Lieberman's Folly (12 page)

William Edward Hanrahan had not been to confession in almost twenty years. He looked at his watch, the watch Maureen had given him for his birthday six years ago. He had had it repaired beyond the point where it made sense to repair it. This was taking too long. Hanrahan didn't have the time. Jules the Walker might be moving now. He was just getting to his feet when Father Parker appeared near the altar wearing a cassock and collar. He came up the aisle, ran his right hand down from collar to sash, and said, “You get the whole show.”

Hanrahan hesitated.

“God's waiting,” said Parker.

Lieberman started with the Golden Earring Pawn Shop on Devon. The owner, a Korean named Park, which was the last name of ninety percent of the Koreans Lieberman had encountered in his life, said that he had never seen Jules or that he had seen so many people like Jules that he couldn't tell the difference. In any case, no one like him had been in today to try to pawn a lamp.

“Don't need lamps,” said Park. “Even good lamps. No room for them. Need anything with gold, silver, or electric stuff that works, radios, watches, razors. No more guitars. Got a CD player? I'll take it off your hands, even it don't work good.”

Lieberman made his way down the street finding nothing and saving Raw Izzy for last.

Raw Izzy was in the shop sitting in an overstuffed chair in front of his cage reading a book. Raw Izzy was pale, as pale as Estralda Valdez in death. He was white and short and fat. A tuft of brown hair stood up on his otherwise bald head and with glasses perched on his nose he looked like an intellectual Muppet.

“Izzy,” said Lieberman, stepping into the shop to the sound of the little bell on the door. “How you doing?”

Izzy looked up over his glasses and book.

“Since last you saw me, I got a pacemaker. You know about this book?” asked Izzy, holding up the book. “The H.L. Mencken book?”

“Heard he was an anti-Semite and a bigot,” said Lieberman.

“This news surprised you?” said Izzy, who had a Ph.D. in philosophy and another in theology from the University of Chicago.

“I don't know much about Mencken,” said Lieberman.

“Overrated,” said Izzy. “Could turn a phrase but he rode the liberal tides. I wasn't surprised. Actually, I was pleased. If Mencken could be one of them, anyone could be. You can't trust. That's also the motto of my business, which, as you can see, is why I have been so enormously successful. You know the last time you came to see me, Lieberman?”

“Hansford case,” Lieberman guessed.

“Case … case. You were looking for a trumpet for your grandson,” said Izzy, still sitting. “You ever find one?”

“No, but he switched to the drums. Then the piano.”

Lieberman found himself looking at a shelf of harmonicas safely locked behind a thick glass panel. When he was a kid Lieberman had a harmonica. He'd learned to play “Tara” from
Gone With the Wind
, an accomplishment that earned him half a buck from his emotional mother who loved Abraham and MGM as much as Abe loved the Cubs. He had gone on to a chromatic harmonica in his twenties when he was working nights in the patrol car with Tuna Kingsford and learned to play “Cherry Pink,” “River of No Return,” and the song from
Shane
. Tuna had been tolerant and Lieberman had improved, but one night after a domestic violence call in Uptown, the harmonica was missing when they got back to the car.

“You're not looking for a piano today,” said Izzy. “What are you looking for besides memories?”

“Wanderer known as Jules the Walker,” said Lieberman.

“Lamp,” said Izzy.

“That's him,” said Lieberman.

“Over there,” said Izzy, pointing behind a carefully enclosed three-level case of watches.

Lieberman moved behind the watch case to an almost black-stained end table. On the table was a lamp, the exact duplicate of one he had seen broken on the floor of Estralda Valdez's apartment.

“This is it,” said Lieberman. “Talk to me.”

“Not much to say,” said Izzy removing his glasses. “Man wanders in holding the lamp like a sick baby. He tells me it's a magic lamp. I consider his condition, offer him two bucks, which, apparently, is two bucks more than anyone else on the mile offers him.”

“He say anything else?” Lieberman said.

“That he was going to tell his tale to the Wonder Man,” said Raw Izzy.

“The bartender at Blarney Inn?”

“One might think so, but your man was not focused on this planet or dimension when he entered or left,” said Izzy.

“I'll give you three bucks for the lamp,” said Lieberman.

“Five,” said Izzy.

“I could take it as evidence for nothing,” said Lieberman. “It's stolen property.”

“I could call my lawyer,” said Izzy, pointing his glasses at the policeman.

“For a two-buck lamp?” Lieberman said.

“For a principle,” said Izzy.

“Four,” said Lieberman.

“Compromise is moral defeat,” said Raw Izzy.

“All right, five,” agreed Lieberman, pulling out his wallet.

Izzy remained in his chair to receive the five singles and then handed Lieberman a key.

“The case you were looking at, the harmonicas. Take one, a premium. Goes with the lamp. Special today.”

Lieberman opened the case, removed a Hohner, key of C, put it in his pocket, locked the case, and returned the key to Raw Izzy.

“Life,” said Izzy, “is a series of strange and seemingly pointless stories. Meaning is derived from a relationship of story, storyteller, and listener, but by far the hardest task is that of the listener.”

Lieberman picked up the lamp and went to the door.

“I'll be in touch,” he said.

“Come back when you can play ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,'” said Izzy, returning to his Mencken book.

Jules the Walker had been at the Blarney Inn that morning, but he was long gone by the time Lieberman got there. It had taken him less than an hour to drink his two bucks and be on his way. Wonder Man, the diminutive bartender, did remember that Jules had headed east down Chase. Lieberman thanked him, went out the door, and moved as quickly as his tender knees would let him to his car.

Five minutes earlier, Hanrahan had arrived at the Chase Street beach. Jules the Walker was not in the truck and he wasn't under or near the rocks. Hanrahan decided to walk west on Chase in the vague hope of spotting Jules or someone who looked as if he or she might be acquainted with someone like Jules.

Hanrahan had gone only half a block when he saw Jules Van Beeber heading toward him. Jules Van Beeber also saw Hanrahan and knew instantly that the big Irishman was a cop. Jules, who normally walked, turned and ran. He ran right into the arms of Abraham Lieberman, who had also seen the Walker as Lieberman drove down Chase toward the lake. Lieberman had seen him, parked, and stepped out to approach him when Hanrahan had appeared.

“I did nothing,” Jules whispered in Lieberman's arms.

Van Beeber and Lieberman lay on the sidewalk, suspect on top, cop on the bottom.

Hanrahan hurried over and lifted the man off of his partner.

Jules repeated to the big cop, “I did nothing.”

“You hungry?” Lieberman asked getting up.

“I could use something,” Jules conceded.

“Good, let's get a Big Mac,” said Lieberman.

Less than ten minutes later, they were sitting in a booth in the McDonald's on Howard Street. The place was nearly empty. A fat woman with three kids sat at a table nearby. No matter what the kids said, the fat woman replied, “Just eat your fries.”

“That's not good for you,” Jules the Walker said as Lieberman took a bite out of his Big Mac.

“I'm celebrating,” said Lieberman. “Wipe your mouth when you eat.”

Jules took a big, messy bite and wiped his mouth.

“Celebrating?” said Jules.

Jules was wedged into the booth next to Hanrahan. Lieberman sat across from them. Jules had ordered a Coke, a cheeseburger without mustard, and a large fries. Hanrahan settled for a coffee and Lieberman went for the Big Mac and Diet Coke. Jules's burger had taken an extra five minutes because it was a special order.

“I'm celebrating two things,” Lieberman explained, helping himself to Jules's fries. “Passed my annual physical and we caught you.”

“I flew,” said Jules pausing in midbite, mouth full. “I gotta tell you. I flew. That's the God's truth.”

“Chew your food and swallow it,” said Hanrahan. “You're disgusting.”

“I'se regusted,” said Jules. “That's what Andy used to say on
Amos and Andy
when I had a TV.”

“Mouth shut when you eat, Jules,” said Hanrahan.

“OK,” Jules agreed and continued eating, a task made difficult by his lack of teeth. “Easier to eat the burgers without false teeth.”

“That's good to know,” said Lieberman. “Can I ask you a question?”

“I don't know,” said Jules, looking at Hanrahan.

“Why did you kill Estralda Valdez?”

“I killed—” Jules said in midbite again.

“Chew,” said Hanrahan.

Jules resumed chewing.

“You were in her apartment last night,” said Lieberman. “She was there. You went in, killed her, took the lamp, and—”

“Flew the coop,” said Jules.

“You got a knife?” asked Hanrahan.

“No,” said Jules. “Used to have one. No. Don't think I killed anyone last night.”

“When did you kill someone?” Hanrahan asked.

“War,” said Jules between bites.

“Which war?” asked Lieberman.

“Don't remem … Yeah, there were guys. Australians we were shooting at,” said Jules. “Yes, Australians.”

“We've never been at war with Australia,” said Lieberman.

“Then I don't know what war,” said Jules. “Can I have a drink?”

“Coke,” said Hanrahan.

“A drink,” said Jules. “Then I'll talk.”

“Just eat your fries,” the fat woman with all the kids screamed.

“What'll you say?” asked Lieberman.

“Anything. You tell me.”

“You killed her,” said Hanrahan.

“I … no, I don't think so,” Jules repeated. “Not this time.”

“Not this time?” Lieberman said.

Jules's eyes suddenly focused on another universe. His mouth dropped open. Bits of cheese dripped out.

Hanrahan reached over with one hand and pushed Jules the Walker's right shoulder gently to bring him back to Chicago. Jules jerked back and hit his head on the wall. The fat woman with the three kids stopped chewing in midbite and looked at the three men.

“I hardly touched him,” Hanrahan told the woman with the kids and his partner who shrugged and kept on chewing.

“I'm here,” said Van Beeber.

“That's good to know,” said Lieberman, handing him a napkin. “Wipe your mouth.”

“I know where I am,” said Van Beeber, focusing on Lieberman. “I just don't know for sure when I am.”

“Valdez'd never let him in,” said Hanrahan, examining the creature at his side. “And if she did, she could take him with one hand.”

“Maybe I didn't kill her,” said Jules, rubbing his head where it had hit the wall.

“Who did?” asked Hanrahan.

“Just tell us what you remember about last night,” said Lieberman.

Jules rubbed his hands on his filthy shin and dug his dirt-caked nails into the fries.

“Last night,” he said around a mouthful. “It's hard to … Which one was last night.”

“You were in the Michigan Towers, sixth floor,” Lieberman tried, deciding not to finish his fries. Watching Jules eat had taken his appetite.

“The guy who told me about the bottle,” said Jules, spitting pieces of fried potato.

“Don't talk with food in your mouth, I told you,” Hanrahan said.

“Who was this guy who told you about a bottle?” asked Lieberman.

“A guy. I don't remember. All messed up in my head, you know what I'm saying? Wait, I got some of it now. I heard them. The door was open. Open.” The fat woman with the kids opened her mouth but before she could speak, Jules screamed, “Just eat your fries.”

The woman looked at Jules and shouted, “Fucking creeps.”

“Where was I?” Jules asked, digging in for more fries.

“Open door,” said Hanrahan.

“Yeah,” said Jules, closing his eyes and nodding as if he were a particularly bright student who had given the professor a particularly bright answer to a very tough question. “I went in. Mess. Mess. Bottle on the floor wasn't broken. Then I heard … She was doing like this.” Jules the Walker then proceeded to gag and cough.

“Beautiful,” said Lieberman.

“I talked to her,” said Jules. “I said to her, ‘What?' I'm not feeling so good. Can I get to the john?”

“You asked her if you could use the john?” asked Hanrahan.

“No,” answered Jules. “I mean now. I need the john.”

“What'd she say to you, Jules?” Lieberman asked.

“‘Under the house at my mother's,'” said the Walker proudly. “That's all.”

“‘Under the house at her mother's'?” Lieberman repeated.

“Can I go to the … I gotta piss.”

“What else did she say?” asked Lieberman.

“Nothing,” said Jules. “I got the lamp and flew out the window. Hey, I gotta …”

Hanrahan moved into the aisle and stood up. Jules scooted out holding his crotch. The fat woman gathered her brood and went for the exit, pulling one of the kids, who didn't want to go, behind her. Jules went into the toilet.

Both cops knew there were no windows in the restroom and no way Jules could hurt himself unless he tried to drown in a toilet or basin or bash his head against the walls.

“What do we do?” asked Hanrahan. He sipped his coffee and then looked deeply into the dark liquid.