Lieberman's Folly

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “We got a bingo,” called Hanrahan across the room.

  Lieberman and the air conditioning men looked at him.

  “Damned if there isn’t an outstanding on Van Beeber,” said Hanrahan. “Wife was a murder victim, blunt instrument, nineteen seventy-nine. Our Jules was nowhere to be found. Prime suspect. Michigan’ll want him.”

  The air conditioning men listened attentively and whispered to each other.

  “Why aren’t you smiling, Father Murphy?” called Lieberman. “We can tell Hughes the case is a wrap. We can tie Jules the Walker up in a bow.”

  “He didn’t kill Valdez, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan.

  “He didn’t do it, Murph,” agreed Lieberman.

  “I’ll go back to her building,” said Hanrahan.

  “I’ll find the boxer,” said Lieberman.

  Before he left for the afternoon, Lieberman told Sergeant Nestor Briggs that if the man who called saying he wanted to talk about what happened to the woman yesterday, he should try to get the man’s name or a phone number.

  “Got it,” said Briggs.

  Briggs was about Lieberman’s age, a sack of a man who had once been chest heavy, but the weight had dropped to his middle. Briggs had an unfortunate purple birthmark on his forehead, not the big Gorbachev kind, a little one shaped uncannily like the head of Bob Hope in profile. Nestor’s nickname was, in fact, “Bob.” Briggs lived alone in an apartment two blocks from the station. He put in double hours and never asked for overtime. Nestor didn’t like being alone in his apartment. Because Nestor was a bore, he had no friends, but Nestor was a prime resource, for Nestor Briggs remembered everything and everyone.

  The Empire Athletic Club was on Chicago Avenue just far enough west to be out of the Rush Street cheap glitter aura and just far enough east to be out of the area where none but the down-and-out would wander after dark. Lieberman had been here before. He had been through the double wooden doors before with the painting of two boxing-gloved hands shaking just above them. There was enough wrist in the picture to show that one hand was black and the other white.

  Lieberman had been through these doors when his old man had taken him there to watch Henry Armstrong work out.

  “That,” Harry Lieberman had whispered to his son, “is the best fighter pound for pound that ever lived.” Of course, Harry Lieberman said this in Yiddish, which embarrassed his son. Harry could speak a bit of English, enough to get by when the sight-seeing goyim in Jew Town wandered into the store for a hot dog, a chocolate phosphate, some fries, and a good gawk. Abe had hated working Sundays in the place. He liked weeknights and the regular customers, the locals, liked the smell of onions, steamed rolls, and grilled or boiling dogs, but he didn’t like being looked at by the customers, didn’t like having them point to the yarmulke perched on his father’s head when his father worked the grill on Sundays.

  Abe Lieberman had developed his dryness early. Abe had frequently glanced at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands behind the curtain that separated himself, Maish, and his old man from the customers who bought a ringside ticket for thirty cents to Jew Town with a hot dog, fries, and a drink thrown in. In the mirror Abe had practiced his look of amused boredom. He had perfected that look, worn it, and made it his own.

  Now, as he glanced at himself in the full-length mirror at the top of the landing outside the main door, he saw the face of a far-from-young man who appeared to know a hell of a lot more of life than Abe Lieberman.

  Lieberman opened the door and was greeted by the smell of sweat and the sounds of a heavy bag being pummeled and a light bag being rata-tat-tated. A big sign on the wall, red letters on white, shouted NO SMOKING but Lieberman knew that in this business, kings and one-eyed jacks could smoke big cigars wherever they went.

  In ring two in the dark corner of the Empire a big black heavyweight, in shorts and a T-shirt, was doing some serious shadow boxing. In ring one, where it had always been, near the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows, a white-haired old man in a gray sweat suit was jabbing a broom handle at a young man in a red sweat suit wearing boxing gloves and head gear. The young man’s job was to use his hands to keep from getting wood in the face. He was doing fine.

  “Seen Karate Kid too many times, Old MacConnell,” came a voice at Lieberman’s elbow.

  Lieberman turned and found himself looking at Whitey. Almost every boxing club and gym has a Whitey, someone who’s been around since Mayor Cermak took a bullet in the thirties. Whitey is supposed to have a flat nose, slurred speech, and a rotten memory. People are supposed to humor Whitey, but this was no common Whitey. This one had never been in the ring except to tell an old guy named Sturges how to mop it up. This Whitey was a philosopher who had been profiled in the Chicago Tribune magazine a dozen years ago, an ex-lawyer who loved boxing and when his wife died had sold his house and bought the Empire. Whitey knew everything about boxing. He knew all the middleweight lefties since Irish Jimmy Morgan. He knew Ring Magazine’s end-of-the-year top ten in every weight division going back to 1934, the year of his birth. And he knew from just watching a fighter spar if he was a winner or loser. But most important, Whitey, who probably gave himself the nickname, kept the place clean.

  “Lieberman the cop,” Whitey said, looking him over. “Last time I saw you was …?”

  “Bad apple heroin drop part-time trainer, Sonny Warsham,” said Lieberman.

  “Drug store cruiserweight,” said Whitey. “Lousy trainer. Sparred with Leon Spinks way back when. Now he’s doing three to five in Joliet.”

  Whitey was wearing jeans, a white shirt, a silk tie, and a serious grin. Lieberman took Whitey’s extended hand.

  “Good to see you again,” said Whitey. “Picked a bad day. No talent around.”

  “Silk,” said Lieberman. “I called about an hour ago and someone said he was here.”

  “Dressing room,” said Whitey. “But even if you’d made it earlier, you wouldn’t have seen much. Escamillo saves it for the crowds.”

  The Empire had both a locker room and a dressing room. They were exactly the same but the dressing room was reserved for those who were now ranked, had once been ranked, or stood a reasonably good shot at being ranked by anybody anywhere.

  “How’s he look?” asked Lieberman.

  Whitey shrugged. “Too smart,” he said as the guy in ring one let out a groan from a broom jab to the midsection. “Too sane. Good looks. Knows it won’t last and looking for ways he can make a living outside. No desperation. All the talent you could ask for. Trains fine, but … what’re you gonna do?”

  “He’s scheduled for …?” Lieberman asked, watching a tiny Latino kid with a little mustache pound the heavy bag.

  “Stickney Welles, the man with the bells, three weeks from today on Top Rank Boxing, main event,” said Whitey. “Welles will be ringing out the month on his back. Our Escamillo will be hot stuff for a while, but the long haul … forget it.”

  “Thanks, Whitey,” said Lieberman, heading toward the dressing room.

  “We do have a bantam worth watching,” Whitey called after him. “Jewish kid, would you believe it? Russian. Name’s Yakov Bitt. Bantams don’t draw but this kid—eight and the big zero with six KOs and only one bum in the lot. He’ll be on the undercard for the Silk-Welles match.”

  Lieberman waved to Whitey and went through the dressing room door where he found Escamillo Silk fully dressed in neatly pressed slacks, a wrinkleless short-sleeved yellow button-down shirt, and a yellow, taupe, and gray paisley tie. Silk was brushing his hair in a mirror above a basin against the wall. The floor had been carpeted since Lieberman had last been here. Lieberman didn’t like it. The Empire was turning into one of those places Cher advertises on television.

  “Real silk,” said Escamillo Silk, looking at Lieberman in the mirror. “Nothing gaudy.”

  He put the comb in his pocket and turned to face Lieberman with a perfect white-toothed smile. Silk was about Lieberman’s height and weight but the distribution of that weight m
ade the difference. Escamillo Silk was taut and muscular.

  “Silk,” said Silk, running his thumb down his tie. “Trademark. You know?”

  “I saw the first four rounds of your fight with Ty Turner,” said Lieberman.

  “Yeah?” said Silk, adjusting his shirt sleeves and checking the creases in his pants. “Four rounds?”

  “I was with a fella who left,” said Lieberman, looking around the room.

  “Why’d he leave?” asked Silk. “Round five I—”

  “I don’t know,” said Lieberman. “He didn’t tell me. I was following him on a drug setup.”

  The smile did not leave Escamillo Silk’s face but it dimmed from 250 to 50 watts.

  “I thought you were the promoter from ESPN,” said Silk. “I’m waiting for a promoter. I don’t use shit in my nose, arms, ears, eyes, mouth, or anywhere. Anyone tells you I do is a liar. Test me.”

  “Estralda Valdez is dead,” said Lieberman.

  “I know,” said Silk. “Whitey told me. He read it in the papers.”

  “When did you see her last?” asked Lieberman.

  “When did I …? Wait. I need a lawyer or something? You plannin’ to jerk me around?”

  “Yeah,” said Lieberman. “I’m going to lock the door and beat a confession out of you. When did you see her last?”

  “What’s today?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Last Monday,” said Silk. “You wanna sit?”

  “No, I wanna listen.”

  “Last Monday,” Silk repeated. “Took her to dinner at Escargot. You know Escargot?”

  “Heard about it,” said Lieberman.

  “Dinner with Oprah’s people,” he said. “Talk about putting me on a show about handsome athletes and women. Thought Estralda would look good at dinner. Put them in the mood.”

  Silk laughed.

  “Maybe we should continue this some other time,” said Lieberman. “I can see you’re really broken up by Estralda’s death.”

  “Hey, my man,” said Silk, putting up his right hand, palm up, as if he wanted to touch gloves with Lieberman before the battle really began. “I’m sorry someone did her. All right? She was a smart lady. Good skin. Liked her work. She looked good places I go. But we weren’t talkin’ two bedrooms in Oak Park and kids named Carlos junior.”

  “Carlos junior?” Lieberman asked.

  “My real name,” said Silk, hooking his thumbs in his belt. Lieberman had it now. Escamillo, or Carlos, was posing. He was trying to look like an ad in Gentlemen’s Quarterly.

  “Escamillo’s the bullfighter in Carmen,” Silk explained. “All the papers know my real name’s Carlos Mendenarez.”

  “Choice inside information,” said Lieberman. “Estralda tell you she was worried about anything? Some customer?”

  “No,” said Silk. “She talked about moving back to Texas, talked about … Called her sister and said something about Frank something. I got a good memory. I work on it. Read that book by what’s his name and—”

  “Where is this sister?”

  “Who knows?” said Silk with a handsome grin. “She didn’t say.”

  “Where does Estralda’s mother live?”

  “Mother? Who knows she got a mother?” said Silk, moving close to Lieberman and whispering, “and who really cares?”

  “I do,” said Lieberman.

  “Lupe,” said Silk. “Wait. She said her sister’s name was Guadalupe and the guy who wrote the memory book was Lorraine Lucas, something like that. Can I go now?”

  “No,” said Lieberman. “Where were you Friday night? Say ten to after midnight?”

  “I knew it,” said Silk, putting his hands behind his head as if he were about to go down on the floor for therapeutic sit-ups. “You’re looking for pasty.”

  “Patsy,” Lieberman corrected.

  Silk pulled a small white notebook from his pocket and a little click pen. He wrote quickly and he silently mouthed “patsy” as he wrote.

  “Thanks,” said Silk, putting the pen and notebook away. “I was born in Juarez. You hear a accent?”

  “No,” said Lieberman. “You are eloquent.”

  “Eloquent?”

  “You talk good,” said Lieberman. “Talk, and don’t write ‘eloquent’ in your notebook till you’re alone. Friday night. Ten to midnight.”

  “Home, with the wife and kids,” said Silk. “Ask them. Ask my mother-in-law and her boyfriend. They were there. We watched a tape. Woody Allen.”

  “Too bad Estralda couldn’t make it,” said Lieberman.

  Silk shook his head.

  “You mean a crack there?” he asked. “It’s not like that. I got an image. You know what I’m saying? I can’t be the guy with the kids who goes home and watches Clint Eastwood on the tube with the little lady. Notoriety gets you noticed.”

  “My son-in-law calls that a tautology,” said Lieberman. “I’ll spell it for you. Look it up. And the other word was ‘eloquent.’ You can go now.”

  “It’s that I’m late,” said Silk, walking to the dressing room door.

  “We’ll talk again,” said Lieberman with a very small smile.

  “How’d you like the four rounds you saw, me and Turner?”

  “You were lyrical,” said Lieberman.

  “Thanks,” said Silk, looking around for a mirror and finding it on the wall near the door. “I hope you find the guy who punctured Estralda. She was a class broad, you know?”

  With that eulogy Silk went through the door. He didn’t hear Lieberman answer “I know.”

  Lieberman was at the T & L by four. It was Saturday. The sky was dark and smelling of rain but none had fallen. The Ancient Atheist contingent of the Alter Cockers was in session in the booth where Lieberman, Hanrahan, and Estralda Valdez had sat. Most of the Alter Cockers had to stay home or go to services till sundown. Al Bloombach, Gert’s brother, held atheist court with Morrie Stoltzer and Howie Chen. Howie, strictly speaking, wasn’t an atheist, but whatever he practiced wasn’t in session on Saturdays.

  Two men and a woman sat at another booth. They were talking Russian. Russians were taking over the neighborhood, which was all right, but they fooled the old timers. Because of their accents, old timers thought the Russians could speak Yiddish. None of them could. Because they were Jews, old timers thought they would be religious. Few of them were. The influx had begun about eight years ago, but the old timers had never adjusted. As far as Lieberman was concerned, the Russians were good for the neighborhood. Most of them were well educated. Few of them committed crimes. Most of them wanted to be accepted and to get rich or at least have a house in Glenview.

  Maish was talking to Manuel the cook, a grizzled little man who had learned the art of Jewish cooking as an observant bus boy at the Bagel Restaurant. Maish saw his brother and turned to nod.

  “Coffee?” called Maish.

  “Why not?” said Lieberman, nodding at Al Bloombach in the booth and sitting at the end of the counter near the cash register away from the Russians. Thunder rolled. Lieberman turned to see if the rain had started. It hadn’t but it looked more like midnight than afternoon.

  Maish brought the coffee and a large brown paper bag, which he placed on the counter next to the cup.

  “Corned beef, lox, cream cheese, bagels—garlic, onion, sesame—and three smoked fish,” said Maish.

  “How much?” said Lieberman.

  “You won fiftieth prize in the Publisher’s Clearing House,” said Maish, wiping his hands on his apron. “Carry-out from the T & L. Tell Lisa it’s from Uncle Maish. Make me a big man for a few bucks.”

  “You got it,” said Lieberman, drinking his coffee.

  “Want the radio? Wanna hear the game? We’re playin’ the Giants. Sutcliffe started,” Maish said. “Game might still be on.”

  “Yeah,” said Lieberman. “But I gotta get home.”

  Last year Lieberman had taken his grandson, Barry, to a Cub game. Free passes from an old friend of Lieberman’s who worked in the Cub
front office. Rick Sutcliffe had started that game against the Mets. Barry and Lieberman had been sitting in the front row on the third-base side where Sutcliffe was warming up. Barry was wearing his Cubs cap and infielder’s glove. Sutcliffe had walked over to Barry and thrown him the warm-up ball. From that moment on, Rick Sutcliffe, who by the way went the distance and won the game three to two, could do no wrong.

  The Russians in the booth started to laugh at something. Lieberman sipped his coffee and looked at them. The brown bag on the counter smelled of memories.

  “Sorry about the woman,” said Maish. “Notice I said woman. I’m getting modern, not like the Cockers. I didn’t say ‘girl.’ Not too old to learn at sixty-six. Yetta tells me that all the time.”

  “You’re not sixty-six, Maish,” said Lieberman, finishing his coffee. “You’re sixteen and I’m ten and Willie Brochesceu is about to beat the shit out of me on the way home from school behind Kuppenheimer’s factory. And you come rolling behind him sweating from basketball practice and land on his back. Knock the wind out of him, hit him in the face with your math book.”

  “Science book,” Maish said, looking into space.

  “Like yesterday,” said Lieberman. “Broke his nose and arm. Kicked you out of school for a month.”

  “That was a great month,” said Maish. “You going good-old-days on me, Avrum? They weren’t that goddamn good. Little apartment full of people, rats. Polish kids across nineteenth like Willie waiting for you. Negro—black—kids across Crawford giving you looks if you crossed. Had to almost use a map to get safely to the Jewish People’s Institute on Douglas. Good old days are, thank God, gone.”

  “Maish,” Al Bloombach called. “Refills.”

  Maish nodded. The clouds outside rumbled and crashed.

  “How’s Yetta’s kidney?” said Lieberman.

  “Still pumping,” said Maish, moving for the coffee pot.

  “I’ll stop by tomorrow,” Lieberman said. He stood up and took his package.

  Maish nodded and moved with his coffee toward the booth of the atheists.