Lieberman's Law (26 page)

“There's already a basketball team in Bradenton-Sarasota called the Sharks,” said Morrie. Herschel looked across the table at Morrie and then at the small gathering of Alter Cockers at the T & L on Devon. There was a light, slightly chilly rain falling, a cool day late in May. It wasn't even eight o'clock in the morning, but there was a concern around the table about whether the Cubs-Dodgers game would be postponed. So, Herschel, who was tired and had just finished a six-hour shift guarding Temple Mir Shavot with Bunch Levy, who cared not about sports and reserved what little passion he had for the rising cost of materials in the women's dress trade, Herschel wanted to talk a little sports before he went home for a nap.

The rest of the table, Levan, Chen, Rabinowitz, empathized with Herschel. They too had, in the month since Liebow had joined the table, felt the lash the small, white-haired man could unleash in a calm, determined voice.

Morrie Liebow used to live in Florida, had retired there from New York City where he had cut garments for half a century. He hated Florida. Too hot. He hated the beach. He hated the retirement hotel. He hated the card games. When his wife had died, Morrie had moved in with his daughter and son-in-law in Chicago. Their children were grown and out of the house. They could tolerate Morrie. The three of them lived in a large apartment right around the corner from the T & L.

“The Devil Rays,” Herschel continued, looking at Morrie who adjusted the gray cap on his tilted head, “will be a powerhouse right away, immediately. They'll have the money, the draft, the experience from players the other teams have to give up. The Cubs will be embarrassed.”

“So what else is new?” asked Syd Levan, drinking his coffee.

“Shame,” said Herschel. “We got the Bears, the Bulls, the Black Hawks, and, though we don't give a damn, we've got the White Sox. You love the Cubs, you know they'll lose, but you don't want to be humiliated by a bunch of guys in uniforms with ugly fish on them.”

“Devil Rays are not ugly,” said Liebow. “They're graceful.”

“That is not the issue,” Herschel said with a sigh at the density of Morrie Liebow.

“I still think the Cubs are going over .500 this year,” said Syd. “That's my opinion. What do you think, Abe?”

Lieberman sat at the counter, drinking coffee and coveting a Danish but avoiding it. His usual booth was taken by a quartet of produce delivery men who had their own conversation.

“I think they'll go .500,” said Lieberman.

“Dreams,” said Liebow.

“We live on dreams,” Herschel said, leaning forward, his face turning red. “If we don't have dreams, what do we have?”

“Reality,” said Liebow.

“Philosophy,” Herschel said, sitting back, defeated. “We're talking baseball here and we get the cutter from New York talking philosophy. Did Hank Greenberg talk philosophy at breakfast? Max Baer? Marshall Goldberg, Sandy Koufax?”

“Old guys,” said Liebow. “New guys talk money. Reality. How many bucks is a .290 batting average worth on a contract? Sixty runs batted in? Six tackles, unassisted a game? Three-pointers in the fourth quarter? Reality.”

“Can I borrow your gun, Abe?” asked Herschel. “I want to shoot this old fart and put him out of my misery.”

“He's not gonna give you his gun,” said Liebow. “And if he did, you'd piss in your pants and give it back.”

“I'm leaving,” said Herschel, standing.

Urges, pleas all around the table for Herschel to sit down before he had a heart attack. He was seventy-six. He had a pacemaker. He was a leader of the Alter Cockers.

“I'm leaving,” announced Liebow, standing and adjusting his hat. With his bent head, he looked as if he were perpetually peeking around a corner. “I've got things,” he said, heading for the door after dropping a dollar on the table for his coffee and toasted bagel.

“Tomorrow,” Syd said, his hand on Herschel's arm.

“Tomorrow,” Morrie Liebow agreed. Liebow, who moved very slowly, nodded at Lieberman and went out of the T & L into the drizzle.

“He gives me terrible heartburn,” said Herschel.

“He's over eighty,” said Howie. “He was in a camp. He's got a number on his arm. Herschel, you know?”

“My cousin Gittel has a number on her arm,” said Herschel. “She survived. She's got a sense of humor. She lives on her own, never saved money cutting cloth. Gittel's got a sense of humor. Syd, you met Gittel. What's she got?”

“A sense of humor,” Syd agreed.

“So there,” said Herschel, sitting with tired triumph.

“Liebow's daughter can't stand him,” said Hy Hershkowitz, who had something on his mind and had said nothing till now. “He thinks she wants him to leave before he ruins what's left of her marriage. Liebow has no place to go. He's bitter.”

“And I made him feel worse.” said Herschel Rosen. “Now I can share the guilt with the Nazi in Brazil.”

The table turned quiet for a minute till Howie Chen called out, “Got anything yet, Abe?”

Lieberman turned on his stool as Maish filled his cup, this time with decaf. Lieberman popped a Rolaids into his mouth and resisted the urge to touch his complaining stomach.

“Maybe,” said Lieberman. “Can't talk about it yet, but maybe.”

“Nazis,” said Hershkowitz, whose fear of the Holocaust had kept him from seeing either
Sophie's Choice, Schindler's List,
or anything on the subject. Hershkowitz had spent his entire life in Chicago. He had never seen a Nazi in person, only on television.

“Doesn't look that way,” said Lieberman.

“Arabs,” proclaimed Herschel Rosen, rejoining the conversation with conviction.

“Possibly,” said Lieberman.

Herschel looked triumphant.

“Too soon to tell,” said Lieberman.

Lieberman turned back to his brother behind the counter before he had to deal with more questions, questions he couldn't or wouldn't answer. “So, how's it going?”

“It's going,” said Maish with a shrug, always carrying the loss of his son as a weight on his shoulders. “And you?”

“Lisa called last night,” said Abe.

Maish wiped his hands on his white apron and nodded knowingly. Lisa was a problem, but at least Lisa was alive.

“She's coming to Barry's bar mitzvah,” said Abe.

“She gave up fighting it?” asked Maish.

“Looks like,” said Abe, taking a sip of coffee.

“And in return?” asked Maish, looking over at the Alter Cockers who were onto a new subject, sex on television.

“In return,” said Abe, “she brings her new boyfriend and we are all kind and welcoming as if he were already a member of the family.”

“He's an ex-con, a Sikh, what?” asked Maish.

“He's a doctor, a medical examiner,” said Abe. “And he's black.”

Maish nodded knowingly. “So, he's not Jewish?”

“I don't think it likely,” said Abe. “But he and Lisa will be the hit of the festivities. Barry will be lost. The few family bigots will talk in corners and say things they think are particularly pithy.”

“Screw 'em,” said Maish, whose language had deteriorated since the death of his son. “Will Todd be there?”

“Todd will be there,” said Abe.

Lieberman liked Todd in spite of the man's morbid interest in Greek tragedy.

“He won't care,” said Maish. “You don't mind my saying it, he may wonder why this black biologist …”

“Medical examiner,” Lieberman corrected. “He does autopsies.”

“… this medical examiner,” Maish went on, “is interested in Lisa. Don't get me wrong, Avrum. Lisa is smart. Lisa is pretty, but Lisa is not a fun girl of the Rita Hayworth ilk.”

“A more contemporary figure like Barbara Walters might be more apropos,” said Lieberman, looking at his empty cup, his stomach warning him against a refill.

“Sure you don't want a bagel, no butter, toasted?” asked Maish. “It can't hurt.”

Lieberman sighed and looked out the window. The drizzle was still slow, steady, the weather decidedly cold for late May. He accepted his fate, like Oedipus, he thought, and nodded at his brother to indicate that he would give in to a bagel.

“You got onion?”

“For you? You kiddin'? I've always got one tucked away,” said Maish, turning.

Lieberman's beeper went off. He headed for the phone in the corner. When he came back from the quick call, he grabbed the toasted bagel from his brother's hand and hurried toward the door.

Behind him, he heard a voice, he wasn't sure which of the Alter Cockers it was, saying, “Woman ice skaters are sexy. Women news anchors are sexy. Diane Sawyer, take Diane Sawyer, but these kids on TV …”

Michael had already been in the kitchen and had the coffee made when Bill Hanrahan went downstairs. Quite a trick. Bill was regularly up by six, started the coffee, took a shower, shaved and was dressed and ready to go while he watched “Good Morning, America,” drank coffee, ate his cereal, and watched the clock. He liked Charlie Gibson. He was a cop, good at reading people. Charlie Gibson was real, sincere. Bill had met O.J. Simpson once. Simpson had a smile, a firm hand, seemed sincere enough, but Simpson had been a man distracted by other things. He was not there. He was thinking about the next place he had to be. He would always think about the next place. The world was full of people like that. But Charlie Gibson was right there, in the studio, listening, watching, feeling.

In any case, Michael was dressed in a pair of jeans and a University of Arkansas sweatshirt, an extra-large with the sleeves pulled up.

“Couldn't sleep,” said Michael with a nervous smile.

“I know how it is,” said his father, going for the coffee and flipping on Charlie and Joan. Bill was not obsessed with the show, but having it on might make it easier for his son to talk or not to talk.

“Last night was hard,” Michael said. “Toast?” Hanrahan nodded, and Michael got it for him.

“I heard you,” said Hanrahan.

Michael sat and looked at his full, dark cup of coffee. “You know what I was doing?”

“Looking for a bottle,” said Hanrahan.

“My father's a detective,” said Michael with a smile. He touched his face. He needed a shave. He needed a shower. He needed a shampoo and a comb, all the things his father had been through before coming downstairs. “I didn't find one.”

“There isn't one,” said Hanrahan. “I told you. Used to be. I'd take it out and look at it, have arguments with it and put it away. I always won, with some help from my friends. Then I got rid of the bottle. Things happened. I was afraid it would win the next argument.”

“I considered going out and finding an all-night place,” said Michael.

“But you didn't,” his father said, digging into his shredded wheat.

“What's today going to be like?” asked Michael. “Can you see me shaking?”

“You don't look like Robert Redford on a good day, but you're not so bad,” said Hanrahan. “I'd like you to meet Smedley, go with me to an AA meeting tonight if I'm not working, go with Smedley anyway.”

“I don't know,” said Michael.

“Only way you can stay here,” said Hanrahan. “It's great to have you back. It's great to see you, but you count on this house and me to pull you through, you won't make it and I'll feel like it's my fault. We do it my way?”

“We do it your way,” Michael agreed.

“Good. As soon as I finish, I call my friend. He comes over and you do what he says.”

“What if he's not up?”

“I'll wake him,” said Hanrahan. “He's been through this before.”

The phone rang. Hanrahan picked it up. It was a girl, one of the Koreans he and Abe had talked to about the extortion business. She told him her story quickly, calmly and hung up.

Hanrahan took out his pen and pad and wrote Smedley Ash's name and number and told Michael to call, that he had to run. Michael promised to call as soon as his father left. Hanrahan nodded and dialed Lieberman's beeper number.

While he waited less than a minute, he turned to his sagging son, pointed a finger at him and said, “You call.”

“I call,” Michael agreed.

“Stay in the house till my friend tells you what to do?”

“OK,” said Michael.

Hanrahan knew how much the word of an alcoholic was worth when he felt he had to have a drink.

“I throw you out if you take a drink, Michael. I mean it.”

Hanrahan looked at his watch. The phone rang. It was Lieberman.

Hanrahan got to the Four Star Cleaners right ahead of his partner. They double-parked and met on the sidewalk in front of the store where an older uniformed cop greeted them. The rain was falling lightly.

“Moonjohn,” said Lieberman taking the man's hand. Hanrahan did the same.

“My partner went in the ambulance with the perp the girl wounded. The stiff is still inside. The third one took off. Blood leads that way,” Moonjohn said, pointing down. In spite of the light rain the trail was clear. It wouldn't be for long. “If you didn't show up in the next two minutes, I was going after him. Girl inside says she shot him at least twice.”

Moonjohn was not far from retirement. He didn't want to be a hero and run down an armed and wounded Korean gangster in an alley. Not if he didn't have to. Not if he could get two detectives to do it. Detectives got paid for doing things like that.

“Thanks,” said Hanrahan. “We'll be back.”

The two detectives, weapons now out and at their sides, ignored the few people who passed them on the wet morning and did their best to ignore the bloodstains and the odd pair of detectives. They had seen the police on the street before. Now they wanted to mind their own business and get to work.

The trail of blood was beginning to wash away, but the trail was so heavy that there was still plenty to follow to the corner, across the street and down the sidewalk in front of three-, six-, and twelve-flats pressed together with tiny littered lawns in front of them.