had gone through. From dreams of being a successful American-style gangster, he had fallen to one-armed outcast seeking revenge against the man he blamed for his fall.
Seconds after the front door closed Bess and Lisa came down the stairs.
“Kids hear any of this?” he asked.
“They’re asleep,” Bess said.
“We have any cake, coffee cake with that white swirly frosting?” Lieberman asked.
“In the freezer,” Bess said. “I’ll thaw it in the microwave. Abe, a small piece.”
“Cholesterol,” Lieberman said. “I know.”
“Abe,” Lisa asked, “who were those people?”
“Business acquaintances,” Lieberman said.
“Business? They were criminals. In this house. With my children.”
“I had it under control,” Lieberman said.
“Lisa,” Bess said, “I have learned over the course of the past forty years to accept the possibility that anyone might phone or knock at our door. Your father is a policeman. Madness from time to time comes with the badge.”
“Not when my children are in danger,” Lisa said.
“They weren’t in danger,” Lieberman said. “The only one in danger was Kim, the young man with one arm.”
“Why was a one-armed Chinese man at your door?” Lisa demanded.
“He’s Korean,” Lieberman corrected. “I remind you, you lived through many a colorful visitor to our home.”
“And that contributed to the confused and bitter person I became,” said Lisa.
“We’ve had this conversation before,” said Bess. “Let’s get back to your father calling your husband.”
Bess went into the kitchen through the door and Lisa sat, not in the same seat she had been in before, but at the opposite end of the table.
“Coffee?” Lieberman asked.
“Killers bring in killers,” Lisa said. “In your house, my mother’s house, the house where my children are sleeping, the house where I grew up.”
“My house is safe,” said Lieberman. “I keep it that way.”
“With a gun,” she said.
“Like Fig Newtons,” he said. “The gun is a last resort, and I’ve never had to take it out of the drawer in my bedroom where I lock it every night.”
“And you wear the key around your neck,” she said. “I know.”
“You want me to call Marvin now?” Lieberman asked. “Or do you want to complain further about my lifestyle?”
“Call,” she said, glaring at her father.
“Give me the number again.”
She did and he dialed.
The phone rang five times before Marvin Alexander picked it up and said, “Hello.”
“Shalom,” said Lieberman.
“Shalom, Avrum,” said Lieberman’s son-in-law.
“Do I have to tell you why I’m calling?” asked Lieberman.
“Lisa wants to come back,” said Marvin. “She says I threw her out.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t throw her out, Avrum. I found out about her and the intern and talked to her on the phone, told her we had to discuss the situation. When I got home, she was gone. She left a note. That was yesterday.”
“And?”
“I talked to the intern,” said Marvin. “He was frightened. He was apologetic. He promised to stay away from Lisa. He swore that they had never — to use a biblical phrase — consummated their relationship. In fact, that’s not the issue. Part of the blame is mine. I’ve been caught up in some forensic cases and I haven’t spent much time with Lisa. Her work is basically nine to five. Mine is whenever someone dies. Much like yours, I imagine.”
“I understand,” said Abe, looking at his daughter, who was trying to figure out from her father’s minimal dialogue what was happening.
“I love Lisa,” said Marvin. “She is not easy, but I love her. Tell her to come home. We’ll talk. I know a good marriage counselor.”
“You want to talk to her?”
“No, just tell her to come home. And, Abe, I’d still be happy to have Barry and Melisa live with us, but, just between us, for now at least I still think they’d be better off with you.”
“I think you’re carrying understanding a bit further than a saint,” said Abe.
“Someday I’ll tell you my life story. I think it might help you understand. Meanwhile, you might still qualify for special treatment from your God. Remember Abram became Abraham when
God told him he would be a prophet and renamed him.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen to me,” said Abe, “and I’m afraid of what God might rename me and what he might tell me to do.”
“Tell Lisa I love her. Good-bye, Abe. To tell the truth, I don’t have the heart for a discussion with Lisa right now, but I’ve got a homicide victim who needs attention back at the hospital.”
“Good-bye, Doc,” Abe said, and hung up.
Father and daughter simply looked at each other as Bess came out of the kitchen with a microwaved Sara Lee coffee cake and three plates, three forks, and a knife.
“Well?” asked Lisa.
“He wants you to come home,” Abe said as Bess cut and served and sat to listen. “He says he didn’t throw you out. You ran. He said he loves you and thinks you should both see a marriage counselor. He talked to the intern. The intern confirmed that nothing much had happened between you.”
Abe took a bite of the warm cake. It was just what he needed. He knew he would try for a second piece and that Bess would stop him.
“I can’t face him,” Lisa said, looking at Bess who touched her daughter’s hand.
“Wear a mask,” said Abe. “He’s a good man. Get a plane ticket and go back to California tomorrow.”
“I’ve got a round trip,” Lisa said softly. “Open ended. It was cheaper than one way.”
“Then go back to your husband in the morning.” Your mother will drive you to the airport.”
“I’ll drive you,” Bess confirmed.
Lisa hesitated and said, “You think he really wants me back?”
“He really wants you back,” said Abe.
Abe ate. He tried to eat slowly. It didn’t work.
“I’ll call TWA,” Lisa said.
“Settled,” Lieberman said, glancing at the television set. The score was flashed. The game was over. The Cubs had been trounced.
“You’re tired,” Bess said to her daughter. “I’ll take you upstairs. We’ll worry about your travel arrangements in the morning.”
Bess was the president of the Temple Mir Shavot, and there was a big meeting in two days. Her pile of paperwork and the number of calls she had to make to appease, persuade, and cajole was monumental. She wouldn’t get much more finished tonight. Bess wasn’t an insomniac.
When Bess finally came down, she went to the sofa and sat across from Abe who had turned off the television set and was simply sitting with his feet up on his almost ancient hassock.
“You know how much our daughter’s spent on airfare over the last three months?” Lieberman said. “We could spend a month in Florida, not that I want to spend a month in Florida.”
“You ate Lisa’s piece of cake,” Bess said.
“You’re the one who should be a detective.”
“You left the evidence.”
“I ate the evidence,” he said.
Bess smiled and said, “Do us all a favor, Abraham. Try harder to keep company like we had tonight away from the house.”
“You mean Lisa?”
“You know what I mean. Remember, I said ‘try.’ ”
“You are a realist,” he said.
“I’ve been married to you for a little more than forty years,” she said. “I just know the way things are. I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow promises to be busy.”
She had given him a kiss on the cheek and gone to their bedroom. Lieberman sat up watching Out of the Past for the sixth or seventh time and then sat through about half of Oklahoma coveting another piece of coffee cake and resisting the urge. Then he took a bath, running the water as quietly as he could, though it let out a nearly maddening hiss when it was on anything but full power.
He read an article on George Bernard Shaw’s Irish heritage and how it appeared in his work. The article made sense. By three-thirty in the morning, Abe had turned off the lights and was in bed. He slept till seven.
And now, tired and with three cups of coffee in him, he entered the squad room, looked across the morning victims, suspects, and weary policemen and women and saw Captain Kearney in the door of his office motioning for Abe to come to him. Kearney did not look happy, but, then again, he seldom did.
Kearney was only in his early forties. He had been a rising star, headed for the top, possibly chief of police, and then, about a year ago, it had all gone bad. His ex-partner had lost control, held the city hostage for two days from a high-rise rooftop, and accused Kearney of seducing his wife. The ex-partner, Sheppard, had hit every newscast and front page. Kearney had denied the accusations, but the department needed a scapegoat and Kearney was it. When Sheppard was killed, so was Kearney’s career. He would never be more than captain of detectives at the Clark Street station.
Lieberman made his way around the desks and through the smells, past his own desk, and into the captain’s office with Kearney behind him. Kearney closed the door and faced Lieberman.
“Your partner’s in deep shit again,” Kearney said. “The woman’s dead. The kid’s gone. The state attorney’s office thinks you better talk to our witness before whoever took his son gets to him. What are you working on?”
“Convenience store robberies,” said Lieberman. “Salt and Pepper. One black, one white. Armed. About every other night. The black one is skinny, nervous, has a gun, uses good grammar. The white one is big. Hits the clerk with his fist. The last clerk looks like he has some brain damage. If it keeps going, I think Pepper’s going to start shooting and Salt is going to hit someone a little too hard.”
“Stay with it,” Kearney said. “Press coverage on it?”
“Nothing on television. A few small articles in the papers. At one I’m supposed to be at a house on the paving scam.”
“Juggle,” said Kearney. “If you need help …”
“I need Hanrahan,” said Lieberman.
Kearney shrugged and said, “Gornitz is priority. Hanrahan’ll be back later in the morning. Go see what you can do with your old friend Mickey.”
CHAPTER 3
“REMEMBER HAL LITT?” MICKEY Gornitz asked.
Mickey was thin, liked to wear cheap baggy clothes. He sat on the sofa, hands on his legs, clutching deep. Once he had been called Red Gornitz, but that was a long time ago. Gornitz still had hair, but not much of it and none of it red. Mickey had the face of a nervous accountant, which he was, and the perpetual half smile he wore since childhood as a mask.
The hotel room they were in was a decent size with a view of Lake Michigan between a pair of high-rises along the lake. They were downtown, east of Michigan Avenue in a hotel that had been seen a lot and once been the luncheon meeting place of the Chicago Press Club. Lieberman had covered a murder here about twenty years back. A department chairman at Loyola had picked up a pair of young men. The closet gay professor had given in to his need. The pair of young men had robbed him and thrown him out the window. Catching the pair had been easy. Telling the professor’s family had been hard.
Sitting here with Mickey wasn’t too bad, but Abe really had other things on his mind.
“I remember him,” said Lieberman, sitting across from Mickey on an old fading sofa.
“Crazy guy,” Mickey said, reaching into his pocket and then pulling it out as he remembered that he no longer smoked. According to Mickey, he had quit more than seven years ago. Old habits. “Took his clothes off on graduation night and stood in the middle of Roosevelt Road directing traffic. He wasn’t even drunk. What happened to him, Abe? You know?”
“He got crazier,” said Lieberman. “He’s dead.”
“I wonder what made me think about Hal,” Mickey said, looking down at his lap. “So?” he asked, looking around the room and slapping his legs.
There was a young cop in plain clothes standing next to the door. Another cop, also in civilian clothes, stood outside in the hall pretending to read the Sun-Times. An investigator from the state attorney’s office was in the bedroom watching a monitor that showed the hotel’s lobby.
Mickey had spent
a life of anonymity. Old acquaintances didn’t recognize him in the street, and when he ran into someone from high school or college and stopped them to say hello, it was clear to him that he was not remembered.
Now all that had changed and one of the Lieberman brothers, half of one of the best back-court duos in the history of Chicago high school basketball, was sitting across from him, talking about old times.
Mickey had been an accountant for his father’s paper box factory when he got out of the University of Illinois and then, when his father died and the factory went into bankruptcy, Mickey had gone to work for Jimmy Stashall. As Jimmy Stashall’s bookkeeper, Mickey had led a life of relative comfort, though a solitary one since his wife took their son and left him more than a decade ago. Still, Mickey had been resigned to his lot. Then something, who knows what, maybe the need to change things around, stay ahead of the game, had gotten to Jimmy Stashall, who decided that Mickey Gornitz was getting a little old and was maybe a little dangerous because he knew too much.
The state attorney’s office had picked up Mickey and played him a tape of Stashall’s number-one man, Carl “the Fish” Cataglio, telling someone unknown that Mickey Gornitz was beginning to smell funny, that he needed a bath. The guy he was telling it to simply said, “Yes.”
The state attorney couldn’t use the tape in court, but he used it on Mickey, who understood exactly what the conversation meant. Mickey’s lawyer made a deal and Mickey never even went back to his apartment to pick up his clothes and a toothbrush. Witness protection in exchange for copies Mickey had kept on floppy disks of Stashall’s illegal activities. Mickey would also have to appear on the stand to testify that the disks were authentic.
Now came the waiting. Convinced that Stashall had gotten to the first lawyer, Mickey fired his lawyer and got a new one. Living in the hotel room for three months, talking and talking and talking to lawyers and cops and prosecutors and the FBI, Mickey was beginning to go a little mad. Everyone expected it. Then one day Mickey insisted on talking to Abe Lieberman and no one else. He knew Lieberman was a cop.
Mickey got what he wanted, including, he assumed, protection for his son and ex-wife.
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