Lieberman's Day

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  And Lieberman obeyed, worrying about the hour and knowing he would have to pay with a few minutes of conversation.

  “Now,” shouted the rabbi.

  Lieberman stepped gently on the gas.

  “Rock back and then we’ll thrust on forward,” shouted the rabbi.

  Abe put the car back in neutral and then switched to drive and hit the gas. With Rabbi Wass pushing, the car belched out into the street.

  “Thanks, Rabbi,” Lieberman called through the window with a wave of the hand.

  “A moment,” called Rabbi Wass, moving to the passenger side of Lieberman’s car, opening the door, and sliding in. “I need moments of activity like that. Thank you.”

  “I’m very late,” said Lieberman, looking at his watch.

  “Only a minute. I promise. I want to express my sense of loss to you and your family.”

  “Thank you.”

  He meant well, this earnest man with a round, bespectacled face, and Abe had come to look forward to the Shavot services on Friday night during which he could meditate, lose himself in the repetition of praise to God and the poetry of the service, and, if he was lucky, tune out the well-meaning rabbi.

  Lieberman was not a religious man; he had considered himself a silent atheist as a young man, a closet Buddhist as an adult, a tolerant acceptor of the rituals of his people at the age of fifty.

  The problem with the man at his side was that Rabbi Wass, like his father before him, was a bore whose sermons were definitely the low point of each service though the sermons always dealt with topical issues, including Israeli politics, Middle East peace, racial tension, and Jewish-American politicians. The subject of each sermon was relevant, but Rabbi Wass’s observations were on a par with those of a cautious politician: people should learn to be tolerant, should give more to each other, should be open to new ideas.

  “We’ll have funeral services on Thursday,” Rabbi Wass said. “I’m aware of what must be done by the police in such cases of violence.”

  “That’s good,” said Lieberman.

  “I would like you to say a few words of comfort to the family,” said Rabbi Wass, looking earnestly at Lieberman through clouded lenses.

  “That’s your job, Rov” he said.

  “It would mean much to your brother, his family, Bess.”

  “I’ll say a few words,” Lieberman agreed. “Now, I’ve really got …”

  “I understand,” said the rabbi, touching Lieberman’s arm. “I called the hospital before I left home. Dr. Friedman’s on the staff. He’s the son of Sophie and Nat. You know them?”

  “Yes,” said Lieberman.

  “Carol and the child are almost certainly out of the woods,” he said.

  “Thanks, Rabbi.”

  Rabbi Wass smiled, sighed, opened the door, and said, “I’d better get inside. Remember Thursday. Just a few words of comfort.”

  He closed the door and Lieberman drove away wondering what words of comfort he could possibly give to his brother, to Yetta, to their son Edward. Maybe they shouldn’t be comforted. Maybe they should face the pain for what it was and try to go on.

  Maybe a lot of things.

  Lieberman hit Lincoln Avenue forcing his way into traffic. He was definitely going to be late.

  In the small, warm attic room on the third floor of his home and office on Sheridan Road, J.W Rashish Ranpur, cardiologist, drank some tepid tea and looked around to see that everything was in place. The carpet was dark and clean, the music stand was in place, the heavy wooden folding chair with the cushion stood in the center of the room facing the window through which he could, if he chose, look out into the chill, solid white expanse leading all the way to the icy shore of Lake Michigan.

  The tape and compact disc player stood next to the folding chair, and as he sat facing the two speakers, Dr. Ranpur glanced at the photograph on the wall, the autographed photograph of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band. He had gone to hear and see them in concert last year and had difficulty holding back his tears of satisfaction as the trombone player, an ancient stick of a man even darker in hue than J.W.R. Ranpur and even older, not only played but took solos, sang, and danced. The memory made Dr. Ranpur’s eyes fill with tears.

  He sat, picked up his trombone, which felt sufficiently warm, made sure that the slide was smooth and clear, and selected a compact disc.

  The room filled with the sound of horns—trombone, coronet, saxophone—and the rattle of banjo, piano, bass fiddle, and drum.

  Rashish Ranpur had one hour before his first patient arrived, and in that hour, as he did every day, he would play plaintive jazz songs along with tapes and discs and even rise to sing “Silver Dollar” or “St. Louis Blues.” Dr. Ranpur played the trombone passing well. He knew that. He was also sure that if anyone heard him singing, with his accent, they would have trouble holding back a smile.

  Wait, not anyone, he corrected himself as the music began. He had the feeling that the sad-eyed policeman named Lieberman who had come to him during the night would not laugh, that he would understand. He had seen the grief in those eyes and knew that the man’s physical ailments, the high blood pressure, the chronic liver problems, the arthritis in his knees and fingers were as nothing to the pain he endured with the horror that had taken place just outside Dr. Ranpur’s front door.

  It was possible, when some time had passed, that Dr. Ranpur would call the policeman, ask him about his ailments, and invite him to hear the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, or an old King Oliver, Isham Jones, or Jack Teagarden record.

  The sad, slow, dirgelike beginning of “Hindustan” made the walls of the small room tingle. This would be a session of sadness for the young people who had been shot in his yard only hours ago, a session of sadness and understanding and the celebration of a new life.

  Dr. Ranpur began to tap his toe and lifted the trombone to his lips. He waited dutifully for his turn, and when the trombone solo came he joined in, merging with the soloist, and for an hour was lost in the near-perfect meditation of the music of now-old men.

  Seven Minutes After Ten A.M.

  THE MAN AND THE woman sitting in the small comfortable waiting room both checked their watches.

  The man’s name was Lester Allen Wiggs. He called himself Anthony Simington. He was of medium height, slim, with impeccably groomed, stylishly long brown hair combed straight back. His nose had been broken several times, which helped give him the look of a man who had learned the lessons of hard work and had graduated to the three-piece London suit he now wore. The woman was Jean Tortereli, who called herself Jennifer Simington and presented herself as Anthony Simington’s wife or sister, depending on to whom the couple were speaking. She was efficiently elegant: black shoes, black knit dress, simple pearl necklace, an off-white sweater that matched the pearls. She pulled up the sleeves of her sweater at times in the conversation when it looked like hard work was called for. She had the beauty of an older model with, perhaps, just a bit too much angular definition to her cheeks, nose, and jaw, which could make her look a bit cold or quite efficient depending on which attitude best suited the situation.

  “Bad feel here,” said Anthony.

  “The weather,” Jennifer said, taking out her cigarette case, opening it, and then deciding against smoking. She closed the case, put it back in her purse, and put her hands together.

  Anthony looked at her, admiring the confidence and efficiency that she emitted. They had been working together for more than two years. The partnership had been nearly perfect. Neither was physically attracted to the other. Anthony liked young, dark women with gutter diction, and they seemed to like him. Jennifer seemed to have no sexual interest in men or women.

  “I say we give them …” Anthony began, but the door opened, interrupting him.

  “Is this the right room?” asked the old man in the robe, looking a bit confused.

  “Mr. Sachs?” asked Anthony, standing up. “You’re in the right place. I’m Anthony Simington. This is my wife, Jennifer.
”

  The old man stepped forward to shake the hands offered to him by the couple. Anthony closed the door. Jennifer guided the unsteady old man to a mauve leather-covered armchair. The old man and the couple sat facing one another. Though he seemed a bit frail, it was difficult to see this man as being in the final stages of terminal renal failure.

  “Perry is supposed to be here,” the old man said, looking at the door nervously.

  “Your lawyer must have been a bit delayed. The weather is terrible,” Jennifer said, leaning over to pat his hand.

  “Is it cold in here?” the old man said, pulling his robe tightly around him. “To me it feels cold.”

  “Perhaps a bit,” Jennifer said with a reassuring smile. “I’ll ask them to turn up the heat the moment we leave.”

  “Thank you,” said the old man. “Maybe you’ll forgive me, but I don’t always remember … Why are we meeting?”

  “It was your lawyer’s idea, Perry’s idea,” Anthony lied. “To see to it that when the good Lord took you to him, whatever remained of your worldly possessions would go to a worthwhile cause. We understand that you have no relatives who might survive you and to whom you might wish to give aid after you’ve gone. The Lord …”

  “The good Lord has not been particularly good to me,” said the old man. “I’m dying and I don’t think I welcome spending eternity telling him how wonderful he is. It’s much more restful to think that there might be no God.”

  Anthony Simington chuckled respectfully and Jennifer smiled in understanding. Jennifer found her briefcase on the floor, opened it in her lap, and began fishing out brochures and lists of numbers, which she handed to the old man. He took them in slightly trembling fingers.

  “Don’t have my glasses,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got no more patience for reading, even the funny papers. I read the Tribune sometimes if I can lay it flat on a table. Last book I read was … something about a man whose wife falls through the window or something.”

  “All right,” said Anthony Simington. “Let me explain. We represent a small group of organizations, organizations that help people, organizations that will benefit from your contribution and honor your name.”

  “What good will that do me when I’m dead?” asked the old man.

  “None,” said Jennifer somberly, holding out a brochure. “But that is not as important as knowing your assets will go to one of these organizations striving for success through hard work and a sense of human decency. Do you want the money you’ve worked so hard for all your life to simply go to the government?”

  “I’ve worked hard,” the old man agreed, looking at his hands. “And I’ve paid my taxes. Always paid my taxes. No shortcuts, you know what I mean?”

  “We have the Taylor-Ives Children’s Support Fund,” Jennifer said, “the Cook County Friends of AIDS Victims, the Volunteers for the Disabled, the Commitment Society Against Drug and Alcohol Abuse.”

  “Each one of them,” Anthony said, leaning forward toward the confused old man, “needs dollars to continue to do their work.”

  “I don’t know,” the old man said, looking at the brochures on his lap. In photos the sad, emaciated faces of black children looked up at him.

  “Without Perry, I can’t …” the old man began, but he stopped when he saw the office door fly open and a large, pink-faced man enter the room carrying a battered briefcase.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Perry. “Court appearance. Emergency.”

  “That’s quite all right,” said Anthony Simington. “We’ve been having a fine talk with Mr. Sachs.”

  “They’ve been telling me I should leave my money to drug addicts, sick children, homosexuals with AIDS, and who knows who else,” said the old man, shaking his head and looking at a spectacularly uninteresting painting on the wall, of a white bird in flight in a gray overcast sky.

  Lawyer Perry fixed the Simingtons with a challenge in his eyes that came out in his voice.

  “I see,” he said.

  Perry was dressed in a rumpled suit and had the look of a man who held his drink badly. In short, to the bogus Simingtons, Perry looked like a man who was not prospering.

  “We would need legal advice on transferring money to the proper fund,” said Anthony.

  “Of course,” echoed Jennifer.

  “Paid legal advice?” Perry asked.

  “A fee directly from dollars transferred,” said Jennifer.

  “A flat percentage,” said Anthony.

  “What are you talking about?” the old man demanded.

  “Helping people,” said Perry.

  “People who need help,” Jennifer said, catching Perry’s eye.

  “Well, should I do it?” asked the old man.

  “These funds are all charities?” asked Perry.

  “Yes,” Jennifer said emphatically.

  “Nonprofit?” Perry went on.

  “Nonprofit,” answered Anthony.

  “We live off a small fee and other corporate work we do,” explained Jennifer.

  “I see,” said Perry.

  “See what?” asked the bewildered Mr. Sachs.

  “You’d need a signed copy of the revised will,” said Perry.

  “And a small contribution in advance to show good faith before we alert our aided charities of the benefaction,” said Jennifer.

  “Made out to …?” Perry asked.

  “The organization of your choice,” said Anthony, reaching over to take his wife’s offered hand.

  “Sounds fine to me,” said Perry with a grin. “Mr. Sachs?”

  “Me too,” said old man Sachs, looking down at a photograph of a very young, bravely smiling black girl in rags.

  “We have enough?” Perry said, standing.

  “We have papers with us,” said Jennifer, also standing with her husband. “Ready for signature.”

  “May I?” asked Perry.

  Anthony went back into his wife’s briefcase and came up with a folder that he handed to Perry. Perry opened it, glanced at the papers, and looked down at his client.

  “Looks like we have enough,” said the old man.

  “Fine,” said Anthony Simington, beaming.

  “Not so fine,” said old man Sachs.

  “Well,” said Jennifer, “if there are any details you’d like …”

  “One,” said the old man.

  “And that is …?” Jennifer said.

  “You are both under arrest,” said the old man.

  Anthony smiled at Perry, but Perry wasn’t smiling. Anthony turned to Jennifer, but she wasn’t smiling.

  “Fraud,” said Perry.

  “Sergeant Hanrahan will read you your rights,” said the old man, moving toward them.

  “Wait …” said Anthony, backing away, a lock of hair starting to come loose over his ear.

  Jennifer sighed, sat down again, took out her cigarette case, and lit up.

  “I think you’ve misunderstood what my wife and I have been saying here,” Anthony tried, his hair definitely moving toward the unruly.

  Lieberman removed the robe and revealed a compact recorder hooked to his jacket pocket.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Anthony. “We want to see our lawyer. You have no …”

  “Each fund which you describe is in your names, your real names,” Lieberman said, looking down at the woman, who crossed her legs and continued smoking without looking at any of the men. “There are no charities. I’m going to say something, but more for me than you. Did you ever think even for a second or two that you’re taking food out of the mouths of kids who may be starving?”

  “That’s not true,” shouted Simington.

  “It’s true,” said Lieberman as Hanrahan droned out the Miranda in the background. “Now, there are a couple of uniformed officers outside the door who will escort you to the station. You can call your lawyer before they even book you.”

  “… will be used against you,” Hanrahan concluded.

  Jennifer rose from the chair, closed her b
riefcase, and strode to the door without a word while Anthony continued to crumble.

  “This is …” he said, but was cut off by Jennifer turning to him and slapping him hard.

  “No more,” she said calmly. “Not another word. You understand?”

  Anthony Simington had no more words. He nodded and followed her into the hall where the two uniforms stood waiting.

  “Cuffs?” asked one of the uniforms through the open door.

  “By all means,” said Lieberman.

  The uniformed policeman nodded and led the couple away.

  “We could have gotten more out of them, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan, loosening his collar.

  “My mind is elsewhere, Father Murphy. You were late. I had three minutes of playing the doddering da.”

  Lieberman folded the robe and looked at his partner.

  “Iris,” Hanrahan said.

  Lieberman nodded and said, “I was late too. It’s one of those days. I think we’ve got enough on Tony and Jenny.”

  “Maybe,” said Hanrahan.

  “Maybe,” agreed Lieberman. “We’ve got an eleven-thirty meeting with El Perro. Check in with Nestor on the desk and brief Kearney on the phone. Should give us enough time.”

  “El Perro,” Hanrahan said, shaking his head.

  “You got better?” asked Lieberman.

  This time Hanrahan shrugged. “Eleven-thirty,” he said. “God, Rabbi, you know the paperwork we’re gonna have with those two?” Hanrahan nodded toward the door.

  Lieberman knew. The paper trail on a con game was worse than on a homicide and an arrest report had to be filed within twelve hours. But Lieberman had volunteered for this one. First, because he was asked and looked old enough. Second, because Lieberman’s mother had spent the last three years of her life in this very residence. His mother had nothing when she died, but if she’d had anything, the pair they had just arrested could easily have talked her out of it.

  Lieberman moved to the door. Behind him Hanrahan said, “Abe, I’ve got to ask you. I know it’s not the time, but it’s getting to me. Tell me straight out what you think. Is Maureen ever coming back to me?”

  Oh, God, thought Lieberman. It never gets easier. There had been a night five years ago. Just one night when William O. Hanrahan had been on a binge for almost a week, one night when Lieberman had almost found himself in bed with his partner’s wife. It hadn’t happened, but it could have.