Lieberman's Law

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  When Lieberman made his way through the kitchen door, careful not to spill, Bess was back downstairs and sitting across from Lisa.

  “You want tea?” Abe asked his wife, placing one cup of coffee in front of his daughter and the other at his place at the head of the table.

  Bess shook her head and looked at her daughter.

  Abe decided to say nothing. It was the safest thing to do. He sipped and tried not to glance back into the living room at the television screen in the hope that the Cubs had miraculously overcome the Braves’ overwhelming lead.

  “Marvin wants a divorce,” Lisa said, hands folded in front of her on the table, voice striving to remain calm and even, to remain the Lisa her parents had always known.

  “Why?” asked Bess, looking at Abe who sipped more coffee and knew that all chances of a movie were gone.

  “I cheated on him,” Lisa replied.

  Abe put down his cup and stared at his daughter, who met his eyes for an instant and then looked down into the dark liquid she hadn’t tasted.

  It was Lisa’s second marriage. Her first husband, Todd, the father of Melisa and Barry, had remarried an older colleague at Northwestern University, where Todd Creswell taught classics and had the annoying habit of quoting morbid passages from Greek tragedies.

  Now Marvin Alexander. The man was nearly perfect. An M.D., internationally respected pathologist, forty-nine. He had taught at Hebrew University in Jerusalem and spoke nearly perfect Hebrew. Lisa was a biochemist who had left her husband with her children and later left her children with Abe and Bess and moved to California to “put her life together.” Imagination had never been Lisa’s strength. She had always been an outstanding scholar, a serious child and woman.

  Todd had not been Jewish. Abe and Bess could live with that. He was, as far as they could tell, a good husband, a good father.

  Marvin Alexander was an African American, which bothered Bess and Abe only insofar as knowing that if Lisa had another child he or she might be black and have to face the trials of growing up black in America. Both Abe and Bess liked Marvin and, frankly, in bed in the dark, on more than one occasion, they wondered what Dr. Marvin Alexander had seen in their daughter that made him decide she would be a good wife. Her history so far had indicated otherwise, and Marvin Alexander had seemed to them smart enough to see that.

  “Cheated?” Bess repeated, looking at Abe for help that he was not yet ready to give. He was a cop. He believed in letting witnesses or suspects talk themselves out before he started asking questions.

  “An intern at the hospital where Marvin works,” she said. “Where I work. I didn’t know … Morris is so young. I just …”

  “How young is this Morris?” asked Bess.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “He’s Jewish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Married?”

  “No.”

  “How many times did you …?” Bess asked.

  “Never,” said Lisa. “Close, but never. Marvin found out. Does it matter how many times?”

  Bess looked at Abe. It clearly didn’t matter to him.

  “Marvin’s a good man,” said Lisa. “I can be difficult. You know that. He knew that.”

  “There’s difficult and there’s … never mind,” Bess said. “Go on.”

  “I don’t want to live with Morris. He doesn’t want to live with me. I don’t want to marry him. I want Marvin to forgive me, to take me back.”

  “Did he hit you when he found out?” Bess asked, trying to keep her voice from cracking.

  “Marvin? He’d never hurt me. I hurt him. This is the kind of person you’ve helped turn me into.”

  The last was directed at Abe. He hoped he was not about to hear the list of charges against him once again. Lisa had the memory of an advanced computer and every error, every missed conference, every intended comic remark to a date, every absence because of a homicide, every … well, Lisa’s failures were primarily the fault of Abraham Lieberman. He had come, in fact, to believe that she was probably right though there had to have been some point many years ago when Lisa should have taken responsibility for her own life.

  “As I recall from reading the Bible in the bathtub, God even forgave Cain for killing Abel,” Lieberman said.

  “There is no God,” Lisa said wearily. She had first said it when she was eleven. She had gone on saying it. Lieberman was not sure she was wrong though he was now, largely to please his wife but partly because it gave him some peace of mind, an active member of Temple Mir Shavot on Dempster Street who spent much of his nonworking time considering the question of God’s existence or nonexistence and the meaning of whether He existed or did not exist.

  “You want Marvin to take you back?” Bess asked.

  “Yes,” Lisa said, and a miracle happened. Lisa wept. Lisa never wept. At least not before others. Abe had felt that his daughter had cried when her cousin David had been murdered, but she had kept it private and had done a far better job of comforting Abe’s brother Maish and Maish’s wife Yetta than Abe would have expected.

  “He told you he wanted a divorce?” Abe asked. “He just said it like that?”

  “No, he never said he wanted a divorce. I could tell from his voice, his … I could tell.”

  “Call him, Abe,” Bess said.

  “Me?”

  “Call him, Abe,” Bess repeated. It wasn’t an order. It was a plea. A necessity.

  Abe held back his sigh, finished his coffee, and reached for the telephone that Bess was now placing in front of him. Lisa reached out and almost touched her father’s hand. This, he decided, was a Lisa who needed help. The former Lisa would never have shown her weakness, her need, and would not have accepted help from Abe Lieberman. The two had been nourished and exhausted by years of debate, argument, and resignation. Abe had, almost 100 percent of the time, been able to keep from getting angry, or at least showing it. In fact, he seldom felt anger toward Lisa. Whatever guilt he felt came from the relief he experienced when Lisa was not living at home.

  Lisa was giving him the phone number when the doorbell rang.

  Bess got up to answer while Abe continued dialing. He had almost finished dialing when two men pushed a third through the door Bess had just opened. The two pushers were talking Spanish so quickly that Abe could barely follow their conversation, which, he decided immediately, was not worth following.

  The man they pushed in past Bess stumbled forward and almost fell. He was young, younger than Lisa. He was Korean. He had only one arm, his left, and he looked angry. The Korean wore jeans and a dark brown shirt. The two members of the Tentaculos wore black slacks and tight-fitting long-sleeved black shirts.

  Lieberman stopped dialing and put down the phone. Bess closed the door.

  “In English,” Lieberman said.

  “Viejo,” the leaner of the two Tentaculos said. “We found him outside. He had a gun.”

  The lean Guatemalan was named Fernandez. He was known as Chuculo, the Knife. He had more than earned his nickname. The bigger of the two Tentaculos was an almost feebleminded enforcer known as Piedras, the Stone. Ironically, his last name was, indeed, Piedras. He simply lived up to it. Piedras held up the gun they had taken from the Korean, a black Glock.

  The Tentaculos were a gang of Mexicans, Panamanians, and Guatemalans led by the nearly legendary El Perro, Emiliano Del Sol. Emiliano was generally conceded to be mad and extremely violent and dangerous. He was also known to have a symbiotic and almost friendly relationship with Lieberman. To the degree that he could, Lieberman provided protection for all but the worst of El Perro’s crimes. In turn, El Perro provided information. They also shared a passion for the Cubs though El Perro’s extended only as far as the team’s Hispanic players.

  “¿Que quiere, Viejo?” said Fernandez.

  “Nada ahora,” Lieberman replied. “In English.”

  Lieberman knew that all he had to do was tell the two Tentaculos to get rid of the Korean, whose name was Kim, and it would be
done. Only once had Lieberman condoned El Perro’s killing of a criminal. It had been pure vengeance, and Lieberman could have pretended that he didn’t know the murder would take place. But he did know and he accepted.

  “El Perro found out that this chinga tu madre was coming for you tonight,” Fernandez said. “One of the guys he used to have in his gang told him.”

  “Tell Emiliano I said thanks,” said Lieberman. “You want coffee?”

  “No, gracias,” Fernandez said. “You want us to just leave him here?”

  “Sí,” Lieberman replied.

  El Chuculo shrugged.

  “Bueno, pero cuidado Viejo. Este hombre es muy loco.”

  “Voy a recuerdo,” said Lieberman, looking at the tottering Korean.

  “Hasta luego,” said Chuculo, and then to Kim, “You a lucky gook, you know that? El Viejo should let me cut your heart out.”

  With that Chuculo turned to Bess and Lisa and said, “Dispensa me, mujeres.”

  “He said ‘excuse me,’ ” Lieberman translated. Then to the men: “Gracias, hombres.”

  Chuculo and Piedras left. The blank look on the face of the hulking Piedras didn’t change. They closed the door behind them and the one-armed Kim stood wobbly and defiant in the living room.

  “Coffee?” Lieberman asked.

  Kim didn’t answer.

  “See what I mean?” said Lisa, looking at her mother, her voice raising. “This was my life. Murderers, drug dealers, gang members. In our own living room. I don’t want this for my children.”

  “You left them here, Lisa,” Bess reminded her. “Your father and I didn’t let anything happen to you. We won’t let anything happen to Barry and Melisa. I think it would be a good idea if you went up and said good night to your children. You can sleep with Melisa.”

  “What about the call to Marvin?” Lisa said, standing and looking at Kim, whose eyes glistened with hatred.

  “After Kim and I have a talk,” Lieberman said.

  Bess led a reluctant Lisa toward the stairs and up. The two women whispered, but there was an angry near whimper in Lisa’s voice.

  “Sit down,” Lieberman said, pointing to the chair Lisa had left.

  Kim shook his head no.

  “I’m not asking,” Lieberman said. “I’m telling you. Sit down or we walk outside and talk there. Believe me, it’ll be far more civilized in here. I am sorely displeased that you’ve come to my house again. It will be the last time. You know what those two wanted to do to you?”

  Kim reluctantly staggered to the chair and sank into it. It was clear that the two Tentaculos had not been tender in ushering the Korean into the house.

  “They wanted to take your other arm and then your life. You want a couple of Tylenol?” Lieberman asked.

  Kim shook his head again.

  “Suit yourself,” Lieberman said. “I’ve got some things to tell you and I want you to listen. You don’t listen, you’ve got problems. You don’t come near my house. I told you that once. This is twice. The next time …”

  “I can walk where I want,” Kim said through nearly clenched teeth.

  “No,” Lieberman said, “you can’t. You can’t come within two miles of where I live. No, let’s make boundaries. You can’t go south of Howard Street or north of Touhy. You can’t go west of California or east of McCormick. If you do, I’ll know and you’ll probably be lucky just to lose your other arm. Chuculo wanted to kill you. For him it’s easier that way. I think he’s right.”

  “I will kill you,” Kim said. “On the honor of my father, I will kill you.”

  “Your father’s dead,” Lieberman said. “He died cursing you for being a third-rate gangster. Your mother and sister want you to go away. Your gang is gone. Everyone needs a meaning in life. I don’t want to be yours. I didn’t shoot your arm off. That was a Korean girl in a cleaning store you were extorting from. I brought you in. What the hell’s wrong with your memory?”

  “You set me up,” said Kim.

  “That I did,” Lieberman replied. “It’s what I do for a living. Kim, I’ll give you my advice. You won’t listen but I’ll give it anyway. Move West. Santa Fe is supposed to be nice, or California. Not L.A. Someplace north. Santa Rosa maybe.”

  “I will kill you,” Kim said. “I have vowed. You destroyed my honor, turned me from my family, made my friends desert me, taken my self-respect.”

  “Wrong,” Lieberman said, reaching over for Lisa’s untouched cup of coffee. It was still warm. He drank. “You are a really incompetent criminal. My partner and I kept setting you up. Your own people, the ones you were preying on, turned you in. You could have made twice the money working in a factory instead of walking around in suits, ties, and dark glasses with big guns trying to get tribute from Korean businesses.”

  “I will kill you,” Kim repeated. “You put me in disgrace. I cannot walk down Devon without people smiling at my dishonor or turning their heads. I am a one-armed parah.”

  “You mean ‘pariah,’ ” Lieberman corrected. “You like the Cubs?”

  “The Cubs?”

  “Baseball,” Abe explained.

  “No.” Kim, confused, was trying not to show it.

  “Listen, I have family business to take care of and I’d like, if possible, which seems unlikely, to watch the last inning or two of the baseball game. So, I’ve got your gun, which I feel confident is not registered. I don’t want to get my shoes on and take you in for carrying a concealed illegal weapon. I don’t like paperwork and I don’t think it would get you more than a few months in jail if anything. That missing arm is good for at least five percent sympathy. So I’m going to let you walk out of that door. If you want a job out West, I’ll make some calls, but I have a feeling you won’t take help from me. So, think about it and take a warning instead. You come near here again, you’re dead. I think it’s better to be alive than dead, but you make up your own mind.”

  “I can go?” Kim asked warily.

  “I wish you would. I’ve got an important phone call to make.”

  Kim rose, confused. “You won’t even arrest me?”

  “No.”

  Lieberman’s foot was driving him crazy. He had to scratch it, and he did.

  “So, more dishonor from the Jew devil,” Kim said.

  “You get your dialogue from very bad Hong Kong movies,” Lieberman said. “You need a slightly higher grade of culture. You ever see Mildred Pierce?”

  “Mildred …?” Kim said.

  “Forget it.”

  “You’re ridiculing me again,” Kim said angrily.

  “Maybe,” Lieberman said. “I’m tired and I think I have a long night ahead with my family problems. You know how that is. Go now, and don’t say ‘I’ll be back.’ ”

  Kim stood in confusion trying to think of something to say while Lieberman finished Lisa’s coffee. Lieberman wondered what, if anything, was sweet in the kitchen. He knew there was a Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia frozen yogurt, but he had a taste for something baked and comforting. All he could remember in the pantry were Fig Newtons, which was the last resort.

  Kim blinked once and looked around the room, not to remember it but to make sure he was really here, that this was really happening. And then he moved slowly, nearly shuffling, to the door.

  “Don’t turn around,” Lieberman said, still seated at the dining room table. “Just leave and close the door.”

  Kim paused at the door, defeated, and then opened it quickly and left, closing the door behind him. Lieberman had to give the young man some credit. He hadn’t slammed the door. Maybe there was a small sign of hope. Frankly, and only to himself, Lieberman didn’t believe that Kim would give up. It would all probably end with Kim dead, which Lieberman regretted since he had developed some sense of what the Korean had gone through. From dreams of being a successful American-style gangster, he had fallen to one-armed outcast seeking revenge against the man he blamed for his fall.

  Seconds after the front door closed Bess and Lisa came down
the stairs.

  “Kids hear any of this?” he asked.

  “They’re asleep,” Bess said.

  “We have any cake, coffee cake with that white swirly frosting?” Lieberman asked.

  “In the freezer,” Bess said. “I’ll thaw it in the microwave. Abe, a small piece.”

  “Cholesterol,” Lieberman said. “I know.”

  “Abe,” Lisa asked, “who were those people?”

  “Business acquaintances,” Lieberman said.

  “Business? They were criminals. In this house. With my children.”

  “I had it under control,” Lieberman said.

  “Lisa,” Bess said, “I have learned over the course of the past forty years to accept the possibility that anyone might phone or knock at our door. Your father is a policeman. Madness from time to time comes with the badge.”

  “Not when my children are in danger,” Lisa said.

  “They weren’t in danger,” Lieberman said. “The only one in danger was Kim, the young man with one arm.”

  “Why was a one-armed Chinese man at your door?” Lisa demanded.

  “He’s Korean,” Lieberman corrected. “I remind you, you lived through many a colorful visitor to our home.”

  “And that contributed to the confused and bitter person I became,” said Lisa.

  “We’ve had this conversation before,” said Bess. “Let’s get back to your father calling your husband.”

  Bess went into the kitchen through the door and Lisa sat, not in the same seat she had been in before, but at the opposite end of the table.

  “Coffee?” Lieberman asked.

  “Killers bring in killers,” Lisa said. “In your house, my mother’s house, the house where my children are sleeping, the house where I grew up.”

  “My house is safe,” said Lieberman. “I keep it that way.”

  “With a gun,” she said.

  “Like Fig Newtons,” he said. “The gun is a last resort, and I’ve never had to take it out of the drawer in my bedroom where I lock it every night.”