"I like you, Viejo," said El Perro.
"It is the knowledge of that affection that sustains me in trying moments," said Lieberman.
El Perro laughed. "You are some crazy son of a bitch," he said.
"I try to keep the troops amused," said Lieberman. 'Tomorrow morning."
"He's alive, we find him. I'll put Los Negms on this."
Los Negros were the Oliveros, two black brothers and a cousin, from Panama City. Los Negros could go on the South Side looking for Lonny. The rest of the Tentaculos would get cold looks, no answers, and a ten-to-one certainty that someone would get hurt.
"Sounds good to me," said Lieberman.
El Perro hung up the phone and Maish brought the toasted bagel. Hanrahan laughed and said, "You're a devious one, Rabbi."
"What?" asked Maish.
"We have to let Fernandez go by tomorrow no matter what," Lieberman explained, looking longingly at the sandwich his partner was downing. "Our witness backed out."
"How about an omelette with Egg Beaters, onions, some mushrooms?" Maish asked.
Lieberman shrugged in resignation.
Maish nodded and called back me order.
"How are you doing, Father Murph?"
"I'm pleased to announce that I've regained my appetite."
"I didn't know you'd lost it"
"Briefly," said Hanrahan, taking a bite of his pickle. "The truth, Abraham. You think Iris and I could make it? I mean, married?"
"Who knows?" said Lieberman, finishing the last of his bagel.
"Marriage is an institution,'' called Al Bloombach. "A mental institution."
Al chuckled, proud of himself and sorry he had no Alter Cockers around to appreciate his joke.
"You're a big help, Rabbi," said Hanrahan.
"Marry her," said Lieberman, holding up his empty glass for a refill.
"I'm an irresponsible Irish cop with a drinking problem that might come back when I'm not on guard. She's Chinese and she'll be shunned by her people."
"Don't marry her," said Lieberman.
"That's your advice? Marry her or don't marry her?"
"That's my advice too," said Maish, shuffling to the kitchen.
"If you have kids…" Bloombach called.
"No kids," said Hanrahan. "We're both too old for kids."
"Father Murph," Lieberman said. "If I don't give advice, I can't be blamed for giving bad advice if it goes wrong. I won't get credit for good advice either, but that's easier to live with."
Hanrahan nodded.
Maish schlepped the omelette from the kitchen and placed it in front of Lieberman. It didn't smell half bad.
"After we eat-" Lieberman began.
"Patniks for me. Rozier for you," said Hanrahan.
"And tea for two," called Al Bloombach.
"That man is desperately in need of companionship," said Lieberman, probing his omelette with a fork.
Behind the two policemen the T amp; L door swung open and someone said, "Hello, Uncle Maish."
Lisa. Lieberman had forgotten about his daughter.
"I'm on my way, Rabbi," said Hanrahan, counting off five dollars and dropping them on the counter as he stood.
"Lisa, I'm going through the motions," said Maish.
"How are you, Lisa?" Bill Hanrahan said, abandoning his partner to his family.
"All right," she said, moving past him and sitting next to her father.
"Good to hear it," Hanrahan said. "See you at the station, Abe."
"At the station," Lieberman echoed.
"What can I get you, Lisa?" Maish asked. "Manny's almost got the pickled whitefish ready."
"Coffee, toast," she said, looking at her father.
Lieberman turned and met his daughter's eyes. She looked serious.
"Abe," she said. "Todd's going to marry her. He wants the divorce and he's going to marry her."
"I know," said Lieberman, realizing even as he spoke mat he had made a massive error.
"You knew and you didn't tell me?"
"He mentioned it when he brought the kids home last night," said Abe, giving up his search for anything meaningful in the omelette. "I haven't had a chance to see you."
"I can't stay in the same city with them," she said.
"It's a big city with lots of suburbs," Abe said. "You give them north of Howard Street and you take the rest."
"That's not funny," she said, watching her uncle place a hot coffee mug in front of her. "How's Aunt Yetta?"
"She's Aunt Yetta," said Maish, moving away with a shrug.
"You should help him, Abe," Lisa whispered, picking up her coffee cup.
"I'm trying, Lisa," he said. "What's the issue?"
"Issue?' "You, your mother. On the phone. I know an issue when I hear one coming."
"I can't stay in Chicago," she said. "There's too much… I can't stay."
Lieberman wished he could dangle the prospect of Dr. Jacob Berry before his daughter, but Berry's eligibility had been seriously compromised. In fact, the odds were good that Dr. Berry's medical license was in jeopardy and that, if Matthews died, involuntary manslaughter and possession of an illegal weapon were in his future. Lieberman's mind raced for a possible substitute. He even considered Alan Kearney, then immediately rejected the idea.
"Where are you going?"
"San Francisco," she said. "I've always wanted to live in San Francisco, you know that."
Abe knew nothing of the kind, but he nodded in agreement.
"When?" he asked.
"Soon, next month. Right after Barry's bar mitzvah. I want you to tell Todd that I agree to the divorce. I want nothing from him, not even support for the children."
"I'll tell him."
"And you can send me whatever papers need to be signed."
"I will," he promised. "Anything else?"
"Yes, I talked to Mom about this. She said it was all right with her if it's all right with you."
Lieberman could feel it coming. He faced his daughter in the hope of intimidating her into backing down, but the past thirty-five years told him it was hopeless.
"You want to leave the kids with us," he said.
"For awhile," she said. "I think I can get a job with a pharmaceutical company in Oakland, but the cost of living there, transportation, setting things up…" 'Todd would help," Abe said.
Lisa looked deeply into her steaming coffee and shook her head.
"I don't want anything from Todd."
No, you want something from me and your mother, Abe thought, but was wise enough this time to say nothing. And besides, the prospect of having Barry and Melisa around without Lisa to tell him the proper way to treat them was tempting.
"Let's set a time limit," Lieberman said.
"Just six months," she said. "And I'll come back and visit on holiday weekends. I can get a special rate if I book in advance."
"Six months," Abe repeated.
"Maybe a little less, maybe a little more. I couldn't stand being away from Barry and Melisa for long."
"I'm more than sixty years old, Melisa. Your mother's… a little younger."
Her eyes met his, moist, pleading, hopeful, a look he hadn't seen from her in almost thirty years.
"Fine," he said with a sigh.
She hugged him, something she had done only once in the last twenty years, the night after Maish's son David was murdered.
"What?" asked Maish, coming with coffee refills.
"Lisa's moving to San Francisco," Abe said. "Bess and I are keeping the kids till she gets settled."
The door behind Lieberman opened and someone said, "What smells so good, Maish?"
"Boiled cabbage, pickled whitefish," said Maish.
The rush hour lunch had begun.
"Gregor, what are you doin'?"
When he had returned from the lineup, George Patniks had told his mother as little as possible and then gone down to his room to pace and listen to Sally Jessie and his mother laugh above him.
He tried to think about painting, a new painting, something light for a change-trees, a park, kids, oranges, anything-but nothing took shape. He paced.