"Detectives Lieberman and Hanrahan," Herschel Rosen said somberly, "I want you to meet a new member of our table, Morris Becker. Morris was telling us just before you came in that he didn't know if he should be carrying a couple of ounces of heroin in his pocket. He's from Saint Louis, where they let old farts get away with anything."
"No," Morris Becker cried, suddenly standing up and almost knocking over what looked like a glass of cherry seltzer.
Becker was frail, thin, and, in spite of a green jacket and a matching beret, less than a monument to free spirithood.
"No," Becker repeated, looking at Herschel Rosen with disbelief. "I never… As God is my witness. On the grave of my father, aleh vei sholom, I've never…"
"Herschel's joking," said Howie Chen. "He's getting a distorted idea of humor since he's gone senile."
Howie, the only non-Jew hi the Cockers, was also the oldest at eighty-two, though he looked two decades younger. Howie had owned the Blue Dragon Restaurant a block away, working fourteen to eighteen hours a day for more than thirty years. When he retired and left the restaurant to his grandson, he had been welcomed to the table. Outside of Herschel and Morrie Stoltzer, Howie spoke the best Yiddish of all the Cockers.
"Abe, tell him," Howie said.
"It's a joke, Mr. Becker," Lieberman said, holding out his hand.
'Then you're not the police," Becker said, slowly putting out his right hand, half expecting it to be grasped and the cuffs snapped in place like on television.
"We are the police," said Hanrahan, "but we know Mr. Rosen. You're being initiated."
"Pleased to meet you," said Becker, shaking hands and sitting back down with a suspicious glance at Herschel.
"Al and Morrie?" asked Lieberman.
"The atheists are in traffic court," explained Howie Chen. "Al backed into Morrie in the parking lot and-"
"No, no, no," Herschel groaned. "Morrie backed into Al."
"It makes a difference?" Howie asked, looking to Lieberman for help.
"It makes a major difference here," Herschel insisted. "What are you talkin'? In China it might not make a difference. Here it makes a difference."
Howie Chen had never been in China. He was born in San Francisco. Herschel had come to the United States in 1931. It gave Howie about three years longer in America.
"Anyway," Howie went on, "they face each other in traffic court this afternoon. We're waiting for the winner to come and crow."
Al Bloombach and Morrie Stoltzer were best friends, had been for almost seventy years. They were also known as the atheist contingent of the Alter Cockers. And, in spite of their shared conviction that there was no deity, they fought over almost every other issue.
The rear booth near the kitchen was free. The detectives moved to it and slid in facing each other. The little boy with his parents at the next booth had heard the two men introduced as policemen. He was standing on his seat and looking back at Lieberman, who opened his jacket to reveal his holster. The boy's eyes widened. Lieberman winked and turned his attention to Hanrahan, who had pulled out his notebook.
There was a poster on the wall above the booth. The faded colors oozed with the call of a Vienna red hot drenched in mustard, onion, tomato, and relish. Lieberman tried not to look.
Manuel, the cook, who normally stayed in the kitchen handling short orders, brought Abe and Bill cups of coffee.
"Where's Maish?" asked Lieberman.
"Your brother's walking," said Manuel, a lean black man in his late forties. Lieberman had put Manuel away on a series of car thefts in 1967. When he got out of prison, where he learned to cook, Lieberman introduced him to Maish, who hired him immediately. That was over twenty-two years ago.
"He does that a lot these days," Manuel continued.
Lieberman nodded.
Maish's son, a rising television executive, had been gunned down in a senseless robbery two months ago. Maish, known throughout his sixty-five years as the deadpan Nothing Bothers Maish, had been badly shaken. Maish had given his life to his wife, Yetta, his son, and his deli. Now he took long walks to who knew where and showed little interest in the business.
"How about a corned beef, slice of sweet onion on fresh rye, small chopped liver or kishke on the side?" Manuel recommended.
Hanrahan nodded yes, and Lieberman said, "Just a bagel, toasted, with maybe a little jam, jelly, something."
Manuel shrugged and went to take some cash from the two women at the counter who were standing near the cash register.
"You feelin' OK, Rabbi?" Hanrahan asked.
"Diet again, the new doctor. Cholesterol. Don't ask. You, you had your cholesterol checked?"
"Yeah, last year. Levels are low. Doc chalked it up to heredity," Hanrahan said, scanning the pages of his notebook.
There were Cubs on first and third with one out. Grace hit into a double play. The Cockers groaned and the little boy in the next booth turned to look at the crazy old men.
"So, Father Murph," Lieberman said just before sipping his coffee, "what do we have?"
"None of Rozier's neighbors remember a handyman coming to their door. None of them has hired a handyman in months. Checked three blocks square. Should have brought my raincoat."
"So either our thief was checking out the Rozier place…" said Lieberman.
"Or there was no thief," said Hanrahan, looking up. "I don't like our recent widower. His grief is fake."
Lieberman nodded. Hanrahan was a world-class griever.
"That doesn't make him a killer, Father Murph."
The Cockers chattered. The family at the next table left. Harry Carey said there were two more chances for the Cubs, and a trio of truck drivers came in and sat at the counter.
"Man can be happy his wife is dead, or at least not unhappy, and not be responsible for her death," said Lieberman. "And he has a hell of an alibi."
"Could have hired somebody," Hanrahan countered.
"Could have. Could also be telling the truth."
"Could. You don't like him either, do you?"
"No," Lieberman confessed, wondering if he could start his diet tomorrow. What could one day hurt? One last bash before the long starvation. Who ever died of a hot dog? But he knew he wouldn't do it. There was no tempering for Abe Lieberman, never had been. He could give it up, but he couldn't settle for just a little.
"So?"
"You take Harvey," Lieberman said. "Find out if he inherits from his wife, if he's been cheating on her, or if she's been cheating on him. Check the alibi. Be careful. Our Harvey is an important man."
"I'll make it quick and quiet, call in a few favors," said Hanrahan as Manuel returned and placed a huge sandwich in front of him. The pickle on the plate shone green and new.
"I'll go for the thief," said Lieberman, looking at the toasted bagel in front of him and the small carton of red jelly. "Rozier asked me the names of five perps in the mug books. Says none of them was the would-be handyman. For a man who claims to remember faces the way Charlton Heston remembers Shakespeare, his asking for the names strikes me as-"
"Odd," said Hanrahan, opening his mouth to attempt to encompass the enormity of the sandwich in his hands.
Lieberman took a bite of his toasted bagel and stood up.
"I'll call Evidence and the coroner," he said. "Enjoy your sandwich."
The phone was through the door to the kitchen, right next to the men's room. He made his calls, took notes holding the receiver tucked under his chin, asked questions, and hung up. When he got back to the booth, the Cubs had miraculously tied the game, the truck drivers' mouths were stuffed, and the Alter Cockers were laughing. The new Cocker, Morris Becker, was doing something with his face that may have been smiling.