Lieberman's thief

Houses

The game wasn't rained out. There were two delays but they rushed it through between cloudbursts. The Pirates were up four to two in the top of the seventh when Lieberman and Hanrahan came in the door of the T and L Deli on Devon.

On the radio, Harry Carey was exhorting the crowd.

"Let me hear ya," he cried, and the crowd came back with "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."

At their reserved front table, the only table in the T amp; L, three of the Alter Cocker regulars-Herschel Rosen, Syd Levan, and Howie Chen-kept singing along with Harry when the policemen entered. There was a fourth man at the table who wasn't singing, but he was smiling knowingly and nodding his head.

Syd Levan, the youngest Cocker at sixty-eight, motioned to Lieberman and Hanrahan to stop at their table. They did and dutifully waited till "Root, root, root for the Cubbies" let the patrons of the T amp; L, including two women at the counter and a couple with a small child in one of the red leatherette booths, know that the important part was coming.

"For it's one, two, three strikes you're out at the old ball game," the three Cockers and the little boy in the booth belted out.

Syd, always jaunty, a retired insurance salesman, in a yellow sweater, held up a hand to let Herschel introduce the new man. Hersch, who was seventy-one, was a retired jewelry salesman. He had been "Red" Rosen back in the late thirties when Marshall High School went on a hundredgame winning streak. There were people who still recognized the name, though the white hair held only a hint of red-orange. Hersch was the acknowledged leader of the Alter Cockers, the wit, the one with the most moxie and the biggest reputation.

"Detectives Lieberman and Hanrahan," Herschel Rosen said somberly, "I want you to meet a new member of our table, Morris Becker. Morris was telling us just before you came in that he didn't know if he should be carrying a couple of ounces of heroin in his pocket. He's from Saint Louis, where they let old farts get away with anything."

"No," Morris Becker cried, suddenly standing up and almost knocking over what looked like a glass of cherry seltzer.

Becker was frail, thin, and, in spite of a green jacket and a matching beret, less than a monument to free spirithood.

"No," Becker repeated, looking at Herschel Rosen with disbelief. "I never… As God is my witness. On the grave of my father, aleh vei sholom, I've never…"

"Herschel's joking," said Howie Chen. "He's getting a distorted idea of humor since he's gone senile."

Howie, the only non-Jew hi the Cockers, was also the oldest at eighty-two, though he looked two decades younger. Howie had owned the Blue Dragon Restaurant a block away, working fourteen to eighteen hours a day for more than thirty years. When he retired and left the restaurant to his grandson, he had been welcomed to the table. Outside of Herschel and Morrie Stoltzer, Howie spoke the best Yiddish of all the Cockers.

"Abe, tell him," Howie said.

"It's a joke, Mr. Becker," Lieberman said, holding out his hand.

'Then you're not the police," Becker said, slowly putting out his right hand, half expecting it to be grasped and the cuffs snapped in place like on television.

"We are the police," said Hanrahan, "but we know Mr. Rosen. You're being initiated."

"Pleased to meet you," said Becker, shaking hands and sitting back down with a suspicious glance at Herschel.

"Al and Morrie?" asked Lieberman.

"The atheists are in traffic court," explained Howie Chen. "Al backed into Morrie in the parking lot and-"

"No, no, no," Herschel groaned. "Morrie backed into Al."

"It makes a difference?" Howie asked, looking to Lieberman for help.

"It makes a major difference here," Herschel insisted. "What are you talkin'? In China it might not make a difference. Here it makes a difference."

Howie Chen had never been in China. He was born in San Francisco. Herschel had come to the United States in 1931. It gave Howie about three years longer in America.

"Anyway," Howie went on, "they face each other in traffic court this afternoon. We're waiting for the winner to come and crow."

Al Bloombach and Morrie Stoltzer were best friends, had been for almost seventy years. They were also known as the atheist contingent of the Alter Cockers. And, in spite of their shared conviction that there was no deity, they fought over almost every other issue.

The rear booth near the kitchen was free. The detectives moved to it and slid in facing each other. The little boy with his parents at the next booth had heard the two men introduced as policemen. He was standing on his seat and looking back at Lieberman, who opened his jacket to reveal his holster. The boy's eyes widened. Lieberman winked and turned his attention to Hanrahan, who had pulled out his notebook.

There was a poster on the wall above the booth. The faded colors oozed with the call of a Vienna red hot drenched in mustard, onion, tomato, and relish. Lieberman tried not to look.

Manuel, the cook, who normally stayed in the kitchen handling short orders, brought Abe and Bill cups of coffee.

"Where's Maish?" asked Lieberman.

"Your brother's walking," said Manuel, a lean black man in his late forties. Lieberman had put Manuel away on a series of car thefts in 1967. When he got out of prison, where he learned to cook, Lieberman introduced him to Maish, who hired him immediately. That was over twenty-two years ago.

"He does that a lot these days," Manuel continued.

Lieberman nodded.

Maish's son, a rising television executive, had been gunned down in a senseless robbery two months ago. Maish, known throughout his sixty-five years as the deadpan Nothing Bothers Maish, had been badly shaken. Maish had given his life to his wife, Yetta, his son, and his deli. Now he took long walks to who knew where and showed little interest in the business.

"How about a corned beef, slice of sweet onion on fresh rye, small chopped liver or kishke on the side?" Manuel recommended.

Hanrahan nodded yes, and Lieberman said, "Just a bagel, toasted, with maybe a little jam, jelly, something."

Manuel shrugged and went to take some cash from the two women at the counter who were standing near the cash register.

"You feelin' OK, Rabbi?" Hanrahan asked.

"Diet again, the new doctor. Cholesterol. Don't ask. You, you had your cholesterol checked?"

"Yeah, last year. Levels are low. Doc chalked it up to heredity," Hanrahan said, scanning the pages of his notebook.

There were Cubs on first and third with one out. Grace hit into a double play. The Cockers groaned and the little boy in the next booth turned to look at the crazy old men.

"So, Father Murph," Lieberman said just before sipping his coffee, "what do we have?"

"None of Rozier's neighbors remember a handyman coming to their door. None of them has hired a handyman in months. Checked three blocks square. Should have brought my raincoat."

"So either our thief was checking out the Rozier place…" said Lieberman.

"Or there was no thief," said Hanrahan, looking up. "I don't like our recent widower. His grief is fake."

Lieberman nodded. Hanrahan was a world-class griever.

"That doesn't make him a killer, Father Murph."

The Cockers chattered. The family at the next table left. Harry Carey said there were two more chances for the Cubs, and a trio of truck drivers came in and sat at the counter.

"Man can be happy his wife is dead, or at least not unhappy, and not be responsible for her death," said Lieberman. "And he has a hell of an alibi."

"Could have hired somebody," Hanrahan countered.

"Could have. Could also be telling the truth."

"Could. You don't like him either, do you?"

"No," Lieberman confessed, wondering if he could start his diet tomorrow. What could one day hurt? One last bash before the long starvation. Who ever died of a hot dog? But he knew he wouldn't do it. There was no tempering for Abe Lieberman, never had been. He could give it up, but he couldn't settle for just a little.

"So?"

"You take Harvey," Lieberman said. "Find out if he inherits from his wife, if he's been cheating on her, or if she's been cheating on him. Check the alibi. Be careful. Our Harvey is an important man."

"I'll make it quick and quiet, call in a few favors," said Hanrahan as Manuel returned and placed a huge sandwich in front of him. The pickle on the plate shone green and new.

"I'll go for the thief," said Lieberman, looking at the toasted bagel in front of him and the small carton of red jelly. "Rozier asked me the names of five perps in the mug books. Says none of them was the would-be handyman. For a man who claims to remember faces the way Charlton Heston remembers Shakespeare, his asking for the names strikes me as-"

"Odd," said Hanrahan, opening his mouth to attempt to encompass the enormity of the sandwich in his hands.

Lieberman took a bite of his toasted bagel and stood up.

"I'll call Evidence and the coroner," he said. "Enjoy your sandwich."

The phone was through the door to the kitchen, right next to the men's room. He made his calls, took notes holding the receiver tucked under his chin, asked questions, and hung up. When he got back to the booth, the Cubs had miraculously tied the game, the truck drivers' mouths were stuffed, and the Alter Cockers were laughing. The new Cocker, Morris Becker, was doing something with his face that may have been smiling.

Hanrahan had, thanks to God, finished his sandwich and pickle.

"What do we have?" he asked.

"Puzzles," said Lieberman.

"I don't like puzzles," said Hanrahan, sucking at something in his teeth.

"Doing the autopsy now," he said. "I talked to Reasoner. He said he'd wring my neck if I let anybody know before Brice told us officially, but it looks like Dana Rozier was killed by multiple stab wounds in her arms, legs, back, stomach, chest, and face. No sexual assault with or without the weapon."

"So where's the puzzle?"

"They found ipecac in her stomach," he said. "The stuff that makes you throw up fast."

"I know. So, she accidentally ate something that she thought was-" Hanrahan began, but Lieberman was shaking his head.

"Our friend Dr. Reasoner says it doesn't look like there was anything in her stomach, that she hadn't eaten for at least six to eight hours. Still preliminary, but…" Lieberman shrugged.

"I'll see if there's any ipecac at the Rozier house," said Hanrahan, working on his coffee as the Pirates scored one in the top of the ninth to go back out ahead by a run. "What else?"

"Remember the mark in the blood, rectangle, about six inches by a foot and a half?"

"Yeah, looked like the blood had flowed around it."

"Evidence said they didn't take anything from the room. Didn't move anything," said Lieberman.

"Maybe," Hanrahan tried, "the killer put something down when he killed Mrs. Rozier. Then when he was done, he picked it up and ran."

"Nope," said Lieberman, working on his now-cold bagel. "Whatever was there was a good seven or eight feet from the body. It took awhile for the blood to get to there."

"How long?" Hanrahan asked.

"Who knows? Two, maybe three minutes. Man kills a woman in panic when he's caught in a burglary and then waits a minute or goes back to looking for candlesticks?"

"Not likely, unless he's a real hard-core addict," Hanrahan answered. "But it's still possible, Rabbi."

"Most self-respecting thieves who hadn't planned the crime would get the hell out of there as fast as they could. So I ask you, Father Murphy, what made that shape in the blood and where is it?"

"Cubs win! Cubs win!" Harry Carey shouted. "Holy cow."

"I'll be looking for our mysterious object," said Hanrahan, "but…"

"It's probably nothing. I know. Last puzzler. Fingerprints found match Rozier, Franklin, his wife, the dead woman. Footprints in the blood also check for Rozier, Franklin, and his wife plus two others, one with sneakers."

"Two burglars?" said Hanrahan.

"We'll ask when we find one of them, Father Murphy," said Lieberman.

Manuel came to the table bearing two side orders of potato pancakes with sour cream.

"Compliments of the boys," he said, nodding at the Cockers' table. "In honor of the Cubs' victory."

Lieberman looked at the Cockers, who raised their seltzer, chocolate phosphates, and coffee in a toast to the Cubs.

Were latkes on Doc Berry's hit list? Absolutely not, Lieberman decided. At least not till I ask Doc Berry. And with that he dug in.

When he left to drive Bill Hanrahan home fifteen minutes later, Maish had still not returned.*** The hardest thing for Harvey Rozier to do was keep from working. Playing the role of grieving husband was proving to be the most difficult part of murdering his wife. He sat in the living room trying to look overwhelmed while Betty Franklin, who had relieved her husband, fielded endless calls from business associates, Harvey's secretary, near and distant relatives, and the media.

The bloody toolbox the thief had left was locked inside Harvey's second safe in the garage. The safe was behind the tool cabinet and looked as old as the house, which had been built in the 1920s.

He had to find that thief, the witness to his crime. He had his name, George Patniks or Eupatniaks. He would check the city and suburban directories and, if necessary, ask a friend in the phone company to see if the man had an unlisted number. No, Harvey decided. He couldn't do that. No more than he could simply have someone in City Hall call the thief's parole officer or check the files to find the man's address. He couldn't have anyone who could trace him to the thief, particularly if Harvey had to kill him.

If the man were reasonable, Harvey told himself, he might consider threatening him with revelation as the murderer, complete with the man's bloody toolbox as evidence. He might. But Harvey doubted it.

Tonight, when he was alone in his room, he would check the directories and hope that the man was listed. If he wasn't, the job would be that much harder.

There were no parking spaces on the street in front of his house, not even the one by the fire hydrant. A van with a CLERGY sign on the pulled-down visor was illegally parked there.

Art Hellyer was joyfully announcing the next string of oldies on the radio as Lieberman turned the corner on Birchwood and drove around the back into the alley.

The rain had stopped, and there was a heavy, cold Chicago spring chill as Lieberman got out of the car, found the right key on his chain, and opened the garage. The garage door had ceased subservient cooperation more than a decade ago. It grew more reluctant with each opening. Weary from Chicago heat, cold, and rain, it simply wanted to be left alone. Normally Lieberman honored that wish, but there were a few nights, like tonight, when it was either park two or three blocks away or try to wake the dying door. Lieberman struggled, pulled, heard the impatient humming of his car engine behind him. Trying to lift with his knees and protect his back, Lieberman coaxed and pampered as the door reluctantly began to slide upward with a rusty squeal.

No more, Lieberman decided. He would not park in the garage again. He would fill the garage with junk from the closets. It was either that or fix the door, a challenge he did not even give serious consideration.

It was late, later than he liked, a little after eight. A little talk with the kids before they went to bed, some contentious banter with his daughter, something to eat-but what? — and then to the bedroom with Bess if he didn't get a call.

Abe opened the porch door, crossed the few feet to the back door. He heard the loud, confident baritone voice the instant he opened the door. The voice sounded familiar. Abe kicked off his shoes and placed them on the sheet of newspaper laid out next to the door. The aroma of cooking brisket filled the room. I'm undone, Lieberman thought.

"No doubt, none whatsoever," the man's voice pontificated from beyond the closed kitchen door.

"Well…" Bess answered.

Abe had crossed the kitchen, opened the door, and met his wife's eyes. She and the man were seated at the dining room table.

Bess was five years younger than Abe Lieberman. On a bad day she looked fifteen years younger. On a good day she looked like his daughter. She was Abe's height, dark, and slender. Not a classic beauty but a Lady, a lady with a capital L. She wore her curly dark hair short and she had the most beautiful and distinctive soft voice Lieberman had ever heard. Bess's father had been a butcher on the South Side, but Bess, now the president of Temple Mir Shavot, carried herself as if she had come from generations of successful bankers.

"Oh, Abe," she said looking up at him. "I was hoping you'd be home. You know Rabbi Nathanson?"

There was something in Bess's voice that made it clear she needed support or rescue.

Rabbi Ira Nathanson of Temple B'nai Shalom, south of Devon, rose and held out his right hand. In his left hand was an envelope. Rabbi Nathanson was a tall man, four or five years younger than Lieberman. His shoulders sagged and his dark face and heavily bagged eyes had given him the nickname among the children of Rabbi Camel. The rabbi was wearing a dark suit and tie and a grave look.

"We've met," Lieberman said, taking the rabbi's large hand in a firm shake. "Three years ago. Member of your congregation, Isadore Green. Missing person."

"Ah," said Rabbi Nathanson, standing back and shaking his head with his hands folded in front of him. "Never found. May the Lord have taken him to his bosom."

"Amen," said Abe, looking at Bess for guidance. It had been Lieberman's conclusion that Isadore Green had simply run away and was probably alive and well in Gallup, New Mexico, or some point even farther west.

Bess shrugged.

"Coffee, Abe?" she said. "More coffee, Rabbi?"

"Later," said Lieberman, joining them at the table. "Where are Lisa and the kids?"

"Todd took the kids to a movie, Die Hard 3 or 4 or something. Lisa's working late."

Alone at last, Lieberman thought, loosening his tie and looking at Rabbi Nathanson, who had nodded to indicate that more coffee would be welcome. Bess moved toward the kitchen.

Nathanson opened his mouth to speak but Abe stopped him with, "I'll be right back," and headed for his and Bess's bedroom.

In the bedroom, as he did whenever he came home, Lieberman opened the drawer of the night table on his side of the bed, using the key he always wore around his neck.

He put his.38 and holster into the drawer, closed it, and locked it with the key, checking to be sure the drawer was indeed locked. Then he returned to the dining room and the waiting visitor.

"Let me explain," said the rabbi, folding his hands on the table, "as I did with your wife, who, I would like to add, is doing a monumental job as president of Mir Shavot during the move to the new synagogue. Monumental."

"Thank you," said Lieberman, also folding his hands on the table.

Bess came back with the coffee pot and poured more in the rabbi's cup. The rabbi nodded in appreciation and returned his steady eyes to Abe's face.

"Rabbi Wass, your rabbi, indicated in conversation that you were planning to move, to be closer to the new synagogue site," the rabbi said in a near whisper, as if this were very confidential information.

" 'Planning' is a little strong, Rov," Lieberman said, looking at Bess across the table. She shrugged to indicate she had nothing to do with spreading such a rumor.

"Well," Nathanson said, "it may come as no surprise to you that congregation B'nai Shalom is seriously considering a move to this neighborhood to serve the older Jewish community, those who cannot easily move to the north with you, and to serve the young Russian immigrants who are coming to this area in ever-growing numbers."

It was not Lieberman's place or desire to contradict the rabbi, at least not till the man came to the point. Rabbi Camel had the reputation of delivering meandering sermons in which the point came late and was usually missed by the congregation. The older Jews in Lieberman's neighborhood were dying off, moving in with their children in the suburbs, or lounging in Florida high-rises if they could afford it. Some Russian immigrants were moving in, but the vast majority of those moving in were Asians and Indians and a few upwardly mobile Hispanics. The neighborhood change was the primary reason Temple Mir Shavot was moving thirty blocks north.

"We may build," Nathanson said, holding up one hand and then the other, "or we may buy a suitable edifice. It is unfortunate that the building you are abandoning has been sold to Chinese Christians."

"Korean," Bess corrected.

The Koreans, Lieberman knew, had made the best offer and Bess, Rabbi Wass, and the building committee had decided that the Korean Baptist Church and its leader Reverend Kim Park were conservative, honorable, and far better than the only other offer that they had received, from Kenehay Exporters, a group that Lieberman labeled after one phone call as being engaged in "dubious" enterprises.

"My wife…" Nathanson went on.

Lieberman pointedly looked at his watch. Bess frowned at her husband's manners and Rabbi Nathanson seemed not to have noticed. He was launched. There was no stopping him.

"My wife, Leah, and I have sold our house. The children, Larry and Rachel, are off at college. Rachel is at Brandeis. Larry is finishing dental school, University of California."

"That's wonderful," said Bess. "Isn't it, Abe?"

"A blessing," said Abe.

"Expensive," sighed the rabbi. "But for your children…"

"You make sacrifices," Bess concluded.

"So you sold your house," Lieberman prompted.

"Sold our house, where we had loved, nurtured, and raised a family," the rabbi went on. "Sold and moved into a condominium." 'That's nice," said Bess.

"We hate it," Rabbi Nathanson said forlornly. "No history, no character. We hung our paintings-you've heard of the priceless painting of the Torah we have, the one done by Hammasha of Jerusalem?"

He looked at Bess and Lieberman, who nodded slightly, neither knowing about this famous artwork.

"Well, it does not hang well in the apartment," he said sadly. "A cold museum no matter what effort my poor Leah puts into it. But this house…" He looked around the dining room and into the living room. "This house has a history, a family, the aura, if you win, of Jewish culture."

Lieberman nodded knowingly, sure that the aura was in part a failure to invest in new furniture for more than fifteen years plus the brisket simmering in the kitchen.

"Thank you," said Bess. "You sure you don't want coffee, Abe?"

"Later," Lieberman said, now fascinated by the apparently pointless but elegantly presented ramblings of the rabbi.

"In short, I wish to buy your house. I'm sure you will be reasonable," said the rabbi, pausing for a response.

"I don't think we're seriously considering selling quite yet," Lieberman said.

"Abe…" Bess said softly.

"Well, maybe," Lieberman conceded.

"Good," Rabbi Nathanson said leaning forward, ready for business. "A price?"

"One hundred and seventy-five thousand," said Bess.

Rabbi Nathanson sat back to consider this.

"No realtor, six and a half percent saved," said the rabbi. "One hundred and sixty-two thousand and five hundred dollars."

"We could consider mat," Bess said, looking at Lieberman, encouraging him with her eyes not to destroy this opportunity.

"We'll think about it," said Lieberman.

The rabbi put down the envelope in his hand, pulled out a fountain pen, and began writing.

"I will now give you a check for one thousand dollars," he said. "Earnest money. Good faith money to be applied to the purchase price. In return, you sign this document stating that you will sell to no one else for six months."

"I don't think…" Lieberman began, but Rabbi Nathanson was hunched over his envelope and the checkbook he had conjured from his pocket. He was lost in words and dollars.

"There," he said, handing check and envelope to Lieberman, who looked at them and turned the envelope over. It was a mailer from a Honda dealer on Western Avenue. Lieberman handed check and envelope to Bess.

"No offense, Rabbi," Lieberman said, "but I think we should think this over and talk to our lawyer before we sign anything."

Rabbi Nathanson nodded, all knowing, and said, "Fine, but I want you to keep the check, hold it, deposit it. I want this perfect house. I want to bring my wife to see it How is tomorrow night for you?"

The Liebermans exchanged looks and Bess, holding the check in her hand, said, "Fine."

"Seven?" asked the rabbi.

"Seven," agreed Bess as the tall rabbi took the envelope back and signed it.

"There. You have my check. You have my signature."

The rabbi rose. So did the Liebermans. They shook hands and walked their guest to the front door. On the way he scanned the walls, ceiling, and furniture with interest.

"The lighting fixtures," he said at the door. "They stay with the house?"

"Sure," said Lieberman.

"Good," the rabbi said. "Good. Tomorrow. Seven."

He hurried down the steps to the CLERGY car parked in front of the fire hydrant. Lieberman closed the door and looked at his wife.

"He's nuts," said Lieberman.

"Unorthodox," Bess said, handing her husband the rabbi's check.

"Reform," Lieberman amended, looking at the check. "And he has the handwriting of an ax murderer."

They were moving back toward the kitchen now, where Bess would feed him and grill him about his visit to Dr. Berry.

"Handwriting analysis is not your specialty," Bess said, taking his hand.

"It doesn't take an expert to see frenzy, the zeal of a true believer," Lieberman said.

"We have a nice house," Bess said, moving to the kitchen table.

"Then we should stay in it," Lieberman said, sitting.

The table was already set for one.

"We agreed to think about selling," Bess said. "And fate brought us Rabbi Nathanson. The house is too big for two."

"Lisa…" he tried, but she was ready.

"Will be moving out soon and we'll have the heat, air-conditioning, repairs, cleaning…"

"We'll think about it. Don't cash the check. Give Denenberg a call and ask him what he makes of it. What tune do you have to leave?"

"Leave?" she said.

'Table set for one. You're wearing a suit with pearls and perfume at eight o'clock. The great detective put the clues together. Building committee?" Lieberman asked.

"Fund-raising committee," Bess answered. "You'll have some time alone, to take it easy."

She came around the table and kissed him. She tasted sweet and Lieberman wondered if they had time to…

"Al and Sophie Bloombach are picking me up in-," she said with a smile, knowing what was on his mind, "-about ten minutes."

Lieberman sighed.

"You'll have to be satisfied with a thin slice of brisket, potatoes, and salad till I get back, if you're still feeling frisky and awake."

"No brisket," Lieberman said as his wife moved to the oven. The smell from the oven was irresistible. "After tonight."

Bess turned to nun.

"What did the doctor tell your Abe tore a piece of challah from the half loaf on the table in front of him.

"His name is Berry, Jacob Berry, Jewish. Just came to the city from Indiana or Michigan. He's in his mid-thirties, divorced, loves baseball, has no sense of humor, and is easy to push around. Perfect for Lisa, I thought we might invite him-"

"Abe," Bess said patiently, hands on her hips.

"High cholesterol, liver enzymes still high but manageable, migraines under control, back holding up, arthritis as well as can be expected. End of report. Nothing new."

"We have to watch your food, Abe. You promised me you'd live to be a hundred and nine."

"My love, if I am going to make it to one hundred and nine, the Lord will have to be very generous and he will need massive sacrifice from me. No meats, no milk products, watch the fat and cholesterol, lots of vegetables and fruits… in short, a potentially long life of extreme deprivation."

"We'll find ways to make it taste good and good for you," she said. "Brisket is made. Indulge yourself, Abraham. One piece."

"I am persuaded," he said, and she brought the brisket to the table.

Bill Hanrahan did not want to go home, did not want to return to the house haunted now by the memory of his wife, Maureen, and children, in addition to Frankie Kraylaw, whom he had shot and killed just inside the front door. No one and nothing waited for him but a layer of distorted dreams covered by a layer of sour memories.

Hanrahan ate his sweet-and-sour pork. He had not quite mastered chopsticks, but he was reasonably comfortable with them. There were two other customers in the Black Moon Restaurant, an older couple probably from one of the high-rises across Sheridan Road. The old couple had paid and were waiting for Iris Chen to bring their change.

Through the restaurant window across the street, Hanrahan could see the entrance to one of the high-rises, the one in which a prostitute named Estralda Valdez had been murdered because William Michael Hanrahan was drunk while on duty. He had met Iris while using the Black Moon as a vantage point for watching the entrance to the high-rise. He was drunk when he met Iris, but she still agreed to go out with him. And their relationship had meandered now for over a year.

Iris gave the old couple their change and moved over to take a seat across from Hanrahan.

She was, he thought, lovely. He knew she was older than she looked, that she was older than he, but she looked young and solid and good, and being with her made him feel calm.

"We were talking about Laio Woo," Hanrahan said, picking up a small, perfect square of pork.

"I remember," said Iris. She was dressed in a blue silk dress that was decidedly Oriental, the uniform of the Black Moon. "He does know my family. He… my father borrowed money from him to open this restaurant. Mr. Woo has demanded nothing for this but prompt and reasonable payment of the very low-interest loan."

"He never made any passes at you, nothing like that?"

"No," Ms said with a smile. "Mr. Woo is a very old man."

"Old men are not dead men," Hanrahan said, making headway on his rice.

"I have seen Mr. Woo maybe six, seven times," she said. "He has always been polite and distant. If Mr. Woo wanted women, he could have as many pretty young girls as he wants."

"Don't underestimate yourself," Hanrahan said, reaching over to take her hand.

It was smooth, delicate.

"Mr. Woo comes from a poor family in China," Iris said, looking down at the white tablecloth. "My father believes that he wants simply to be respected, acknowledged as the leader of the Chinese community. My father believes that Mr. Woo thrives on adulation and longs for respect. My father believes that Mr. Woo will never forget what he was as a child and fears to be as an adult. My father says Mr. Woo can be very dangerous."

"When are you going to marry me, Iris?"

"When would you like?"

"End of the month," he said.

Iris pulled her hand out of his and sat back.

"Because Mr. Woo has said you should stop seeing me, you suddenly want to marry?"

The kitchen door opened and Iris's frail father stood in the doorway in his apron.

"Not to spite Woo," Hanrahan said, though he knew there was a bit of that in his decision too. "I've had enough of being alone and I'm more at peace with myself when I'm with you than I've ever been in my life."

Iris's father didn't move. Though Hanrahan had lowered his voice, he was sure the old man could hear him.

"I think my father agrees with Mr. Woo," Iris said. "I think my father asked Mr. Woo to talk to you."

Hanrahan looked at the somber old man in the doorway.

"Don't be angry with my father," she said, touching Hanrahan's hand.

"I'm not," said Hanrahan. 'Td like to be angry at somebody, but I'm not. I'm clearly not Chinese. I'm a cop with a drinking problem and I keep strange hours, mope around, and disappear for days. He and Mr. Woo make a lot of sense. Will you marry me? I can quit and we can pack up and be out of Chicago in two weeks."

Mr. Chen turned and went silently back into the Black Moon kitchen.

"And we escape," she said, stroking the back of his hand.

"Something like that," he agreed.

"I will think about it," she said.

"I'd like to talk to your father," he said.

"Not a good time, William," she said, sliding out of the booth and glancing toward the kitchen.

He dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table but Iris reached over, picked it up, and handed it back to him.

"I'd rather pay," he said.

"Not in my house," she said, leaning over to kiss him.

The position was awkward as he sat but she did it gracefully.

"Can we go somewhere?" he said. "Maybe back to my house? We've got a lot to talk about."

"Not tonight," she said, touching his cheek. "I must be with my father."

"I understand," said Hanrahan. "Or at least I accept that I don't understand."

He was out of the booth now and reluctant to leave.

"Call me tomorrow, William," Iris said gently.

And Hanrahan made his way to the door and out onto Sheridan Road.

He stood for a moment and looked toward his car. He should go back to the house, maybe watch some television, do some paperwork. Sit sober and alone. He couldn't, not yet, not this early. He could go to a movie but there was nothing he wanted to see and he was sure he would fall asleep and snore.

Hanrahan decided instead to pay a late-evening visit to Harvey Rozier.

"I say shit, we forget it, man," said Albert Davis, slouching back in his chair at the rear of the McDonald's on South Shore Drive. "Why we wanna go all the way back uptown so far from our own turf? Somethin' go two farts in the wind and where we gonna run? Up on an el platform and wait for the Englewood B train with the cops all over us?"

"We go in. Take what we want We tape him up, shove him in a closet, something, and we go out, maybe catch a cab," lago Simms said, his left eye almost closed as he chewed on a double cheese.

It was a little after nine at night. The place was crowded, mostly with young people, all black, mostly making noise and laughing. Lonny, lago, and Dalbert hi a back booth had to talk above the noise. They didn't care who heard them.

"You out you fuckin' mind, man?" Dalbert said with irritation, looking at Lonny Wayne for support or direction. None came. Lonny looked cool, sat straight up, touched the brim of his White Sox cap, and went on eating the fish sandwich stuffed with trench fries. "What cab driver gonna pick up us? No white or nigger driver, that's for sure. And what we gonna do? Walk the streets with all kindsa shit, drugs what all, looking for a Chink driver?"

"We get wheels," Lonny said, looking over Dalbert's head at a girl who sat with two other girls and a boy. The girl was young, maybe fourteen, fifteen, chocolate skin, maybe Haitian, maybe Jamaican. He'd seen her around, thought maybe she was new in the neighborhood. She was sexy and wore a tight sweater she kept hitching up to be sure her big boobs showed.

"Shit," said Dalbert.

"Garages back on thirty-seventh, you know?" asked Lonny, catching the girl's eyes. She met his look for an instant, then turned and went back to her conversation. Lonny Wayne needed money to get a pretty girl like that. Hell, Lonny needed money to get any girl except Railroad Monique, and she was just a crazy bitch with all lands of teeth missing.

"Sure," said lago.

Dalbert shrugged.

"Bag Man Reno keeps his wheels in one of those little garages, big old Chrysler, couple years old maybe," Lonny said. "Bag Man's out of town. Heard it from my old man, heard him tell Jackson the barber."

"You sayin' what I think you sayin'?" Dalbert asked incredulously. "You wanna steal Bag Man Reno's car? Man, someone see us they tell for sure and we get our dicks cut off like that Bobbitt guy on TV."

"We be borrowin' the car," lago squealed, his half-sagging face pushed toward Dalbert. "Jus' borrowin', and we bring it right back. Ain't that the way, Lonny?"

"That's the way," Lonny said.

"When?' Dalbert said, resigned and reaching for a french fry as a sign that his rebellion was over.

"We take the wheels tonight," said Lonny. "Park 'em over in the hospital lot. Get it tomorrow, maybe three, four. Get the doc and wait till night to put Bag Man's car back."

"Ain't easy," said Dalbert, simply making conversation now.

"Ain't nothin' easy this world," said lago.

Lonny caught the girl's eye again, unsure of whether she was interested. Maybe she was just fascinated by the lightning bolt scar through his right eyebrow. Like Juanita. Just wanted to touch it and put her tongue in the space between his teeth. Juanita one dead junkie now. She had been a crazy bitch.

"What the fuck?" Lonny said and stood up.

"Where we goin'?" asked lago.

"Watch my ass," said Lonny, walking toward the three girls and the guy. He knew when he got close that he was right about them. They were talking funny, like French.

"Hi," he said.

All four looked up at him. They were all young, but the boy was a little older and his eyes said, I'm on somethin' heavy, don't mess with me. Lonny smiled, space between his teeth, looking only at the pretty little girl. Lord, she had great big white teeth.

"I'm Lonny Wayne," he said, taking off his hat The girls giggled. "And who might you all be?"

"People who want they should be left alone," the young man said angrily.

"Be polite," one of the girls said. She wasn't as pretty or as big as the girl Lonny wanted, but she had a big red mouth. "I'm Martine. And this is Adrienne and Denise." So her name was Denise. "And this is Andre."

"Count Andre," the young man said. "Count of after you mess with me you better count your fingers. Now you introduced, how about you go back to your table before you're counting fingers?' "How about you talk nice? I ain't been saying nothin' wrong. Have I, ladies?" Lonny said with a grin.

"No," all three girls said.

A screaming and laughing heavy girl ran past, bumping into Lonny, who almost fell over the table into Denise's lap.

"You got a phone number?" he said.

The girl named Martine laughed.

"Hey, get the fuck out of here," said the count. "Don't be messin' with my cousin."

Lonny ignored him. The pretty Denise, who looked just as good up close as from across the room, nodded.

"Can't give it to you," she said. Great voice-and that accent. "My mamma doesn't want me to go out with boys yet. Says I'm too young."

"Not from where I'm standing," Lonny said.

The other two girls at the table whispered to each other and the count stood up, reaching for his pocket. He never got that far. Dalbert had the young man's wrist and lago stood with his back to the table showing something to the angry young man, something that made the count ease up.

"No hard feelins here, my man," Lonny said. "What say I pay for a round of burgers all round. And then we sit talkin', me and my friends, with you all for awhile?"

The count had no choice. He sat flanked now by Dalbert and lago.

"What you got?" Lonny said, standing up and fishing four dollars from his pocket. Dalbert coughed up two bucks and some change and lago found three dollars, mostly in change.

"Be right back," Lonny said and began making his way through the crowd to the counter.

No doubt now. He needed money.

And he knew where he was going to get it.