Free Lieberman's Day by Stuart M. Kaminsky

we’ll see what we can do about going out and getting you killed.
    They weren’t coming, at least not on this shift. Frankie Kraylaw knew that before the first sunlight tried to get through the slow, fat, dark clouds.
    Frankie gathered his rubbish, put it carefully into the plastic bag he had brought with him, and went to the back door of the reupholstery shop. He hadn’t broken the lock, only forced it, and the door was such a banged-up mess anyway that he doubted anyone would notice. Besides, people who lived next door to or ran businesses across the street from police stations didn’t think they had to be careful.
    That was wrong. Frankie knew that was wrong. The Lord had told him, well, not exactly told him but let him feel, that he wanted Frankie to be careful, because Frankie had God’s work to do. Not that everyone didn’t have God’s work to do. Thank the Lord Jesus. It’s just that there were those chosen few like Frankie who could feel the truth, know it without talking or thinking. It was the way our Redeemer wanted it.
    The alley behind the shop was clear. Cold and clear. No cars parked across the way in the small lot behind a 7-Eleven. Frankie closed the door quickly, made sure it clicked locked, and then hurried, didn’t run but hurried into the alley where he pitched his plastic bag of garbage into an open trash can, sending a rat scurrying.
    Hat over his face, hands plunged deeply into his pockets, Frankie felt the jingle of pocket change as he headed around the corner where the alley turned and made his way toward Wendy’s. A hot coffee and vigilance. He stopped in front of the pickup truck, opened the door, and checked in all directions to be sure he wasn’t being followed. He pulled the old Colt shotgun out from under his jacket and shoved it under the driver’s seat. He locked the door, checked the street again, and hurried across the street toward the early-morning lights of the fast food restaurant.
    They had to come sometime. They had to come.

Seven Thirty-Six in the Morning
    A BE LIEBERMAN CONSIDERED RAMMING into the wooden chair with the big white card on it. The chair was protecting the space that Kim the Korean, who owned the Devon Television/VCR Repair Shop, had dug out of the ice and snow, PARKING FOR TELEVISION REPAIR ONLY!!!!!!! the sign read in bold blue crayon.
    It was early. Abe inched forward past Discount Toys, Devon Animal World, and Rogers Park Fruits and Vegetables, all of which had illegally reserved public parking spaces they had dug out. Abe settled for the space in front of the fireplug near the corner by the barbershop, flipped up his ON DUTY sign, and stepped out, trying to avoid the ruts of snow lined with treacherous ice.
    Abe entered the T&L to the familiar smell of coffee, corned beef, and warm bagels and bialys, and the unfamiliar sound of silence.
    Manuel, the short-order cook, had learned his craft while serving as a busboy at The Bagel two blocks away. The Bagel was the biggest Jewish-style restaurant on the North Side and in the suburbs. It was a matter of pride to Maish that he had a chef who had apprenticed at The Bagel itself, even if the chef was a Mexican Catholic. Manuel looked through the food passageway from the kitchen as Abe entered. There was a plea in his dark face. Manuel’s eyes moved to the left toward the silent, lumpish figure of Maish, his back turned to the door, his apron tied around his waist. Maish was carefully making up a list of the day’s specials on the sheet of clear plastic over white board that hung above the counter near the cash register.
    There were eight seats at the counter. All empty. It was still a little early for the on-the-way-to-work crowd, the once-in-a-whilers and the regulars, the working women like Gert Bloombach, Melody Rosen, and Sylvie Chen who came by to get their usuals and ignore their fathers at the Alter Cocker table. Too early for the regulars. Too early for the