'Later,' Lieberman said, now fascinated by the apparently pointless but elegantly presented ramblings of the rabbi.
'In short, I wish to buy your house. I'm sure you will be reasonable,' said the rabbi, pausing for a response.
'I don't think we're seriously considering selling quite yet,' Lieberman said.
'Abe…' Bess said softly.
'Well, maybe,' Lieberman conceded.
'Good,' Rabbi Nathanson said leaning forward, ready for business. 'A price?'
'One hundred and seventy-five thousand,' said Bess.
Rabbi Nathanson sat back to consider this.
'No realtor, six and a half percent saved,' said the rabbi. 'One hundred and sixty-two thousand and five hundred dollars.'
'We could consider mat,' Bess said, looking at Lieberman, encouraging him with her eyes not to destroy this opportunity.
'We'll think about it,' said Lieberman.
The rabbi put down the envelope in his hand, pulled out a fountain pen, and began writing.
'I will now give you a check for one thousand dollars,' he said. 'Earnest money. Good faith money to be applied to the purchase price. In return, you sign this document stating that you will sell to no one else for six months.'
'I don't think…' Lieberman began, but Rabbi Nathanson was hunched over his envelope and the checkbook he had conjured from his pocket. He was lost in words and dollars.
'There,' he said, handing check and envelope to Lieberman, who looked at them and turned the envelope over. It was a mailer from a Honda dealer on Western Avenue. Lieberman handed check and envelope to Bess.
'No offense, Rabbi,' Lieberman said, 'but I think we should think this over and talk to our lawyer before we sign anything.'
Rabbi Nathanson nodded, all knowing, and said, 'Fine, but I want you to keep the check, hold it, deposit it. I want this perfect house. I want to bring my wife to see it How is tomorrow night for you?'
The Liebermans exchanged looks and Bess, holding the check in her hand, said, 'Fine.'
'Seven?' asked the rabbi.
'Seven,' agreed Bess as the tall rabbi took the envelope back and signed it.
'There. You have my check. You have my signature.'
The rabbi rose. So did the Liebermans. They shook hands and walked their guest to the front door. On the way he scanned the walls, ceiling, and furniture with interest.
'The lighting fixtures,' he said at the door. 'They stay with the house?'
'Sure,' said Lieberman.
'Good,' the rabbi said. 'Good. Tomorrow. Seven.'
He hurried down the steps to the CLERGY car parked in front of the fire hydrant. Lieberman closed the door and looked at his wife.
'He's nuts,' said Lieberman.
'Unorthodox,' Bess said, handing her husband the rabbi's check.
'Reform,' Lieberman amended, looking at the check. 'And he has the handwriting of an ax murderer.'
They were moving back toward the kitchen now, where Bess would feed him and grill him about his visit to Dr. Berry.
'Handwriting analysis is not your specialty,' Bess said, taking his hand.
'It doesn't take an expert to see frenzy, the zeal of a true believer,' Lieberman said.
'We have a nice house,' Bess said, moving to the kitchen table.
'Then we should stay in it,' Lieberman said, sitting.
The table was already set for one.
'We agreed to think about selling,' Bess said. 'And fate brought us Rabbi Nathanson. The house is too big for two.'
'Lisa…' he tried, but she was ready.
'Will be moving out soon and we'll have the heat, air-conditioning, repairs, cleaning…'
'We'll think about it. Don't cash the check. Give Denenberg a call and ask him what he makes of it. What tune do you have to leave?'
'Leave?' she said.
'Table set for one. You're wearing a suit with pearls and perfume at eight o'clock. The great detective put the clues together. Building committee?' Lieberman asked.
'Fund-raising committee,' Bess answered. 'You'll have some time alone, to take it easy.'
She came around the table and kissed him. She tasted sweet and Lieberman wondered if they had time to…
'Al and Sophie Bloombach are picking me up in-,' she said with a smile, knowing what was on his mind, '- about ten minutes.'
Lieberman sighed.
'You'll have to be satisfied with a thin slice of brisket, potatoes, and salad till I get back, if you're still feeling frisky and awake.'
'No brisket,' Lieberman said as his wife moved to the oven. The smell from the oven was irresistible. 'After tonight.'
Bess turned to nun.
'What did the doctor tell your Abe tore a piece of challah from the half loaf on the table in front of him.
'His name is Berry, Jacob Berry, Jewish. Just came to the city from Indiana or Michigan. He's in his mid- thirties, divorced, loves baseball, has no sense of humor, and is easy to push around. Perfect for Lisa, I thought we might invite him-'
'Abe,' Bess said patiently, hands on her hips.
'High cholesterol, liver enzymes still high but manageable, migraines under control, back holding up, arthritis as well as can be expected. End of report. Nothing new.'
'We have to watch your food, Abe. You promised me you'd live to be a hundred and nine.'
'My love, if I am going to make it to one hundred and nine, the Lord will have to be very generous and he will need massive sacrifice from me. No meats, no milk products, watch the fat and cholesterol, lots of vegetables and fruits… in short, a potentially long life of extreme deprivation.'
'We'll find ways to make it taste good and good for you,' she said. 'Brisket is made. Indulge yourself, Abraham. One piece.'
'I am persuaded,' he said, and she brought the brisket to the table.
Bill Hanrahan did not want to go home, did not want to return to the house haunted now by the memory of his wife, Maureen, and children, in addition to Frankie Kraylaw, whom he had shot and killed just inside the front door. No one and nothing waited for him but a layer of distorted dreams covered by a layer of sour memories.
Hanrahan ate his sweet-and-sour pork. He had not quite mastered chopsticks, but he was reasonably comfortable with them. There were two other customers in the Black Moon Restaurant, an older couple probably from one of the high-rises across Sheridan Road. The old couple had paid and were waiting for Iris Chen to bring their change.
Through the restaurant window across the street, Hanrahan could see the entrance to one of the high-rises, the one in which a prostitute named Estralda Valdez had been murdered because William Michael Hanrahan was drunk while on duty. He had met Iris while using the Black Moon as a vantage point for watching the entrance to the high-rise. He was drunk when he met Iris, but she still agreed to go out with him. And their relationship had meandered now for over a year.
Iris gave the old couple their change and moved over to take a seat across from Hanrahan.
She was, he thought, lovely. He knew she was older than she looked, that she was older than he, but she looked young and solid and good, and being with her made him feel calm.
'We were talking about Laio Woo,' Hanrahan said, picking up a small, perfect square of pork.
'I remember,' said Iris. She was dressed in a blue silk dress that was decidedly Oriental, the uniform of the
