Lieberman's Law (24 page)

Fran had done the job. It hadn't been too hard. She had spotted him at one of the phones next to the Gap. Fran had hurried back, pleased with her success and whispered to Berk while Berk gave her a kiss and then kept talking.

“Listen to him,” Berk had told Fran handing her the phone, his hand over the mouthpiece. “Don't make a sound. If he asks you a question, hang up. He'll probably keep talking a minute or two and hang up. Got it?”

She had nodded and taken the phone and Berk had hurried to where he could see the line of phones outside the Gap, being careful not to be seen. He got there just as the man hung up the phone and looked around. Berk was wearing a Bulls cap to cover his shaved head, but he didn't want to be spotted. He ducked into a vitamin store and got behind a stack of bottles of bee something.

And then he had carefully followed Mr. Grits who was smaller, older than Berk had expected. He had followed him very carefully into the parking lot and was so careful that he almost missed getting the complete license number of the rented black Lincoln.

The next day, through the crazy Arab who had connections, he had found the local address and name Mr. Grits had used to rent the Lincoln. Unwilling to trust any of his men on this one, Berk had staked out the Hilton on Skokie across from the Old Orchard Shopping Mall. He had easily found the Lincoln in the hotel lot. At the desk, he had asked the clerk if he would deliver a birthday package to Mr. Jerome Wilson. The clerk checked to be sure that Jerome Wilson was registered and then told Berk that he would see to it that the package would be delivered. Berk said the present was a surprise from Wilson's family and would arrive soon from Neiman-Marcus. The clerk said that he understood and that whoever was on duty would deliver the package.

Berk was reasonably secure now, knew what he planned to do: fake his death, become a martyr to a murderous Jew or nigger. His body would never be found. A note would be left saying that Berk's fate would be that of all who opposed Zionism or Black Nationalism. Berk would let his hair grow out, maybe grow a mustache, move to some small town, watch television, maybe get married, write a book about all he knew about the conspiracy between the police state and the impure races. He would write the book and send a copy to the Nazi press he had been corresponding with and getting books from for the last five years. They would publish it as a posthumous work discovered by a friend of the murdered Berk. The manuscript would be in Berk's own hand, undeniable, and Berk would be out fishing or shooting deer when it was published.

Another thing bothered Berk as he grew older. More and more younger members, even women, were not sufficiently frightened to keep from questioning an occasional decision. He could still beat with his fists, expel with his words, but that would not always be true.

And gnawing inside him was a fear he would not call fear. He certainly did not trust Mr. Grits. In addition, though Berk was unwilling to allow himself a clear, conscious awareness of the fact, he was becoming increasingly convinced that he had picked up HIV from a nigger woman he and two others had raped about a year ago. He hadn't raped her for pleasure. It had been to teach her a lesson, to teach them all, and it was he who had learned. He had no, intention of taking a test to find out if he had the disease. What difference would it make? He'd know when it started to show. If he even had it.

Berk was highly motivated for the task ahead.

On his way home, Lieberman called the station. Nestor Briggs answered. Nestor almost always answered. He had no wife, little family, and had lost a small, smelly little white dog to simple old age more than a month ago. Nestor had always put in long hours at the desk. Now, his days were typically eighteen hours long. Nestor never put in for overtime.

Four messages. Three could wait. One … He pulled over next to the phone booth outside the McDonald's on Howard Street and dropped in a quarter, smelling sizzling beef and fighting the urge to pick up a Quarter Pounder when he finished his call. A man answered.

“Quien es?”

“El Viejo,”
said Lieberman.

“Emiliano quiere a hablar conmigo.”

“Si,”
said the voice and there was silence for less than two seconds before El Perro came on.

“Can you believe it,
Viejo?
Dunston homers in the ninth. Dunston. We win.”

“I didn't have time to watch the game or hear it on the radio.”

“Yo se.”

“You know?” asked Lieberman.

“Manny Guttierez tole me about what happened in the park,” said El Perro. “You got guardian angels till we're sure the Korean gooks ain't gonna try anything stupid. Manny's probably watching you now.”

“I appreciate your concern, Emiliano,” said Lieberman, knowing that El Perro would get to the point.

“
Su cuento,
how you say it?”

“Story,” said Lieberman.

“No,” said El Perro. “Fuckin' bigger than that. Legend. That's the word. Someone just told me. Perez. He graduated from high school.”

“Education is a privilege that should be cherished,” said Lieberman.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said El Perro with a laugh, “But, Manny, he's got a carphone, told me you backed down three RP Headhunters, maybe broke one of them's knee.”

“Maybe,” said Lieberman, waiting for the subject of this conversation, almost certain he would not be able to resist at least a single burger with cheese.

“RP Headhunters ain't shit,
Viejo
,” El Perro said. “Maybe
veinte
or
veinte y dos
with no more firepower than the nuns at St. Catherine's.”

“I feel reassured,” said Lieberman.

“You can't go around making enemies all the time,
Viejo
,” said El Perro.

“Emiliano, you have made more enemies than the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms Bureau,” said Lieberman. “I know at least eight people who would risk their lives to kill you.”

“Eight? Twenty. Maybe thirty,” said El Perro with pride. “And is not fair. I'm a legitimate businessman now, mostly. Bingo parlor, restaurant, dry cleaner, bar, hardware store. Expanding,
Viejo,
up and down North Avenue. Pretty soon I'll have a big office and talk to IBM.”

Lieberman knew that El Perro and the Tentaculos had simply driven a string of businessmen and shop owners out by intimidation, threat, token payment, and occasional minor but distinct violence. Emiliano Del Sol might well be able to control a string of businesses in his neighborhood. He was crazy but El Perro was no fool. Someday he would lose control and not get away with it. Someday there would be too many witnesses and Emiliano Del Sol would be in Stateville, maybe even on death row. He'd make a great death-row lawyer and he had a massive, morbid knowledge about famous killers. “Gary Gilmore,” El Perro had once said, “he was stupid man. Just stupid. Wrote some poetry not worth a shit. I don't see the big deal. Gary was just nuts and lucky. Ted Bundy was smart, but crazy nuts too.” El Perro could go on. His fascination with famous killers was almost matched by his passion for the Cubs, a passion shared by Lieberman.

“I need a favor,
Viejo
,” said El Perro.

“Big favor?”

“Piedras got picked up again. Got in a fight with three guys. Hurt one of them pretty bad, hospital. Cops got there and Piedras hit one of them, broke his nose, the cop's. They're holding him at the North on about, who knows, twenty counts. Piedras has a record. I need Piedras. They could put him away till he's an old man on this one.”

Piedras, the size of a Geo Metro, had an IQ slightly higher than a white rat, but he was El Perro's main enforcer, completely loyal, totally faithful. Piedras was too stupid to be crazy.

“Big favor, Emiliano,” said Lieberman.

“You owe me,
Viejo.
We owe each other.”

“I'll see what I can do, but you know one of these times, I won't have the favors to call in.”

“Viejo,”
El Perro said. “Then call me back. If you get Piedras out, I got a free one for you.”

“I'll call you back in five or ten minutes,” said Lieberman. “But I may not be able to reach anyone who can help till morning.”

“Then Piedras will spend a night in jail,” said El Perro with a sigh. “No one will mess with him.”

“You think Manny would like a Big Mac?” asked Lieberman.

“Who the hell knows?” said El Perro and hung up.

Lieberman went inside the McDonald's, got a Big Mac and a cheeseburger and a Batman glass for an extra buck. He had spotted Manny across the street while he was talking on the phone to El Perro. Manny was lounging back, windows closed, in a dark Toyota across Howard Street. Lieberman waited for a break in the traffic and crossed. Manny rolled down the window. Salsa music blared out into the night. Manny turned down the volume.

He was young, no more than nineteen or twenty, with pocked skin from a bout with some pox when he was a child in Guatemala.

“Have a Big Mac, Manny?” Lieberman said, handing him the bag and taking out the cheeseburger and the glass.

“Gracias,”
Manny said.

Lieberman could see the shotgun lying on the floor on the passenger side. He ignored it.

“El Perro le gusto Julio Iglesias,”
said Manny, turning the volume even lower.
“No me gusta.”

Lieberman nodded, patted the young man on the shoulder, and backed away.

“Quieres usar mi telefono?”
Manny offered.

“No, gracias,”
Lieberman said, crossing Howard Street, truly enjoying his cheeseburger.

He waited till he was finished before he called the North Avenue Station. He had spent much of his time as a cop in the North Station. His old partner was still there, promoted. Lieberman probably could have been promoted by now had he remained, but he had put in for a transfer closer to home.

Lieberman was in luck. The arresting officer was a veteran named Tosconi, Vito Tosconi, and Vito was still in the building.

“Abe?” Tosconi said in his gravelly voice when he came on the line.

“It's me, Vito.”

“Heard you retired.”

“Not hardly,” said Abe.

“This a social chat, old times?”

“I wouldn't mind knowing about the wife and kids, but I'm calling for a favor. Piedras.”

“Abe, the guy is an animal. Someday he's going down for a Murder One. He should have years ago. We got him cold on a long count.”

“I would consider it a personal favor if you'd let him walk.”

“Walk? He broke my partner's fucking nose, sent a citizen to the hospital.”

“Vito,” Lieberman said, gently evoking seventeen years of friendship and favors, cover-ups, and stand-ups.

“Abe, it's a bad idea,” said Tosconi.

“Nonetheless,” said Lieberman.

“El Perro?”

“El Perro,” Lieberman agreed.

“Ah, what the hell? My partner's an asshole kid who's gonna show off that broken shnoz like a Purple Heart and the jerk in the hospital is a drug dealer. If I don't get trouble from above …”

“If you do, tell Sanchez to give me a call,” said Lieberman.

“Piedras will walk in the morning,” said Tosconi. “The drug dealer's hurting but he'll live and he's not dumb enough to bring charges. I'll talk to my partner about the facts of life. Listen, tell Del Sol who did you the favor.”

“I will. How are the wife and kids?”

“Carla is fine. Arthritis flares up once in a while. You know how that is.”

“I know,” said Lieberman.

“Kids are fine. Tony's teenage rebellion, which lasted almost through his twenties, is over and he's finishing a degree at UIC. And Angie is married to a cop and has two kids. You?”

“Bess is fine. Lisa's in California. Divorced. Bess and I have the kids.”

“Life story. Just like that,” said Vito. “Sum up almost twenty years in a few words. Take care of yourself, Abe.”

“You too, Vito.”

Lieberman had finished his cheeseburger and was determined not to get another when he dropped a quarter and got El Perro himself on the second ring.

“Viejo?”

“Piedras walks in the morning. Courtesy of a cop named Tosconi.”

“The big old dago?”

“Same,” said Lieberman. “How about you let Manny go home now?”

“I'll call him,” said El Perro.

“You said you had something else for me?”

“Yeah,” said El Perro happily. “A riddle. Like in
Die Hard Three
or
Batman Forever
.”

“I'm not good at riddles, Emiliano. And I'm tired.”

“It's only a riddle 'cause I don' know the answer,” said El Perro.

“Go ahead.”

“Why do six men
sin pelo
…”

“Bald men,” Lieberman supplied.

“Yeah, bald men. Why do six bald men all buy head rugs at one of those television hair places all at once?”

“Skinheads?”

“Pienso,”
said El Perro. “I got a man who's got a cousin who works at the place.”

“What place?”

“Harlem near Lawrence,” said El Perro. “You find the answer to the riddle, you let me know,
verdad
?”

“
Gracias,
Emiliano.”

“El mismo, Viejo.”

By the time Lieberman got home it was after midnight and he was sure Manny was no longer behind him but halfway home blaring salsa music. Lieberman's street was full. He had to pull into the alley and get out to open the garage door, which was uncooperative at the best of times. Lieberman went through the back door placing the Batman glass in the cupboard in the kitchen next to Barry and Lisa's collection of cups and mugs—The Barbara Walters Specials, Hard Copy, Chicago Street Dental Group, the Save-the-Manatee mug that Melisa had painted herself. The kitchen light had been on. Not a good sign unless Bess had simply forgotten. Usually she left a table lamp on in the living room.