Lieberman's Choice (22 page)

Carol folded her hands, which felt cold even to her, as Bernie and David entered the room. Bernie was tall, workout lean, and winter tan. His hair was full and white. He looked every bit as camera-ready as he had for almost ten years before becoming an affiliate executive. The sleeves of Bernie's red sweater were pulled back. The collar of his shirt was open. His arm was around David, who was almost six inches shorter and ten pounds heavier.

“Carol,” Bernie said, moving to her side with a show of large white teeth that were, indeed, his own. “I'm sorry. All my fault. We were talking business and …”

“We were talking replacements,” said David seriously.

Carol's eyes met her husband's. She saw concern and question.

“What's wrong, Carol?”

“Just tired,” she said. “We should go.”

“Got your coats right here,” said Charlotte, hurrying back into the room.

“Might be a good idea to check in with your doctor in the morning,” Bernie said, helping her on with her fur coat. “You look …”

“… very pregnant,” David said, pulling on his Eddie Bauer jacket.

“I think I
will
call the doctor in the morning,” Carol said.

David reached for her arm, but she took a quick step forward to hug Charlotte. They all moved to the apartment door and went into the hallway where the women moved ahead toward the elevator.

“None of my business,” Bernie whispered, “but Carol doesn't look well.”

“
Rosemary's Baby
syndrome,” David whispered back. “She's a little ambivalent. Doctor says it's natural.”

“And I say it's natural,” Bernie said softly. “Charlotte came close to not having our last. Between you, me, and the one-too-many double Scotches I just had, she almost decided on an abortion, long before they were politically correct.”

Ahead of them Charlotte was supporting Carol and whispering to her. Probably, David thought, revealing some small, confidential sin of her husband's. It had been an awkward evening. An evening of ambivalence with Bernie shifting from proud mentor to comically envious rival to potential underling.

David hadn't wanted to come. He had given Carol a list of last-minute excuses, the best of which was Carol's sixth month of pregnancy and a night of cheek-freezing cold. But Carol had insisted on going, had been willing, it seemed, to even fight about it when he insisted.

“It's the last time,” she had said. “It's the right thing to do.”

“You hate them,” David had reminded her as they got ready to leave that evening.

“I dislike them,” Carol had corrected, hands trembling.

“Look at you,” David had insisted.

“Look at yourself,” Carol had answered shrilly.

And then she regretted it. David had let himself go, though he was less than forty. He had a little belly and his father's heavy, sad dark face.

“Let's hope the baby doesn't look like me,” David had said bitterly.

Carol had laughed.

“What's so funny?”

She had taken to laughing, crying at odd times for no reason that made sense to David. And it had gotten worse as Carol grew more and more obviously pregnant. David's mother had assured him that this was not abnormal. His aunt Esther had assured him. Doctor Saper had assured him, but it made David feel no better.

The elevator eased to a halt and the doors opened.

“We had a great time,” David said, shaking Bernie's hand. “I won't forget all you've done for me and taught me.”

“And I know you'll make me proud of you,” Bernie said.

“Come on, guys,” Charlotte said. “The lady's tired.”

David joined his wife in the elevator, faced forward with a smile, and watched the doors close on Charlotte and Bernie, whose arm was around his wife's shoulder, hugging her close to him.

“What a man,” David said. “Everyone knows he's
shtupping
Betty the receptionist, who's young enough to be his granddaughter. And there he stands. Big-city Gothic.”

“Maybe he needs to be appreciated as a man,” Carol said.

“Carol. Wrong is wrong. Family is family.”

“Bertrand Russell, Immanuel Kant?” Carol said.

“You O.K., Carol?” David asked, taking his wife's arm as she tottered backward a step as the elevator dropped.

“I'll be fine,” she said as the elevator bounced to a stop and the doors opened to the lobby.

“We don't need stoicism here, honey,” David said, holding her. “The baby …”

“The baby will be fine, David,” she said. “The baby will be fine.”

Raymond had known from the start that George was stupid. He was beginning to think that George might actually be feeble-minded like Jack-Jack Shorely's sister back on the island. She babble-babbled like George, sounded like she was making sense from a distance, but if you listened long enough you could start getting feeble-minded like her.

“Quiet,” said Raymond.

“Got to keep everything working, mouth, feets, knees, neck or it gonna freeze,” whined George. “Cold gonna kill me dead. Cold is no good for a big man. You ever see any fat Eskeemos?”

“I never see any Eskimos,” said Raymond.

Inside the building he was watching, beyond the frosted windows, the doorman stood up and moved to the inside door. Two shapes inside, another couple.

“Eskimos look like Chinese,” said George, squinting. “Like this. Only not.”

The doorman opened the inner door and the couple stepped into the outer lobby, little more than a glassed-in square with a desk and phone for the doorman.

“Them,” said Raymond.

George stopped shuffling and stepped to Raymond's side.

The couple was in their thirties, maybe. The man was not big, but he was bigger than the old man they had let pass and a lot younger.

“Why?” asked George.

“Look like he has got money,” said Raymond, letting himself slide into the Islands patois he had struggled to lose. He wondered why he was doing it. To make George more comfortable? To make himself more comfortable with what he was about to do. “I know these things. Look at those coats. That's a fur she's wearing. You want to stand here all night? Maybe no one else come out for hours.”

“No,” said George, rocking as the doorman opened the outer door for the couple.

Raymond and George could hear the couple thanking the doorman as a gasp of driving air hit the man and woman and pushed at the open door. The doorman put his shoulder to the door from the inside and closed it as the couple moved past the empty stone fountain in the circular driveway.

Boom-boom-boom. The gray-green dumpster clanged next to George's ears. Behind him waves hurled grating ice chunks and rage.

“Let's go,” said Raymond.

Happy to be moving, thinking of someplace, anyplace warm, George almost knocked Raymond over as they stepped out of the rattling protective shadows of the dumpster.

Raymond looked back at the condo lobby. The doorman was sitting at his desk, a magazine open in front of him, one leg folded over the other.

“Slow,” whispered Raymond. “Slow.”

“I remember,” George grunted.

The couple talked, but the two men could not hear what they were saying. The man said something and held the woman's hand. The woman sounded nervous. The man wore a jacket much like Raymond's, but this Eddie Bauer was new, clean, not a hand-me-down from who-knows-where. The jacket was nice, but it was the man's hat, one of those Russian fur hats, that fascinated George. The woman's head was uncovered except for fuzzy white earmuffs. In the blue-white streetlights and the cold gray of the building windows, her hair looked like silver frost.

George looked down the street in both directions as Raymond held him back with a hand on his sleeve, giving the couple a twenty-yard lead. Raymond checked the doorman again. He was still looking at his magazine.

No one on the street now but the four of them and a slow sea of cars, see-no-evil cars moving past through the river of slush.

“They gettin' away,” George whispered, trying to move ahead.

Raymond held the bigger man's sleeve.

“They goin' for their car, looks like,” he said.

The couple, still talking, moved ahead slowly, the man's arm supporting the woman. The distance between the couple and the two men narrowed.

“Now, now, now,” Raymond suddenly urged, and both men hurried forward.

George almost fell. He reached for the chill branches of a bare bush next to the building and kept himself erect.

Now the couple was next to the black metal gate of a fence around an old gray house, a holdout family home in the forest of high-rises. A brass plaque against the house identified it as the offices of J.W.R. Ranpur, M.D., Cardiologist. There were no lights on in the home and office of Dr. Ranpur. Raymond had checked this only half an hour earlier. He had also checked to be sure the metal gate was open.

“Stop,” Raymond said, stepping in front of the couple.

As he had been told to do, George moved close behind the man and woman, hovering over them.

The couple stopped.

Now Raymond, by the hazy light of the nearby streetlamp, could see the faces of his victims. The woman was pale, pretty, with a rough, frightened face whose cheeks were chilled pink. The man, who seemed curious but not frightened, was short, a bit on the pudgy side. He wore glasses that were partly frosted along the upper rim.

“In here,” said Raymond, opening the gate, watching to be sure no cars stopped.

It would, he hoped, look like nothing more than four people chatting in front of a house.

“What's going on?” asked the man.

Raymond removed his hand from his pocket and showed the pudgy man his gun, a gun he had bought only the day before for fifteen dollars and which he was not at all sure would fire.

“Step in there, man,” he said, nodding through the gate. “You lose a few dollars and you and the lady go on.”

“I don't …” the man started.

“Come on, come on here,” George said, pulling out his own gun and shoving it into the back of the man with the Russian fur hat. George wanted that hat. But more than the hat he wanted to be out of there.

“David,” the woman said, “do it. Give them your wallet.”

“Not out here,” Raymond hissed, looking back over his shoulder. “Get through the gate, man.”

With George following close behind, the woman pulled at the arm of the man with the hat, and they edged through the gate.

Frozen grass crunched under George's feet as he pushed the man and woman toward the shadows of Dr. Ranpur's house.

“I'll give it to you,” said David. “Let's not panic here.”

“No one is panicking, man,” said Raymond, looking toward the house and then the street. “Just don't give trouble.”

“Come on, come on,” George said, reaching up to remove his hat and shoving it in his pocket before yanking the man's hat from his head and putting it on his own. The hat was just a little too small and gave him an instant headache. But it was warm.

Without a hat the white man in front of him looked younger than George had thought him, even though the man's hair was getting thin. He reminded George of some actor.

“Take what you want,” David said, holding one hand protectively in front of Carol and reaching into the pocket under his jacket with the other. “Just don't touch her. She's going to …”

“Touch …? What you think we are?” asked George indignantly. “You think we gonna rape your woman out here like on an iceberg? What you think we are?”

Raymond took the wallet from David and shoved it into the frayed pocket of his blue ski jacket.

“Shut up,” he said.

Carol let out a small sound like an island dove and her bareheaded husband took her in his arms.

“David,” she said softly. “Please …”

“Don't you be saying that in front of these people,” said George, facing Raymond. “Don't you be putting me down like you some kind of boss man.”

“Fur,” said Raymond, pointing his gun at the woman.

“She'll …” David began.

“Then you just give her your Eddie Bauer,” said Raymond. “Better yet: I give her my Eddie Bauer and take yours.”

Carol was whimpering now as she pulled away from David and began to take off the fur.

“No,” said David.

George stepped forward, pushed David back, and pulled the fur coat to his chest the instant Carol had taken it off. Soft, cool fur brushed gently against his cheek.

“We got no time for this,” said Raymond.

David took a step toward his wife, lost his footing, and crashed into the front steps of the office-home of J.W.R. Ranpur. His knee hit wood with a chill thump and crack.

Carol screamed. Without her fur, she looked pitiful, not cold, in a blue-and-white dress that hung on her like one of George's mother's shifts.

“Shit,” said George. “She gonna have a baby.”

And then, as David pulled himself up from the steps, George heard the snap of a hammer against rock. Carol screamed again as David staggered back and sat spread-legged on the stairs.

Cars rushed by. Lake waves battered the shore behind the house. George thought he heard the clang-boom of the rusting green Dumpster and then the sound of hammer and rock again. The man called David was sprawled on the steps now, his Eddie Bauer stained with black splotches, and George understood. Raymond had shot the man.

George felt a rush of warm imagined air from the beach of his childhood and the pain of the hat's tightness on his head. His eyes met Raymond's, and George was afraid of what he saw.

“Let's go,” said Raymond. “George, you hear, let's go.”

George didn't move. He turned to the woman, whose eyes were wide with terror. Her mouth was open and she couldn't catch her breath. The way she looked at him. Oh, the way she looked. She would haunt him. He knew that. She would haunt them both.