The Witness

ISLAMIC LIBERATION ARMY

There Is No God But God,

And Allah Is His Name

PRESS RELEASE:

Be advised that the events at Goldblatt's Furniture Store today were conducted by troops of the Islamic Liberation Army.

It was the first battle of many to follow against the infidel sons of Zion, who for too long have victimized the African Brothers (Islamic and other) and other minorities of Philadelphia. Death to the Zionist oppressors of our people!

Freedom Now!

Muhammed el Sikkim

Chief of Staff

Islamic Liberation Army

"What in the world is this?" Kuntz asked when he had read it.

"There was a robbery, and a murder, at Goldblatt's furniture store on South Street this afternoon," Lowenstein said.

"But what'sthis?"

"The Islamic Liberation Army just confessed to the job," O'Hara said dryly.

"What's the Islamic Liberation Army?" Kuntz asked.

"Offhand," Lowenstein said, "I would guess it's half a dozenschwartzer stickup artists who saw Malcolm X on TV, smoked some funny cigarettes, and then went to Sears, Roebuck and bought themselves bathrobes."

Kuntz saw the look of confusion on Eleanor's face.

"May I show her this?" he asked.

"Sure," O'Hara said. "It's not like it's a secret or anything."

"Did the other papers get this, Mickey, do you think, or just Philly' s ace crime writer?" Lowenstein asked.

"I didn't ask, but I'll bet they did."

"What's a-what did you say before, 'Schwartz'?" Eleanor asked.

"Schwartzes,"Lowenstein explained. "It's Yiddish. Means 'blacks.' "

"I don't understand," Kuntz confessed.

"Offhand, Rabbi," O'Hara said, "it's obviously one of two things: a group of master criminals cleverly trying to get Sherlock Holmes here and his gumshoes off their trail, or the opening salvo of the Great Race War."

"What the hellis it, if you're so smart, wiseass?" Lowenstein asked.

"Or it could be a couple of guys named O'Shaughnessy and Goldberg, college kids, maybe, trying to pull the chain of the newspapers," O' Hara said.

"You really think so?" Lowenstein asked, his tone of voice making it clear that possibility had not occurred to him.

"I really don't know what to think, Matt," Mickey replied.

"What did youwrite!"

"About the Islamic Liberation Army, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Just because somebody sends me a piece of paper that says they're the Islamic Liberation Army and that they've declared war on the Jews doesn't make it so.You tell me you think the Islamic Liberation Army shot up Goldblatt's and murdered that maintenance man, and I'll write it. But not until."

"You got that after the robbery, right?"

"Of course," O'Hara said. "And Joe D'Amata told me that the Central Detective is on the job, Pelosi?"

"Jerry Pelosi," Lowenstein furnished.

"He's got a damned good idea who the doers are. And he doesn't think they're a bunch of looney-tune amateur Arabs."

Lieutenant Jack Malone was not equipped with the necessary household skills for happy bachelorhood. He was the fourth of five children, the others all female. Jack and his father (a Fire Department captain) had met what the Malone family perceived to be the responsibility of the male gender: They moved furniture, washed the car, cut the grass, painted, and even moved the garbage cans from beside the kitchen door to the curb, and then moved them back.

But the other domestic tasks in the house were clearly feminine responsibilities, and Mrs. Jeannette Malone and her daughters shopped, cooked, laundered, ironed, made beds, set and cleaned the table, and washed the dishes.

This arrangement lasted until, a week after he graduated from North Catholic High School, Jack enlisted in the Army. For four years thereafter, except for the making of his bunk in the prescribed manner and shining of boots and brass, the Army took over for his mother and sisters. He ate in mess halls. Once a week he carried a bag full of dirty clothing to the supply room and picked up last week's laundry, now washed, starched, and pressed by an Army laundry for a threedollar-a-month charge.

When he got out of the Army, he immediately took both the Fire Department and Police Department tests. The Police Department came up first, and he became a cop. He really had not wanted to be a fireman, although, rather than hurt his father's feelings, he would have joined the firemen if that test had come back first.

He lived at home until, fifteen months after he got out of the Army, he had married Ellen Fogarty. Ellen had been reared under a comparable perception of the roles and responsibilities of the sexes in marriage. The man went to work, and the woman kept house. The only real difference, aside from the joys of the marriage bed, in living with Ellen as opposed to living with his mother and sisters was that Ellen put some really strange food on the table. Mexican, Chinese, evenIndian -Indian,things like that.

He had pretended to like it, and after a while had even grown used to it.

When he had reentered the single state, he was for the first time in his life forced to fend for himself. Obviously, he could not move back into his parents' house. For one thing, his sister Deborah had married a real loser who couldn't hold a job for more than three months at a time, and Charley and Deborah and their two kids were "until things worked out for Charley" living in the house.

But that wasn't the only reason he couldn't live there. His father had made it clear that he believed he wasn't getting the whole story about what had gone wrong with Jack and Ellen. Good Catholic girls like Ellen from decent families don't suddenly just decide to start fucking some lawyer; there are two sides to every story, and since he wasn't getting Ellen's that was because Ellen was too decent to tell anybody what Jack had done that made her do it.

The only time in ten years and four months of marriage that Jack had laid a hand on Ellen was that one time, after he'd knocked Howard Candless around, and then gone home to tell her, and ask her why, and she had screamed, so mad that she was spitting in his face, that because whenever he touched her, she wanted to puke.

He couldn't be any sorrier about that than he was, sorry and ashamed, but it had happened, and there was no taking it back. And it had happened only once.

His mother had cried when she heard about it, which was even worse than having her yell at him, and his sisters, every damned one of them, had made it plain they believed the reason Ellen had done what she had done was because he had been regularly knocking Ellen around all the time, and she'd finally had enough.

That had really surprised him and made him wonder about his brothersin-law. Was the reason his sisters were so quick to jump on the idea that he was regularly knocking Ellen around because they were regularly getting it from their husbands? It wasn't such a far-out idea when he thought about it. If his sisters were getting slapped around, they would have kept it to themselves, knowing full well that their father and their brother would have kicked the living shit out of their husbands.

And if that was the case, Jack Malone reasoned, that would explain why they were almost happy to find out that Jack Malone was no better than their husbands.

And Ellen had jumped on that, and made it sing like a violin. When she had taken Little Jack to see Grandma, she had told Grandma she didn't think it would do anyone any good, least of all Little Jack, to dwell on what had happened between them. All she thought was that Little Jack's father needed help, and she really hoped he could get it.

In the eyes of Grandma and his sisters, that made Ellen just about as noble as the Virgin Mary.

So not only could he not move back into his parents' house, he really hated to go over there at all.

So into the St. Charles Hotel. In some ways, it was like when he made sergeant in the Army and he had gotten his own room. The big differences were that he couldn't get his laundry done for three bucks a month, and there was no mess hall passing out free "take all you want, but eat what you take" meals.

The one uniform Jack had bought when he made lieutenant came with two pair of pants, so he still had a freshly pressed pair to wear on the job tomorrow. Tomorrow night, depending on whether he spilled something on the jacket or not, he would have to have it at least pressed, but that wasn't a problem for tonight.

What he would have liked to do tonight was go out and have a couple of beers, beers hell, drinks, and then a steak with a glass of red wine or two with that, and then maybe a nightcap or something afterward.

What he did was what he could afford to do. He went to Colonel Sanders's and bought the special (a half breast, a leg, a couple of livers, a roll, and a little tub of coleslaw) for $1.69 and took it back to the St.Charles. There he took off his clothes and ate it in his underwear, watching the TV, washing it down with a glass of water from the tap.

He fell asleep watching a rerun ofI Love Lucy and woke up to the trumpets and drum roll announcingNine's News at Nine.

He could taste all of the Colonel's Seventeen Secret Herbs and Spices in his mouth, and his left leg had gone to sleep. He hobbled around the room flexing and shaking his left leg.

He put the remnants of the $1.69 Special in the wastebasket under the sink in the toilet, and then tested the water. It ran rusty red for a couple of seconds, burped, and then turned hot.

He took a hot shower, thinking that simply because there was hot water now there was no guarantee that there would be hot water in the morning.

He was now wide awake. He knew that even if he could force himself to go to sleep, he would almost certainly wake up at say half past four and, if that happened, never get back to sleep.

He put on a pair of blue jeans and a sweatshirt and a pair of sneakers and left the room.

There was a tavern on the corner of 18^th and Arch. He certainly could afford a beer.

He pushed open the door and looked inside and changed his mind. A bunch of losers sitting around staring into the stale, getting warm beer in their glasses. Nobody was having a good time.

He acted like he was looking for somebody who wasn't there, and went back out onto 18^th Street.

He knew where he wanted to go, and what he wanted to do, and walked to where he had parked his car and got in it.

Am I doing this because I didn't want to belly up to the bar with the other losers, or is this what I really wanted to do in the first place?

He drove up North Broad Street until he came to the Holland PontiacGMC showroom. The lights were on, but there was no one in the showroom. They closed at half past nine.

He turned left and made the next left, which put him behind the Pontiac-GMC showroom building and between it and a large concrete block building on which was lettered,HOLLAND MOTOR COMPANY BODY SHOP.

It was a factory-type building. The windows were of what he thought of as chicken wire reinforced glass. They passed light, but you couldn't see through them.

The Holland Motor Company Body Shop was going full blast.

It was a twenty-four-hour-a-day, seven-day-a-week operation. Part of this was because they fixed the entire GM line of cars in this body shop, not just Pontiacs and GMCs. And part of it was because, to help the working man who needed his car to drive to work, you could bring your crumpled fender to the Holland Motor Car Body Shop in installments, leaving it there overnight and getting it back in the morning. They would straighten the fender one night, prime it the second, and paint it the third night, or over the weekends.

And the other reason they were open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, Lieutenant Jack Malone was convinced, was because the Working Man's Friend had a hot car scam of some kind going.

Malone had no facts. Just a gut feeling. But heknew.

I don't care if he and Commissioner Czernick play with the same rubber duck, the sonofabitch is a thief. And I'm going to catch him.

He circled the block, and then found a place to park the rusty old Mustang in the shadow of a building where he would not attract attention, and from which he could keep his eyes on the door to the Holland Motor Company Body Shop.

Something, maybe not tonight, maybe not this week, maybe not this fucking year, but something, sometime, sooner or later, is going to happen, and then I'll know how he's doing it.

He lit a cigarette, saw that it was his next to last Fuck it, I smoke too much anyway And settled himself against the worn-out and lumpy cushion and started to look.