Lieberman's Day (13 page)

Frankie went through the rear door of the church, listened for preaching, singing, or talking, and hearing none made his way to the rest room. The Christ Evangelical Church and Mission had recently gone through eleven years as a real estate office after forty years of failing as a church. The real estate office, like the church before it, had failed, in part, at least, because people felt uncomfortable talking about life and health insurance with a cemetery right outside the window. But the church was back now, catering to a new congregation of the homeless who shuffled up Chicago Avenue at odd hours day and night like an army of the living dead.

Frankie looked in the mirror, pronounced himself clean, and headed for the reading room, a good place to get warm and look at one of the dozens of books and simplified pamphlets with pictures that sat in the stands around the room. The room was about the size of a school classroom. Two long tables, both wood, not matching, stood in the center. Unmatched chairs lined up around them.

Eight people were sitting at the tables when Frankie stepped in. The cold had brought a rush of religion. One woman who Frankie didn't recognize coughed, a rasping cough. All eight had coffee mugs in front of them. All eight had a religious tract or the Holy Book open in front of them. One man with a gray stubble-covered face leaned against his right fist and snored gently.

No one paid attention to the snoring man nor did anyone look up to see who had entered, but Thomas C. Albright, long estranged from his native state of Tennessee, soon wished that he had and that he had made some kind of escape, even through the back door near the toilet and into the cold wind of the cemetery.

Thomas Albright's first sense of company was a shadow over his book. Though his eyes had deteriorated steadily for the last twenty of his forty-two years, Thomas did not wear glasses. He was a polished squinter.

“Frankie?” he said.

Frankie looked at the pudgy man in the ratty coat and nodded.

“I heard from Reverend Alonso that you went back home.”

“I did go home,” admitted Frankie. “But I got called back. I came for my family. I love my wife and child and they need me. A child needs his father. A wife needs her husband. Anything else is unnatural and not to be tolerated regardless of the consequences. The Lord does not take kindly to a coward.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” said Albright, who had once witnessed Frankie's violence and had no intention of provoking it. Anything Frankie said or wanted would be fine with him. If he was lucky enough to get rid of Frankie, Thomas knew he would consider seeking refuge among the Unitarians for a month or two, even if it did mean walking another six blocks.

Frankie wasn't looking at Tom Albright. He was looking around the room, playing with his car keys and the plastic crucifix on his key chain.

“Can't find her,” Frankie said. “Can't find my wife, my son.”

“Cruel world,” said Albright sympathetically, lifting the mug of coffee to his lips and marveling that he wasn't shaking, at least no more than usual.

“Got any idea where they might be?” asked Frankie.

Frankie was not a large man. He was a knot of barbed wire with a baby face. He was smiling now at Albright, smiling the smile of a buddy, and it chilled Albright like the world outside. It chilled Albright because he would have sworn that several of Frankie Kraylaw's teeth were stained with a dark redness that looked very much like blood.

Albright had once been a stockbroker. There were remnants of memories of the art of lying and survival not far below the surface of his derelict exterior. Once he had known when to lie and when to tell the truth; but now all he could think of was survival.

“Angie the Polack,” he said. “You know her? Great singing voice. Used to be one of the Sunshine Sisters back in the forties. Belts out the hymns like …”

“I know her,” Frankie said, suddenly turning his eyes on Thomas, who almost dropped his coffee mug.

“I think Angie said she thought she saw your wife working a place somewhere near Wilson, you know, by the Indian Center. Angie gets a bed there now and again. Claims she's a Sioux. Hell, she's not even a Polack.”

Frankie put his hand on Albright's shoulder and Albright came near to screaming. He looked around the table, trying to hide his panic, but all seven of the men and women were very busy minding their own business, drinking their coffee and keeping their eyes on the pages of salvation before them.

“It's wrong to call people names.”

“Names?”

“She's a Polish person, not what you called her.”

“She's a Greek,” said Albright.

“It is wrong to use words of derision,” Frankie said intently. “All Christians, regardless of nationality or color, can find salvation and sit with you in Heaven.”

“You're right,” said Thomas, shaking his head as if he had just heard something so profound it might take him at least a month to digest.

“On Wilson?” Frankie said, his face inches from Albright's. “Angie saw my Jeanine on Wilson?”

“Near Wilson, maybe,” he said. “Near. Or maybe it wasn't near. And she only said she thought. She didn't talk to her or anything, but she thought.”

“Strong thought, weak thought?”

“Frankie, how would I know? You wanna talk to Angie the P … Angie, ask the Indians. I wish you luck. I really do. A man should be with his family.”

“A man should be with his family,” agreed Frankie. “I'll be back.”

Frankie got up quickly and strode toward the door, his boots clomping and echoing across the room, the sound ignored with the expertise of the homeless, who urged him out but wouldn't have been surprised to see Crazy Frankie Kraylaw turn, pull a gun from under his jacket, and shoot everybody in the room.

Thomas Albright closed his eyes and gripped the still-warm mug in both hands as the door closed behind Frankie. Thomas thought he might have peed in his pants but he wasn't sure. What he was sure of was that he would do anything short of violence to get a drink. He was dead flat broke and had been on the wagon for almost three months. But now he needed a drink and a warm place to stay where Frankie Kraylaw wouldn't find him if Frankie failed to find his wife.

Albright got up and allowed himself a cough. “God help her,” he said aloud.

He shuffled across the room planning to stop at the clothes alcove near the front door where he could change his soiled pants for a pair of clean ones and maybe a sweater or two.

It wasn't fair that this was happening to Thomas Albright, who hadn't even thought of doing harm to anyone but himself for at least a dozen years, but fair, Thomas knew, had nothing to do with it.

Carol Lieberman woke up in panic, too weak to move, mouth dry, lips cracked, unable to call out.

“God no, God no, God no,” she said to herself, moving her eyes, trying to blink, fearing someone would come in and find her paralyzed and think she was dead.

She couldn't move her arms, her head. Something was ping-pinging. The room was green.

And then a sound like the scratching of an emery board on a cracked fingernail came more from her chest than her mouth. She was breathing heavily, afraid.

The door opened and she turned her wide-open eyes toward the soft sound.

A thin, white figure swished toward her. The Angel of Death. Quickly, the angel would lean over, kiss her, take away her breath, and leave her dead. Was that an old tale from her grandmother Sadie? Was she making it up from a half-remembered nightmare?

The Angel of Death lifted Carol's hand and clutched her wrist firmly. Carol forced herself to look up at thick glasses, a pale green face. The witch in
The Wizard of Oz.

Carol was awake now. She knew it was a nurse and not the Angel of Death and her breath came more easily.

The nurse let go of Carol's wrist and touched her chest with the cool metal of a stethoscope.

“Know where you are?” the nurse said, removing the cool metal from her chest and taking the stethoscope from her neck.

“Hospital,” Carol croaked. “Water, please.”

“We can wet your lips,” the nurse said.

“Velma Anderson,” Carol said after licking her dry lips with her cracked tongue. “Name tag.”

Velma reached for the pitcher of water on the table next to the bed and wet a washcloth that came from nowhere.

“Feels good,” said Carol after her lips had been dabbed.

“Amazing how something like a few drops of water on a washcloth can be so satisfying,” said Velma, touching Carol's arm and smiling down.

“Amazing,” Carol agreed. “Velma?”

“Yep.”

“Everything's gone wrong.”

“What can I tell you, kiddo? You're alive. Your baby looks as if he'll be fine. As bad as it is, it could be worse.”

“David's dead. Someone said David's dead.”

“Your husband's dead,” Velma said, taking Carol's hand.

Carol tried to shake her head, but it hurt, a searing pain over her right eye.

“Why did he shoot me?” she said. “That was wrong. He could have killed the baby. He couldn't want to kill the baby.”

“He probably didn't know you were pregnant,” Velma said softly. “And honey, I don't know if it really makes any difference to these animals whether you're pregnant or not. It's getting as bad as Washington or Los Angeles out there sometimes.”

“No,” Carol said, tasting blood, dry blood from her cracked lips. “It doesn't make any sense.”

“You expect people like that to make sense?” said Velma. “Maybe we'd better change the subject and calm you down or we'll have Doctor Anglin running in here.”

Something thumped inside her and Carol winced.

“What is it?” Velma asked.

“My … I think the baby kicked,” Carol said.

“Good sign,” said Velma reassuringly.

“It felt angry,” Carol said. “You think he feels it, what's happened?”

“No,” said Velma. “I think you're a little light-headed from the medication.”

Carol tried to take a deep breath. It came up short and she panted three times before her breathing felt normal.

“How can I tell the baby about his father?” Carol said, feeling the tears.

“When he gets old enough to understand, you'll find a way,” said Velma. “Small kids are remarkably uncurious about the past till they're old enough to start making sense of it. I've got five of them. I've got to get back to my desk.”

Carol's hand reached out, grabbed the nurse's wrist.

“He can't be born in this city,” Carol said, her panic returning. “I've got to get out of here soon. Go somewhere where …”

Velma gently removed the hand and said, “You need sleep. With what you have in you, I don't understand why you're awake. Believe me. I've been doing this for almost thirty years. You need rest, sleep for you and the baby.”

“You don't understand,” Carol said. “My husband. David. Baby's father. Doesn't …”

“Close your eyes. Lie back and I'll stay with you a few more minutes. Deal?”

Carol nodded in agreement and closed her eyes. They'll find him, she thought, remembering the faces of the men who had killed David. They'll find him. Abe will find him. Then, then …

Before she could complete the thought, Carol Lieberman was asleep and dreaming.

“Two thousand, seven hundred and fourteen dollars,” said Raymond, sitting back and looking at the mound of money on the table.

“Plenty,” said George.

Raymond nodded. “Plenty,” he said, but he thought, Not nearly enough.

“I'm hungry,” George said.

“Man, you just ate thirty, forty greasy Egg McMuffins.”

“I'm thirsty.”

“Drink water.”

“I don't care for water in the winter.”

Raymond had a headache. Yesterday, he had a job and hadn't committed a felony in his life. Today, he had murdered a man. He had to straighten this out. Find Lilly. But first he had to deal with George. Raymond had picked up George for last night, had been sure he could control him, had been sure he needed help. And now he was saddled with this fool across from him, and had Russian drug dealers and the police looking for him.

Someone hit a car horn on the street outside. Raymond looked around the room. It was a nothing. The sofa where George had slept; his own small bed in the corner; table, couple of chairs, little black and white television, and two thousand dollars on the table. And the small bookcase filled with paperbacks he had devoured with a dictionary at his side, wanting to use these books to carry him from his color, his past, his accent, and the cripplingly low expectations he had almost let himself accept. Lilly had helped him with the words, had declared him not only beautiful but also smart. And then, when he had his chance, this fool of a worse-than-fool had brought down the life of Raymond Carrou.

George sensed that his dollars-and-breakfast-sandwich euphoria was not being picked up by the frowning Raymond. George flattened his Russian hat on the table and rubbed it over and over again.

“I got a mother back home, sister too,” said George. “You know Back Sally Streets in Pointe-à-Pierre?”

Raymond nodded. He had heard about it.

“Won't be so bad. I'll go back there, get work. No one trying to put me in no electric chair in Trinidad. No winter. We shoulda stayed. I could be wearing a white shirt and a smile and playing “Who Knows Who Took Me Bones” on the guitar. Somethin'. You know?”

“Maybe,” said Raymond, standing up and walking to the window.

Someday George would tell someone. His mother, his sister, a friend at a bar. Maybe George would get religion and tell a priest who'd get him to tell the police. Maybe lots of things. There was no other way. George would have to die. And die soon. There was too much to lose.

“Get your coat on,” said Raymond suddenly.

George looked confused.