Big Silence

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Kearney was behind his desk. The office was large, large enough for both a desk with two chairs in front of it, a small couch and a small conference table. Behind the conference table was a blackboard with a list in blue chalk of the cases that Kearney felt were top priority.

  There were three narrow windows in the office. One was behind Kearney. The other two faced Clark Street. Kearney was just hanging up the phone. The lights were not turned on in the office in spite of the rain-threatening darkness. Not a good sign.

  Kearney’s handsome, worn face turned to Hanrahan.

  Bill opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the captain, who said, “Put it in writing. I want it in an hour. Cover your ass. Make it long. Here’s an address. Be there by two whether you finish the report or not. It looks like we can take the guy who’s been running the paving scam.”

  Hanrahan stood at the door and Kearney looked at the window. His job was a reasonably high-ranking one and it kept him busy, but those who knew him also saw the occasional distant look at what might have been. The spark of ambition wouldn’t die completely.

  Kearney brought Hanrahan up to date on the Gornitz business, including the phone call and the pressure from Carbin and the state attorney’s office. Kearney didn’t ask what had happened, didn’t complain about how Hanrahan’s failure would reflect on both of them. Kearney was remembering the accusations that had sat him permanently at the Clark Street station.

  Hanrahan’s mother would have said “He needs a nice Irish girl.”

  Maybe she would have been right, but for now, it looked as if Kearney’s history would dampen his criticism of his detective.

  “I’ll go write the report,” Hanrahan said.

  “Remember, make it long and boring. If it’s long and boring enough, Carbin will probably stop reading it by the middle of the first page.”

  Hanrahan nodded and went back into the squad room, where three detectives were holding down the young Hispanic who had claimed to be innocent of stabbing someone. The young man was shouting in Spanish. Some of the detectives at other desks ignored the battle and went on working. A few paused and waited for the battle to end and the young man to be dragged off screaming for a public defender.

  Hanrahan had escaped. Kearney was going to protect him. It wasn’t because they were both Irish. The Chicago police department still had more Irish than any other ethnic group. Kearney and Hanrahan shared failure.

  Hanrahan went to his desk and worked on his report wondering where Lieberman was.

  He could sure use a dose of Abe Lieberman.

  “I don’t know,” said the old man holding an umbrella over his head though there had been a pause in the rain. He wore an oversized gray sweater and a look of uncertainty as he looked down at the driveway.

  “Look at the cracks,” the big man at his side said.

  The big man had introduced himself as Mike. He looked a lot like the guy on television and in the movies John Goodman, but Mike was deadly serious and he wore serious gray overalls and a matching gray baseball hat and tucked under his arm was a clipboard with a black plastic cover. Behind him in the driveway stood Mike’s white van.

  “I don’t know,” said the old man.

  “I’m tellin’ you,” said Mike. “Not just the cracks. See the gravel leaking from under the drive into the street there?”

  “Yeah,” said the old man, rubbing his chin.

  The street was wet with puddles and streamlets gliding toward the sewer.

  “Two thousand’ll save this driveway, Gerald,” Mike said.

  Mike had started calling the old man Gerald from the start and had urged the old man to call him Mike.

  “If you wait,” Mike said with a shrug, “the whole thing collapses, could run you five thousand and someone might get hurt. You know. It might fall in when a car pulled up. Heck, Gerald, it could maybe even fall in if a big guy like me jumped on it in the right place.”

  “It’s gotta be?” the old man asked, shaking his head.

  “Gotta be,” said Gerald. “I can get the whole thing taken care of any day next week. Done in a few hours and then we need a few more hours to let it dry. You want I can come out with my crew on the first clear day.”

  “The money,” said the old man.

  “Half up front,” said Mike. “Check’ll do. Other half when we finish the job to your satisfaction.”

  “A thousand dollars,” said the old man with a sigh.

  “Actually, fifteen hundred to cover materials, an extra man. The other five hundred can wait till you approve. Fair?”

  “Sounds fair,” said the old man as a car drove by. A woman was driving. A boy about six made a face at Gerald and Mike from the backseat as the car kicked up a stream of rainwater.

  “Written guarantee,” Mike said, holding up his clipboard. “Just write out the check. Make it to cash or Mike’s Driveways.”

  “I think I’d like to think about this overnight,” said the old man. “Talk to my son. He’s a lawyer.”

  “But he doesn’t know driveways,” said Mike, squatting to poke his pen into a narrow crack in the drive that looked like an anemic bolt of lightning. “Gerald, you need this work. You need it now. I wouldn’t have stopped at your house and left my flyer and card last week if I didn’t see immediate danger here, and you wouldn’t have called me to come if you didn’t know deep in your heart that I’m right.”

  “Next week?” asked the old man.

  “First clear day,” said Mike, opening the cover of his clipboard and handing his pen to the old man.

  The document Mike was holding was in tiny type. It ran for three pages, which Mike flipped open to the page with a signature line.

  “My work is guaranteed,” said Mike. “One hundred percent for the life of your drive.”

  The old man held the umbrella high in one hand and signed with the other.

  “I’ll go get my checkbook,” said the old man. “I wouldn’t want anyone hurt or, God forbid, killed on my driveway.”

  “Right is right, Gerald.”

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll wait in my van,” said Gerald. “Startin’ to rain again.”

  Mike went back to his van and climbed into the driver’s seat, where he sat listening to the news while he waited. The old man was out in a few minutes walking slowly to the driver’s window, which Mike rolled down.

  “Could you get out of the van?” the old man said. “I don’t see so good without my glasses and I don’t see so good with them when they’re covered with rain.”

  “Sure,” Mike said obligingly as he opened the door and stepped out.

  As soon as Mike closed the door, a dark car came quickly down the street and pulled into the driveway behind Mike’s van.

  “You’ve got visitors,” said Mike. “I’ll just take the check and go. I’ve got four more stops today.”

  “Only one more,” said the old man.

  Something about the way he said it made Mike pause. He was looking down at the old man and heard the door of the car in the driveway open behind him. He didn’t look back.

  “I don’t get it, Gerald, but if you’ll just give me the check, I’ll sign the contract and give you your copy.”

  “You are under arrest,” said the old man, holding out his wallet and showing his badge.

  “Arrest,” Mike said with a laugh.

  “Fraud,” said the old man. “Bunch of other charges too. Plenty of witnesses, including me.”

  Mike took a step toward the old man and said, “Get out of my way.”

  The old man took a step toward Mike. The two were inches apart, and Mike suddenly felt something poke hard into his belly. He looked down at the gun in the old man’s hand. He didn’t know what kind of gun it was, but it was a big one.

  “Push me and you’re resisting arrest,” said the old man. “Then I can only assume you plan to run me over with your van. I would take umbrage at that and have to shoot you.”

  Mi
ke considered. The old man was looking him in the eyes.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Mike said with a laugh.

  “No, he’s not” came a voice behind him, the voice of the person who had gotten out of the car that blocked Mike’s van.

  Mike turned toward the voice and saw a man as big as he was with a pink Irish face. Definitely a cop.

  “I think you’d better let me get back into my van and call my lawyer,” Mike said indignantly.

  “Detective Lieberman just told you you’re under arrest,” said Hanrahan. “He’ll tell you your rights and we go to the station. You make it easy or you make it hard. I think I’d prefer hard. I’ve had a bad few days.”

  “Put it that way, so have I,” said Lieberman. “So, try to get away, Mike. I’ll just put my gun away and watch Detective Hanrahan subdue you. He doesn’t subdue gently.”

  Mike’s angry indignation slipped and his shoulders sagged, then he made one more try.

  “You’re making a mistake,” he said. “I’m an honest businessman. This is false arrest.”

  “You’ve been scaring old people into giving you money for months,” said Lieberman. “Turn around and put your hands together.”

  “You’re gonna cuff me?” asked Mike.

  “Unless you can think of something else effective I could do with your hands behind your back,” said Lieberman.

  Mike turned around. He was facing Hanrahan now.

  “Last chance,” Hanrahan said softly. “Just get by me, get in your van, and run us over. We’ll shoot, but you might get lucky and live.”

  Mike looked up at the sky. There was a loud clap of thunder. Lieberman clasped on the cuffs.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Mike insisted as the two detectives ushered him toward Hanrahan’s car. Lieberman’s was parked in the garage. The owner of the house, a man named Jankitis who would be celebrating his eighty-fifth birthday in a few days, was inside watching a Wheel of Fortune rerun.

  “There’s nothing wrong with this driveway,” said Lieberman. “We had a contractor check it.”

  “My professional opinion against his,” Mike said as they moved to the passenger side of Hanrahan’s car.

  “You are not a professional,” said Lieberman. “At least not a professional contractor. You are a professional con man who takes deposits from people who need their money. Then you disappear. Now, do me the courtesy of being quiet while I tell you your rights. If you listen, really listen, you may find them useful and interesting.”

  “Can’t we work something out here?” Mike pleaded, looking from one policeman to the other. “I’ve got a wife, two little kids. I’m just a guy trying to make a living.”

  “You think our friend Mike is suggesting a bribe?” asked Lieberman.

  “It’s a distinct possibility,” said Hanrahan.

  “My roof needs fixing,” said Lieberman.

  “My son Michael could use money to send my grandson to a Catholic school,” said Hanrahan. “I’d say five million dollars would do it.”

  “Five mil —” Mike began.

  “You’re safe,” said Lieberman, guiding the big man in overalls toward Hanrahan’s car. “Maybe you didn’t offer a bribe. Maybe you’ve got no conscience. It happens a lot. Maybe my partner and I like to look in the mirror in the morning and see a face we can live with. I got a feeling you don’t understand what I mean. I suggest you not say another word till you talk to a lawyer.”

  Mike shut up as he was shoved into the backseat of Hanrahan’s car.

  “My van,” Mike cried.

  “We’ll have it towed in,” said Hanrahan.

  “You okay, Father Murphy?” Lieberman asked as he closed the door on Mike.

  “Could be better, Rabbi. Could be a lot better.”

  “We’ll talk,” said Lieberman.

  Hanrahan moved around to the driver’s side of his car and opened the door. Before he got in, he said, “That is one hell of an ugly sweater.”

  “Guy who owns the house was going to give it to Goodwill,” said Lieberman. “I bought it from him. Comfortable. A little large, but comfortable.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “BESS CALLED,” MAISH SAID, standing by the booth at the T&L where Abe sat.

  The T&L on Devon wasn’t exactly packed but it was busy. The short-order cook, known to all as Terrell, an ex-con whom Abe had gotten his brother to hire a dozen years ago, was a genius with Jewish food, a black culinary genius. Jerome Terrell had learned to cook in prison and had quickly developed a passion for Jewish cooking after Maish hired him. He loved the smells, the taste, the lack of concern about what the ingredients might do to the human body. He cooked by taste and smell, never used measuring spoons or cups.

  “She wants me to call?” Lieberman asked in answer to his brother’s statement.

  “She wants me to be sure you eat right when you come here,” said Maish.

  Maish wore his ever-present white apron, his ever-present sour look on his sagging face, and a few more pounds than he should have been carrying for the sake of his own health, but owning a deli wasn’t the way to stay slim and whatever little care Maish had taken of himself had vanished with the murder of his son David by muggers less than two years earlier.

  “Then give me something that’s right,” said Abe. “A magical something that tastes great and doesn’t send cartoon cells scurrying to block my arteries with cholesterol like the slaves scurried with blocks of stone to build the pyramids.”

  “The Jews who were slaves in Egypt didn’t know from cholesterol,” called Herschel Rosen from the reserved table of the Alter Cockers, the old men who gathered every day at the T&L. The members of the group who might appear at any time of the day. The time changed depending on their schedules, but you could always count on at least a few of them when you came in for a meal or a nosh at the T&L. The Alter Cockers were all old Jews except for Howie Chen, a full-fledged member who had owned a Chinese restaurant one block away before his retirement. Howie had lived and worked in the neighborhood for fifty years. He spoke better Yiddish than most of the Alter Cockers, some of whom couldn’t speak Yiddish at all. A few of the members could actually speak Hebrew, not well, but they had picked up enough in pilgrimages to Israel over the years.

  “It’s a bad analogy,” Rosen continued emphatically. “Pyramids, cholesterol.”

  Howie was at the table. So was Sy Weintraub. Sy, at eighty, was the group’s athlete. He walked at least five miles a day, rain or shine. When the weather was really bad, Sy could be found at the Jewish Community Center on Touhy not far from Abe’s house. Sy walked resolutely around the basketball court softly humming till he did his five miles. Sy could hold his own in the table banter, but it was the company he savored, not the conversation. He would have been content to sit at the table near the window with the other old men and simply listen. This information on Sy Weintraub had been given to Abe by Maish, Nothing-Bothers Maish, except lots of things bothered Maish, more since David died. Maish just didn’t show it.

  “I’ll live with the bad analogy,” Abe called back. “It should only be my biggest faux pas of the day.”

  “Faux pas, again,” said Herschel. “You and Bess planning a trip to gay Paree or something or are you just showing off?”

  “I’ve decided to emulate the eloquent repartee of the great French lovers of history,” said Abe, straight-faced. “I’ve launched a personal campaign to woo my wife with poetry in French and Romanian. So I’m practicing French words at every opportunity.”

  “Romanian?” asked Herschel. “Romanian poetry?”

  “Great Romanian poetry,” said Abe.

  “Joking again,” said Herschel looking at the others at his table. “Another Myron Cohen we’ve got here.”

  “Where’s Al Bloombach?” asked Abe.

  “Bloombach and his wife are on a cruise,” said Herschel with some disdain. “My wife, alevai shalom, may she rest in peace, went on a cruise about ten years ago. Too much food. Too many kids. Too
many islands with too many stores trying to sell you stuff. He can have it. Al will be back tomorrow.”

  Two clerks from the Rosenthal Men’s Shop down the street were hunched over the table in their booth trying to carry on a conversation over the banter between Abe and the Alter Cockers but the two salesmen were trapped in the booth between the cop and the Cockers.

  The T&L was the last of a dying breed. Once Devon was Jewish with a sprinkling of Chinese restaurants and a Greek fruit store or two. Now the street was Korean with a minority of Vietnamese who probably outnumbered the Jews from Ridge Avenue to McCormick Boulevard. Actually, business at the T&L was better than it had ever been. A lot of Koreans liked corned beef and matzoh ball soup or a good brisket.

  Three women on stools at the counter downed bowls of cabbage borscht. Two of the women talked to each other, usually at the same time. Abe recognized them. One was the daughter of Myrna Kransky, whom Abe had dated in high school. The daughter was in her thirties, pretty, with thick glasses. The other woman he recognized, Irene Richman, was a member of Temple Mir Shavot where Bess was president and Abe was constantly being shoved into committees, some of them with Irene, a plump, always suited, even-tempered assistant vice president at a bank on Irving Park Road. Irene had an MBA from the University of Chicago, a fact her mother often brought up when Irene put forth an argument during a committee meeting. Irene’s mother, Rose, was a widow who had a modest income from her husband’s insurance. Rose’s goal in life was to be on every committee her daughter was on at the temple.

  The third woman, the one sitting alone, looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. She was good-looking, dark, short businesslike haircut, pearl earrings, wearing no-nonsense makeup and a look that could have been anything from determination to blank daydreaming. He would place her, remember her name. It used to be easier.

  The T&L door opened. The two salesmen went out. Bill Hanrahan came in. For a late-weekday afternoon, business was booming.

  “Look who walked in,” said Herschel Rosen. “The Irish Republican Army delegate.”

  “Here to make another attempt at contacting the Israeli government through those of us with connections,” said Morris Hurvitz, the short, smiling, bespectacled, and still-working seventy-eight-year-old psychologist.