He kissed her forehead and said, “Ten minutes. Time me.”
She glanced at the big man and went to meet Lisa who stood, arms folded, waiting a few dozen feet away.
When everyone was gone, the big man slowly walked around the grave, crossed himself as he passed the hole being filled in by two men with shovels, and approached Abe.
It was then he had said, “You’re lookin’ for me.”
“Probably,” said Lieberman.
“No ‘probably,’” the big man said, looking over the detective’s head. “Word’s out. Guy told a guy, told a guy, told me. It’s this.”
He held up his right hand.
“You know why I’m looking for you?”
“Something to do with a guy who got killed in New Mexico.”
“Arizona, Yuma,” Lieberman corrected.
“Whatever. Wherever.”
“What’s your name?”
“Anthony Imperioli,” the man said. “No secret. You’d track it down. I’m heading whatever this shit is down before you drop it in my driveway.”
The sun was in Lieberman’s eyes. He moved to the right, being careful not to step on the bronze plate that marked the grave of one Seymour Glitz.
“You related to Joseph Imperioli?”
“My cousin. I’m from Boston. Moved here four, six months ago, something like that.”
“Gower,” said Lieberman.
“Who?”
Lieberman didn’t answer.
“That the guy who got killed in, what was that, Yuma?”
“Yuma.”
“I’m being honest with you, Lieberman,” the man said, hands folded in front of him again. “I’ve been told you’re a real hard-ass, which lookin’ at you is a little tough to believe, but shit, I knew a guy back in Boston, Vince Falco, smaller than you, skinny like you wouldn’t believe, big eyes, you know. Toughest bastard I ever knew.”
“I consider it an honor to be in his company,” said Lieberman. “Gower?”
“Yeah,” said the big man, shifting his feet and looking down. “We’re off the record here. Anything I say, I deny it later. All’s we’re doin’ here now is talking about what a nice funeral it was.”
“Gower,” Lieberman repeated.
“He whacked my sister’s husband two years ago. Not saying Jimmy didn’t deserve it. Jimmy deserved. But he shouldn’t have done it in front of my sister. He shouldn’t have dragged it out, didn’t have to shoot him in the goddamn eye, you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean,” said Lieberman. “Where did he do this?”
“Home. Boston. Jimmy owed big. Jimmy was into drugs, light, not heavy. Jimmy pissed some people off who it was a mistake to piss off. He threw my cousin Joe’s name around a lot. Didn’t do him any good.”
“So you found out Gower was arrested, went to Yuma, and hired Billy Johnstone to kill him.”
“Who?”
“Billy Johnstone,” Lieberman repeated, checking his watch.
The man pursed his lips and shook his head.
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s heard of you,” said Lieberman. “He described you.”
“This?”
Imperioli held up his right hand.
“Jammed it in one of my old man’s hunting rifles when I was a kid. Almost ripped my thumb off. Infection, operation. Damned thing almost killed me.”
“And the world knows of this because ….”
“On account of I was in the Newsweek magazine couple of months ago with Joe,” he said. “Arms around each other. Big smiles. Family picnic. My nephew Mario got out of the army. Story mentions stuff about Joe. You know the kind of stuff. Story mentions my brother-in-law Jimmy getting hit. Think it said something about Gower being arrested, let off. Little picture of Gower, too. Black and white. Bad picture. Old. Sort of peeking around his hand.”
“What were you doing in Yuma last week,” Lieberman asked.
He had four more minutes.
“Never been in Yuma in my life,” said Imperioli. “Swear to God. Swear to Jesus. Swear on my mother’s life.”
“Billy Johnstone,” said Lieberman.
“Billy Johnstone. Billy Johnstone. Who the fuck is Billy Johnstone?”
“Where’ve you been for the last two weeks?”
“Right here,” Imperioli said, emphatically pointing down at the grass. “Not right here, right here, but in Chicago right here. You can check it out. I’m settin’ up a business. Construction. Got meetings every day. Contracts, dealing with permits, the whole shit. Check it out.”
“I will.”
“Be my guest. I’ll help you.”
“Got kids, Tony?”
“Three, two boys, a girl. You wanna see pictures?”
“You want to see pictures of my grandchildren?”
Neither man moved for his wallet.
“They go to college, your kids?” asked Lieberman.
“Boys graduated. Tony Junior’s a lawyer. Gene’s a computer something. Adrienne, she’s studying literature at Grinnell. Heard of it?”
“Good school,” said Lieberman.
“They say.”
“Costs a lot to send kids to school.”
“Where are we goin’ with this?” asked Imperioli.
“You’ve got a lot of money, Tony?”
“Hell no,” he said. “I owe my ass all over the place. If these contracts don’t come through I drag my ass to my cousin Joey and hit him up for cover, which is something no one wants to do, owe Joey Imperioli money, cousin or no cousin.”
“Where can I find you?” asked Lieberman.
He checked his watch. He was out of time. Tony Imperioli took out his wallet, extracted a card, and handed it to Lieberman, who looked at it. In embossed blue script it read: Anthony Imperioli, General Contractor. A phone number, cell phone number, and fax number were printed in smaller letters in the lower left-hand corner. There was no address. Lieberman pocketed the card.
“I’ll be calling you,” said Lieberman.
“Yeah. Nice funeral.”
“Nice funeral,” Lieberman agreed, and the two men walked together to the road where their cars were parked.
Abe got in. Bess was in the driver’s seat. The air-conditioning was on and so was a classical music station.
“Mozart?” Abe asked, watching Tony Imperioli walk to a green late-model Buick and get in.
“Handel,” said Lisa.
Bess started the car.
“Who was that, Abe?” Lisa asked.
“Anthony Imperioli,” answered Lieberman.
“Is he a policeman, a criminal? He looks like an Italian gangster,” she said as they drove past Tony Imperioli’s car.
“He’s a businessman,” said Lieberman.
“What kind of business?” Lisa demanded.
“I’ll find out,” he said.
The music built to a crescendo as they passed the hill where Lieberman’s parents were buried.
“Hold it,” he said.
Bess stopped the car. She knew what he wanted.
“You want company?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Listen to Handel and contemplate the source of musical talent, of all talent. Genetic, accident, environment, the touch of God?”
“Abe, are you all right?” Bess asked.
“And if you solve that one,” he said, patting her hand and opening the door, “contemplate the source of evil. If you come up with the same answer for both questions, let me know when I get back.”
He stepped out and closed the door.
“What was that about?” Lisa asked.
Bess watched her husband move up the grassy hill between graves, heading for the spot where his parents were buried. She didn’t answer her daughter.
“You think I need a haircut?” O’Neil said, looking in the rearview mirror over the dashboard and combing his hair.
“You could use one,” said Hanrahan.
“Think I’ll go back to the brush cut,�
�� said O’Neil, sitting back and looking at the entrance to the hospital. “You know, like Ollie North.”
“Go for it,” said Hanrahan behind the driver’s seat.
They were waiting for Hugh Morton to come out. They could see his car parked at the corner of the hospital driveway. They knew his passenger-side visor was down displaying his police identification.
O’Neil and a plainclothes cop named Swartz had questioned the people who had gathered across from the Berg house. An old couple across the street had seen a “nice-looking Negro man” ringing the Berg doorbell a little before they heard the shots. The young mother with the child in the stroller had seen the same man get out of a white car about ten minutes before Hanrahan and O’Neil had arrived. Both the young mother and the old couple said they were pretty sure they could identify the man if they saw him again.
O’Neil had thought it would be a good idea to go right into the hospital and face Morton when he came out of his wife’s room. Hanrahan had vetoed that.
“Suit yourself,” said O’Neil. “But we catch him coming out of her room, he sees us, good chance he’ll say something.”
“He’s too controlled for that.”
“Hell, his wife was raped, her arm broken, his kid—”
“I know,” said Bill. “We give him room, follow him when he comes out. He goes home, fine. He goes somewhere else, fine. Period.”
“Period,” said O’Neil.
They sat in silence. O’Neil had a Game Boy in his pocket. He pulled out the palm-sized plastic gizmo, pushed some buttons. Music began to play. Tingly, repetitive. O’Neil played Tetris.
“Can you do that without sound?” Hanrahan asked.
O’Neil turned off the sound and kept pushing buttons.
“Keeps me calm,” said O’Neil. “Helps pass the time.”
“Here he comes,” said Bill.
O’Neil hit a button to pause the game and looked up. Morton was heading quickly to his car, a white Honda.
“Slick-looking nigger,” said O’Neil with what sounded like genuine admiration.
“Cut that shit,” said Hanrahan, starting the engine.
“What?”
“That ‘nigger’ shit,” said Hanrahan. “Your wife was—”
“The man’s good,” O’Neil cut in. “I’m on his side. If he killed those two weasel scumbags, I hope he gets away with it. I’ll kick in twenty bucks to buy him a goddamn medal. How’s that?”
They followed Morton slowly, carefully.
“Perfect,” said Hanrahan.
O’Neil turned the game off and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
“Don’t like me much, do you?” he said.
“Seen worse,” Hanrahan said, eyes front.
“Rather be with the little Jew than a fellow mick?”
“Much,” said Hanrahan.
“Then let’s nail this down so you can go sit with him and drink mattie ball soup on Devon.”
“Suits me,” said Bill.
“I have that fuckin’ effect on people,” O’Neil said with a sigh.
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” asked Hanrahan.
Rabbi Wass’s office wasn’t too small for the gathering but Irving Hammel decided that they should move to the conference room where he could roam as he spoke. The room had a table, eight chairs, and reproductions of Chagall paintings on the wall. Through the window one could watch the traffic on Dempster.
Bess and Abe sat together. Rabbi Wass sat next to them, and Irving, standing on the opposite side of the table, solemnly removed papers from his attaché case and laid them in two neat piles before him.
“I have six copies of Ida Katzman’s will,” he said, pointing to one of the piles.
Lieberman tried to pay attention. His thoughts flitted from an old black man in a Yuma hospital, to two very sweet and aggressive old women who were planning Barry’s bar mitzvah and expecting a payment within a few days, to Lisa who desperately wanted wisdom from him so that she could scornfully reject it.
“Before I pass them out, in accordance with Mrs. Katzman’s wishes, I’ll state simply what the conditions of the will are.”
He paused pregnantly, dramatically, and adjusted his glasses.
“Read the will, Marc Anthony,” Lieberman said wearily.
“Abe,” Bess said with a tolerant sigh, which stated clearly that one could expect no more from her husband.
“Forty thousand dollars to the United Negro College Fund,” he said looking at the will. “Another forty thousand to Hadassah. One hundred and ten thousand dollars to her driver and companion, Mr. Arthur Burke. One million six hundred dollars to Temple Mir Shavot to be applied according to the wishes of the temple board.”
Hammel removed his glasses dramatically, looked up and said, “There is a proviso. It was Mrs. Katzman’s preference that the money be invested and that only the annual interest be applied to the temple’s needs unless there was a crisis, which required touching the capital. A crisis would be defined by Rabbi Wass or whoever the rabbi might be and the president of the congregation.”
Hammel looked down at the will again and read, “The endowment is not to bear my name. There are to be no plaques bearing my name. I do not want someone forty or fifty years from now to see my name and wonder who this person of the past might be, or worse, to not wonder. I care only to be remembered by those still living. And so I wish that those present at the end of the reading of this will recite the mourner’s Kaddish.”
No one spoke. All nodded.
“Finally, there is sixty thousand dollars that will go to Bess Lieberman,” he said. “Mrs. Lieberman is expressly asked to spend the money on her own needs and that of her family.”
Hammel handed out copies of the will and said, “As you will see, I am to serve as executor of the estate at an annual fee of twenty thousand dollars. Any questions?”
“Who gets her cane?” asked Lieberman.
“Her cane?” asked Hammel.
“Yes, her cane,” Lieberman repeated.
“It’s not in the will,” said Hammel.
“I’d like it,” said Lieberman.
“But …,” Hammel said.
“Yes,” said Rabbi Wass. “Take the cane, Abraham.”
“Thank you,” said Lieberman.
“If there are no more questions,” said Hammel.
“There is nothing in the will that forbids us to have a memorial light in her honor?” asked Rabbi Wass.
“Nothing.”
“Good,” said Rabbi Wass. “And now let us honor Ida Katzman’s wish and recite the mourner’s Kaddish.”
There was no need for a prayer book. All four of the people in the room had said the words since childhood in honor of the memory of mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, friends, and even children.
Rabbi Wass began in Hebrew, “Magnified and sanctified be the great name of God, in the world created according to the Divine will. May God’s sovereignty soon be established. In our lifetime and that of the entire house of Israel. And let us say …”
And the four said “Amen” and continued in Hebrew:
“Y’hey sh’mey raba m’varah Palamul-almey alma-ya. May God’s great name be praised to all eternity.”
They completed the prayer in unison in Hebrew, “Hallowed and honored, extolled and exalted, adored and acclaimed be the name of the blessed Holy One, whose glory is above all the praises, hymns, and songs of adoration which human beings can utter. And let us say, Amen.
“May God grant abundant peace and life to us and to all Israel. And let us say, Amen.
“May God, who ordains harmony in the universe, grant peace to us and to all Israel. And let us say: Amen.”
Back in the car Abe said, “We didn’t say the meditation before the Kaddish.”
“She didn’t ask for it,” said Bess.
“There’s nothing in the Kaddish about death or grief,” said Lieberman.
“It’s not a prayer of grief,” sh
e said. “It’s a—”
“Meditation,” he finished.
They were silent for the next two blocks and then Bess spoke.
“She wanted us to enjoy the money.”
“Yeah,” said Lieberman, making the turn onto Jarvis.
“What do we need, Abe?”
“We’ll have no trouble thinking of something,” he said, parking the car in a space across from their house.
“The cane,” she said as they sat, not wanting to get out.
“I liked Ida,” he said.
“I know. I still think we should put it on the wall in the living room,” she said.
“I still think it could go into the front closet,” he said.
“Yes, I know. Where one or both of us could use it when we got old enough to need it. Getting it down from the wall wouldn’t be all that difficult,” said Bess, patting his arm. “Look.”
She was looking at a little red Kia parked a few spaces down and across the street.
“I see it,” he said.
The sisters were here for the final bar mitzvah arrangements. Lieberman wondered how long it would take for Ida Katzman’s bequest to be available so they could finish paying for the bar mitzvah.
Lieberman’s cell phone rang as Bess opened her door.
“Lieberman,” he said and then listened. Bess saw that whoever was speaking had Abe’s full attention. He touched his thumb to his mustache. This, Bess knew, was a bad sign. “Doesn’t give me much time,” he said to the caller. “I’ll be there.”
He pushed the button, turning off the phone, and looked at his wife.
“You’ll have to face the sisters Karamazov on your own,” he said.
“You should take something to eat,” Bess said.
“I’m going to a restaurant,” he said. “We’re rich now, remember?”
“Abe, you’ve got that look.”
“Which one?”
“Lean and hungry and something on your mind,” she said.
“All three correct,” he said.
“Be careful,” she said.
“Aren’t I always?”
“No,” she said.
“I’ll be careful,” he said.
Bess moved toward the front door and watched him go to the car and pull away.
He had, if the caller was right, about an hour. Abe patted his gun and considered what he might have time to eat before hell froze over.
Last Dark Place Page 12