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

he’s going to be fine. Yetta’s going to ask Carol to call him David. Not often a Jewish kid can be named for his father. Not often the father’s dead so he can be.”
    Maish was making himself busy, cleaning the clean cream-colored countertop with a wet rag, his jowls rumbling.
    â€œHow’s it look?” he said, stepping back.
    Abe finished the coffee and stood up.
    â€œAlmost as clean as when you started,” he said.
    Maish nodded.
    â€œI’ll find them,” said Abe.
    â€œThen what?” asked his brother, rubbing his eyes.
    â€œThen … we go on living.”
    â€œAnd if I ask you to shoot them down, make them beg for their lives and shoot them on their knees, would that be something you could do?” asked Maish.
    â€œWould that make you feel better, Maish?”
    â€œYes, I think so.”
    â€œMaish, when did you ever hit anyone? In your whole life, when have you hurt anyone physically?”
    â€œNever,” Maish said intently. “Never, and my reward is that my son who never hurt anyone is murdered.”
    â€œThe two aren’t connected.”
    â€œEverything is connected in here,” said Maish, pointing to his chest.
    â€œWe’ll have four specials,” called Herschel Rosen.
    â€œIt’s seven-thirty in the morning,” answered Maish, his eyes still fixed on his brother. “You want brisket seven-thirty in the morning?”
    â€œYou got it ready seven-thirty in the morning?” asked Howie Chen.
    â€œManny’s got it ready,” Maish said aloud, and then whispered to his brother, “It’s in here, Avrum. My heart. Like a, I don’t know, a heavy thing. If I know whoever did it is dead, maybe … Forget I said anything.”
    â€œThen we’ll eat brisket at seven-thirty in the morning,” said Syd Levan showing clean, false white teeth through the tan.
    â€œFour early-morning briskets, Manny,” Maish said, lost in thought.
    â€œLeftover brisket in the morning,” said Abe. “Remember when there was any left we ate it cold in the morning with Kraft’s Miracle Whip on Wonder Bread?”
    Maish was recleaning the countertop.
    â€œThat’s probably why I look like this,” said Maish. “But you, you eat like a garbage truck and you never gain weight.”
    â€œGo ask God,” said Abe.
    â€œI have, as recently as this morning,” said Maish, inspecting a problematic shadow near the sugar dispenser. “He had nothing to say on the subject. It’s a good ploy. He don’t answer, he can’t be wrong.”
    â€œI’ll see you later, Maish,” said Abe.
    â€œWait,” said Maish.
    Lieberman paused in front of the counter as Maish reached down and brought up a brown bag with grease stains.
    â€œMostly bialys, onions, poppies, and some cream cheese with chives. Jimmy just dropped by from the bakery. Maybe you could drop it off at the house. People’ll be coming. Yetta’ll need it.”
    Lieberman took the still-warm package in his arms.
    â€œSure, Maish.”
    â€œI’ll go home in a little while,” Maish said, shaking his head and turning his back again. “Find them, Avrum,” he said. “Find them. I can’t … The idea of them walking around, free, while David … Find them. Do your work.”
    â€œSave a piece of brisket for me, Maish,” Lieberman said, moving to the door and buttoning his coat.
    â€œMarshall Earp,” called Herschel Rosen, motioning to Lieberman. “Come over and share a few fingers of Folger’s with the bunkhouse crew.”
    Lieberman moved to the table and Herschel motioned him to lean over. He did, and smelled the dry cigar and aftershave.
    â€œWe’ll keep an eye,” whispered Herschel.
    â€œSome of us will be here all day,” said Syd.
    â€œEating brisket,” chimed in Howie Chen.
    â€œAnd Izzy’s on the way. You know the way Izzy