“You got the McDonald’s sandwiches.”
“They don’t taste so good anymore. I want something else. I don’t know, shrimp maybe,” said George.
There was a vast field of weeds on their right beyond which seemed to be some low buildings, probably houses. Set back on the left of the highway were factories that had signs near the road giving their names, but not what they did.
“We’ll stop when we see something,” said Raymond. “Maybe Indiana.”
“I like Stuckey’s. You been to Stuckey’s, man?”
“If we see one, I’ll stop.”
“Even we don’t see one I like ’em,” said George with a smile.
“What are you so fuckin’ happy about?” asked Raymond, unable to fully control his anger.
“We home free,” George explained.
“Yeah,” said Raymond, turning quickly to the right down a dirt road that seemed to lead nowhere.
“Where we goin’?” asked George. “We gonna pop a tire we do this way.”
“I’ve got to piss,” said Raymond. “Bad, and I don’t see anyplace up ahead.”
“Be cold, freeze your peck-dog,” said George. “I heard of a guy his piss froze right when it come out of him. That’s a fact.”
The road got rougher, bounder, and in the rearview mirror all Raymond could see of the Dan Ryan was the moving rooftops of cars going in both directions.
“Here,” said Raymond, stopping the car.
“I don’t see no place to turn around,” said George.
“We’ll back up if we have to,” said Raymond, opening the door. “You coming? Might be a while before we come to a toilet.”
“I guess,” said George, opening the passenger door and stepping out, one arm firmly holding the closed bag like a football, the other rising quickly to keep the fur hat from being taken by the wind.
The snow wasn’t deep. Maybe it had been blown by the prairie wind or cut by the millions of weed stalks.
Raymond walked ten yards ahead of the car, whose engine he had left running, shuddered, and unzipped his pants, feeling the sudden blue-cold icy touch of winter on his limp penis. One hand stayed with his penis. The other eased into his pocket and found the gun. Behind him, Raymond heard George step off the road, trampling crisp, frozen weeds.
“Oh, brother,” George shouted. “This is one damnit-to-hell of a country, I can tell you that.”
Raymond quickly zipped his fly and turned. George had his back to the road a few feet away. Raymond took two steps toward him and raised his pistol, holding it in two hands to keep himself from trembling.
“When I get back …” George began, his back still turned, a stream of urine steaming from him.
The shot from Raymond’s gun finished the thought for George.
George jumped, not quite understanding what had cracked next to him, and then, still exposed, one hand still cradling the bag of money, he turned his head and saw Raymond, gun in hand, looking at him.
The second shot went through the bag, which George held up in front of his face, and took off the small finger on his left hand.
“What you doin’?” George demanded, backing away.
Raymond fired again. This time the bullet hit flesh and sank into George’s right side. George looked down at his side, looked at Raymond, and adjusted the fur hat on his head.
“I’m killin’ you, man,” said Raymond, his accent returning in an angry rush, his voice vibrating with fear. “You just too fuckin’ stupid to understand even when you’re shot and looking at the goddamn gun.”
He fired again, but George was already moving to his right, toward the field of weeds. He was moving but not running. Raymond went after him.
“Shit,” said Raymond, as George stumbled ahead of him.
“You keep the money, man,” cried George. “I’m droppin’ it. You jus’ turn around and leave me here bleedin’ and all. I be all right. You stop shootin’ me and I give you all the money.”
Raymond didn’t answer. George had the sense to crouch low so he might be hidden in the tall, thick weeds. And in spite of his size and the wounds he was suffering, George moved quietly. But what did him in was the blood that left a trail Raymond could follow slowly, patiently.
George suddenly stood up and ran, or rather, stumbled, trying to open the bag he carried as he did so. If he opened it, Raymond knew he would pull out his gun, change the game he had begun. Raymond fired at the fleeing figure, missing him twice but making him move so fast that he couldn’t open the bag he carried.
Then, suddenly, as Raymond panted after George, his breath coming labored and hurting, George disappeared. He was just gone. One second there was his head and you could hear him breathing and gagging hard and heavy. The next, gone.
Raymond hurried now, following the trail of red blood on white snow, knowing that George might be pulling out the gun right at that moment.
Raymond almost fell into the ditch. He started to slip, reached back with his foot, and grabbed a clump of weeds with his free hand. He sat down hard and cold with a grunt and looked around in panic, this way and that. A small stream of ice lay along the bottom of the ditch, a small stream of ice and George. George was not moving. He was on his back, eyes closed, blood spurting from his chest but still clinging to the bag, the fur hat still on his head.
This was not the way Raymond had wanted it. He had wanted to shoot George on a road or a path and leave him there to be discovered with the dead man’s hat and almost all of the Russian drug dealers’ money.
If it was warmer, Raymond would have sat there another few minutes thinking it out. If it was warmer and he felt more confident that no crazy farmer would be driving up the road and find his car sitting there, the motor running.
The ditch was about five feet deep. Raymond wasn’t sure if he could get out if he jumped down and took some of the money. If he jumped in he would have to walk in one direction or the other until he found some place to climb out and then, well, he might have trouble finding his way back to the road without the trail of George’s blood.
He got up, his tailbone hurting, and looked back for the car. He couldn’t see it. He could hear the sputtering engine and the hooting wind.
No help for it, he decided. He took one more look at George to be satisfied that he was dead and turned to follow the red trail. He would have to call the police, somebody, 911, maybe the fire department, say he was driving down some road and heard shooting, maybe describe enough for them to find George’s body.
He tramped through the weeds that he and George had bowled over and tried to think.
It would have to be.
He now thought of the woman in the hospital.
Life is crazy nuts, Raymond said to himself, moving closer to the chugging engine of the car. Crazy nuts.
He got into the car, closed the door, put his gun in his pocket, and began backing out down the narrow road. He fought panic and the desire to hit the accelerator, take his chances, and get the hell out of there. He fought and, with the exception of a few minor runs off the road, made it safely back to the Dan Ryan, catching some luck when he backed onto the road, there being no one in sight, and drove ahead looking for a turnoff he could make so as to get back to the city.
He would have to get rid of the car. It had left tire marks in the snow. They might be able to trace them. The car was no damn good anyway, but it was sure better than no car, but real is real. Besides, Raymond had a plan that would get him a new car and something more valuable.
Twelve Forty-Nine in the Afternoon
GEORGE FOUND HIMSELF LOOKING up at the most incredible cloud he had ever seen. It was shaped like a feather, right down to the quill. He also had the dizzying impression that he was standing or floating and looking not up but straight ahead. The feeling made him want to throw up, but that would have to wait until he could figure out what had happened.
First, he still clung to the bag. That felt right. Second, he reached up and felt for his fur hat. I
t was gone. This sent him into a fury of reaching back, groping, feeling hard, cold dirt and stones and finally, finally, finding the fur with the tips of his electric-pained fingers.
George sighed and closed his eyes in relief.
Then he remembered. Raymond had shot at him, chased him, tried to kill him. Where was Raymond? Why wasn’t George dead? Why hadn’t Raymond taken the money? What other reason would he have for shooting George? Since George had been planning to shoot Raymond when the opportunity arose, he was not angry, only puzzled. He knew Raymond was smarter than he was, but George had counted on being more crafty. Obviously, he had been wrong.
It was when he tried to sit up that George knew he had been shot. Since his hands were both almost frozen, it took him a second or two longer to discover that he had lost a finger. He looked at the stump, which was bleeding only slightly thanks to the winter cold, and then felt his side. It was bloody, but it was not bleeding heavily. Maybe the winter again. It would be strange, thought George, forcing himself to his knees, to be saved by the very weather that he hated. But he wasn’t saved yet, and getting up from his knees almost turned his temporary survival into irony.
Moving was difficult. What was equally difficult, considering that he was probably in shock, was that he seemed to be in the bed of a small river with a bank at the height of his neck. Were he not shot George knew he could scramble up the embankment, but he was shot and having trouble keeping his eyes open.
He began stumbling to his right in the direction he thought might be south, toward Florida, toward the Gulf. Even in his pain and confusion he did not think he could walk very far, but he might as well head in the direction he wanted to go. No sense turning back to Chicago.
And so he staggered, clinging to the bag, hat pulled over his head, the hand with the missing finger plunged into his coat pocket, throbbing.
Someone was singing. It wasn’t just the wind. Someone was singing and George recognized the voice. He almost called out and then realized that it might be Raymond. It might be some trick. Then he knew that the voice was his own and this frightened George very much. He had been singing without knowing it.
He clamped his mouth closed, biting his lower lip, and staggered on, trying to move faster.
Two Minutes Past Three P.M.
“WE’RE HOME.”
Barry’s voice came through the sound of Lieberman snoring. Lieberman opened his eyes as a rush of frigid air slapped him in the face and ran down his body.
“Close the door,” he said.
Barry closed the door and he and Melisa stood looking across the room at their grandfather, who sat dazed in his living room chair.
“Fell asleep,” said Lieberman.
Barry and Melisa dropped their books and began to take off their coats. Then Barry paused with one sleeve out of his coat and looked at the two suitcases standing next to the closet.
“Leave the boots on,” Lieberman said, checking his watch and trying to come fully awake. “Your father’s coming for you. You’ll stay with him a few days.”
“Grandma Bess doesn’t like us to walk in the house with boots,” said Melisa, looking at him.
“Then take them off,” said Lieberman, making an effort to stand.
“They’re hard to put on,” she answered.
“Then leave them on and stand at the door. I’ll bring you provisions to keep you from starving for the next four or five minutes.”
“But you don’t understand,” Melisa whined.
“Listen,” he said, taking a few steps toward the girl. “I went through this with your mother. I’m too old to go through another generation of damned-if-you-do. You understand?”
“I understand,” said Barry.
“Good,” said Lieberman, looking at the boy. “Explain it to your sister over a pastrami sandwich. I made some.”
Lieberman padded toward the kitchen with both children following him, both wearing boots.
“I don’t want a sandwich,” said Barry.
“We’ll stick it in a sack and you can take it with you. What about you, little bird?”
“Put mine in a bag too,” said Melisa.
“Fine,” said Lieberman, pushing open the kitchen door. “You can both watch me eat.”
Lieberman went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of some off-brand pineapple juice. The sandwiches were on the table, encased in Handi-Wrap.
“I’ll have some juice,” said Melisa, sitting.
“Me, too,” said Barry.
“Got it,” said Lieberman, plucking three paper Dixie cups from the holder over the sink.
Back at the table, Lieberman dropped three sandwiches into a brown paper bag.
“One for your father,” he said, reaching for one of the two remaining sandwiches and starting to unwrap it.
“Grandpa,” Barry said slowly.
“Yes.”
“Are you supposed to be eating pastrami sandwiches?”
“No,” said Lieberman, taking a bite, his teeth going through the fresh pumpernickel and sinking into tender meat. “Nor am I supposed to drink, not even a glass of wine on Shavot. In fact, if the dreary truth be known, I’m not supposed to eat anything with fat or cholesterol or calories or alcohol.”
He took another bite of sandwich, savoring the sharp tang of mustard on his tongue.
“I see,” said Barry, soberly.
Melisa drank her pineapple juice and remained silent.
“That leaves me a lifetime of carrot and cucumber salads,” said Lieberman. “Which are not bad things. You know George and Ira Gershwin?”
Melisa shook her head no.
“I think so,” said Barry. “They make records.”
“‘Methuselah lived nine hundred years,’” said Lieberman. “‘Methuselah lived nine hundred years, but who calls that livin’ if no gal will give in to no man what’s lived nine hundred years.’”
“That’s dirty talk, Grandpa,” Melisa said.
“No, it’s not,” said Lieberman, returning to his sandwich. “It’s common sense. Sometimes you’ve got to eat a pastrami sandwich. Now, what is it you want to talk about?”
“How did you know we wanted to talk?” asked Barry, looking up at Abe with Todd Creswell’s eyes.
“I’m a policeman,” Lieberman said.
“Can we talk about David?” asked Barry, looking down.
“We can talk,” said Lieberman.
“We called him our cousin, but is our mother’s cousin our cousin?” asked Melisa, pushing her empty paper cup away from her.
“Yes,” said Lieberman. “That’s it? That’s the question?”
“No,” said Barry. “Cousin Carol’s still got the baby, right?”
“Right.”
“Is Uncle Maish going to die?” asked Melisa. “And Aunt Yetta?”
“Of grief?” asked Lieberman, slowing down on the sandwich to savor the last few bites. “Or natural causes? Of natural causes, yes, but I couldn’t tell you when. Of grief, no, but I can’t tell you for sure what it will do to them.”
“What are you going to do when you find the person who killed David?” asked Melisa. “Are you going to shoot him?”
“Should I?”
“You’re answering a question with a question. You said we shouldn’t do that,” said Barry, who had not touched his juice but was playing with the cup, scraping off wax with his fingernails.
“I don’t know what I’ll do when I find him,” Lieberman admitted.
“I say shoot him,” said Barry.
“I think you should put him in jail in a cell all by himself,” said Melisa. “Forever, with no one to talk to and no television. Only books that are good for you and food that’s good for you but tastes bad so he’ll live a long time and be sorry.”
Lieberman, finished with his sandwich and drink, leaned back in his chair and looked at his granddaughter. It sounded like a good plan to him.
The doorbell rang but no one moved.
“We should go to the f
uneral,” said Barry. “The services. I should go. I’m almost thirteen.”
The doorbell rang again.
“You’ll have plenty of them. This is one you can skip. You wanna let your father in?”
Melisa slid off her chair and left the kitchen while Lieberman got up, scooped up the crumpled plastic and a few crumbs, and dropped them in the plastic garbage container in the corner.
The doorbell rang once more and then Barry and Lieberman could hear the outer door open and the voice of Todd Cresswell.
Lieberman handed Barry the brown bag, touched his cheek, smiled wearily, and guided the boy through the kitchen door into the dining room.
Todd, a slender man with a handsome, slightly lopsided face, straight cornstalk hair, and rimless glasses, stood at the front door, his arm around Melisa’s shoulder. Todd was wearing a furlined denim jacket and a blue knit cap. He looked like an ad for All Spice.
“Abe,” he said. “I’m sorry about David.”
“Thank you,” said Lieberman, guiding his grandson toward his father.
Todd smiled sadly and touched the boy’s cheek in much the same way that Abe had done.
“How are Maish and Yetta taking it?”
“Not too bad,” said Lieberman.
“‘Death of manhood cut down before its prime I forbid,’” said Todd, picking up one of the suitcases. “Sorry.”
Lieberman had requested on more than one occasion that his son-in-law not quote Greek tragedy. This time he simply shrugged.
“Can we go to a movie or bring home some tapes?” asked Barry, putting on his coat.
“Maybe,” said Todd.
“Come on in and have a sandwich and some coffee,” Lieberman said.
Todd adjusted his glasses and looked toward the door.
“I can’t, Abe, not now.”
“Someone waiting in the car?” asked Lieberman, keeping his eyes on Todd as Barry and Melisa finished putting their coats on.
“Yes,” said Todd.
“A lady?” asked Lieberman.
Todd didn’t answer.
“Who’s in the car, dad?” Melisa demanded.
“A lady I work with,” said Todd. “She’s going to have dinner with us. How about pizza at Barnaby’s? My friend likes pizza.”
Lieberman's Day Page 12
