Lieberman's Law (29 page)

“People on the doors,” said Ida Katzman, who wasn't sleeping. “Extra men all night Monday.”

Rabbi Wass shrugged. When Ida Katzman spoke, it was law.

The man who Berk knew as Mr. Grits stood inside a public phone booth, the doors closed to traffic and possible intruders. He had a huge stack of quarters piled on the metal ledge. He looked at his watch and when the hour hand hit eleven he placed his call.

After two rings, the person on the other end, who was standing in a phone booth in Bedford, Montana, picked up the phone and said nothing.

“Monday afternoon or night,” said Mr. Grits. “Everything set. I'll be out of here within one hour of the event, unidentified, on the means of transportation arranged. Be watchin' CNN.”

The other person didn't answer. The other person in Bedford, Montana, tapped the phone twice, the signal to go ahead with the plan. And then the person in Bedford hung up the phone.

Mr. Grits was excited and ready. He had been through one military action in Panama. He hadn't been called up for Desert Storm and he didn't volunteer. By then, he didn't want an FBI check on his activities since his release from the service. He didn't want to be turned down for a chance to legally shoot down crazy Arabs, but he didn't want government computers humming about him. They probably had enough on him already, even as careful as he had been.

He hung up the phone, pocketed the remaining coins, and stepped out of the phone booth. He did his usual check, scanned the street and sidewalk and nearby cars with eyes hidden by tinted glasses. No one. Nothing.

He would spend an hour in the mall across the boulevard, making sure he was not being followed. They were close now. He had to be very careful. He had to play Berk like a steel guitar. Mr. Grits's favorite song was Creedence Clearwater Revival's “Bad Moon Rising.” He hummed it as he waited for a break in the traffic.

Mustafa Quadri was home. He was really in no condition to be anywhere but home or in a hospital. His skull, he explained to the two policemen who had come only seconds before, was cracked like a coconut. Walking to the door to open it had made him dizzy. Sitting on the straight-back chair made him dizzy.

“Were I to sit in one of the more comfortable chairs,” Quadri explained, “It would be a major event for me to rise. I take little yellow pills, Meclazine, but I remain dizzy. The price to be paid for one's principles.”

Neither policeman had done anything so far but identify himself and take a seat in the chairs Mustafa Quadri had described as comfortable. The studio apartment was little more than the size of Lieberman's living room. There was a small round table with three chairs in one corner near the alcove that served as a kitchen. Bookshelves, simple wooden planks held up by concrete bricks, lined the walls. Books were everywhere. There was, however, no bed. Lieberman was certain one of the comfortable chairs opened into a single bed or there was a futon in the closet.

Quadri's head was heavily bandaged, the bridge of his glasses held together with Scotch tape.

“So,” said Quadri folding his hands. “You wish me to identify the man who you have arrested, the Jew who hit me.”

“You filed charges?” asked Hanrahan.

“Of course, is that not why you are here?” asked Quadri.

“No,” said Lieberman. “My guess is the Hyde Park police are following up on that. We'll be happy to check with them to see what progress they've made.”

Quadri shifted uneasily and winced from the pain. He folded his hands in front of him and looked from policeman to policeman.

“Then what do you want?”

“Who do we want,” Hanrahan amended.

“Massad Mohammed,” said Lieberman.

“I do not wish to discuss him,” said Quadri. “I am deeply upset with him. The Arab Student Response Committee has been almost destroyed by his defection.”

“Defection?” asked Hanrahan.

“He quit. Walked out.”

“Why?” asked Lieberman.

“My head hurts,” said the young man, closing his eyes.

Neither policeman thought Quadri was lying about the pain. So, they waited.

“I am considered something of a genius,” Quadri said, eyes still closed. “I have read every book in this room and much more. But I cannot read now. It makes me dizzy. The words dance. The one who did this to me should be given the full punishment of the law.”,

“I agree,” said Lieberman.

“I know everything in these books,” said Quadri. “They are my life. Almost all are in English. Some are Arabic. Some German. Some French.”

“Deuteronomy, chapter 13, verse 2,” said Lieberman, vaguely remembering the passage from Rabbi Wass's last sermon.

Quadri smiled and opened his eyes saying, “If there arise in the midst of thee a prophet or a dreamer of dreams—and he give thee a sign or a wonder, and the sign or the wonder come to pass, whereof he spoke unto thee—saying: Let us go after other gods, which thou hast not known, and let us serve them; thou shalt not hearken unto the words of that prophet, or unto that dreamer of dreams. Enough?”

“Enough,” said Lieberman. “Anything like that in the Koran?”

“Very much like that,” said Quadri. “Would you like …?”

“No,” said Lieberman. “Are you a devout man?”

“Yes,” said Quadri.

“May I suggest to you that Massad Mohammed is a false prophet, a dreamer of nightmares,” said Lieberman. “He has given a false sign and follows one of the false gods.”

“Yes,” said Quadri with a sigh and a squint to keep his glasses from falling.

“We think he killed Howard Ramu and his two roommates, all Arabs, all Moslems,” said Lieberman. “And he tried to blame it on a Jew by leaving a bloody yarmulke in the room. He is following a false prophet following a false dream, making alliances with enemies. Do you know where he is?”

“No,” said Quadri, putting a hand to his aching, bandaged head. “He moved. He hides such information from us all now.”

“What is going to happen Monday?”

“I do not know,” said Quadri. “Massad did say something about Monday when last we met, but it was without detail or substance. But I fear it will be violent. I fear that it will create even more contempt for our movement. Our leader …”

“Jara Mohammed,” said Lieberman.

Quadri nodded and said, “She was angry after the rally. Had a moment of such anger that she suggested great violence, but she quickly changed her mind. Massad, however …”

“When did you last see Massad?” asked Hanrahan.

“Several days,” said Quadri. “I cannot recall. My head, you see. It …”

“Well, thanks for your cooperation,” said Lieberman, getting up. Hanrahan joined him.

“Please forgive me if I do not walk you to the door and forgive the fact that I've offered you no refreshment,” said Quadri.

“We understand,” said Lieberman.

“You are a Jew, are you not?” asked Quadri.

“Yes,” said Lieberman. “And a member of Congregation Mir Shavot where you, Jara Mohammed, and Howard Ramu desecrated our temple.”

Quadri looked away. “Does he have the Torah?” Lieberman asked.

“I will deny saying this in public. I will say that you coerced me, but it is my understanding that Howard Ramu was in possession of the Torah when he was murdered. I do not know who murdered Howard. I do know you should catch Massad. Stop him. He does follow a false god of vengeance.”

“We plan to,” said Hanrahan. “Get some rest.”

In the hall, with the door closed behind them, Hanrahan said, “You were good in there, Rabbi.”

“I liked him,” said Lieberman.

“Yeah,” said Hanrahan, looking at the door. “Yeah, and you liked the girl. They tear up your church, crap on your prayer shawls, and you like them.”

“A paradox,” said Lieberman.

“World's full of 'em,” said Hanrahan. “You think Massad has your Torah, killed three Arabs to get it?”

“I don't know,” said Lieberman. They walked down the stairs and out the front door of the musty apartment building.

“You don't know but you've got an idea,” said Hanrahan, moving to the car.

“Maybe,” Lieberman agreed, getting into the passenger side of the car.

Hanrahan got behind the wheel and closed the door. He looked at his partner's beagle of a face and said, “Well?”

“OK, let's say it. Why pick a Monday?”

Hanrahan shrugged wanting to find the nearest phone and hoping that Michael would answer this time, say he'd fallen asleep or was on the toilet when Hanrahan had called last.

“Random,” said Hanrahan.

“Maybe,” said Lieberman. “And maybe something's happening on Monday. If they're planning to attack Jews on a non-holiday Monday night, they aren't going to find a lot of victims at prayer.”

“A restaurant,” said Hanrahan. “Kosher restaurant.”

“Possible. Very possible. Pattern?”

“Not enough information,” said Hanrahan. “Only MO we've got is his killing the three Arabs with an automatic weapon and leaving one of those little Jewish caps to make it look like a lunatic Jew did it.”

“What if we add in the attacks on the temples?” said Lieberman. “Tried to make it look like neo-Nazi or skinhead stuff. What if the Monday plan is to make the attack look like Jews against someone else.”

“Arabs?” said Hanrahan. This Massad is going to cooperate in killing more Arabs?”

“Looks like he's already killed three,” said Lieberman. “Kill more Arabs, make it look like a vendetta of murder by Jews. Maybe they're holding onto the Torah to leave it at the massacre site.”

“Maybe,” said Hanrahan. “It feels slim, but it feels right, maybe. So who do we warn?”

It was Lieberman's turn to shrug. “You know,” he said. “Sometimes you get a taste for something, a craving. Won't go away. Drives you crazy.”

Hanrahan knew the drill. He started the car and drove slowly down the street.

“Where are we goin', Rabbi?”

“Kosher hot dog with everything,” said Lieberman. “Fluky's.”

“You're on a diet,” Hanrahan said.

“Occasionally a moment of respite and sustenance gives us the power to forge ahead,” said Lieberman.

“It doesn't work that way, Rabbi,” Hanrahan said.

“I know, Father Murphy, but as far as I know there's no place called Kosher Hot Dog Lovers Anonymous.”

Kim lay in the hospital bed, thinking, planning, refusing to answer the pain, to acknowledge it.

He had received but three visitors. That was all that was allowed. The visit from the black woman named Lasher from the district attorney's office did not count. She had been brief and informative. First, both of Kim's men were dead. Second, the girl was a hero. Third, Kim should call his attorney as soon as he was up to it, and the attorney should call Lasher, who left her card. She had been pleasant. She had listened to his story of the girl making a murderous mistake. She had taken notes and then she had risen and said, “You better get a lawyer. You were up for extortion last week and this one could be pushed up to attempted murder.”

“Two of my men were murdered. My arm … and I could be accused of attempted murder?”

“You want a public defender?”

He shook his head. Lasher left.

His parents had come to visit, had said almost nothing. His mother cried. Kim said he would be fine. They spoke in Korean. Kim was glad when they left. So were they.

Finally, Chung Lee came looking uncomfortable. Kim had closed his eyes and found Lee standing next to the bed when he opened them. Chung Lee was decidedly nervous.

“Who is still with us?” asked Kim weakly. “How many?”

Lee held up four fingers and then put one down.

Kim closed his eyes again. Three. They would probably all drop out, go on their own, join another gang if one would take them after this disgrace.

Lee wouldn't go. He was hulking, laughed too easily, was sad too easily, and was incredibly stupid. He would, however, do what Kim told him to do. He worshiped Kim. A time would come. Now, he told Lee where he had hidden a great deal of cash. He told Lee to call his lawyer and to bring two thousand dollars of the cash to the lawyer and to tell the lawyer to come see Kim tomorrow.

It was a lot for Lee to remember.

“What do I do with the rest of the money?” asked Lee.

“Put it back. We'll take it as we need it till it runs out. I must sleep now.”

“Will you die?” asked Lee, his eyes moist.

“No,” said Kim, closing his eyes.

“Will you lose your arm?”

“Yes,” said Kim.

Lee left, and Kim went back to thinking. He had been informed. He had consented. The arm would be removed in the morning. The pain was bitter. Why couldn't it have been his left arm not his right? Now he would have to learn to write, shoot, do everything with his left hand. Can you drive with one hand? Would he have to go to prison, defend himself in prison with one arm?

It certainly wouldn't be soon, Kim thought, but there would be a day when the pain and humiliation the girl caused him would be returned to her one hundred times over and if that meant killing the two policemen, then he would kill them too. In fact, he might have no choice. For when he killed the girl, the two policemen would obviously come looking for him.

If he were to cover his scars, those inside and out, the girl and the two policemen would have to die. He tried to wiggle the fingers on his right hand. His arm hurt just above the elbow even though he was filled with pain-killing medication. But he felt nothing in his fingers. He expected to feel nothing.

Kim stopped trying and went back to his thoughts. He had a great deal of time to plan.

E
LI TOWSER WAS SEATED
at a table in the library awkwardly and, perhaps, painfully, turning the pages of a book. It was still early and the library was not yet teeming with the aged, bored, and parents and children.