Last Dark Place

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

“He has already been to see me. As has an emissary from Mr. Woo. It makes no difference. The child cannot be born.”

  Iris hung up. When it rang again a few seconds later, she ignored it. It kept ringing. She had an answering machine, still in its box from RadioShack, next to the phone. She was going to wait till she had the new phone number, but she decided to do it now. She forced herself to calmly remove the wrapping on the box. The phone kept ringing.

  “You don’t have to believe in God to be a Jew,” said Lieberman. “It’s like an Arab saying he’s not an Arab.”

  “But,” said Barry, shifting on the sofa so he could look directly at his grandfather, “it’s wrong to have a bar mitzvah without believing in God.”

  “Thousands of people do it,” said Abe. “Consider it a ritual that will please your grandmother. Ritual is terrific stuff if it’s done right. And think of all the presents people have bought. And the food, don’t forget the food, and the hotel, and …”

  He didn’t add that he himself had gone through his bar mitzvah as a devout atheist. At the time, he thought agnosticism was an act of cowardice.

  “I’m not even Jewish,” Barry said. “Not really.”

  “You’re not?”

  “My father isn’t a Jew,” Barry said. “My name is Cresswell, not Lieberman.”

  “Your mother is Jewish,” said Lieberman. “Your mother is the one who determines whether you’re Jewish or not.”

  He felt like adding, “just ask the Nazis” but settled for letting the information sink in. A combination of guilt, tradition, and reason were in the lap of his grandson.

  “I know those things,” Barry said. “My mother doesn’t care about being Jewish. She married my father and Dr. Alexander. They’re not Jewish.”

  Lieberman felt like saying, “Marvin Alexander is more Jewish than I am.”

  Lieberman’s son-in-law had studied medicine in Israel, spoke Hebrew, which Abe did not, read Hebrew, which Abe did but didn’t understand, and knew the history and holidays.

  “You talk to your father about this?” asked Abe.

  Barry nodded.

  “He said I couldn’t disappoint you and Grandma,” Barry said. “But … it feels wrong, you know?”

  “I know,” said Abe. “You want to call it off, I’ll talk to your grandmother about calling it off, but think about what that will mean. You ask me, it’s a lot easier to go through with it than spend the rest of your life living with the cancellation of your bar mitzvah for ethical reasons. I’m a great believer in ethics, my own ethics, but sometimes a little ethical compromise to make people you love happy is worth doing.”

  “You wouldn’t really ask Grandma to let me out of the bar mitzvah,” he said.

  “Well, to tell the truth—which I do on a regular-enough basis to make me a more than honest man—no, I wouldn’t ask her. What I would ask her, if I fail here and now, is to help me figure out a way to convince you, blackmail you, or bribe you into going through with the bar mitzvah.”

  “You would bribe me?”

  “Not really,” Abe said. “I just threw that in with the hope that your imagination would take flight.”

  “You think I’m just scared,” Barry said.

  Abe shifted a bit more so that he looked directly at his grandson.

  “I think you’re scared,” said Abe. “I think it would be a little goofy if you weren’t.”

  “Goofy? No one says goofy,” Barry said with a grin.

  “I say goofy and snafu and give me some skin and …”

  “No you don’t,” said Barry.

  “Well, I’m only committed to being honest half the time, remember?”

  “I guess I’m doing it,” said Barry with a sigh.

  “I guess you are,” said Lieberman.

  “I guess I just had to say it out loud to someone,” he said.

  “And,” said Lieberman rising and looking at his watch, “I’m honored that you chose me. I’ve got to go catch a plane to Yuma.”

  “Arizona?”

  “Is there another one?”

  Barry stood.

  “Do we shake hands now or what?” asked Lieberman.

  Barry put his arms around his grandfather and hugged him. Abe hugged back. Barry hugged harder. The kid was strong.

  “You’ll be back in time tomorrow?” Barry said, still holding Lieberman.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Abe said. “Better not. Your grandmother would be perturbed, your mother livid, your granduncle Maish disappointed, Rabbi Wass confused, and a lot of people saying or thinking ‘What else did you expect from that goofy Lieberman?’”

  “You better get going,” said Barry, letting go.

  Abe moved to the door and picked up the overnight bag. He looked at his watch. He had less than an hour to make the plane. The airport on a perfect day was forty-five minutes away.

  “You’re late,” said Barry.

  “I’ll make it. I’ll put on my flashing light and weave through traffic. One of the many perks about being a cop. Go to school.”

  “Too late,” he said.

  “Then study your speech or your Torah portion.”

  “Got it down,” Barry said, pointing to his head. Abe always pointed to his head.

  “Then do something very mildly evil. Eat a ham sandwich.” Abe waved, closed the door behind him, and hurried down the steps.

  Bill had just put Marvin Alexander’s leather suitcase in the trunk of his car and gotten in the car when his cell phone rang.

  Alexander, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing tan slacks and a tan shirt, settled in.

  “Hello,” said Bill.

  “Bill,” Iris said. “You went to see Jon Li.”

  “Who told you that?”

  The pause was long. Hanrahan looked at Marvin Alexander, who was doing a successful job of not looking interested in the conversation.

  “He called you again,” Hanrahan said.

  “Yes, but …”

  “He won’t make another call,” said Bill.

  “Bill, don’t …”

  “I’m busy now, honey,” he said. “I’ll call you or get home as soon as I can.”

  He pushed the off button and pocketed the phone.

  As he turned on the ignition and looked over his shoulder to back out, Alexander said, “Family problems?”

  “What makes you think so?” asked Bill, backing up.

  “I don’t think you call Abe or any other cop ‘honey’ and I doubt if you’d call a girlfriend ‘honey’ in front of me.”

  “You should have been a detective,” said Bill, driving away from the curb where he had parked with his police card showing on the pulled-down sun visor. He left the visor down. He was heading into the sun.

  “I am,” he said. “You find criminals. I find disease and trauma.”

  “Doc …,” Bill began.

  Marvin held up his hands and said, “I hope you’re not going to ask me for domestic advice. I think you know enough about my life to know I’m the wrong person. You’re Catholic, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have a priest?”

  “Yeah. His name is Whizzer.”

  “Strange name for a priest.”

  “He’s also black.”

  “Less strange.”

  “There’s something I have to do,” Bill said. “Okay if I just drop you at the house? If there’s no one there, you know where they hide the key?”

  “Lisa told me,” said Marvin. “You want to talk, I’ll listen.”

  “No,” said Bill. “I’ve got to do, not talk.”

  He pulled onto the street, almost colliding with a car with a flashing police light on the roof.

  “That’s Abe,” he said, turning his head.

  Marvin turned, too, to watch Lieberman screech toward the parking lot.

  “Shouldn’t we turn back and …”

  “No,” said Bill. “He’s on his way to Yuma.”

  “Yuma?”

  “It’s a long story,” Bi
ll said, driving over the speed limit.

  The flight to Yuma was bumpy. Abe didn’t like bumpy. In fact, Abe didn’t like airplanes. He also didn’t like the fact that no one looked particularly worried when turbulence struck. And he didn’t like the calm voice of the pilot saying, “As you can see, we are experiencing a little turbulence, so we would appreciate your staying in your seats with your seat belts buckled. We’ll resume snack service as soon as we get through this. It should not be long.”

  The ridiculously thin blond woman next to him was sleeping. The flight was full and Abe got the aisle seat in the next-to-the-last row near the rear restrooms, which was fine with him. He did not sleep on airplanes. He did want the restroom nearby if he needed it.

  The Yuma airport wasn’t particularly busy and since there were few gates, he found himself walking right past where Gower had been shot and killed by Billy Johnstone.

  Abe’s carry-on had wheels. He wheeled resolutely forward checking his watch and almost ran into Martin Parsons.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Parsons said. “Convenience store robbery.”

  Abe nodded and the two detectives moved toward the exit.

  That was all Parsons said as they walked until Abe spoke.

  “You have a question.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your question,” Lieberman said, “is what am I doing here? This is your case, your town, and whatever I’m here for you could have taken care of.”

  “Something like that,” Parsons said as they made a turn toward the exit and baggage-claim area.

  “If I tell you, you’ll have to tell your superior,” said Abe. “It can get messy. If you don’t know and things go right, I’ll be back on a plane tomorrow and you can forget I was even here.”

  “If things go right,” said Parsons.

  They moved through glass doors and headed for a marked police car.

  “You have the information I asked for?” asked Lieberman.

  Parsons pulled out a folded, typed sheet of paper and handed it to Lieberman as they got into the car. Lieberman read the single-spaced report, lips pursed.

  “I don’t get it,” said Parsons.

  “Where is Johnstone?”

  “Private room, getting better fast, uniformed officer at the door.”

  “He lawyered?”

  “Lawyered up,” said Parsons.

  Eighteen minutes later Parsons parked the car and said, “Booked you into the same motel.”

  “Thanks,” said Lieberman, getting out of the car.

  “I don’t suppose you want me up there with you?”

  “Your town. Your decision, but I think …”

  “Never mind,” said Parsons. “I’ll be right here. I’ve got a paperback in the glove compartment, new John Lutz. Johnstone’s in three-eleven.”

  Lieberman went through the hospital doors, headed for the elevator, went up and showed his badge to the burly Hispanic cop at the door.

  “Been expecting you,” the cop said.

  “He awake?”

  “Last time I looked,” said the cop.

  Lieberman went into the room and closed the door behind him. Johnstone looked up and smiled. The television set in the corner was on. Peter Strauss was extolling the virtues of Miracle-Gro.

  “Didn’t get you into too much trouble, did I?” the old man asked.

  He was clean-shaven, sitting up and not looking as if he had been shot a few days earlier.

  “No,” said Lieberman.

  “Cubs and St. Louis on in about half an hour,” he said. “ESPN. Stay and watch?”

  “Don’t think so,” said Lieberman, pulling a chair next to the bed and sitting at eye level with Johnstone. “Mind turning off the sound for a few minutes?”

  Johnstone pressed the mute button and there was ambient silence.

  “You know why I’m here?” asked Lieberman.

  “Came all the way back to makes things tidy. Ask me some questions now that I’m wide-awake and getting on the mend,” said Johnstone. “Go ahead. Throw your first pitch.”

  “It’s a curveball, Billy,” said Lieberman.

  Johnstone waited, eyes wide.

  “Throw it.”

  “You don’t have cancer,” Lieberman said.

  “I most certainly do,” said Johnstone. “I’ll give you my doctor’s name.”

  “I’ve got it,” said Lieberman. “You had prostate cancer three years ago. Prostate was removed. Your PSA is better than mine. You’re not dying.”

  “Hell,” Johnstone said with a chuckle. “We’re all dying. You got a point here? I told you I did it for my grandchildren. If I have to go to prison awhile, that’s fine. My lawyer says we put it to a judge. My age, health, the guy I killed, he figures I’ll do a few years someplace not so bad.”

  “I think you should call your lawyer before my next curveball.”

  “No need. No need.”

  “Your grandchildren don’t need your money to go to college,” said Lieberman. “It won’t hurt but they don’t need it. Both of them have full scholarships. Your grandson is both a computer whiz and a pitcher with prospects. Granddaughter is opera material. Talented kids.”

  “Smart, too,” Johnstone said. “Extra cash is good insurance.”

  The old man’s smile was gone now.

  “Worth killing for?”

  “Depends on who gets killed.”

  Johnstone looked up at the television screen. The end of a black-and-white movie. Mickey Rooney was talking fast and silently. There was a little bandage over his right eye.

  “The Strip,” said Lieberman. “Pretty good movie. Rooney plays the drums. He was a pretty good drummer.”

  “Damn good drummer,” Johnstone said, clicking off the television. “You know Louis Armstrong, Jack Teagarden, Earl ‘Fatha’ Hines are in this movie, too?”

  “Yeah,” said Lieberman. “Want your lawyer now?”

  “I need him?”

  “Don’t know,” said Lieberman. “Want to take a chance with me? You can always call me a liar later.”

  Johnstone looked at the blank screen.

  “Anthony Imperioli, the man with the disfigured thumbnail,” Lieberman said.

  “That his name?” said Johnstone.

  Lieberman didn’t answer, just looked at Johnstone for a beat before going on.

  “Cousin of Joseph Imperioli.”

  “Joseph Imperioli,” Johnstone said, as if trying to place the name.

  He shook his head.

  “Anthony Imperioli has never been in Yuma,” said Lieberman.

  “What do you expect him to say?”

  “Not what he says that counts,” said Lieberman. “It’s whether I believe him. I believe him. He definitely wasn’t here when you say he generously paid for you to kill Gower.”

  “He was here,” said Johnstone. “Most definitely.”

  “The money. Where is it?”

  “I told you …”

  Lieberman was shaking his head “no” now.

  “No money. You made a lot of mistakes, Billy.”

  The old man looked away now, lips tight.

  “You saw the Imperioli cousins in Newsweek magazine, right?” said Lieberman.

  “Might,” said Johnstone. “Passengers leave magazines, books, all kinds of things in the waiting areas or throw them away.”

  “Let’s talk about Faubus,” said Lieberman.

  “Faubus?”

  “The one who told me he was hired by the man with the bad thumb to keep an eye on me and urge me out of Yuma,” said Lieberman. “Cowboy Faubus.”

  “I recall,” said Johnstone.

  “He wasn’t hired by anyone with a bad thumb, was he?” asked Lieberman.

  “I don’t know the man,” said Billy. “If he says he was, I guess he was. Same guy who hired me to shoot Gower.”

  “You hired Faubus, Billy. You wanted me to spot him, pick him up, so he could give me the story about the man with the thumb and you could back it up. Billy Johnstone, y
ou are one smart and devious janitor.”

  “Maybe I should talk to my lawyer?”

  “Maybe so,” said Lieberman. “But I’m still your best bet. I can have Faubus pulled in. I think he’ll tell us a different story this time. Of course, it depends on how good a friend he is or how much you paid him.”

  Johnstone looked at the policeman for a long, serious moment.

  “Good friend, no money,” he said.

  “My grandson’s getting bar mitzvahed tomorrow,” said Lieberman.

  “That a fact? What is it you say, mayzel tove?”

  “Something like that. Thanks. Billy, why did you kill Gower?”

  “Needed killing,” said Johnstone. “You got me. What more you need?”

  “The answer to two questions. Who did Gower kill?”

  “Lots of people, I hear.”

  “Who did he kill that you loved?” asked Lieberman, softly.

  Johnstone looked at the ceiling and said, “Oh, God.”

  “Billy?”

  “I thought I was going to spend a quiet afternoon watching the Cubs,” the old man said.

  “Still can,” said Lieberman.

  “Mind won’t be on it,” Johnstone said. “Okay. My son, my only son, Ronnie. Good son. Didn’t always show good judgment. He told me he owed Imperioli a lot of money. Borrowed it to start a sporting goods store. Store went under. Ronnie couldn’t get a job.”

  “Which Imperioli?”

  Johnstone held up his hand and pointed at his thumb.

  “Ronnie said a man named Gower came and told him he better pay,” said Johnstone. “Beg, borrow, steal, kill, but pay. I didn’t have the money to help him. Then he was dead. Ronnie was beat up real bad, beat to pieces, left in an alley. I told the police about what Ronnie had said about Imperioli and Gower, but Ronnie’s dead in Boston and the police here thought I was a dumb old fool. Called the Boston police, talked to an officer, not even a detective or nothing. He said he’d pass it on. Didn’t even ask me to spell my name. I’m damn sure he didn’t write down a damn thing.”

  “Gower?”

  “Saw on the television after he’d been arrested here. His picture was up there. They said he was being taken back to Chicago. Had to be the same Gower. TV said he was wanted for a murder. Had to be the same Gower. God or the devil had put him in Yuma. Don’t care which. God or the devil told me this was the one chance I was ever going to get to ease the pain.”