Big Silence

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

“You’re Abraham Lieberman out of Clark Street?” she asked.

  “My reputation precedes me,” he said.

  “And it’s not all bad,” she said. “I’ll get Captain Kearney on the line.”

  Lieberman didn’t feel like sitting. He didn’t feel like thinking about the boy who had shot his mother in the face and had been nearly maniacal because he had failed to drive his father to suicide. He didn’t feel like it, knew he would think about Matthew.

  “Kearney” came the voice.

  “We’ve got the Gornitz kid back and we know who shot his mother,” said Lieberman. “He did.”

  “Nailed tight?” asked Kearney.

  “Looks that way,” Lieberman said. “How’s it going? Or can’t you talk.”

  “Better than I thought. This will help. I’ll see you back at the station.”

  Kearney hung up. So did Lieberman.

  He went out into the squad room, which was almost deserted. The rush would come later. Three people were standing at his desk. He knew them all, no-nonsense Faye Lasher from the state attorney’s office, Bob Blitzstein looking decidedly unrested, and Irving Hammel, Lieberman’s nemesis at the temple.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Lieberman asked.

  “I’m representing Bob,” said Hammel. “He called me.”

  “And?” asked Lieberman.

  “Mr. Blitzstein has agreed to cooperate,” Faye Lasher said.

  “My client has been completely misunderstood,” said Hammel. “My client is ready to make a clarifying statement.”

  “I’m looking forward to hearing his new tale,” Lieberman said, looking at Blitzstein, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Mr. Blitzstein has agreed to go to the crime scene and show us what happened,” said Faye Lasher. “As arresting officers, I’d like you and Detective Hanrahan to come with us.”

  “Detective Hanrahan is booking a suspect, and I don’t think —”

  The squad room door opened and Hanrahan came in walking toward the quartet at his partner’s desk.

  “Juvenile is coming for him,” Hanrahan said. “Rene is booking him in. What’s the party?”

  “William, how would you like to spend an hour or so in an alley listening to a tale that promises to be worthy of Baron Munchausen?”

  “Abe,” Hammel said, “I resent that.”

  “I apologize,” Lieberman said, bowing his head in false contrition.

  “Sounds like fun,” said Hanrahan.

  “Then let’s get it over with,” Faye Lasher joined in, heading toward the squad room door, which opened ahead of her to a uniformed officer who was ushering in a thin man who looked like an emery board.

  “What’s that guy’s name, Rabbi?” Bill asked Lieberman.

  “Thin guy?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Suede something.”

  “Wonder what he’s in for. I saw him last night, driving drunk in a Mazda around Leland and Ashland. Maybe I should have stopped him, but I was long off duty and had a lot on my mind.”

  “When we come back, we’ll see,” said Lieberman. “Now we run after the Amazon woman.”

  Faye Lasher was almost as tall as Hanrahan, lean and fast. The four men had trouble keeping up with her. She didn’t ask anyone when they were in the parking lot. She simply headed for a dark Buick LeSabre and motioned for everyone to get in.

  CHAPTER 14

  TEN MINUTES LATER THE five of them were in the alley behind Lunt. It was definitely cold, definitely gray, and definitely a place where none of them wanted to be.

  “I was going to visit my daughter,” Bob Blitzstein said in a monotone. “He was in front of the apartment house, in the courtyard, looking at her window. I told him to get the hell away. He laughed at me.”

  “You had a gun in your pocket,” said Lieberman.

  “I was bringing it to Rita for her protection,” said Blitzstein.

  Irving Hammel nodded in agreement. Faye Lasher looked bored.

  “He grabbed my arm, pushed me down the street,” Blitzstein went on as they walked from the spot in the courtyard he was talking about. “We went this way. I told him to leave me alone.”

  “You can use his name,” said Lieberman. “Clark Mills.”

  “We went this way. I thought someone would see us, call for help. I started to shout. He — Mills told me to shut up. He was big. I was afraid.”

  “But angry,” said Hanrahan.

  “At that point, just afraid,” Blitzstein said, adjusting his glasses and looking at his attorney, who nodded to let him know he was saying the right thing.

  “We came in the alley here,” Blitzstein went on. “He pushed me this way. I knew he was going to beat me up, maybe kill me. I’m not a young man. I was afraid. He pushed me against that wall there.”

  Blitzstein pointed at a wall.

  “Between two cars,” he said. “He started looking around after he told me to stand still and shut up. Then he picked up this piece of wood. It was dark, broken at one end, sort of a broken board.”

  “We didn’t find anything like that,” said Hanrahan. “But we’ll look again.”

  “It was probably picked up by the garbage men,” said Hammel.

  “Then?” Lieberman asked.

  “I remembered the gun in my pocket.”

  “The one you were bringing your daughter?” asked Hanrahan.

  “Yes. I took it out and when his, Mills’s, back was turned to me, he said, ‘I’m going to smash your head to a pulp.’ I was terrified. I peed in my pants. I held up the gun. It was shaking in my hands. I shot. Once, twice, I don’t remember. He went down. I was in total panic. I ran down the alley and threw the gun away. I should have stayed, but I was afraid, for myself, for my daughter.”

  “Good story,” said Lieberman. “Panic notwithstanding, you managed to wipe your prints off the gun.”

  “I don’t remember,” Blitzstein said, looking at his lawyer.

  “It’s the truth,” said Hammel. “For now, that is all my client has to say. He has cooperated fully.”

  “Let’s go.” Faye Lasher sounded as if she wanted the whole farce over with. She would look for holes in the story, but if Blitzstein stuck with it and could keep looking as if he were telling the truth, he would probably walk.

  “I’ll see you at services,” said Lieberman. “Irving, Bob, what’s the commandment that fits here?”

  “Thou shalt not bear false witness,” said Hanrahan.

  Faye Lasher smiled, not much of a smile, but a smile. Lasher, Hammel, and Blitzstein left. Hanrahan and Lieberman stood in the alley in which they had spent the better part of the night.

  “It’s a living, Abe.”

  “It’s a job.”

  Lieberman held up his hand and said, “You hear that?”

  “I hear a lot of things. Rabbi. Traffic on Sheridan. The wind.”

  “No, I —”

  Lieberman started back down the alley with his partner beside him. He stopped at concrete stairs leading down to a door. Standing next to the door looking up at them was the dog with no name.

  “That is one ugly dog,” said Hanrahan.

  “I think he could clean up pretty good,” said Lieberman, taking the Baggie with the bagel out of his pocket and holding it out as he knelt at the top of the steps.

  “He’s got half an ear missing. If he were cleaned up, I think we’d see some scars, and there’s something wrong with his eye, the left one.”

  “He has character,” said Lieberman.

  The dog came slowly, cautiously up the steps watching the two men. He had never by his own choosing come this close to humans before.

  “I like him,” Lieberman said as the dog took the bagel gently in his teeth and retreated down the steps to eat it and watch the two men.

  “So?” asked Hanrahan. “It’s cold. Let’s go.”

  “He look like anyone we know?” asked Lieberman.

  “No,” said Hanrahan. “Abe, can we do something besides watchi
ng a stray dog eat a bagel?”

  “He reminds me of me, Father Murph,” said Lieberman.

  Hanrahan looked at the dog again and said, “I see the resemblance. Now that you point it out.”

  “If he’s willing to come with us, I’m taking him to Augustino, the vet, for cleaning and shots or whatever,” Lieberman said, standing up.

  “You know what that costs?” Hanrahan said.

  “Money is no object,” said Lieberman, “not when one finds a soul mate.”

  “It’s just a dog, Abe.”

  “We shall see. We shall see.”

  An omelette sat before Abraham Lieberman, an omelette with onions and just a touch of lox and cream cheese, real cream cheese, not the low-fat kind with the wrong texture and no taste. And the omelette was perfect, not brown. Terrell had created a work of art. Lieberman poured ketchup on the side and looked at the twin of his omelette on the plate in front of Hanrahan.

  “So Iris took it all right?” Lieberman asked, digging in.

  “I told you. She took it fine,” said Hanrahan. “She takes everything fine.”

  “You are a fortunate man.” Lieberman closed his eyes in ecstasy.

  “Abe,” Herschel Rosen called from the Alter Cocker table. “Howie’s got a fortune cookie for you. You want I should read it?”

  The Alter Cocker table was full: Rosen, Bloombach, Chen, Hurvitz the psychologist, and the quiet Sy Weintraub who had probably walked his five or ten miles hours ago.

  “Read,” said Abe, not bothering to look at the old men at the table.

  “Says,” said Rosen, “ ‘Beware of cholesterol or you’ll die young.’ ”

  “Too late for me to die young,” said Lieberman.

  “Too early for you to die old,” Hurvitz said, looking over his glasses.

  “I am touched by your concern,” Lieberman said between bites.

  “So what’s with Blitzstein?” asked Bloombach.

  “Irving Hammel’s his lawyer,” said Abe.

  “Hammel?” asked Rosen. “He does criminal?”

  “For friends,” said Bloombach. “Friends with a chain of children’s furniture stores. He handled Al Herskowitz’s brother’s case. The one where he backed his car into the guy who was pushing a cart at the supermarket. Got him off. Herskowitz’s brother has gelt from his wife’s insurance money. I don’t trust Hammel. What is it you call him, Abe?”

  “Rommel,” said Howie Chen.

  “Good name,” said Bloombach. “Blitzkriegs and all that stuff. I was in North Africa in the war, the real war.”

  “We know,” said Howie Chen.

  “I can fill in details,” said Bloombach.

  “We wait in anticipation,” said Rosen, who called to Lieberman. “Abe, we decided you got enough tsuoris. We talked it over. Retire early. Join the table. You’re a born kibitzer.”

  “I’m touched,” Lieberman said, finishing his omelette.

  Hanrahan was still working on his between sips of coffee.

  “What about the Irish?” said Rosen.

  “Ask him,” said Abe.

  “Irish, you want to be an Alter Cocker? We can talk it over. We never had goyim at the table — except for the illustrious and honorary Jew, Howie Chen. Consider the honor. An Irish Catholic, a first. But you’d have to retire.”

  “He’s too young,” said Weintraub.

  “He’s lookin’ older every day,” said Rosen.

  “Gentlemen, I appreciate the offer,” said Hanrahan, “and I may consider it at some point in the future.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Hurvitz.

  “I said ‘may,’ ” Hanrahan countered. “But for now, I choose to sow my cultivated oats and say prayers for the endangered souls of all of you.”

  “Woe unto you, Irish,” said Rosen. “We don’t offer twice. Honors are difficult to come by in this life.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Hanrahan. “I’m deeply touched.”

  “For now,” said Bloombach, “we’ll accept your decision to postpone making a decision.”

  “Without a vote?” said Rosen.

  “Without a vote,” said Bloombach.

  At that moment, Maish came through the front door carrying two big brown paper shopping bags.

  “The return of the Portugal,” said Rosen.

  “Ulysses back from his travels bearing treasure,” said Chen.

  Maish ignored them and moved to his brother’s table. He put the shopping bags down. There was a series of clinking sounds from the bags.

  “Just came from Aziz the shrink,” said Maish. “He’s a crazy person, Avrum.”

  “Why?”

  “He told me to buy cheap pottery, go in the alley, and throw it against the wall. He said it would help if I yelled or screamed when I did it. If I run out of pottery, I’m supposed to throw eggs.”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Hanrahan.

  “You’ve done it?” Maish asked, looking at the policeman.

  “Many times,” Hanrahan said. “Inside my house. Ten minutes of ‘who the hell cares’ and forty-five minutes of cleaning up. Always helps. Well, almost.”

  “Meshuganah auf tait.” Maish shook his head.

  “He says —” Abe began.

  “That I’m crazy in the head,” said Hanrahan. “Try it Maish, now.”

  “Now?” asked Maish.

  “Now,” said Hanrahan. “All by yourself. Smash the holy shit out of that stuff.”

  “How’re the omelettes?” Maish asked.

  “Delicious,” Lieberman replied.

  “Perfect,” said Hanrahan.

  “Maish,” Bloombach called. “What’s in the bags?”

  “My salvation, according to a crazy shrink and an Irish cop,” he answered.

  “Good,” said Rosen.

  Terrell stood behind the counter pouring coffee for a cab driver who was reading the paper and paying no attention to the banter behind him.

  “Terrell,” said Maish, “I’ll be in the alley.”

  “Throw one small cup for me,” said Hanrahan.

  “And a big pitcher for mankind,” added Lieberman.

  When Lieberman and Hanrahan appeared at the door with the dog, Bess knew she was in for trouble. Before they even entered the house, she said, “What’s that?”

  “A dog,” said her husband.

  “It’s not a dog,” said Bess. “It’s a … a … I don’t know. You can’t bring it in until you get it cleaned up.”

  “It is cleaned up,” said Abe. “And he has all his shots.”

  The dog looked up at Bess. She was unmoved.

  “I’ve got to go pick up the kids,” she said. “I don’t want it here when I get back, Abe.”

  “What makes you think I want to keep him?” asked Lieberman.

  “Abe?”

  “Let’s make a deal,” he said, still standing in the doorway with his silent partner. “I take on the Katzman dinner and charm her completely. We keep the dog on a trial basis.”

  “You already agreed to do the Katzman dinner tonight,” she said. “Abe, I’m sorry. If we took all the strays you’ve brought home over the years — human and animal — the house would be under investigation from the Board of Health and I’d be a nervous wreck. Abe, you know I’m right. It’s not just because he’s such an ugly creature.”

  “You’re right,” Abe said in defeat. “But maybe we can work something out.”

  “Abe. I love you. I always will. No dog and don’t stall till the children come home and take your side. Go get a goldfish. I’ll even talk about a cat, but no dog.”

  “I’ll take him,” said Hanrahan. “If he’ll go with me.”

  Bess found her car keys in her purse and moved past the two men, closing the door behind her.

  “Bless you, William,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Avrum, you can visit the creature whenever you like.”

  Bess was down the stairs and getting into her car when the two detectives looked at each other.

  �
�You sure, Father Murph?”

  “I could use the company, Rabbi.”

  “Then he’s yours,” said Lieberman.

  “No, he’s nobody’s, Abe. He can live with me if it suits him.”

  Lieberman’s partner turned and walked back down the stairs. The dog with no name followed him.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Abe Lieberman Mysteries

  1

  July 16, 1969

  THE LITTLE OLD MAN was nodding his head and mumbling to himself as he walked down the gray corridor of the synagogue. It was not an unusual sight, but this particular old man was unfamiliar to Morrie Greenblatt, who approached him.

  Morrie towered over the old man, who wore a black yarmulke atop his freckled, nearly bald head and a white-fringed tallis over his shoulders. Under his arm the old man was carrying a black prayer book.

  From the main sanctuary, the sound of voices, a man and a woman, went back and forth nervously.

  “Excuse me,” said Morrie.

  The old man stopped and looked up at the tall slope-shouldered man who had stopped him.

  “We need you,” Morrie said, glancing at his watch.

  “Me?” asked the old man in a voice that sounded raspy from too many hours of prayer.

  “We need one more for the morning minyan,” Morrie said. “A tenth man.”

  “But I …,” the old man began, looking toward the main sanctuary.

  “It won’t take long. I promise. Prayers and then if you have time we have bagels and coffee. We need you. Sid Applebaum was supposed to be here but he has a stomach something and with the rain …”

  “You need me?” the old man said.

  “Yes.”

  The old man shrugged and said, “Then I’ll come.”

  Ten Jewish men who had been bar mitzvahed at the age of thirteen were required to meet the minimum number set forth in the Holy Bible for morning prayers. Morrie, who owned a bath and tile store on Lawrence Avenue, was the congregation’s unofficial gabai, the one who saw to it that things got done.

  No one, not even Morrie, was sure whether Morrie had volunteered for this job or it had simply evolved. Morrie, now almost fifty, accepted the responsibility, the principal task of which was to see to it that there was a minyan for each morning’s prayers.

  The regulars, if they were healthy, were no problem. He could always count on Rabbi Wass and his son, Cal Schwartz, Marvin Stein, Hyman Lieberman, Joshua Kornpelt, Sid Applebaum, and himself. He would check the night before with phone calls and if it looked as if they would be short, Morrie would ask Marv Stein to bring his brother or Hy Lieberman to bring his sons. Some days they had as many as sixteen or more. Some days they had walkins who were from out of town or regular congregation members there to observe yahrzeit, the anniversary of a loved one’s death.