Free Lieberman's Day by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

Alter Cockers, too, but some of them were there: Syd Levan, the golfer, stoop-shouldered, tan from the lamp, hair whiter than the sands on the beaches down in Sarasota where he would soon be headed with his wife to their time-share; Howie Chen, always ready to smile and take a joke, short, hefty, one eye ignoring any and all instructions from the brain; and the unelected but accepted leader of the group, Herschel Rosen himself, antiquated, wearing his blue woolen hat and a smile and a drooping, unlit cigar. Herschel was the group comic, and the Alter Cockers were his willing audience—but not today. Conversation was nonexistent. Herschel, Howie, and Syd looked up at Abe hopefully as the heavy door with the little bell closed behind him.
    â€œHey, look who’s here,” Herschel tried. “The sheriff of West Rogers Park himself, Ricochet Lieberman. Howdy, pardner.”
    Abe waved to the table of old men and moved to the counter, where he took a stool. Maish didn’t move. Abe didn’t speak.
    â€œLo siento, viejo,” said Manuel from the grill.
    â€œ Entiendo, gracias, Manuel,” Lieberman answered.
    â€œSu hermano es …” Manuel started.
    â€œSi, no tiene miedo.”
    Maish finished his sign, held it up, turned to show it to his brother.
    â€œFine,” said Abe. “Perfect. Frame it. Brisket six-fifty, a thing of beauty.”
    Maish nodded and placed the sign on the hook near the counter. He poured a cup of coffee from the pot of regular and brought it to his brother. Their eyes met.
    â€œYou should be with Yetta, Maish,” Abe said softly, lifting his cup.
    â€œYou should be out finding David’s killer,” said Maish even more softly, unblinking.
    â€œI finish my coffee, I go out and find them,” said Abe, holding up his cup.
    â€œGood,” said Maish. “You got a reason to work, not to think. I got no reason but I’ve got to work or …”
    He was an overweight bulldog of a man who at sixty-seven carried the family curse of looking older than his years.
    â€œI understand,” said Abe.
    â€œBess’s with Yetta,” said Maish, turning his back on his brother and lumbering toward the sink, wiping his hands on his apron. “I’m there and we just make each other worse. Yetta’ll be busy cooking for the minyon. Bernard will be in, weather permitting, at noon. Rabbi Wass will … Yetta’s better off without me there making her feel worse, making her feel she has to take care of me, worrying about me, asking me about my heart, my liver, my pancreas, my who-the-hell-knows.”
    Maish never swore. Maish never even said “hell.” Abe sipped his coffee, let it burn the roof of his mouth. The coffee was bitter this morning. This morning it was right that the coffee should be bitter.
    â€œYou’ve got a minyon? ” Abe asked, surprised that his brother had already gathered a contingent of the ten Jewish men required for prayer, in this case prayer for the dead.
    â€œThe Cockers, you, me. They’ll tell me. Right now I want to be a little left alone, a little crazy. You know? I can use it. Humor me.”
    â€œI’ll humor you,” said Abe, looking at Manuel, who retreated behind the partition to the heat of his grill.
    And, thought Lieberman, I won’t tell you that there will have to be an autopsy, soon maybe, but maybe not until late in the day, maybe even the afternoon or night. They would have to sit Shiva, mourn the loss of the loved one in the house of Maish and Yetta with the mirrors covered and turned to the wall while someone in the medical examiner’s office on Polk Street behind Cook County Hospital opened flaps on the body of David Lieberman in an effort to find something that would help locate the people who killed him.
    â€œCarol’s going to be fine,” said Maish. “We couldn’t talk to her, but the doctor, he said … And the baby, a boy,