Lieberman's Folly Read Free Page B

years older than his sixty years. Lieberman’s wife thought his best features were his curly gray hair and the little white mustache, which she described as “distinguished.” She thought her husband looked more like a lawyer or an accountant than a policeman. Maish, on the other hand, thought his brother looked like an undernourished Harry James. Maish had once told this to a young cop who asked who Harry James was.
    â€œThe band leader with the trumpet,” Maish had explained. “The one who married Betty Grable.”
    â€œBetty Grable?” the cop had asked and Maish had given up.
    Now Maish brought a pitcher of iced tea and a fresh glass for Estralda. He filled her glass and Abe’s and looked at Hanrahan.
    â€œAnother coffee,” said Hanrahan.
    â€œHungry?” Lieberman asked Estralda Valdez.
    Maish hovered.
    She shook her head no and Maish slouched away.
    â€œWhat’s his story?” Estralda said.
    â€œMaish? Jealousy,” said Lieberman. “He’s my brother. You like baseball?”
    â€œIt’s OK,” she said with a shrug. “I like boxing.”
    André Dawson struck out to end the inning. Lieberman reached over and turned off the radio. There wasn’t a sound in the T & L but the whirr and clunk of the table fan. Conversation, usually loud and blustering on topics ranging from baseball to the price of pastrami to past and planned trips to Israel, had ceased while ears with little tufts of gray growing from them strained to hear what this painted vision wanted with Abe.
    â€œLet’s get on with it,” Hanrahan sighed, checking his cup to be sure there wasn’t a last drop at the bottom before Maish returned to fill it.
    â€œIt’s a hot day and the Cubs are ahead,” said Lieberman. “Let’s savor the rare moment, William.”
    Hanrahan grunted and waved at Maish who moved toward them with a half-full coffeepot.
    Lieberman was in no hurry. He was reasonably comfortable in the little booth surrounded by the smell of kosher meat on the slicer, the sound of old men talking about nothing. He also knew that what Estralda had to say was important. She had told him it was, had asked to meet him outside of her territory, someplace safe where no one would be likely to recognize her.
    Lieberman had decided that a good place to meet would be the T & L, which was only five blocks from his house and where the likelihood of anyone coming in who knew Estralda was nil.
    Lieberman didn’t want to hurry Estralda or himself. He had stayed up late watching a tape of Zoo in Budapest with Loretta Young. Bess had watched with him for an hour, then left, saying she was going to catch Koppel and then going to sleep. Lieberman had finished the movie and the last box of Tam-Tam crackers. By the time he got to bed it was almost one and Bess was snoring softly. Lieberman had slept four hours, a good night for him.
    â€œWhat time is it?” Bess had said when he got up, rolling over and reaching for her glasses.
    â€œFour-thirty,” he had said.
    â€œYou getting up? You’re taking your physical today?”
    â€œThat’s tomorrow. Go back to sleep, Bess. I’ll make your coffee,” he said, leaning over to kiss her. She was asleep before he reached the bedroom door.
    He had ground the coffee beans in the new little electric thing, put the hot water on, stuck the filter in the Melita, and read the Tribune while he waited for the coffee to trickle down. Lieberman liked the smell of coffee. Coffee itself he could do without.
    He had called in to the Clark Street Station at six and Nestor Briggs had told him about Estralda Valdez’s call. Lieberman had then called Estralda and set up this meeting. And now here he was looking at her, his most reliable informant and certainly the best-looking one he had ever had. If she had something to say, she could say it better at her own pace.
    â€œI got a guy on the line who