Lieberman's Choice (18 page)

“I'll get back to …,” Lieberman began.

Another rifle shot from the roof stopped him. Kearney turned to Carla and said, “Carla, you said good-bye to me when you got in the car. All you wanted was a way to blame it on me so you could walk away without blaming yourself.”

“Bullshit,” she said, moving toward him.

God, he thought, she is beautiful.

“Go talk it over with your father,” he said.

Now the rifle shots came quickly, one after another. All three of the people in the street looked up, though there was nothing to be seen. When silence had returned, Carla spoke again, holding in her anger, bringing her voice down.

“I'll take that as a confession that what Shepard said about you and his wife is true.”

“I guess you will,” said Kearney. “You won't be the first today.”

“Not much more to say,” she said.

“Nothing more,” Kearney added.

“Captain,” said Lieberman. “I think it's …”

Kearney didn't wait to hear what
it
was. He strode past both of them toward Shepard's Tower as the voice of Bernie Shepard called through the night and the distant sound of traffic.

“Kearney, no more games. You hear? No games. I want you. The real you. Look at your watch, you bastard. I want you in two hours. God, how I want you.”

When Bernie Shepard turned away from the edge of the roof, the ghosts had returned. Shepard stood looking, sweating, empty rifle in hand. Before him stood Kearney, Olivia, Beeton, Carl, and Dave. He blinked with stinging sweat and when he opened his eyes, there stood Kearney, Olivia, Lieberman, and vague figures he didn't quite recognize.

He blinked again and he was in Slivka's Tavern. Kearney, Olivia, Beeton, Lieberman, his wife, and the others were alive, laughing. A crude banner reading
CONGRATULATIONS, CAPTAIN KEARNEY
was strung across the bar, and Shepard saw himself leaning against the bar, drinking a beer, watching his wife and Kearney, who leaned close to her, whispering. Shepard watched himself lean closer, straining to hear.

“I don't need a big-brother lecture, Alan,” she says. “I need you.”

“Who's lecturing, Livy?” says Kearney. “And besides, it's my party. I can lecture if I want to. All I said was Bernie deserves a chance. No, you deserve a chance.”

“You're right,” says Olivia. “It's not a lecture. It's a speech from a soap opera. I've done more than try, Alan. I've changed, but he hasn't. It's not just his age. It's …”

Somewhere a voice tries to break through as Shepard watches a figure hand him a bottle of beer and Andy Beeton moves through the crowd toward Olivia and Kearney.

“Great party,” says the voice in a deep box.

Shepard watches himself push away from the bar and raise his bottle in the direction of Alan Kearney and Olivia.

“To Captain Kearney and his future,” the Shepard of the past toasts.

And an echo answers, “Fraud.”

E
STELLE POVELCHEK WAS IN
a hurry to finish cleaning the mayor's office. Normally, she took her time, even moved the desks and chairs to vacuum under them, but normally the mayor and his tall assistant were not in the office slumped in their chairs, looking like they were waiting for a bus. Estelle had been cleaning this office for more than thirty years. She had developed both pride and routine and, when it was required, patience.

“I'm getting sick of this office,” said the mayor, who had long ago removed his tie and shoes. “Now, is that ironic or is it ironic? I spend my adult life trying to get this office and now I dread sitting here.”

“Well, you may not have to occupy it much longer,” said Wheeler, who had not yet removed shoes and tie, though both were far looser than they had been a few hours earlier.

“Estelle,” said the mayor, sitting up and rubbing his face to wake it up, “are you going to vote for me if Shepard blows up the North Side?”

Estelle continued to work, wielding her spray bottle of Lemon Pledge, trying valiantly to overcome the odor of dead cigars.

“I vote for you,” she said. “What do I care for the North Side? I live still Division Street.”

“And what do you particularly like about my administration?” the mayor continued, opening his eyes wide in the hope that weariness would escape.

“You don't make as much a mess as the last mayor,” she said, shaking her head and spraying Pledge. “Sure, I vote for you.”

“I somehow don't find that an encouraging voter sample,” Wheeler said.

“You know the trouble with this job?” said the mayor, standing up. “Too damn many days and nights like this about too many damn problems you can't anticipate. Excuse my language, Estelle.”

“Is all right,” said Estelle, now rubbing with a torn towel where she had sprayed. The towel informed the world that Estelle was a Party Animal.

Wheeler reached for some coffee and glanced at his watch. He moved quickly to the television.

“Ten o'clock news. Pick your channel, Aaron.”

“Four, that's my lucky number today,” the mayor answered with more than a hint of irony.

Light and color popped on the screen and Janice Giles's face appeared.

“And,” the mayor continued, “we are in luck. My favorite anchorwoman is on the job.”

“Anchorperson,” Wheeler corrected.

On the television, Janice Giles looked earnestly at the viewing public and said, “And so the city of Chicago stands helplessly by, as it has for almost twenty-two hours, while one man holds an entire neighborhood captive. Minutes ago shots were heard from the roof where Sergeant Bernard Shepard has barricaded himself as he, and the world, count the minutes till his demanded confrontation with the man he claims seduced his wife and drove him to this act of emotional despair. Captain Alan Kearney has refused to speak to the press, but Police Chief Hartz did issue a brief statement just minutes ago that echoes the statement released earlier this evening by the office of the mayor.”

The face of Marvin Hartz, blue cap on his head, hair in place, exuding confidence, now appeared on the screen.

“The neighborhood,” he said, “has been secured, and efforts are under way to resolve the situation without damage to property and without further human injury.”

“And,” said Janice Giles earnestly, “If these efforts fail? Will Captain Kearney go on the roof and face Bernie Shepard?”

“The police of this city will not give in to demands of people engaged in criminal activity. We've learned from our Jewish allies in Israel that one cannot give in to those who take hostages. Captain Kearney is a member of this department. I think that answers the question.”

The mayor and Wheeler exchanged glances.

“Israel?” asked Mayor Jameson, turning to Ty Wheeler, “Israel? What is he trying to do, save the Jewish vote? Estelle, you think Kearney'll go up on that roof?”

“Man who did what he did?” she said, moving to clean the television screen. “I don't know. I'll tell you what I know if you want to hear it.”

“We want to hear it,” said the mayor. “Right, Ty?”

“We are focused on your every word,” agreed Wheeler, loosening his tie a little further.

“If I did thing like Shepard's wife, my husband would do same as Shepard. Same, exact. This Kearney don't go up on roof, he better change his name to Pedro and take the next bus to El Paso.”

“Vox populi,” said Wheeler, toasting Estelle. “The people have spoken.”

On the television an old man and old woman were being interviewed. It was daylight and the interviewer was Janice Giles. The old man spoke slowly, deliberately, using his hands.

“Wrong is wrong,” he said. “I'm not saying it's right to go around shooting people, shooting people with a gun. It's wrong, but you can see from the man's face that he suffered. That other one, the one that did it with his wife …”

“You mean Captain Kearney?” Janice Giles asked.

“Kearney, yes,” said the old man. “He should face his medicine and go up there. If he's a man, that's what he'll do. He'll do that.”

“And you'd do that?” asked the old woman incredulously.

“I'm not saying this Shepard is Charles Bronson,” the old man said patiently. “Did I say he was Charles Bronson or something? He killed a man and a woman. He's not Charles Bronson, for God's sake. He's a murderer.”

“And you'd go up there?” asked the old woman.

“I'd do it,” the old man said emphatically.

“Like so much …,” the old woman began, but a sharp bleep cut off her word. “What do you think? This is some cowboy movie or something? He killed three men and a woman, for God's sake. He's a murderer.”

“Who denied it?” asked the old man, completely ignoring the camera and facing the old woman.

“I'm not saying he's Charles Bronson. Did I say he was Charles Bronson? If I did, I'm sorry. But if he doesn't do something, what kind of man is that?”

“Who's he talking about now,” the mayor asked, “Shepard or Kearney? Hell, what's the difference?”

The mayor, still bare of foot, got up and turned the sound down on the television. Having accomplished that task, he moved toward the cabinet near his desk.

“A small drink would be in order now, I think. Estelle, would you be so good as to join us?”

“Is all right?” Estelle asked Wheeler.

“It's all right,” said the mayor. “I'm still mayor. Besides, I need to keep the loyalty of my supporters.”

Bernie Shepard swayed, blinking at the ghostly apparitions before him: Kearney, Olivia, Beeton. The dead danced with the living. Then Carla Duvier stepped out of the darkness, followed by Chief Hartz, who beamed, his right hand out, as he advanced on Kearney in the tavern of Bernie Shepard's memory.

Hertz shook Kearney's hand and put his arm around Olivia, almost allowing his fingers to touch her breasts.

“Kearney,” Hartz said confidentially so that Shepard had to strain to hear, “I can only stay a minute, but I wanted to come by and personally wish you my best.”

Then he turned to Olivia and said, “You must be very proud of your husband. You make a fine couple.”

Olivia glanced at Shepard as Kearney said, “This is Olivia Shepard, Chief. Bernie Shepard's wife.”

Kearney nodded in the direction of the swaying Shepard, who held up his beer bottle in a mock toast to the chief or the happy couple.

“I'm sorry,” said Hartz. “I …”

“That's all right,” said Olivia, backing away. Kearney took a step after her, but Andy Beeton intercepted Olivia and started to talk to her.

Carla Duvier moved past Shepard as if he weren't there, but Bernie put out his arm and said, “Chief Hartz just said my wife and your boyfriend make a fine couple. What do you think?”

“My opinion,” said Carla, pushing Shepard's arm out of the way, “is that it's getting late and I've got to be at work early tomorrow.”

“Ah,” said Shepard. “Almost forgot. You gonna keep bringing home the bacon and gold when you and Al get married?”

“I plan to,” she said with thinly disguised sarcasm. “Why, do you think a wife's place is in the home?”

“In the home,” he said, toasting her and grinning maliciously. “In bed. In the kitchen. I'm just a good old-fashioned, well-fed male chauvinist pig.”

“And your wife?” asked Carla, looking at Olivia and Andy Beeton, who were head-to-head. “What does that make her? Good night. And if you want to get an early start on a wedding present for me and Captain Kearney, we're registered at Marshall Fields.”

Shepard swayed, afraid he would fall, and muttered as she moved toward Kearney, “Bitch.”

He wasn't sure if he was talking about Carla, Olivia, or all women. He took a few steps through the crowd toward Beeton, whose back was to him as he spoke to Olivia. Shepard reached out with his left hand to touch Beeton, to turn him around, to say … he didn't know what. And Beeton did turn, the bloody Beeton whose face had been blown apart, a face inches from Shepard's.

Bernie staggered back and fired his rifle as Beeton's ghost moved toward him.

“The hell with it,” said the mayor. “Go on home and get some sleep. I'm going to sack out on the sofa for an hour or watch a movie.”

“I'll do the same in my office,” said Wheeler, standing.

Even with the volume almost off, the voice behind the screen rose so that they could suddenly hear a few words. Wheeler turned up the volume. The reporter, standing on a city street, was saying, “… why Shepard is firing, but police are now urging everyone, including news crews, to clear the area.”

The mayor rose from his chair, took three barefooted strides to the television, and pulled the plug from the wall. The reporter on the screen eked out like a deflated balloon and the screen went blank except for a point of light which flickered and then disappeared.

“Christ,” shouted the mayor. “We just sit here waiting for a goddamn miracle, and if we don't get the miracle, we start packing our things and looking for a new pasture. The hell with it. If we can't save this thing politically, as a last resort we can do the right thing. Get me Hartz on the phone. I'm going to tell him to clear everybody out including his own men and then get a helicopter up there and drop a goddamn bomb on Shepard.”

The mayor hovered over Wheeler who sat back in his chair, weary, silent.

“Well,” said Aaron Jameson, “aren't you gonna try to talk me out of it, tell me I'm tired and I should wait a little longer, let Kearney go up there and lose his life?”

“No,” said Wheeler.

“Then make the call.”

Wheeler knew the signs and was no fool. He picked up the phone.

“Damned Republicans'll probably clear the rubble,” said the mayor, “put up a park, and erect a statue of Shepard right in the goddamn middle of it.”