Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
Lieberman's Law (45 page)
“If you wait,” Mike said with a shrug, “the whole thing collapses, could run you five thousand and someone might get hurt. You know. It might fall in when a car pulled up. Heck, Gerald, it could maybe even fall in if a big guy like me jumped on it in the right place.”
“It's gotta be?” the old man asked, shaking his head.
“Gotta be,” said Gerald. “I can get the whole thing taken care of any day next week. Done in a few hours and then we need a few more hours to let it dry. You want I can come out with my crew on the first clear day.”
“The money,” said the old man.
“Half up front,” said Mike. “Check'll do. Other half when we finish the job to your satisfaction.”
“A thousand dollars,” said the old man with a sigh.
“Actually, fifteen hundred to cover materials, an extra man. The other five hundred can wait till you approve. Fair?”
“Sounds fair,” said the old man as a car drove by. A woman was driving. A boy about six made a face at Gerald and Mike from the backseat as the car kicked up a stream of rainwater.
“Written guarantee,” Mike said, holding up his clipboard. “Just write out the check. Make it to cash or Mike's Driveways.”
“I think I'd like to think about this overnight,” said the old man. “Talk to my son. He's a lawyer.”
“But he doesn't know driveways,” said Mike, squatting to poke his pen into a narrow crack in the drive that looked like an anemic bolt of lightning. “Gerald, you need this work. You need it now. I wouldn't have stopped at your house and left my flyer and card last week if I didn't see immediate danger here, and you wouldn't have called me to come if you didn't know deep in your heart that I'm right.”
“Next week?” asked the old man.
“First clear day,” said Mike, opening the cover of his clipboard and handing his pen to the old man.
The document Mike was holding was in tiny type. It ran for three pages, which Mike flipped open to the page with a signature line.
“My work is guaranteed,” said Mike. “One hundred percent for the life of your drive.”
The old man held the umbrella high in one hand and signed with the other.
“I'll go get my checkbook,” said the old man. “I wouldn't want anyone hurt or, God forbid, killed on my driveway.”
“Right is right, Gerald.”
“Wait here. I'll be right back.”
“I'll wait in my van,” said Gerald. “Startin' to rain again.”
Mike went back to his van and climbed into the driver's seat, where he sat listening to the news while he waited. The old man was out in a few minutes walking slowly to the driver's window, which Mike rolled down.
“Could you get out of the van?” the old man said. “I don't see so good without my glasses and I don't see so good with them when they're covered with rain.”
“Sure,” Mike said obligingly as he opened the door and stepped out.
As soon as Mike closed the door, a dark car came quickly down the street and pulled into the driveway behind Mike's van.
“You've got visitors,” said Mike. “I'll just take the check and go. I've got four more stops today.”
“Only one more,” said the old man.
Something about the way he said it made Mike pause. He was looking down at the old man and heard the door of the car in the driveway open behind him. He didn't look back.
“I don't get it, Gerald, but if you'll just give me the check, I'll sign the contract and give you your copy.”
“You are under arrest,” said the old man, holding out his wallet and showing his badge.
“Arrest,” Mike said with a laugh.
“Fraud,” said the old man. “Bunch of other charges too. Plenty of witnesses, including me.”
Mike took a step toward the old man and said, “Get out of my way.”
The old man took a step toward Mike. The two were inches apart, and Mike suddenly felt something poke hard into his belly. He looked down at the gun in the old man's hand. He didn't know what kind of gun it was, but it was a big one.
“Push me and you're resisting arrest,” said the old man. “Then I can only assume you plan to run me over with your van. I would take umbrage at that and have to shoot you.”
Mike considered. The old man was looking him in the eyes.
“You're making a mistake,” Mike said with a laugh.
“No, he's not” came a voice behind him, the voice of the person who had gotten out of the car that blocked Mike's van.
Mike turned toward the voice and saw a man as big as he was with a pink Irish face. Definitely a cop.
“I think you'd better let me get back into my van and call my lawyer,” Mike said indignantly.
“Detective Lieberman just told you you're under arrest,” said Hanrahan. “He'll tell you your rights and we go to the station. You make it easy or you make it hard. I think I'd prefer hard. I've had a bad few days.”
“Put it that way, so have I,” said Lieberman. “So, try to get away, Mike. I'll just put my gun away and watch Detective Hanrahan subdue you. He doesn't subdue gently.”
Mike's angry indignation slipped and his shoulders sagged, then he made one more try.
“You're making a mistake,” he said. “I'm an honest businessman. This is false arrest.”
“You've been scaring old people into giving you money for months,” said Lieberman. “Turn around and put your hands together.”
“You're gonna cuff me?” asked Mike.
“Unless you can think of something else effective I could do with your hands behind your back,” said Lieberman.
Mike turned around. He was facing Hanrahan now.
“Last chance,” Hanrahan said softly. “Just get by me, get in your van, and run us over. We'll shoot, but you might get lucky and live.”
Mike looked up at the sky. There was a loud clap of thunder. Lieberman clasped on the cuffs.
“I didn't do anything wrong,” Mike insisted as the two detectives ushered him toward Hanrahan's car. Lieberman's was parked in the garage. The owner of the house, a man named Jankitis who would be celebrating his eighty-fifth birthday in a few days, was inside watching a
Wheel of Fortune
rerun.
“There's nothing wrong with this driveway,” said Lieberman. “We had a contractor check it.”
“My professional opinion against his,” Mike said as they moved to the passenger side of Hanrahan's car.
“You are not a professional,” said Lieberman. “At least not a professional contractor. You are a professional con man who takes deposits from people who need their money. Then you disappear. Now, do me the courtesy of being quiet while I tell you your rights. If you listen, really listen, you may find them useful and interesting.”
“Can't we work something out here?” Mike pleaded, looking from one policeman to the other. “I've got a wife, two little kids. I'm just a guy trying to make a living.”
“You think our friend Mike is suggesting a bribe?” asked Lieberman.
“It's a distinct possibility,” said Hanrahan.
“My roof needs fixing,” said Lieberman.
“My son Michael could use money to send my grandson to a Catholic school,” said Hanrahan. “I'd say five million dollars would do it.”
“Five milâ” Mike began.
“You're safe,” said Lieberman, guiding the big man in overalls toward Hanrahan's car. “Maybe you didn't offer a bribe. Maybe you've got no conscience. It happens a lot. Maybe my partner and I like to look in the mirror in the morning and see a face we can live with. I got a feeling you don't understand what I mean. I suggest you not say another word till you talk to a lawyer.”
Mike shut up as he was shoved into the backseat of Hanrahan's car.
“My van,” Mike cried.
“We'll have it towed in,” said Hanrahan.
“You okay, Father Murphy?” Lieberman asked as he closed the door on Mike.
“Could be better, Rabbi. Could be a lot better.”
“We'll talk,” said Lieberman.
Hanrahan moved around to the driver's side of his car and opened the door. Before he got in, he said, “That is one hell of an ugly sweater.”
“Guy who owns the house was going to give it to Goodwill,” said Lieberman. “I bought it from him. Comfortable. A little large, but comfortable.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1996 by Stuart M. Kaminsky
cover design by Jim Tierney
978-1-4804-0018-4
This 2013 edition distributed by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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