Lieberman's Folly (14 page)

“What time you coming home?” Bess said.

“When I can,” he said. “How's Lisa?”

“Kvetching, brooding, drinking coffee,” said Bess. “You know.”

“Keep pouring and listening. I'll relieve you when I've rid the city of crime. Should have that done by seven. Kids?”

“Dropped them at the library. They're showing
Roger Rabbit
again,” said Bess. “Kids don't read at libraries anymore, Lieberman. They watch movies.”

“Could be worse,” he said.

“Could be worse,” she agreed. “Rabbi Wass called. Renovation committee meeting tonight at eight.”

“He's a rabbi,” said Lieberman with a sigh, watching the air conditioning men argue. “He's not supposed to be making calls on Shabbas.”

“Levan called for him,” said Bess. “What's the difference?”

“God's watching,” said Lieberman. “God has a sense of humor.”

“Get home when you can,” said Bess. “I'm making leftover brisket.”

Lieberman hung up and looked at the air conditioning men and over at Hanrahan, who was on the phone at his desk across the room. They were partners. They should have been together, but shift changes had messed up the beautiful floor plan laid out by Central when the building opened. Central never talked to any working cops when they designed a new space. They designed from memory and the imaginations of kid architects who grew up on reruns of
Baretta.

“We got a bingo,” called Hanrahan across the room.

Lieberman and the air conditioning men looked at him.

“Damned if there isn't an outstanding on Van Beeber,” said Hanrahan. “Wife was a murder victim, blunt instrument, nineteen seventy-nine. Our Jules was nowhere to be found. Prime suspect. Michigan'll want him.”

The air conditioning men listened attentively and whispered to each other.

“Why aren't you smiling, Father Murphy?” called Lieberman. “We can tell Hughes the case is a wrap. We can tie Jules the Walker up in a bow.”

“He didn't kill Valdez, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan.

“He didn't do it, Murph,” agreed Lieberman.

“I'll go back to her building,” said Hanrahan.

“I'll find the boxer,” said Lieberman.

Before he left for the afternoon, Lieberman told Sergeant Nestor Briggs that if the man who called saying he wanted to talk about what happened to the woman yesterday, he should try to get the man's name or a phone number.

“Got it,” said Briggs.

Briggs was about Lieberman's age, a sack of a man who had once been chest heavy, but the weight had dropped to his middle. Briggs had an unfortunate purple birthmark on his forehead, not the big Gorbachev kind, a little one shaped uncannily like the head of Bob Hope in profile. Nestor's nickname was, in fact, “Bob.” Briggs lived alone in an apartment two blocks from the station. He put in double hours and never asked for overtime. Nestor didn't like being alone in his apartment. Because Nestor was a bore, he had no friends, but Nestor was a prime resource, for Nestor Briggs remembered everything and everyone.

The Empire Athletic Club was on Chicago Avenue just far enough west to be out of the Rush Street cheap glitter aura and just far enough east to be out of the area where none but the down-and-out would wander after dark. Lieberman had been here before. He had been through the double wooden doors before with the painting of two boxing-gloved hands shaking just above them. There was enough wrist in the picture to show that one hand was black and the other white.

Lieberman had been through these doors when his old man had taken him there to watch Henry Armstrong work out.

“That,” Harry Lieberman had whispered to his son, “is the best fighter pound for pound that ever lived.” Of course, Harry Lieberman said this in Yiddish, which embarrassed his son. Harry could speak a bit of English, enough to get by when the sight-seeing goyim in Jew Town wandered into the store for a hot dog, a chocolate phosphate, some fries, and a good gawk. Abe had hated working Sundays in the place. He liked weeknights and the regular customers, the locals, liked the smell of onions, steamed rolls, and grilled or boiling dogs, but he didn't like being looked at by the customers, didn't like having them point to the yarmulke perched on his father's head when his father worked the grill on Sundays.

Abe Lieberman had developed his dryness early. Abe had frequently glanced at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands behind the curtain that separated himself, Maish, and his old man from the customers who bought a ringside ticket for thirty cents to Jew Town with a hot dog, fries, and a drink thrown in. In the mirror Abe had practiced his look of amused boredom. He had perfected that look, worn it, and made it his own.

Now, as he glanced at himself in the full-length mirror at the top of the landing outside the main door, he saw the face of a far-from-young man who appeared to know a hell of a lot more of life than Abe Lieberman.

Lieberman opened the door and was greeted by the smell of sweat and the sounds of a heavy bag being pummeled and a light bag being rata-tat-tated. A big sign on the wall, red letters on white, shouted
NO SMOKING
but Lieberman knew that in this business, kings and one-eyed jacks could smoke big cigars wherever they went.

In ring two in the dark corner of the Empire a big black heavyweight, in shorts and a T-shirt, was doing some serious shadow boxing. In ring one, where it had always been, near the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows, a white-haired old man in a gray sweat suit was jabbing a broom handle at a young man in a red sweat suit wearing boxing gloves and head gear. The young man's job was to use his hands to keep from getting wood in the face. He was doing fine.

“Seen
Karate Kid
too many times, Old MacConnell,” came a voice at Lieberman's elbow.

Lieberman turned and found himself looking at Whitey. Almost every boxing club and gym has a Whitey, someone who's been around since Mayor Cermak took a bullet in the thirties. Whitey is supposed to have a flat nose, slurred speech, and a rotten memory. People are supposed to humor Whitey, but this was no common Whitey. This one had never been in the ring except to tell an old guy named Sturges how to mop it up. This Whitey was a philosopher who had been profiled in the Chicago
Tribune
magazine a dozen years ago, an ex-lawyer who loved boxing and when his wife died had sold his house and bought the Empire. Whitey knew everything about boxing. He knew all the middleweight lefties since Irish Jimmy Morgan. He knew
Ring Magazine's
end-of-the-year top ten in every weight division going back to 1934, the year of his birth. And he knew from just watching a fighter spar if he was a winner or loser. But most important, Whitey, who probably gave himself the nickname, kept the place clean.

“Lieberman the cop,” Whitey said, looking him over. “Last time I saw you was …?”

“Bad apple heroin drop part-time trainer, Sonny Warsham,” said Lieberman.

“Drug store cruiserweight,” said Whitey. “Lousy trainer. Sparred with Leon Spinks way back when. Now he's doing three to five in Joliet.”

Whitey was wearing jeans, a white shirt, a silk tie, and a serious grin. Lieberman took Whitey's extended hand.

“Good to see you again,” said Whitey. “Picked a bad day. No talent around.”

“Silk,” said Lieberman. “I called about an hour ago and someone said he was here.”

“Dressing room,” said Whitey. “But even if you'd made it earlier, you wouldn't have seen much. Escamillo saves it for the crowds.”

The Empire had both a locker room and a dressing room. They were exactly the same but the dressing room was reserved for those who were now ranked, had once been ranked, or stood a reasonably good shot at being ranked by anybody anywhere.

“How's he look?” asked Lieberman.

Whitey shrugged. “Too smart,” he said as the guy in ring one let out a groan from a broom jab to the midsection. “Too sane. Good looks. Knows it won't last and looking for ways he can make a living outside. No desperation. All the talent you could ask for. Trains fine, but … what're you gonna do?”

“He's scheduled for …?” Lieberman asked, watching a tiny Latino kid with a little mustache pound the heavy bag.

“Stickney Welles, the man with the bells, three weeks from today on
Top Rank Boxing
, main event,” said Whitey. “Welles will be ringing out the month on his back. Our Escamillo will be hot stuff for a while, but the long haul … forget it.”

“Thanks, Whitey,” said Lieberman, heading toward the dressing room.

“We do have a bantam worth watching,” Whitey called after him. “Jewish kid, would you believe it? Russian. Name's Yakov Bitt. Bantams don't draw but this kid—eight and the big zero with six KOs and only one bum in the lot. He'll be on the undercard for the Silk-Welles match.”

Lieberman waved to Whitey and went through the dressing room door where he found Escamillo Silk fully dressed in neatly pressed slacks, a wrinkleless short-sleeved yellow button-down shirt, and a yellow, taupe, and gray paisley tie. Silk was brushing his hair in a mirror above a basin against the wall. The floor had been carpeted since Lieberman had last been here. Lieberman didn't like it. The Empire was turning into one of those places Cher advertises on television.

“Real silk,” said Escamillo Silk, looking at Lieberman in the mirror. “Nothing gaudy.”

He put the comb in his pocket and turned to face Lieberman with a perfect white-toothed smile. Silk was about Lieberman's height and weight but the distribution of that weight made the difference. Escamillo Silk was taut and muscular.

“Silk,” said Silk, running his thumb down his tie. “Trademark. You know?”

“I saw the first four rounds of your fight with Ty Turner,” said Lieberman.

“Yeah?” said Silk, adjusting his shirt sleeves and checking the creases in his pants. “Four rounds?”

“I was with a fella who left,” said Lieberman, looking around the room.

“Why'd he leave?” asked Silk. “Round five I—”

“I don't know,” said Lieberman. “He didn't tell me. I was following him on a drug setup.”

The smile did not leave Escamillo Silk's face but it dimmed from 250 to 50 watts.

“I thought you were the promoter from ESPN,” said Silk. “I'm waiting for a promoter. I don't use shit in my nose, arms, ears, eyes, mouth, or anywhere. Anyone tells you I do is a liar. Test me.”

“Estralda Valdez is dead,” said Lieberman.

“I know,” said Silk. “Whitey told me. He read it in the papers.”

“When did you see her last?” asked Lieberman.

“When did I …? Wait. I need a lawyer or something? You plannin' to jerk me around?”

“Yeah,” said Lieberman. “I'm going to lock the door and beat a confession out of you. When did you see her last?”

“What's today?”

“Saturday.”

“Last Monday,” said Silk. “You wanna sit?”

“No, I wanna listen.”

“Last Monday,” Silk repeated. “Took her to dinner at Escargot. You know Escargot?”

“Heard about it,” said Lieberman.

“Dinner with Oprah's people,” he said. “Talk about putting me on a show about handsome athletes and women. Thought Estralda would look good at dinner. Put them in the mood.”

Silk laughed.

“Maybe we should continue this some other time,” said Lieberman. “I can see you're really broken up by Estralda's death.”

“Hey, my man,” said Silk, putting up his right hand, palm up, as if he wanted to touch gloves with Lieberman before the battle really began. “I'm sorry someone did her. All right? She was a smart lady. Good skin. Liked her work. She looked good places I go. But we weren't talkin' two bedrooms in Oak Park and kids named Carlos junior.”

“Carlos junior?” Lieberman asked.

“My real name,” said Silk, hooking his thumbs in his belt. Lieberman had it now. Escamillo, or Carlos, was posing. He was trying to look like an ad in
Gentlemen's Quarterly
.

“Escamillo's the bullfighter in
Carmen
,” Silk explained. “All the papers know my real name's Carlos Mendenarez.”

“Choice inside information,” said Lieberman. “Estralda tell you she was worried about anything? Some customer?”

“No,” said Silk. “She talked about moving back to Texas, talked about … Called her sister and said something about Frank something. I got a good memory. I work on it. Read that book by what's his name and—”

“Where is this sister?”

“Who knows?” said Silk with a handsome grin. “She didn't say.”

“Where does Estralda's mother live?”

“Mother? Who knows she got a mother?” said Silk, moving close to Lieberman and whispering, “and who really cares?”

“I do,” said Lieberman.

“Lupe,” said Silk. “Wait. She said her sister's name was Guadalupe and the guy who wrote the memory book was Lorraine Lucas, something like that. Can I go now?”

“No,” said Lieberman. “Where were you Friday night? Say ten to after midnight?”

“I knew it,” said Silk, putting his hands behind his head as if he were about to go down on the floor for therapeutic sit-ups. “You're looking for pasty.”

“Patsy,” Lieberman corrected.

Silk pulled a small white notebook from his pocket and a little click pen. He wrote quickly and he silently mouthed “patsy” as he wrote.

“Thanks,” said Silk, putting the pen and notebook away. “I was born in Juarez. You hear a accent?”

“No,” said Lieberman. “You are eloquent.”

“Eloquent?”

“You talk good,” said Lieberman. “Talk, and don't write ‘eloquent' in your notebook till you're alone. Friday night. Ten to midnight.”

“Home, with the wife and kids,” said Silk. “Ask them. Ask my mother-in-law and her boyfriend. They were there. We watched a tape. Woody Allen.”