“Things like that do get in the way of a friendship,” said Lieberman.
“Maybe you see him you jus’ shootin’ him down like the wild dog he is,” said George, licking his lips and closing his eyes again.
“Maybe I will,” said Lieberman, moving across the room.
“Don’ forget about my water,” George said in the glare of the lamp. “I think I be talkin’ too much. Delirious. Don’ know what I be sayin’ here.”
“Tell your lawyer,” said Lieberman, opening the door.
In the hall, Lieberman briefed Fu on what George had said. Fu didn’t ask how he had persuaded George.
“I think maybe I’ll get George some water and talk to him again,” said Fu, shaking Lieberman’s extended hand.
“I’ll stay in touch.”
On the way back to Chicago, Lieberman didn’t listen to the news or golden oldies from the big-band era. He didn’t listen to talk-show hosts hanging up on callers. He listened instead to a voice within him speaking in a deep Islands accent telling him something he didn’t want to hear.
Lieutenant Kearney sat in the kitchen of William Hanrahan’s house drinking a cup of coffee. Kearney was forty-two years old, roughhouse good-looking with a broken nose and a reputation for common sense that had earned him the promotion and move to Clark Street. He had been in line for even better things, a corner, well connected, well liked, engaged to Carta Duvier, whose father owned a good part of the North Side of Chicago and its suburbs. And then, a few months ago, it had all blown up when Kearney’s former partner, Bernie Sheppard, had gone mad, killed some people, ruined Kearney’s reputation, ended Kearney’s relationship with Carta Duvier, and put his promotion to captain on permanent hold.
Kearney was considered by those who worked with him to be a good cop, a patient cop, a cop with nothing to gain and little to lose, a cop who backed his men as he had not been backed by those above him when the going got rough.
Kearney sat across from Bill Hanrahan and waited. He had time and the coffee was newly perked and hot.
Hanrahan’s fingers played on the cover of a record album he had retrieved from the ruins of his living room. It was The Music Man, Maureen’s favorite. The record was shattered now, shattered by a shotgun pellet.
“Good coffee,” Kearney said.
Hanrahan nodded. Maureen had loved freshly ground coffee. Ground, unground, instant—it had made no difference to Hanrahan, but Maureen seemed to know the difference and each morning of the last six years of their life together he had ground the beans, half regular, half decaf, before he left for his shift. It was one of the marriage habits he had continued partly, he knew, to keep things from changing or to make them change as slowly as possible. Now … He ran his finger over the rough hole in the album, his eyes watching dreamily.
Hanrahan could hear the team from downtown going through the debris of his living room, could hear their feet crunching glass, their voices trespassing on memories. Upstairs, Iris was comforting Jeanine and Charlie while a policewoman took their statements. Cold air raced through the broken windows of the living room and chilled the working cops, including Kearney, who wore his coat fully buttoned.
“He broke into the house,” said Hanrahan, fighting back the unreasonable urge to excuse himself and clean up the living room, do his best to make it look the way it had an hour ago.
“And?” Kearney prodded.
“He had the shotgun. I sent the girl and her son upstairs. Kraylaw said he was going to shoot me. He shot and missed. I shot him.”
“Missed with both barrels of a shotgun?” Kearney almost whispered.
“I must have shot first. Maybe he was going down when he shot. I think I ducked into the kitchen when I fired.”
“You shot him more than once.”
“He still had the shotgun.”
“He had emptied both barrels.”
Hanrahan shrugged wearily.
Kearney got up, stretched, and looked down on Hanrahan, who had pulled out the shattered record and was putting the broken pieces back together in front of him like a jigsaw puzzle.
“O.K.,” Kearney resumed. “What else?”
“Nothing else,” said Hanrahan.
“Look, if …” Kearney began, but stopped when he saw Donna Wheeler, the uniformed policewoman who had been taking Jeanine’s and Charlie’s statements, come down the stairs off of the kitchen. Wheeler was young, hair short, stocky, daughter of a cop, a pit bull eager to please.
“What you got, Wheeler?” Kearney asked.
Wheeler, not quite at attention, opened her black notebook, scanned what she had written, and said, “Both the mother and the boy say Kraylaw broke in, told them he was taking them. Detective Hanrahan came in. Kraylaw said he was going to shoot. Hanrahan sent them out of the room. Then they heard the shots.”
“He said he was going to shoot?” Kearney asked.
Hanrahan looked up and nodded his head yes.
“That’s what Mrs. Kraylaw and the boy say,” said Wheeler.
“For the record, Bill,” Kearney said. “One more time.”
“Yes,” said Hanrahan, covering the jagged pieces of the record with the bright album cover. “He said he was going to shoot.”
“O.K.,” said Kearney, rising again. “Thanks, Officer.”
Wheeler turned and made her way back up the stairs.
“Hanrahan, on the record, you look like you need some help. Off the record, you look like shit.”
“Yeah,” said Hanrahan.
“Got someone to talk to?”
“I think so, maybe,” said Hanrahan, touching his chin. He needed a shave now. When had he shaved last? This morning? In the tub?
“Do it,” said Kearney, heading toward the living room. “Full report in the morning. Details.”
“Details,” Hanrahan repeated.
And Kearney was gone.
Bill Hanrahan didn’t move. He listened to the movement in the living room, went through in his mind what he would have to do to clean up. Cardboard box for the broken glass. Hefty bag, maybe more than one, for whatever was broken. And the door. Last summer some young woman with an accent from lower New York State had come to his door and sold him a gallon of something that was guaranteed to get rid of any stain. Eighteen dollars it had cost him, but she had demonstrated on a coffee stain on the sofa and he had bought it. Four or five clean rags, a few sponges, the stuff in the gallon container, and he would get rid of the blood.
He went slowly up the stairs to the bedroom on his right, the room that had been his older son’s. The door was partly open and Jeanine, seated in the orange University of Illinois chair, was talking to Officer Wheeler, who knelt before her. On the bed, Iris sat next to Charlie, her arm around the boy, talking to him softly. Charlie had not shed a tear. Nor did he look frightened. His expression was blank. Shock. And then the boy sensed Hanrahan and looked up. Their eyes met. Hanrahan forced a small smile. The corners of Charlie’s mouth twitched slightly in response.
And then Jeanine was aware of him. She looked over Wheeler’s shoulder at Hanrahan. Her eyes were moist and red, her hair a mess. She was still wearing her McDonald’s uniform. Their eyes met and Jeanine gave him a pained smile.
“I’ve got to go out,” Hanrahan said.
Wheeler turned and nodded, but he had not spoken to her.
“You want me to go with you?” asked Iris.
“No,” said Hanrahan. “I …”
He wanted to kiss her, put his head in the curve of her shoulder and neck, be comforted, but he knew he wouldn’t do it, not in front of others, maybe not even if they were alone.
“I’ll take them to my apartment,” Iris said. “I called my father. He said it would be all right.”
Hanrahan nodded, turned, and left, deciding when he got to the bottom of the stairs to go out the back door rather than to go through the living room and witness what he had done.
Nine-Sixteen P.M.
THE ROOM IN WHICH they sat reminded Lieb
erman of the inside of a musty jewelry box his mother had kept in the top drawer of her dresser until she died. The box that he and Maish had always wondered about and were never allowed to look inside of turned out to hold no surprises. It was lined with purple felt, contained a not-very-good gold ring, a locket with a cameo, and four silver dollars.
Abe remembered touching the cameo, running his fingers over it the day after his mother’s death when he had roamed her small apartment alone. He had always liked smooth sculpture, smooth stones or rocks, finely polished wood, and flawless glassware, thin and fine. He had, with Maish’s agreement, kept the cameo which now rested on the bottom of his dresser drawer. He had no idea if Maish still had the box. But this room had the feel, the smell of that box.
“… the casket. You agree?”
Abe realized that the question was aimed at him, but he had no idea what it was. He turned to Mr. Myslish, the funeral director, who was dark suited, businesslike, efficient, too rotund for his own health, and at least double the age of David Lieberman, whose funeral arrangements they were discussing.
Abe looked at Maish seated at his side. Maish was lost in his own memories. Abe tried Rabbi Wass, who looked at Lieberman as if the answer to the question was vital to the continuation of civilization as we know it. Abe was not at all sure at the moment that he wanted civilization to continue as he knew it.
“I agree,” said Abe.
“Good,” said Myslish, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. “Then you will say a few words and Rabbi Wass will close and invite everyone to go with us to the cemetery for interment. Because of the weather, we’ll need a tent.”
“I will keep the graveside service brief,” said Rabbi Wass. “Unless the temperature goes up significantly.”
Maish looked around the room. The ceiling seemed particularly interesting to his more than usually moist eyes.
“The only question is who rides in the limousine,” said Myslish, “and what the order is for the family cars.”
“David doesn’t care,” said Maish.
“But,” said Rabbi Wass, “it will mean something to the way you remember, your wife, his wife remembers.”
Maish shrugged.
Everyone sat quietly for several seconds in Mr. Myslish’s study, which looked uncannily like the inside of Becky Lieberman’s jewelry box.
“So,” Myslish said, jumping in to fill the dead silence. “We also have the question of who sits where during the service, which will be held in the large chapel. With all of your friends and relatives and David’s and Carol’s coworkers, I think we’ll need the large chapel.”
Voices came through the softness of the purple walls, muffled but harsh, rapid.
“The family, father, mother, uncle, aunt, cousin,” said Rabbi Wass, “will sit in the front row. Whether we designate …”
The door to the study opened and a man who looked very much like Myslish and was, in fact, his son backed into the room. He was immediately followed by Emiliano “El Perro” Del Sol and the Tentaculos Carlos and La Cabeza. El Perro was wearing jeans, a blue button-down shirt, and a green sports jacket. Carlos and La Cabeza both wore jeans, T-shirts, and heavy black zippered jackets. All three were wearing black yarmulkes on their heads, as were the men already in the room.
“Viejo,” said El Perro, grinning, his scar shining as the grin stretched his young dark face.
Myslish had pushed himself to his feet and was hurrying around his desk to aid his son, who stood trembling in the middle of the room.
“Gentlemen,” said Lieberman, still sitting, “this is Emiliano Del Sol and two of his associates, Carlos Piedras and Jorge Manulito. Emiliano, we are all very impressed by your entrance. Now, please make a less colorful exit and wait for me outside.”
Emiliano paid no attention. He stepped farther into the room, with Piedras behind him.
“I never been in a place where they got funerals for Jews,” said El Perro, looking around. “But I thought we should dress up a little. Out of respect for you, you know. That’s why we put on these little hats from the box out there. We get to keep them or we supposed to put them back?”
“You put them back,” Lieberman said calmly. “And this isn’t the chapel,” said Lieberman. “This is the funeral director’s office.”
“It’s O.K. That’s a rabbi over here, right?” asked El Perro, pointing to Rabbi Wass, who stood and faced him.
Abe had to admire Wass, maybe for the first time. There wasn’t a trace of fear in the rabbi’s eyes.
“This is a private meeting to make funeral arrangements,” said Wass.
“Who’s that?” asked El Perro, pointing to Maish, who hadn’t even turned around to look at the intruders.
“My brother,” said Abe, still seated. “It was his son David who was killed.”
“I’m sorry,” said El Perro. “We’re all sorry. Ain’t you gonna ask how I found you here, viejo?”
“Emiliano is also known as El Perro, the dog,” Abe explained to Rabbi Wass and the Myslishes, who had taken refuge together behind their massive dark desk. “There are various reasons given why he has such a nickname, but most of them deal in some way with the idea that he has been known to engage in carnal and uncontrolled violent acts.”
“He talks good,” said El Perro, standing in the center of the room with his arms folded over his chest, legs apart, a torn grin on his face.
“Emiliano likes to pose,” said Lieberman. “He has an image to maintain and it derives mostly from old movies and mentors who were themselves influenced by old movies about Mexican bandits.”
“I think you are being a little rude now, viejo,” El Perro said with a sign of dwindling goodwill. “That’s not like you.”
“It’s been a long day, Emiliano,” said Lieberman. “Now please wait outside that door.”
“O.K., but you should be more careful who you talk to like that,” said El Perro.
Carlos continued to stand behind El Perro, hands at his sides, not at all sure of what was going on and decidedly uncomfortable about being in this unfamiliar world.
“I know,” said Lieberman. “Pero, por favor, Emiliano. Yo vengo muy pronto.”
El Perro considered the request for a moment and then turned suddenly and left the room with Piedras and Manulito at his sides. Piedras reached back and closed the door behind them.
“The big one’s name means ‘stone,’” Lieberman explained.
“Entiendo,” said the younger Myslish. “What …Maybe we should call the police?”
“My brother’s a police officer,” Maish said with a sigh. “He knows killers and crazy people. It’s his job.”
Abe nodded.
“He’s a police officer,” Rabbi Wass confirmed.
“Go on without me,” said Abe, standing. “I’ll get rid of Emiliano.”
The Myslishes looked relieved. Rabbi Wass nodded and Maish did nothing.
Stepping into the corridor outside the study, Lieberman closed the door. There were four doors in the darkly carpeted corridor. All were closed. El Perro was seated on a bench covered in what looked like red satin. Carlos stood at his side looking decidedly uncomfortable. Jorge adjusted his yarmulke and stood, legs apart, hands folded in front of him like a Secret Service agent protecting the president.
“Nice friends you got,” said El Perro.
Lieberman stood silently until El Perro continued, with a grin, “I got your guy.”
“George DuPelee shot my niece,” said Lieberman. “My nephew was killed by a man named Raymond.”
El Perro was still grinning.
“What have you got, Emiliano?” Lieberman said.
“Raymond Carrou,” said El Perro. “I got his address, but he moved out fast.”
“And?”
“I know where he works,” said El Perro.
“And that’s important?”
“You think I come bustin’ in here, messin’ with your grief, if I didn’t have somethin’ big? I trust you, viejo. I give you informati
on. You owe me bigger than we been talkin’.”
“What have you got, Emiliano?” Lieberman said with unfeigned weariness.
“I heard the news on the television,” El Perro said, fingering his scarred face. “All about what these guys done. And then when we find about this Raymond, it hits me like this.”
El Perro suddenly clapped his hands together. The clap went dead in the draped corridor.
“Oigo,” said Lieberman.
“Your friend Raymond works in the newspaper and candy stand downstairs at the Stowell Building. Been working there almost four years,” said El Perro. “I seen the news on TV about the shooting, your family, and I put things together, you know?”
Lieberman folded his hands in front of him to keep them from shaking.
“Is that worth something or is that worth something?” asked El Perro.
“Yes,” said Lieberman. “It’s worth something.”
“I figured it out jus’ like that,” said El Perro with pride, snapping his fingers with no more effect than he had achieved with the clapping of his hands.
“I owe you,” said Lieberman.
“And you think I’m a loco fuck,” said El Perro, rising. “Somebody here is even more nuts than me or even more stupid than Carlos.”
Carlos stood stone-faced, waiting.
“We’re goin’,” El Perro went on. “I forgive you for insultin’ me. You got a lot on your mind.”
“One more thing,” said Lieberman. “A favor.”
El Perro turned with curiosity and listened to the request.
“If the baby is a boy,” Yetta Lieberman said slowly, carefully, as if stating something she had been thinking about for a long time, “we should name him David. If Carol agrees, of course.”
Her eyes were long beyond red and puffy. Her entire face was pink and looked to Lisa as if it had been stuffed with cotton balls. Her aunt was calm now as they sat in the kitchen of Abe and Bess’s house, the house in which Lisa had grown up and into which she had recently brought her children.
Bess was sitting next to her sister-in-law. Yetta wore a baggy, thrown-on off-white dress with faded purple and red flowers in repeating dull patterns. Bess wore a dark skirt, a white blouse, and a string of pearls. Perfect. Hair perfect. Attitude of concern toward the grieving mother, perfect. And, Lisa conceded, sincere.
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