Lieberman's Law (28 page)

Randy had been trained as a barber. Barbers didn't make money. He had worked briefly as a hairdresser, but he simply didn't have the eye or the talent. He had not exactly grown rich in the hairpiece business but he was far from poor.

What he wanted most, however, was to remain among the living.

“T
HIS MAN,” LIEBERMAN SAID
, showing Jara Mohammed the clearest of the three photographs taken at the rally.

They were seated in a coffee shop on Hyde Park Boulevard, the two policemen and the young Arab girl. Jara drank nothing. The policemen drank coffee.

She looked down at the photograph briefly and then up at the Jew policeman.

“Will you tell us who that man is?”

“I don't know,” she said defiantly.

“He's your brother,” said Hanrahan. “A few years younger. Big boy. Walks with a decided limp.”

The identification had been made by Ibraham Said. The problem was that the known address of Massad Mohammed was, as the police had discovered before dawn, empty and abandoned except for a few cardboard boxes and some rusting kitchen utensils. The landlord, a defensive and angry old man, did not know when Massad had moved out, but he was sure he wasn't renting to any more Arabs, providing the goddamn government didn't force him to.

The girl didn't answer. She pushed the photograph back toward the policemen and sat erect. There were few other customers, mostly students, in the coffee shop. They sat in a high-backed wooden booth and talked in a normal tone.

“Your brother bought seven hairpieces last week, expensive ones,” said Lieberman. “Have any idea why?”

It was just a flicker, perhaps the hint of a tic but both policemen noticed it.

“What bald men does your brother know?” asked Hanrahan.

“Or women,” added Lieberman.

“He is my brother,” Jara said with a sigh. “We seldom speak. I do not know his friends.”

“Skinheads,” said Hanrahan softly. “White supremacists. They hate Jews, blacks, Asians, and Arabs. They hate anyone who doesn't claim to be white, Christian, and as bigoted as they are. To put it simply, these sons-of-bitches hate you and your brother. Why is he buying them hairpieces?”

“It is a mistake,” she said, a few more signs of nervousness appearing, primarily her look downward at the table and the deliberate slowness of her words, as if she were trying to believe what she was saying.

“No,” said Hanrahan. “Reliable source in a group of skinheads, positive ID from the people who sold the hair. You ask me, your brother is planning to do something very stupid.”

“You don't understand,” she said. “He wouldn't …” Her voice trailed off and then picked up to say, “He is all that is left of my family. Our politics are different, but we are a family.”

“How are your politics different?” Lieberman asked.

She looked at him, bit her lower lip. She was, Lieberman thought, a remarkably beautiful young woman.

“I believe in the political or military destruction of the State of Israel,” she said, looking directly at Lieberman. “I believe Arab nations should band together and fight war after war with Israel till we win. I am against the PLO land agreement. The land is ours, it should never have been an empty garbage sack for countries to get rid of their Jews who would want ever more land.”

“So you hate Jews,” said Lieberman.

“No,” she said. “I hate Israelis. I do not hate Jews. I told you, my motives are political, never to let the world forget that we will get back that which was stolen from us, that we exist.”

“Terror,” said Lieberman.

“I don't believe in killing,” she said. “I have seen enough killing. A day or two ago after the rally, after Howard Ramu's murder, I advocated local violence. I thought about it. Then I changed my mind. Attacks on American Jews are not the answer. That will only make it worse. Innocent Jews will suffer and then innocent Arabs.”

She looked at an original painting on the wall not far from where she sat. It was abstract, light, something bright and yellow in the corner like the sun.

“When I was a child,” she said, “my family was massacred by an Israeli, a doctor. We were on our way home. Our family, my uncle and his family. The Israeli had an automatic weapon. We had no chance. He didn't know us, knew only that we were a van filled with Palestinians, little children. The Israeli shot me. I was six. He shot me in the shoulder and was going to shoot again and then … an off-duty Israeli border guard, just a boy wearing glasses, shot the mad Jew. The madman went down, the
kepuh
on his head rolled into the darkness, blown by a night breeze I didn't feel. The Israeli soldier was crying. He checked my wound, wrapped it quickly with something from his pack, looked at my fallen, dead father and went back to the van. I remember that one of the lights of the van was still on, flickering, trying to stay alive. The soldier came back with my little brother in his arms. Massad's face was covered in blood. He still wears scars from the overturning of the van. The border guard said nothing. He was not a big man but he picked me up on one shoulder and carried my brother on the other. I don't know how far we walked along the road and then down a smaller road, one mile, two. I remember a breeze and the weeping of the soldier who kept telling us in Hebrew that we would be all right.”

She stopped speaking.

“And?” asked Hanrahan.

“And,” she said. “I do not hate Jews. A Jew saved my life. Saved my brother's life. For me it is politics.”

“And for your brother?”

“He blames all Jews,” she said, looking at Lieberman again. “Just as Jews hate Arabs.”

“Temple Mir Shavot,” Lieberman said. “The temple you and your friends defiled. Most of the members, almost all of the members don't hate Arabs. But there are a few, a few can't be changed. Jews who you don't hate suffered.”

“In politics and terror people suffer.”

“You said you don't believe in killing,” said Hanrahan. “How about your brother?”

She didn't answer. Lieberman considered calling the waitress over for some more coffee. But the coffee was awful and his stomach was upset.

“Help us find him,” said Lieberman. “Before he kills someone. Before someone kills him. Both sides have had enough martyrs. We need families.”

Jara looked at the old Jew. He meant it. What he hadn't said was there was a very good chance that Massad Mohammed had already killed, ironically it had not been Jews but Howard Ramu and two innocent Arabs.

“Monday,” she said. “Afternoon. Night. He has something planned … something, but Massad said he would play no more Halloween pranks, that he had allies who would fire shots heard all the way to Syria and Israel.”

“Where can we find him?” Lieberman asked.

“Mustafa Quadri was close to him,” she said.

Quadri, Lieberman remembered, was the thin Arab with glasses who had been stripped of his bullhorn at the rally. Jara gave the policemen Mustafa's address. It made no difference. They could have obtained it from the university directory.

“I don't want my brother hurt,” she said, sitting up with dignity.

“We don't want anybody hurt,” said Hanrahan.

Jara thought about this for a moment and looked around the room. Her eyes fixed on a thin, young boy with a recent home haircut and a pair of glasses on his nose.

“That boy,” she said. “He's a Jew. He reminds me of the soldier who carried me and my brother, saved our lives. The soldier was just a boy.” She stood up and left without another word.

“So?” asked Hanrahan.

“We see this Quadri,” said Lieberman, fishing in his pocket for his wallet for three dollars, which he laid on the table. The wallet was open to a photograph, a year out of date, of Barry and Melisa. Lieberman looked at the photograph for an instant and put the wallet away.

“Berk?” asked Hanrahan.

“Let's call the Pig Sticker,” Lieberman suggested.

Hanrahan agreed, moved to a phone near the men's room with a bile green door, took out his notebook, and dialed a number.

Leary answered.

“What the fuck you callin' me here for?” Pig Sticker said with a hiss. “I room with a Monger. You're goddamn lucky he's out. We have a deal. I call you, you don't call me.”

“Consider me chastised, Charles,” said Hanrahan. “But you've taken a long time to get back.”

“Nothing much is new,” said Pig Sticker, nervous and angry.

“Nothing much?” asked the detective. “I've got another source that says something's going down on Monday for sure. You got something to add?”

The pause was long. Fallon might come back any second. Berk might even have the phone line tapped.

“Monday afternoon,” said Pig Sticker. “Just the word. Nothing definite.”

“You'll let me know when everything's definite,” said Hanrahan.

“I'll let you know,” said Pig Sticker, hanging up the phone with a bang.

“Monday p.m. confirmed, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan. “We pick up the Monger, Berk?”

“Last resort. We won't get anything out of him. Might make him put off what he's planning for Monday. But it'll be another Monday or Tuesday. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Hanrahan. “But the question is what kind of deal can this Arab kid Massad have with a guy like Berk who goes around saying Arabs should have their heads cut off and hung on schoolyard fences.”

“We'll see,” said Lieberman.

“Better we don't see, Rabbi,” said Hanrahan. “Better we stop it before we see. Give me another second.”

Hanrahan made another call. The phone rang nine times. Michael didn't answer. It wasn't even noon.

On the way out, past the tables and booths of earnest children and the bustling of teenage waitresses, Lieberman moved ahead to the door to give his partner something approaching privacy.

“It's a miracle,” said Rabbi Wass.

In some things, Rabbi Wass was ideal. He worked hard, far beyond what was required of him, attending almost every interdenominational lunch and breakfast to which he was invited, meeting with other rabbis, priests, ministers. He knew Torah. He had a likable helplessness about him. But he didn't have his father's intellect. Rabbi Wass's sermons were not really disasters. They were tributes to a tradition that had become, for Congregation Mir Shavot, almost as much of a ritual as the Shabbat services.

“It's not a miracle,” said Bess.

They were sitting around the table in the rabbi's office with Ida Katzman and Irving Hamel, who had announced at this very table moments ago that he was definitely running for state representative for his district, which included the land on which Temple Mir Shavot rested. This announcement came after three weary days of cleanup, mounting bills, and an outpouring of sympathy, indignation, and money from Jews and Gentiles alike. It was a good time for Hamel to throw his
kepuh
in the ring and run on a platform of community harmony and unity against hatred.

“Not a miracle,” said Ida Katzman.

“This is the biggest campaign we've ever had,” Rabbi Wass exclaimed, looking down at the computer printout in front of him. “Money came in from every suburb, all over the United States, some of it divided between the vandalized temples, some of it earmarked directly to us, over one hundred thousand dollars just for us, to redeem our Torah.”

“One hundred thousand thirty-seven dollars and some change,” said Hamel with a smile that showed his vital position on the temple board might be a very visible asset in his campaign, which would include a sturdy plank on tolerance and the need for anti-hate legislation throughout the state.

“In Florida,” said Bess Lieberman, morning elegant, her silver hair set fashionably in place, her thoughts on many things, “a Jewish radio show on a small alternative station was having its annual campaign for a few thousand dollars. A foulmouthed anti-Semite called and said the Holocaust was a fraud and said that any decent American would cut his throat rather than give a penny to a Jewish radio show, a show, by the way, that made community announcements and played American and Israeli Jewish music. As soon as the anti-Semite hung up, the phones went wild, pledges rolled in. The host pointed out the irony of the caller's making the campaign a success.”

“So?” said Rabbi Wass. “It's like what happened to us. Almost half is from non-Jews.”

“About twenty-six percent,” Hamel corrected. “Some from Christian organizations, some from individuals who definitely do not have Jewish names.”

“Each donor will have to be sent a letter of thanks and a reminder that their gift is tax deductible,” said Bess.

“Of course,” said Rabbi Wass.

“I'll do the letters,” said Bess. “They should have my name and Rabbi Wass's at the bottom. I can use the computer.”

“We can ask some of the Sisterhood to help,” said Rabbi Wass.

“If we get more than enough for the Torah, then some of that money that's pouring in should be spent on another computer, one from this century,” said Bess.

It was Lieberman's opinion, confirmed by Said, that the vandals had no intention of returning the Torah. Money was not the issue.

As they moved down the agenda and Ida Katzman looked as if she were about to doze off, Bess came to the last item, New Business.

“We should continue to have volunteers here at night,” said Bess.

“For how long?” asked Rabbi Wass.

“I don't know,” said Bess. She hesitated and then went on wondering how she was not going to cross the line of Abe's confidence. “Another few weeks, maybe more. And Monday, Monday I think we should have people at the doors during services.”

“Monday?” asked Rabbi Wass. “Why Monday?”

“Intuition,” said Bess.

“Intuition is usually borne of subtle signs picked up by an alert but not necessarily logical individual,” said Hamel, playing with his law school class ring. Unsaid was that the subtle signs had probably come from Detective Abraham Lieberman.