He was finished with his sandwich and nursing his Coke after the waitress brought his check when the man he had talked to on the street came in and moved toward him. The man was carrying a small paper bag. He slid into the booth across from Jacob Berry. There was no expression on his face.
"Sixty dollars," the man said softly.
"I've only got fifty-six and I haven't paid for my lunch."
"Fifty dollars," the man sighed in resignation, looking around the diner and out the window where pedestrians passed, paying no attention.
"Take the bag," the man said.
Jacob reached under the table and took the crumpled brown bag. Something felt cool and heavy inside it "Money," the man said.
Jacob took out his wallet and counted out three tens and a twenty. The man took the money above the table, counted it, and stuffed it into his pocket. He looked around again and started to get up.
"Wait," Jacob said. "I've never shot a gun."
"Simple," whispered the man, leaning over the table toward Jacob. "It has bullets in it. No safety. Trigger is firm, won't go off by accident. You aim. You shoot. Just like Clint Eastwood. Your day is made."
And the man was gone.
It was over. Just like that. That fast. Wish for something and it appears. If Lieberman called him or mentioned the gun business the next time he saw him, Jacob would do exactly what Lieberman wanted, go through the process of getting a legal gun, and when he had it he would throw the weapon in the brown paper bag away. Meanwhile, he would have a small sense of security.
He stuffed the bag and the gun into his pocket and left the diner. It would be easier to face the afternoon with the weapon hi his desk drawer.
"What have we got, Father Murphy?" Lieberman asked when his partner slid into the passenger seat and closed the door.
The seat was already adjusted back so that Bill Hanrahan could stretch his legs and accommodate his football lineman frame.
Bill Hanrahan's hair was growing back with a vengeance. For about six months he had worn his dark hair short and brushed straight back and military. For about the same period he had been on the wagon, tempted but still riding and clinging for dear life to a fender. His face was less red and puffy than it had been when he drank, but there was a recent grayness to his skin and he wore a shave not quite close enough, a tie not fully knotted and not exactly matching his jacket.
"Very little but a corpse, a grieving husband, a preliminary medical, a murder weapon. Least that's what I got from Briggs. Report from Homicide'll be waiting at Rozier's house."
"Grieving husband has clout."
"Meaning?"
"He asks for a specific cop, me, and someone tells Briggs to give the man what he wants," said Lieberman.
"Reads that way, Abe."
"We shall see, Father Murphy. We shall see."
They were driving away from Hanrahan's house on a side street in Ravenswood less than two blocks from the Ravenswood Hospital. Bill Hanrahan and his wife, Maureen, had raised two boys in the house. When they were grown and gone, Maureen packed her bags and went on her way. Hanrahan had been through much in the house since men, including his killing of a psycho less than a month ago, a psycho whose wife and young son he'd taken in. The psycho, Frankie Kraylaw, a rifle in his hand, had broken in, demanding his wife. Bill Hanrahan shot him.
The memories had been tainted, but Hanrahan held on, keeping the place in perfect order for the day that Maureen came back, not to stay but to pick something up or just drop in. She would see how well he was doing, how he was straight and sober, how he could make it on his own.
Bill Hanrahan had come to reasonable terms with his life. Three decades ago Hardrock Hanrahan had been the fastest lineman on the Chicago Vocational High School football team. Dick Butkus, who had graduated from CVS a few years after Hanrahan, told Bill at a reunion that Hardrock had been an inspiration to him. And then the knee went in a practice game and so did the speed and any chance at Notre Dame or Illinois or even Wisconsin. He lasted two years at Southern Dlinois University and then gave up to join his father as a Chicago cop, as his father had joined his grandfather before him.
Then Maureen came, and the boys and the bottle.
But things were better now. He even went to Saint Bart's once in awhile, though not recently, and he was engaged to a Chinese woman named Iris Chen. A new start. Who knows?
Hanrahan had received a phone call the night before on his unlisted phone, a phone call from a man with just the hint of an Oriental accent. The man said he was calling for Mr. Woo. The man paused to see if Hanrahan recognized the name. He did.
"Mr. Woo, as you know, is a very influential and civic-minded businessman," the man said.
Laio Woo, Hanrahan knew, owned about a quarter of Chinatown and had a piece of most Chinese-owned businesses in the city. He was also suspected of cooperating with a major narcotics operation to the Midwest out of Hong Kong. The mayor took pictures with him and shook his hand. Civic organizations honored him for his generous contributions. Those who knew better kept their mourns shut.
"I'm aware of that," Hanrahan said.
"The Chen family is very dear to Mr. Woo. His father knew them well in China many years ago. He has been, as he has to many in our community, a benevolent patron to the Chens. You understand?"
"I'm with you," said Hanrahan.
"Mr. Woo thinks it would be best if Iris Chen married within her own culture."
"He does?"
"Yes."
"You know I'm a cop?"
"Of course," the man said calmly. "And Mr Woo is aware that you are divorced, are alcoholic, and have been disciplined twice by the department for misconduct. Mr. Woo would be very grateful if you would simply cease your relationship with Miss Chen."
"Grateful, how grateful?" Hanrahan asked.
The man on the phone sighed.
"Please, Mr. Hanrahan, we are not fools. You will be offered no money. Mr. Woo is well aware that such an offer might be illegal and that you most certainly would not accept it."
"You know what you can tell Mr. Woo?"
"Yes, I know the limits of that which I can convey to him."
"If Iris Chen wants to marry me, then I'm doing it. And I'd advise Mr. Woo not to do anything that sounds to me like he's putting pressure on Miss Chen. You understand?"
"Clearly," said the man. "But can you not see the merit of Mr. Woo's concern?"
Neither Iris nor her father had ever mentioned Woo.
Hanrahan hung up. Partly out of simple anger. Partly because he did see the merit in Woo's concern.
Lieberman was fully aware that his partner was lost in thought on the inside and slipping on the outside.
"I'm fine, Rabbi," he said as they turned west on Wilson.
"Did I ask?' "Didn't have to," said Hanrahan, shifting his weight. "I'm still straight and sober."
"Which is more than can be said for most of the world."
"Amen."
Traffic cones let mem know they were approaching a school crossing. Lieberman slowed down. A thin man with a white beard stepped into the crosswalk and held up bis hand for Lieberman to stop. A gaggle of small children scurried across.
"My boys used to cross here," Hanrahan said. "One of the reasons we moved here in the first place. Decent school, short walk. How's Lisa?"
The crossing guard stepped to the curb and Lieberman touched the gas pedal gently.
"She's fine. Getting used to the idea that Todd's going to marry the teacher."
"She'll be moving out?"
"No sign, but Bess is matchmaking with the fury of no mean proportions. And I've got my eye on a promising doctor."
"Life is hard, Rabbi."
"Life is hard, Father Murph, but it has its compensations, including…"