“Yetta is frantic,” Bess said. “Try to make it soon. And Lisa isn’t going back to California today. She wants to talk to you.”
“I look forward to it with great anticipation,” said Lieberman.
“Maish,” she reminded him. “Talk to him.”
That left only the call to El Perro. He recognized the number, the office of the bingo parlor Los Tentaculos had taken over. El Perro liked to call numbers himself at least two nights a week. He also liked to shoot and stab people who irritated him or got in the way of his illegal activities. It was less the money that motivated El Perro than the excuse to inflict pain. He had been known to go either loudly and violently mad or calmly and sadistically murderous toward perfectly innocent people who simply had the misfortune to have faces that irritated El Perro.
The oddity was that Emiliano “El Perro” Del Sol respected no one except his mother, who had fled from him five years earlier, and Abe Lieberman, whom he found tough, unafraid, and as good as his word. It amused the semi-mad gang leader that El Viejo was such a thin little man with such cajones. Their relationship was symbiotic. El Perro gave Lieberman information or got it for him when he needed it, and El Perro would take care of problems for El Viejo when the law was not sufficient to do it. In return, Lieberman offered El Perro and his gang a certain degree of protection. There was a line Emiliano was not allowed to cross, but he had mastered the art of walking its length with a smile on his scarred face. El Perro was crazy. He was not stupid.
“Emiliano Del Sol,” Lieberman had said when someone answered the phone at the bingo office.
“¿Quien es?”
“El Viejo.”
“Bueno.”
The person who had answered put the phone down and Lieberman had looked around the squad room. He didn’t have a hell of a lot of time if he and Hanrahan were going to pick Clark Mills up at three and get him downtown to the Greyhound station.
“¿Viejo?” came El Perro’s happy voice, which might mean that he was happy to talk to the detective or had just maimed a storekeeper who had paid his protection money too slowly.
“Si,” said Lieberman.
“The Cubs. They gonna to the World Series this year?”
“This’ll be the year,” said Lieberman.
“Por supuesto. They got Mexicans, Venezuelans, more Hispanics than ever. They got Sammy. They gotta win.”
“We’ll go to opening day,” said Lieberman.
“You got a date. Wear your best dress.”
“If you wear yours, the one that shows your knees.”
El Perro laughed. It wasn’t exactly a laugh, more like the cackle of a mad rooster that knew his time was at hand and didn’t give a damn.
“I got business to go to,” said El Perro. “I’m talkin’ to you about the Korean, Kim.”
“I think I better call you back,” said Lieberman. “I’m at my desk and I’m swamped.”
“Yo comprendo,” said El Perro.
Lieberman was well aware that the madman might say he had just murdered the one-armed Korean who was stalking Lieberman, or might propose that he do so or maybe remove Kim’s other arm. It was not the kind of thing Lieberman wanted to discuss on a police department phone.
“I’ll call you as soon as I can. Don’t do anything till we talk.”
“I’ll sit here on my ass and listen to CDs,” said El Perro. “When we talk, I need a favor maybe.”
“When we talk,” Lieberman had said.
Now the detective was parking illegally on Montrose, his sun visor with his police card showing. It was starting to get dark, but Lieberman thought that Stashall had a lot on his mind and probably would be brooding behind his desk. He didn’t know what, if anything, he could get from Stashall, but his partner was on the line, a woman had been killed, and a boy was being used to blackmail Mickey Gornitz into killing himself. As Lieberman often said, he took umbrage at this and wanted very much to talk to the most likely suspect, Jimmy Stashall.
Lieberman entered the door to the faded yellow-brick office building wedged between a supermarket and an electronics repair shop. There were names on the board in the clean white-tiled entry hall. Lieberman didn’t look at the board. He knew where he was going.
“You believe in curses, Sam?” Hanrahan said, looking at the last of his mug of coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts where they sat in a booth. The place wasn’t busy. A postman sat at the counter telling the old man serving coffee and doughnuts some of his adventures. Two women, an old woman, and an equally old man sat in another booth drinking coffee and talking softly.
“I believe that people can believe they’re cursed and that things will happen to confirm it if they believe,” said the priest, ignoring the plain doughnut on the plate before him and taking a drink from the first refill of coffee the old waitress had brought him.
“But no real curses?” Hanrahan pushed.
Father Parker shrugged. “Once in a while … who knows? Believe in God. Believe in the Devil. I don’t think you’re cursed, Bill.”
“My wife left me,” Hanrahan said, eyeing his second doughnut, chocolate frosted. “My kids left me. A woman died because I was drunk when I was supposed to be watching her. I murdered a man, tricked him into trying to break into my house, and then killed him. One of my boys is an alcoholic. And a day ago a woman I was supposed to be guarding had half her face blown into pulp and her son kidnapped with me in the next room.”
Sam Parker knew all this. After thirty years of falling away from the church, Hanrahan seemed to be returning cautiously and with some continued skepticism. He had confessed to all of this at length.
“What’s next? I’ll probably get my partner killed.”
“Or you might be there to save his life,” said the priest. “That’s happened too, hasn’t it? Saying you’re cursed is usually just an excuse for mistakes, bad decisions, and bad luck. A policeman’s bound to have all three. And, depending on how you look at it, you could also say you’re blessed. You’re going to get married. You’re no longer estranged from your son Michael. You’ve stopped drinking. You’re got your health, give or take a bad knee or two, and you’re relatively sane. Many who walk around with a smile can’t say as much.”
Hanrahan took a bite of the doughnut. Since he stopped drinking, chocolate had become almost irresistible. He had gained almost twenty pounds. Because there was a lot of Bill Hanrahan, it didn’t show yet, but it would. He could feel it when he had to run or climb a lot of stairs. He should get to the gym again.
“I’m convinced. Probably was before we had this talk. I don’t believe in curses,” Hanrahan said after finishing his mouthful of doughnut. “I believe I’m just a foul-up.”
“Well, that’s a start. You’re not blaming others. Line up the good with the bad in your life. It probably balances pretty well, as it does for most of us. By the way, I’ve noticed that neither you nor Abe use obscenities,” said Sam. “I thought it was mandatory for cops. Or are you just careful around me?”
“No,” said Bill, recognizing that the priest was changing the subject. “Abe and I are called the Street Angels behind our backs and sometimes to our faces. We’re no angels. Just our backgrounds. Father, I’m thinkin’ about quitting the force.”
Traffic was backed up on the street. The clanging of a bell let the two men know that the train gates were down a block away.
“Seriously thinking?” asked the priest.
“Maybe. Probably not.”
Hanrahan pushed the plate with the remains of the doughnut away from him.
“I’m sitting here wondering what’s happening to Abe,” said Hanrahan. “Is he in trouble because I’m not with him? Is he safer because I’m not with him? It’s hard to make decisions when you think you’re cursed.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in curses,” said Parker, breaking his doughnut and dunking it.
“Hedging my bets,” the policeman replied. “I’ve got to find the kidnapped kid before they kill him. If they kill th
e kid, I’m quitting.”
“You mean you’re quitting after you get the people who kill him,” said Parker.
“Hadn’t thought that far,” Hanrahan said with a shrug, his eyes aiming at the doughnut he had pushed away. “Maybe.”
“No more murder,” Sam Parker said seriously, looking into the eyes of the big man across the table. “That’s not how you free yourself.”
“Maybe not,” said Hanrahan. “You’re probably right.”
“Probably? You know how long I trained to answer questions like that? I’m still working on them. You catch criminals and help people in trouble and I deal with moral problems. I promise to come to you when someone I know is in trouble with the law or I’m aware of a criminal act and you promise to let the Lord take care of the moral problems.”
“Don’t trust your Lord yet,” said Hanrahan, rising and dropping three dollars on the table. “Wish I did. Thanks for listening to me, Sam.”
“It’s what I get paid for,” said the priest, wiping his mouth and starting to stand.
“No,” said Bill. “I’ll think about it on my own. I guess the real question is whether I should go ahead and marry Iris, take a chance on what might happen to her because of me.”
“You’ve got two weddings scheduled,” said Sam Parker, sitting back down. “Chinese and Unitarian. Think long and hard. Spend a few hours at the zoo or a movie. No decisions till we talk again.”
“No decisions.”
The two men shook hands and Hanrahan got out of the booth and moved slowly to the door. He wanted to run. He wanted to get to Jimmy Stashall’s to back up his partner. He wanted to find Mickey Gornitz’s boy alive.
It was almost six at night. Irwin and Antoine, Salt and Pepper, sat in the parking lot of the small convenience store on Howard Street less than three miles from the home of Abraham Lieberman. People came and went. The sky was gray and there was a definite chill in the air that said it would be a good idea to wear at least a light jacket. Antoine and Irwin wore matching University of Illinois orange sweat shirts they had picked up at Goodwill. It was Antoine’s idea to keep the cops guessing. It was the only time they had dressed alike and the only time they planned to work that day.
“If it don’t clear out in three more minutes, we try some other time,” said Antoine, running his hand over his freshly shaved head.
“I say we go in,” said Irwin, his hands folded in his lap. “So some customer’s in there. Fuck it. We take his wallet too. I’m gettin’ hungry and I’d really like to bop an Indian.”
Two kids, young black girls, came out of the convenience store and walked past the parked car laughing.
“Can’t understand them people,” said one little girl. “They talk so damned funny.”
“In what way can I be of assistance,” a girl of no more than ten said in a near-perfect imitation of an Indian or Pakistani.
The two girls laughed and moved away sharing a small brown paper bag of candy.
“Let’s do it now,” said Irwin, opening the door before Antoine could stop him.
“You dumb —” Antoine said, getting out and following his partner who was walking very fast toward the door of the convenience store.
When Irwin entered, Antoine slowed down and put on his ski mask. He hated the damned itchy thing but it would surely improve their chances. When he had told Irwin about his plan, Irwin refused to wear a mask. Ripping out the video monitor was enough for him, and, besides, he panicked at the idea of wearing something over his face. And, he had told Antoine, what good would it do? They had committed so many robberies that the police probably already had full descriptions of them. Antoine had blown up. Irwin Saviello was not supposed to think. Antoine was the thinker; besides; Antoine conceded in what there was of his heart of hearts, Irwin might be right.
As soon as he entered, gun in his pocket, Antoine saw that Irwin was standing in front of the counter behind which stood a dark, foreign-looking woman about fifty years old. Her hair was long and tied back and she wore a no-nonsense dress and apron. She was also pretty and wearing a smile that ended the moment Antoine entered.
“Do it!” Antoine shouted, heading for the camera.
Irwin was frozen across the counter from the woman. He hadn’t had to hit a woman before. It had always been men, dark men who talked funny and had more money than he did. That had been fun, but this …
Antoine leaped up and tore at the video camera, it came lose and clattered to the floor.
Irwin came to life reluctantly, realizing that something had to be done. He threw his always effective short right-hand punch at the woman’s face, a punch that regularly broke bones and often led to plastic surgery and near death. He knew his punch was fast. He prided himself on it. Somewhere rushing through his being was the feeling that he might enjoy hitting a woman and that would start him down a new and more dangerous road than the one he had been traveling. We should have checked, he thought. We should have checked it out.
The problem was that the punch didn’t land. For the first time, Irwin Saviello had not connected. At first he thought he had simply somehow missed, and then he realized that the woman had ducked to one side. His still-extended right arm suddenly experienced great pain and in the instant it took him to realize that he had been hit with something hard, Antoine behind him was firing. Irwin stood stunned for an instant and ducked as the bullets whined past him. Now the woman was screaming in a foreign language. Antoine stepped forward toward the counter continuing to fire.
The woman ducked behind the counter screaming and chattering in some nutsy language. Antoine was almost at the counter now. His plan was to reach over and shoot her in the goddamn head. As he started to lean over past Irwin, who was holding his arm, he heard the blast. Irwin was on the floor in pain. Then Antoine heard a shot. For an instant, he thought the cops had come, and then he felt the pain in his left leg. He staggered back and looked down. There was a hole, jagged though generally round, in the front of the counter, and Antoine’s leg was definitely bleeding.
The woman suddenly stood up, still screaming, a shotgun in her hands, a pump gun with a lot more power than Antoine’s weapon. Before she got off the second shot, Antoine made a dive behind a row of potato chips and snacks. Irwin, meanwhile, was crawling toward the door unsure of whether he was going to get the hell out of there or go around the counter and make a move on the ranting woman. He was angry and hurting. He’d go for the woman.
“Let’s go,” shouted Antoine.
Irwin kept crawling. The woman with the shotgun fired again. This time she sent snacks flying. Antoine was on the floor now too, doing a snake-crawl toward the front door, dragging his wounded leg behind him.
Suddenly the screaming woman ran out from behind the counter with Irwin lunging toward her. She didn’t have time to turn and fire again. Instead she ran for the door in the rear and just made it through as Irwin grabbed for her, got his hand on the shotgun, and pulled it from her hands. The woman ran screaming through the alley. Irwin didn’t know that much about shotguns, but he knew this one was simply pump and shoot. He stepped into the alley prepared to do just that. The woman was no more than fifteen or twenty feet away. Close enough. That’s when he realized that he couldn’t raise his right hand. He let out a moan of pain and anger and raised the shotgun with his left hand, trying to level it at the fleeing woman, hoping it was ready to fire.
It did, but the blast hit a rusty garbage can across the alley. The woman turned the corner at the end of the alley and he couldn’t see her, but he could hear her screaming.
Irwin kept the shotgun in his left hand, his right arm dangling at his side. Something was probably broken. It didn’t quite hurt. It was more like an irritating throb. He went back into the convenience store and called “Antoine.”
He stepped on a pile of potato chips and bags. No answer. Irwin looked out the window and saw Antoine limping slowly, very slowly, toward the car. His left leg was covered with blood.
Irwin moved b
ehind the counter imagining — or possibly it was real — the woman running down the street screaming for help. The cash register was open. There was a trail of blood running through the floor full of snacks and behind the counter. Antoine had managed to get to the register.
Irwin hurried after his partner who was just climbing into the driver’s seat, a look of agonizing pain on his face. The gun was still in his hand. Irwin was almost at the car door when Antoine started the engine, lifted his gun, shouted something, and fired at his partner. The shot shattered the passenger-side window, spraying glass, and barely missed Irwin’s head. Before the bewildered Irwin could react, Antoine, letting out a massive groan of pain, sped out of the parking lot.
Irwin Saviello, not really sure of where he was and with only four dollars and eighty cents in his pocket, stood in the middle of the small convenience store parking lot. His right arm was definitely broken. In his left, he carried a shotgun he couldn’t use. Somewhere the screaming woman was getting the police.
Irwin went back into the convenience store, got a bag from behind the counter, came out, and put down the shotgun so he could, awkwardly, fill the paper bag with Ding-Dongs, Twinkies, Little Debbie Chocolate Cup Cakes, and candy bars, mostly Snickers. He tucked the bag under his arm and picked up the shotgun. He could have and probably should have left the weapon. Even he knew that. But he had the feeling that he would want to use it soon, probably against Antoine, providing he could get out of this. He found a sweater behind the counter, used it to cover the shotgun somewhat, and hurried out the back door and into the alley, turning in the opposite direction from the one in which the woman had run.
A barrel of a man wearing a white turtleneck sweater above a pair of black slacks stood in front of Abe Lieberman. The man, who was known as Heinie Manush, did not tower over Lieberman. It was more like he surrounded the detective. Heinie who was perhaps forty years old, weighed significantly over 300 pounds and never wore any expression on his less-than-happy face.
“Got a warrant?” Heinie asked as a woman behind the reception desk looked up at the confrontation.
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