Lieberman's Law; An Abe Lieberman Mystery

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

• ISBN13: 9780812575330
• ISBN10: 0812575334
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2000-12-15
• Publisher: Forge Books

Summary

Abe Lieberman, the Chicago PD detective, has never has it easy when it comes to emotional cases, but this time the action is gettinglittle too close to home. His temple has been vandalized along with four others, and it looks like the vandals have more sinister plans in mind.Finding the culprit opens a window on the broiling ethnic tensions on Chicago's North Side, and what's happening in Abe's family life does nothing to turn down the heat. If he and his partner, Hanrahan, can locate the vandals who have targeted the city's Jews, they may be able to put a stop to some of the madness before violence enters the picture.

Author Biography

Stuart M. Kaminsky is the Edgar Award-winning author of the critically acclaimed Inspector Rostnikov, Toby Peters, Lew Fonesca, and Abe Lieberman mystery series. He lives with his family in Sarasota, Florida.

Table of Contents

ONE
 
Chicago, Today
 
 
The morning rush hour at the Edgewater Restaurant, which was little more than a small diner, was over. Traffic hurried by in the late spring rain. People scurried with and without umbrellas down Lawrence Avenue. There were only three customers in the dinner; two of them were Korean businessmen who owned shops in the area, one a cleaning store, the other a show store. They were sitting in a booth finishing a later breakfast and arguing in Korean about something. The only other customer, a burly, weary-looking white man, sat in the booth behind them drinking coffee from a white mug and reading the Sun-Times.
The old counterman in a white apron filled white ceramic containers with packets of Sweet'n Low, Equal, and sugar. When the diner door opened, letting in the sound and smell of falling rain, the counterman barely looked up. The burly man shipped his coffee and turned to the sports pages in back. But the two Korean businessmen turned, rose from their unfinished breakfast and hurried to the counter to pay. One of them placed a ten-dollar bill near the cash register. The other businessman, the one with the shoe store, tried not to look at the trio who had come into the restaurant, one of whom was now closing the door behind him.
“I'll add it up,” said the counterman, putting aside his packet container and wiping his hands on his apron.
“No need,” said the cleaning store operator. “You keep change.”
“Suit yourself,” said the counterman with a shrug and reached for the ten spot while the businessmen made their way around the three men who had just entered.
The three were in their twenties, Korean. Two were dressed in the black jeans, nicely laundered white button-down shirts, and identical leather bomber jackets. The third Korean was slightly older than the other two and wore a black London Fog raincoat and sunglasses. The three moved to the counter and sat as the old counterman smoothed his white mustache and asked, “What'll it be, gentlemen?”
“Mr. Park,” said the one in the middle, the one wearing sunglasses.
“Park's sick,” said the counterman. “You wanna start with coffee?”
The three young men sat silently, barely wet from the pouring rain, their car probably parked within a few feet of the diner. The three men watched the old man pour them coffee. Their cups sat untouched. The old counterman put out the sugar and sugar substitutes and a small metal pitcher of milk.
“When will Mr. Park return?” the young man with glasses said, without a trace of accent.
The old counterman shrugged his thin shoulder and said, “Couldn't say. Pretty sick. Something with his stomach. Hypotonectosis, I'm talking over the place for a while, maybe a long while.” The counterman heaved a heavy sigh and looked around the place. “Thought I was safely retired, but…what'll it be? Hotcakes, eggs, fruit and yogurt cup? Strawberries are fresh.”
“Fruit and yogurt,” said the young man, removing his glasses to clean the rain off with a napkin.
The old man looked at the flankers who shook their head without speaking. The old man shrugged and called the order back to someone in the kitchen. Then he moved from behind the counter with the coffee pot in his hand to give a refill to the burly man who grumbled something about the Cubs having no pitchers again, about someone named Dickerson giving up two runs in the eighth.
The old man shook his head sympathetically as he retreated behind the counter and returned the pitcher to the hot plate. He picked up the fruit cup and delivered it to the young Korean whose glasses were now cleaned to his satisfaction back on his nose.
“We have come to collect,” said the young man, “I am sure Mr. Park informed you that we come in every other Friday to collect.”
The old man looked puzzled. “Park got sick suddenly. Rushed to the hospital. I talked to his daughter, said I'd take over. Park's an old friend. How's the yogurt cup?”
“These strawberries are not fresh,” said the young man. “They were frozen.”
“I swear on my mother's life,” the old man said shaking his head. “I thought we had fresh strawberries. You want me to take it back? No charge.”
He reached for the cup. The young man grabbed his wrist and held it tightly. One of the other two men looked at the man reading his newspaper. The burly man didn't seem to be paying any attention.
“We collect one hundred dollars every two weeks,” the man in the glasses said softly, “Today is collection day.”
“Collect?” said the counterman, trying to pull his arm away. “For what?”
“Protection,” said the young man.
“From who, what?” the old man said, still trying to free his arm.
“From us,” the young man said softly. “Park pays. We don't break his windows. We don't mess the place up. We don't mess up Park or his family. What we could do to Park, we could to you. Hypo…”
“…tonectosis,” the old man finished.
“You'll wish you were in the hospital with it next to park. You understand?”
“This is a shakedown,” the old man said, frightened but also angry. “This is blackmail.”
“Now you understand,” the young man said, letting go of the counterman's arm. “Every other week we collect one hundred dollars from every Korean business in the neighborhood.”
“I'm not Korean,” said the old man.
“As of right now, till Park returns, you are acting Korean,” said the young man, adjusting his dark glasses as the counterman rubbed his wrist and looked at all three of the young men. The one on the right smiled slightly.
“Blackmail,” repeated the old man.
“Extortion,” the young man with glasses corrected.
“I'm not paying,” said the old man, backing away from the counter.
The young man in the middle, the leader who had grabbed the old man's wrist, put his palms together and touched his hand to his lips as if in prayer.
“Then,” he said, “We will begin by breaking two of your fingers and destroying the kitchen.”
The two young men flanking the leader got up from their stools. One of them moved around the counter heading for the counterman. The other headed slowly toward the kitchen.
“You hear all that?” the counterman said.
“Clear as spring rain,” answered the burly man, still looking at his newspaper.
“Leave now,” the young man with glasses said to the burly man. The man who was heading for the kitchen paused at the customer's table and a knife suddenly appeared in the young man's hand, a long, thin-bladed knife. He pointed it at the burly man.
“OK,” said the old counterman, wearily stepping back in front of the bespectacled Korean.
The young man smiled and then, to this total surprise, the old counterman reached over, grabbed the front of his jacket, and with an unexpected strength yanked the young man onto the counter, overturning the yogurt plate and one of the cups of coffee. The young Korean was appalled to finds the barrel of a pistol pressed up against the right lens of his glasses.
When the other two young m en moved to help their leader, the burly man lowered his newspaper, revealing a pistol in his hand. “Stop there,” he said.
The two ignored him and took a step forward. The young man looking into the gun barrel shuddered.
“I said ‘stop' in clear, plain, loud English,” the burly man shouted, firing his weapon with the ceiling.
This time, the two mean stopped.
“You OK, Rabbi?” the burly cop said, sliding out of the booth, weapon aimed at the frozen young Koreans.
“Lovely, Father Murphy,” said the old man, releasing the young man with the glasses but keeping the gun leveled at his head.
“Tape?” asked the burly cop, knocking the knife from the hand of the young man nearest him.
Gun still leveled, the old man reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small tape recorded. “I'll leave it running in case these gentlemen have anything more to say.”
None of three Koreans spoke as the two policemen handcuffed them behind their backs.
“Let's set a record booking 'em,” said the burly man. pushing the two young men toward the door. “Iris and I have an appointment with Father Parker about the wedding.”
“You could've told me earlier,” said Lieberman, removing his apron and pocketing the tape recorder.
“Slipped my mind,” said Hanrahan.
“Slipped his mind.” Lieberman said to the bespectacled young man as if they were friend. “You believe that?”
The young man said nothing as Lieberman guided him around the counter and had him join his partners at the front door. The young man was known only as Kim to his small gang and to the Korean businessmen he robbed. Kim's goals in life were to look as dry as Clint Eastwood and as cool as a young Robert Mitchum and to become very wealthy and respected. He and his gang had been at this extortion game for almost a year. They had done well. Until now. Kim was humiliated, beaten by a skinny old man.
“I'll get the car,” Hanrahan said, putting his gun back in the holster under his jacket.
“I'll entertain our visitors,” said Lieberman.
Hanrahan opened the door, looked at the downpour and turned to say, “I'll have the door open. Get 'em in fast.”
“Like the Flash,” said Lieberman, and his partner dashed out into the rain. “You know the Flash?”
The question was directed at the three handcuffed young men. The one nearest Lieberman was having trouble keeping his glasses on his nose with his hands cuffed behind him.
“The Flash was in the comics,” said Lieberman with a sigh at the lack of education of the young. “When I was a kid he wore a tin helmet with wings, like Mercury. Then they stuck him in a tight red suit.”
The Koreans seemed even more bewildered.
“OK now?” came a timid voice behind Lieberman.
“OK now,” Lieberman answered.
From the kitchen two people emerged. Park and his wife. They were in their fifties and held back in fear, not completely sure that what they had done was the right thing.
“We will talk again,” the young man in glasses said to the couple.
“That would be a bad idea,” Lieberman said, moving to Kim's side. He moved close enough to whisper in the man's ear. “Much to my regret and in the hope that God has forgiven me through my prayers, I have killed four people and cooperated in doing very unpleasant things to about six others. If anything happens to the Parks, if anything happens to this diner, if he even tells me that you or one of your gang has returned here, I'll find you and I'll shoot you.”
The young man twitched his nose trying to keep his glasses on. Lieberman helped him by pushing the glasses back with the barrel of his gun.
“You believe me?” asked Lieberman.
Kim didn't answer.
“You know the Tentaculos?”
The three men looked at the skinny cop with the almost white hair and the white mustache. He looked a little like an undernourished old dog, one of those dogs with the sad, tired faces. They didn't answer, but Lieberman knew the answer.
“You get in touch with El Perro,” Lieberman said in his ear. “Tell him that El Viejo said he would shoot you. Ask him if you should believe me.”
“You're threatening me,” said Kim.
“You are a very perceptive young man,” said Lieberman softly. “I turned the tape recorder off long before I did it.”
“You are the Jew cop. Liebowitz,” the man is sunglasses said calmly. “You are the one who had been talking to our clients, costing us business. I've heard of you.”
“It's nice to be famous,” said Lieberman. “The name is Lieberman.”
Three quick honks of a car horn. Lieberman nodded the trio out into the rain. He turned and smiled sadly at the Parks, who were pressed close to each other. Mrs. Park raised her hand slightly in what was probably a wave.
Lieberman ushered the three onto the street and into the back seat of the unmarked blue Geo. It took about ten seconds. Liberman closed the door and slid into the passenger seat. He was almost as soaked as Hanrahan who gunned the car into the dark wet traffic almost colliding with a bright, white, double-parked Lincoln Town Car.
“That your car?” asked Hanrahan, nodding at the Lincoln as they passed it. “Bockford Towing gets them in minutes around here, even in the rain.”
“I'll book 'em,” Lieberman said, running his hand through his hair and glancing back at their silent prisoners. “We'll get you to the church on time.”
“Meet you back at the station at noon?” asked Hanrahan, now driving merely recklessly instead of insanely through traffic.
“Make it one,” said Lieberman. “I've got an appointment too. You three comfortable back there?”
The three men in the back seat started to talk in Korean.
“Silence,” said Lieberman, half turning in his seat and pointing his gun at them. “I might think you're planning some kind of escape. You don't want me to think that. You have long lives and short prison terms ahead of you unless we find you're wanted for something else.”
The young man directly behind Hanrahan said something in Korean. He was clearly frightened. The one in the middle, with sunglasses answered him with two or three clipped words and the frightened one grew quiet.
“I think, Father Murphy, that we have a winner in the back row.”
Hanrahan nodded. If one of them was wanted they would work him over, make a deal with his lawyer, get better counts on his partners. On the other hand, all three of them could be back on the street the next day. The ways of judges and lawyers were a mystery to Hanrahan. He checked the car clock and his wristwatch. He had a little over half an hour to pick up Iris and ten minutes after that to get to St. Bart's. There was just enough room between the Bekin's truck and an old Dodge. Hanrahan sloshed through, heading up Broadway.
“What the hell is hypotonectosis?” asked Hanrahan.
“Made it up,” said Lieberman.
“Why didn't you just give him a real disease?”
“Spring is the mischief in me,” said Lieberman.
“What?” asked Hanrahan.
“Robert Frost,” said the bespectacled prisoner. “It's from Robert Frost.”
Lieberman looked at Kim.
“English major,” Kim said.
Lieberman sat forward and shook his head. He listened to the torrent of rain on the car roof and thought about his lunch meeting with Eli Towser. Capturing the three in the back seat was like eating a strawberry danish at Maish's compared to what he expected from Eli Towser.
* * *
In spite of the faded jeans, the red-and-black flannel shirt, and the little black kepuh on his head, the beard gave Eli Towser away. He was not just a Jew, he was very much an Orthodox Jew. In fact, he was no just an Orthodox Jew, he was also a rabbinical student and had come highly recommended by Rabbi Wass of Temple Mir Shavot. Since Rabbi Wass was neither Orthodox nor particularly brilliant, Lieberman had been suspicious of the lean young man who had appeared at his door a little over a month ago. The young man had introduced himself seriously, touched the mezuzah on the doorway and entered.
Eli Towser, no more than twenty-five years old, had explained that he and his wife made a modest supplement to his scholarship, she with the money earned by a part-time job while she too went to school, and he by tutoring Jewish boys for their bar mitzvah and Jewish girls for their bat mitzvah. Towser had been dressed more seriously the day he first met Lieberman, Bess, and their grandson Barry. Winter had just made up its mind to depart but left a late chill behind and the young man before them had worn a black suit, hat, and coat.
He answered all of their questions and assured them that Barry's being bar mitzvahed in a Conservative temple would be no problem, and they came to price. Bess took care of the payments and Barry had reluctantly prepared. If there had been no reluctance from a twelve-year-old boy, Abe would have worried. For the first four sessions—two per week, after school no Tuesdays and Thursdays—the rabbinical student and the resigned boy, who bore a distinct resemblance to his father, were left alone in the Lieberman kitchen.
They practiced. Much of what Barry had to learn was simply memorization. His reading of Hebrew was going slowly. The whole process was about to go even more slowly.
Now sitting among the early lunch crowd a Kopelman's Kosher Restaurant, Lieberman said “Eli,” as he pushed aside his bowl of rice pudding, leaving just enough left to delude himself that he was indeed eating with moderation.
The rabbinical student was methodically dipping mandel bread cookies into his coffee. With each dip, Towser smoothed down his beard to make room for the dripping delight. Four pieces of the almost oval cookies remained on the plate.
Lieberman had to speak loudly to be heard over the early lunch crowd at Kopelman's Kosher Restaurant Lieberman felt the first twinge of a coming stomach ache. he was getting then more and more often. Two blocks east of them on Devon was the T & L Deli, owned and run by Abe's brother Maish, but the T & L wasn't kosher. Kopelman's was.
Towser had consumed a lunch that would have made Marlon Brando proud: salad, pot roast, a side order of kishke, and a large glass of orange juice before coffee and desert.
“Yes?” asked Eli, reaching for a second piece of mandel bread.
“You have any idea of why I asked to have lunch with you?”
“To take me to lunch,” Towser corrected, pointing a piece of cookie across the table at Lieberman.
At the table inches away from them, one of the two women working on their kreplach soup said, “Be sensible, Rose, If he were cheating, would he give you her name?” Lieberman thought it a distinct possibility that Rose's husband would give the name of the woman he was having an affair with. It would depend on how smart the husband was and how much Rose was willing to pretend not to know.
A few more details and Lieberman could have given a definitive answer.
“None at all,” Towser answered Lieberman with a small mile of anticipation.
“Politics,” said Lieberman, nodding at the water who had come to refill Towser's cup and offer coffee to Lieberman. Lieberman had been a master of restraint for over a month, rigidly watching his diet, eating the inedible, drinking massive amounts of water, moderate amounts of coffee and envying all who could consume enormous quantities of fat and salt without being warned by their doctors about blood pressure, cholesterol, and inflamed intestinal walls. Today Lieberman had eaten a toasted onion bagel with nothing on it and a bowl of cold beet borscht with no sour cream. He had consumed a small bowl of rice pudding and was now working on coffee.
Towser paused mid-dunk to look at the man across the table who had taken pains to tuck his holster and pistol well beneath his armpit under his jacket. There would be no hint of anger or intimidation. Abe had promised Bess.
“Israeli politics?” Towser asked.
“In a sense,” Lieberman answered, dreading the rest of the conversation and smelling a brisket being served to the betrayed Rose and her sympathetic friend.
“You are the president of temple Mir Shavot, aren't you?” Eli Towser said.
“My wife is,” said Lieberman. “I adroitly managed to escape that trap, only to find myself maneuvered onto the building committee.”
“I've seen the new temple on Dempster,” said Towser. “Very contemporary.” There was a faint touch of criticism in Towser's observation.
“It used to be bank,” Lieberman said.
Towser dunked and nodded his head.
“You're a good teacher,” Lieberman went on, his hands in his lap. “Barry's learned a lot and he's leaned fast.”
“Thank you,” said Towser. “Am I here to get a raise?”
“No,” said Lieberman, “you are here to be told politely to stop teaching your own political views to my grandson. Your job is to prepare him for his bar mitzvah.”
Towser put his piece of mandel bread aside and leaned toward Lieberman. “There is no line between the politics of Israel and the process of being a Jew,” said the young man.
“What we want is a bar mitzvah for my grandson,” said Lieberman, trying to ignore the smile of recognition from a man in a booth across the room.
“And he'll have it,” said Towser.
“He's talking about driving Arabs out of Israel, a return to war against the PLO,” said Lieberman. “He doesn't even know what he's talking about and you've got it in his speech.”
“Where it belongs,” said Towser.
“He's twelve,” said Lieberman.
“My father bombed a British hotel in Jerusalem when he was twelve,” said Towser intently. “Jewish boys become men when they bar mitzvah. A thirteen-year-old stands with us in a minyan.”
Lieberman was far more familiar with what twelve-year-old boys are capable of than Eli Towser was. That was Lieberman's point. He knew how ready they were to follow a leader into violence and their own sense of group respect, survival, and often a creative or idiotic sense of honor or territory. A minyan, a gathering of ten adult, bar mitzvahed Jews needed in order to pray, required no political posture. “I don't want my grandson to be taught hate,” said Lieberman.
The man who had smiled at Lieberman rose from his booth, put down his napkin, and headed through the crowd.
“Over and over throughout recorded time, the Lord Our God has delivered us from those who would take away Israel,” said Towser, his eyes scanning Lieberman's face. “But he does not just deliver us with miracles. He tells us to take up sword and return to the days of Samuel. Do you understand Hebrew?”
“No.” said Lieberman.
Towser sighed and said, “First Samuel, chapter seven, verses eleven through fourteen: ‘…and the hand of the Lord was against the Philistines all the days of Samuel. And the cities which the Philistines had taken from Israel were restored to Israel, from (Ekron even unto Gath); and the borders thereof did Israel deliver out of the hands of the Philistines.'”
The rabbinical student's voice was rising now. Rose and her friends stopped talking and tackled their food with religious intensity. The man from the booth made his way between tables and past waiters juggling steaming trays.
Everything smelled good to Lieberman. Everything looked like trouble.
“You told Barry that it was the responsibility of every Jew to be prepared to take arms against Arabs and anyone who supported them anywhere in the world,” said Lieberman.
“Yes?” said Towser.
“Sounds too much like terrorist rhetoric for my wife and me,” Lieberman said.
“And barry's parents? What do they say?” asked Eli Towser, his white-knuckled hands now gripping the table.
“His father is a gentle,” said Lieberman. “He teaches Greek literature at Northwestern. He thinks politics stopped over a thousand years ago, but I bet he can quote you a line of Aeschylus to counter anything you come up with from the Bible regardless of which side it takes. My daughter Lisa, Barry's mother, is in Los Angeles seeking her Self. She thinks that a bar mitzvah for her son is a waste of time, a waste had probably won't hurt him. She walked out on her husband and left her kids with us.”
“So?” asked Towser expectantly.
The man from the booth across the room was now hovering over their table grinning widely. Abe pretended not to see him. He wanted his moist eyes focused on the rabbinical student.
“So, the decision is mine and my wife's. So we ask you to stop politics.”
“I can't,” said Towser.
“I didn't think so. I've seen too many people, young and old, with the look you have in your eyes,” said Lieberman. “True believers.” Lieberman reached into this inner jacket pocket, pulled out his wallet and found a check, which he handed to Towser. It was all made out. “Payment in full,” said Lieberman.
“I'm fired?” asked Towser looking at the check, off guard.
“Dismissed,” said Lieberman.
There was more to say but Lieberman was certain it would have no effect. He could talk about the anger Eli Towser needed to control, but Towser would have responded with indignation and examples from Jeremiah, the Likud Party, and the New York Times.
Eli Towser rose. People in the restaurant were looking at them. Most assumed it was an argument between father and son and lowered their voices to listen or raised them to drown out the battle. This was lunch time at Kopelman's.
Towser pocketed the check. “I deserve this payment,” he said.
“I agree,” said Lieberman with a nod to Eli, who walked away shaking his head. Lieberman looked up at the hovering man who was casting a shadow on his now tepid cup of coffee.
“Lieberman,” the man said jovially. He was plump, around Lieberman's age, early sixties, and had a pink, healthy face and a businessman's smile. His suit wasn't new, but it was definitely made from good material. Lieberman knew good material. His mother's father had been a tailor on the West Side on 12th Street even before it became Roosevelt Road.
Lieberman looked up, wanting very much to be alone, and not recognizing the main though Lieberman had a reputation in both the Clark Street Station and Congregation Mir Shavot for never forgetting a face or a name. It might take him a while and he might have to imagine a historical context, but he seldom missed.
“Hoover,” said the man, surprised that Abe did not recognize him. “Ira Hoover.”
No bells rang for Lieberman. He did not really want to listen for them. The two women at the next table watched the exchange while they nibbled at a small plate of rugalah. Rose ate slowly.
“Itzak Hoverman,” the man prodded.
“Izzy?” said Lieberman, looking at the man again.
“The one. The only. The same. In the flesh. Only more of it,” said Hoover. “Izzy Hoover.”
“Haven't see you around,” said Lieberman.
“For good reason,” said Hoover taking the seat Eli Towser had recently left. “I've been away from Chicago for more than thirty years. I'm in the front office for the Supersonics. Moved up from USBL team in Texas about four years ago.”
“How's Seattle?” asked Lieberman.
“Nice. Wet,” said Hoover. “I hear you're a police officer?”
Lieberman nodded, dearly wanting to be along with his thought rather than reminiscing with someone who looked like the greeter at a posh Michigan Avenue men's store. He did not want to see this nearly bald man with a fringe of gray hair and a pink face who had once been Izzy Hoverman, one of the best shooting guards in Chicago. At Marshall High School back in the 1950s, the Commandos Juniors, 5'8" and under, four blacks, six Jews, were the best in the city, probably the best in the country. Abe's brother Maish was three years ahead of Abe, but they got to play together for one season, the best season. Abe, the ball handler, remembered every pass, every assist, every jumper he made that season. At least he thought he remembered. Izzy and Billy “Springfeet” Springfield were the only ones who had gone on to college ball. And Billy, who had suddenly shot up to 6'6", had even been drafted out of college by the Celtics, but he hadn't made the team.
Abe didn't want to remember. He didn't want to talk basketball or old times at Marshall High.
“You see Hoop Dreams?” Izzy said. “The gym looked the same. The cheerleaders were leading the same. Déjà vu, you know? That Agee kid reminds me of Billy, even looks like him.”
Lieberman nodded and drank some cool coffee.
“you got stuff on your mind,” Izzy observed, standing. “I know how that is. Listen, I got to get back to my booth. My cousins. I don't get back here much. You know how it is. How's Maish?”
“Fine,” said Lieberman, not wanting to go into the recent death of Maish's son.
“Nothing bother Maish,” Hoover said. “City championship game. No time left. We're down by two and Maish has a pair of free throws. I'll never forget. Chicago Stadium. Maybe ten thousand in the audience. School winning streak in his hands. And calm as you please, Maish sinks 'em both. We all run out, jump all over him. Pick him up. Never cracks a smile.”
“I remember,” said Abe.
“Won't keep you any longer,” said Izzy, reaching into his pockets. “Maybe you can use these.” Izzy handed Lieberman an envelope pulled magically from his inside jacket pocket. He reached out to shake hands and Lieberman shook. “You look like you need a vacation, Abe. You ever get to Seattle, look me up. I mean it.”
And Izzy was gone. Lieberman was alone with his cold coffee. The two women at the next table were gone. A busboy was quickly clearing their table. Lieberman opened the envelope and pulled out four passes behind the Sonics bench for a Bulls-Sonics Game next season. Abe looked up for Izzy, but like the ladies at the next table, he and his cousins were gone.
 
Copyright © 1996 by Stuart M. Kaminsky

Excerpts

ONE
 
Chicago, Today
 
 
The morning rush hour at the Edgewater Restaurant, which was little more than a small diner, was over. Traffic hurried by in the late spring rain. People scurried with and without umbrellas down Lawrence Avenue. There were only three customers in the dinner; two of them were Korean businessmen who owned shops in the area, one a cleaning store, the other a show store. They were sitting in a booth finishing a later breakfast and arguing in Korean about something. The only other customer, a burly, weary-looking white man, sat in the booth behind them drinking coffee from a white mug and reading the Sun-Times.
The old counterman in a white apron filled white ceramic containers with packets of Sweet’n Low, Equal, and sugar. When the diner door opened, letting in the sound and smell of falling rain, the counterman barely looked up. The burly man shipped his coffee and turned to the sports pages in back. But the two Korean businessmen turned, rose from their unfinished breakfast and hurried to the counter to pay. One of them placed a ten-dollar bill near the cash register. The other businessman, the one with the shoe store, tried not to look at the trio who had come into the restaurant, one of whom was now closing the door behind him.
“I’ll add it up,” said the counterman, putting aside his packet container and wiping his hands on his apron.
“No need,” said the cleaning store operator. “You keep change.”
“Suit yourself,” said the counterman with a shrug and reached for the ten spot while the businessmen made their way around the three men who had just entered.
The three were in their twenties, Korean. Two were dressed in the black jeans, nicely laundered white button-down shirts, and identical leather bomber jackets. The third Korean was slightly older than the other two and wore a black London Fog raincoat and sunglasses. The three moved to the counter and sat as the old counterman smoothed his white mustache and asked, “What’ll it be, gentlemen?”
“Mr. Park,” said the one in the middle, the one wearing sunglasses.
“Park’s sick,” said the counterman. “You wanna start with coffee?”
The three young men sat silently, barely wet from the pouring rain, their car probably parked within a few feet of the diner. The three men watched the old man pour them coffee. Their cups sat untouched. The old counterman put out the sugar and sugar substitutes and a small metal pitcher of milk.
“When will Mr. Park return?” the young man with glasses said, without a trace of accent.
The old counterman shrugged his thin shoulder and said, “Couldn’t say. Pretty sick. Something with his stomach. Hypotonectosis, I’m talking over the place for a while, maybe a long while.” The counterman heaved a heavy sigh and looked around the place. “Thought I was safely retired, but…what’ll it be? Hotcakes, eggs, fruit and yogurt cup? Strawberries are fresh.”
“Fruit and yogurt,” said the young man, removing his glasses to clean the rain off with a napkin.
The old man looked at the flankers who shook their head without speaking. The old man shrugged and called the order back to someone in the kitchen. Then he moved from behind the counter with the coffee pot in his hand to give a refill to the burly man who grumbled something about the Cubs having no pitchers again, about someone named Dickerson giving up two runs in the eighth.
The old man shook his head sympathetically as he retreated behind the counter and returned the pitcher to the hot plate. He picked up the fruit cup and delivered it to the young Korean whose glasses were now cleaned to his satisfaction back on his nose.
“We have come to collect,” said the young man, “I am sure Mr. Park informed you that we come in every other Friday to collect.”
The old man looked puzzled. “Park got sick suddenly. Rushed to the hospital. I talked to his daughter, said I’d take over. Park’s an old friend. How’s the yogurt cup?”
“These strawberries are not fresh,” said the young man. “They were frozen.”
“I swear on my mother’s life,” the old man said shaking his head. “I thought we had fresh strawberries. You want me to take it back? No charge.”
He reached for the cup. The young man grabbed his wrist and held it tightly. One of the other two men looked at the man reading his newspaper. The burly man didn’t seem to be paying any attention.
“We collect one hundred dollars every two weeks,” the man in the glasses said softly, “Today is collection day.”
“Collect?” said the counterman, trying to pull his arm away. “For what?”
“Protection,” said the young man.
“From who, what?” the old man said, still trying to free his arm.
“From us,” the young man said softly. “Park pays. We don’t break his windows. We don’t mess the place up. We don’t mess up Park or his family. What we could do to Park, we could to you. Hypo…”
“…tonectosis,” the old man finished.
“You’ll wish you were in the hospital with it next to park. You understand?”
“This is a shakedown,” the old man said, frightened but also angry. “This is blackmail.”
“Now you understand,” the young man said, letting go of the counterman’s arm. “Every other week we collect one hundred dollars from every Korean business in the neighborhood.”
“I’m not Korean,” said the old man.
“As of right now, till Park returns, you are acting Korean,” said the young man, adjusting his dark glasses as the counterman rubbed his wrist and looked at all three of the young men. The one on the right smiled slightly.
“Blackmail,” repeated the old man.
“Extortion,” the young man with glasses corrected.
“I’m not paying,” said the old man, backing away from the counter.
The young man in the middle, the leader who had grabbed the old man’s wrist, put his palms together and touched his hand to his lips as if in prayer.
“Then,” he said, “We will begin by breaking two of your fingers and destroying the kitchen.”
The two young men flanking the leader got up from their stools. One of them moved around the counter heading for the counterman. The other headed slowly toward the kitchen.
“You hear all that?” the counterman said.
“Clear as spring rain,” answered the burly man, still looking at his newspaper.
“Leave now,” the young man with glasses said to the burly man. The man who was heading for the kitchen paused at the customer’s table and a knife suddenly appeared in the young man’s hand, a long, thin-bladed knife. He pointed it at the burly man.
“OK,” said the old counterman, wearily stepping back in front of the bespectacled Korean.
The young man smiled and then, to this total surprise, the old counterman reached over, grabbed the front of his jacket, and with an unexpected strength yanked the young man onto the counter, overturning the yogurt plate and one of the cups of coffee. The young Korean was appalled to finds the barrel of a pistol pressed up against the right lens of his glasses.
When the other two young m en moved to help their leader, the burly man lowered his newspaper, revealing a pistol in his hand. “Stop there,” he said.
The two ignored him and took a step forward. The young man looking into the gun barrel shuddered.
“I said ‘stop’ in clear, plain, loud English,” the burly man shouted, firing his weapon with the ceiling.
This time, the two mean stopped.
“You OK, Rabbi?” the burly cop said, sliding out of the booth, weapon aimed at the frozen young Koreans.
“Lovely, Father Murphy,” said the old man, releasing the young man with the glasses but keeping the gun leveled at his head.
“Tape?” asked the burly cop, knocking the knife from the hand of the young man nearest him.
Gun still leveled, the old man reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small tape recorded. “I’ll leave it running in case these gentlemen have anything more to say.”
None of three Koreans spoke as the two policemen handcuffed them behind their backs.
“Let’s set a record booking ’em,” said the burly man. pushing the two young men toward the door. “Iris and I have an appointment with Father Parker about the wedding.”
“You could’ve told me earlier,” said Lieberman, removing his apron and pocketing the tape recorder.
“Slipped my mind,” said Hanrahan.
“Slipped his mind.” Lieberman said to the bespectacled young man as if they were friend. “You believe that?”
The young man said nothing as Lieberman guided him around the counter and had him join his partners at the front door. The young man was known only as Kim to his small gang and to the Korean businessmen he robbed. Kim’s goals in life were to look as dry as Clint Eastwood and as cool as a young Robert Mitchum and to become very wealthy and respected. He and his gang had been at this extortion game for almost a year. They had done well. Until now. Kim was humiliated, beaten by a skinny old man.
“I’ll get the car,” Hanrahan said, putting his gun back in the holster under his jacket.
“I’ll entertain our visitors,” said Lieberman.
Hanrahan opened the door, looked at the downpour and turned to say, “I’ll have the door open. Get ’em in fast.”
“Like the Flash,” said Lieberman, and his partner dashed out into the rain. “You know the Flash?”
The question was directed at the three handcuffed young men. The one nearest Lieberman was having trouble keeping his glasses on his nose with his hands cuffed behind him.
“The Flash was in the comics,” said Lieberman with a sigh at the lack of education of the young. “When I was a kid he wore a tin helmet with wings, like Mercury. Then they stuck him in a tight red suit.”
The Koreans seemed even more bewildered.
“OK now?” came a timid voice behind Lieberman.
“OK now,” Lieberman answered.
From the kitchen two people emerged. Park and his wife. They were in their fifties and held back in fear, not completely sure that what they had done was the right thing.
“We will talk again,” the young man in glasses said to the couple.
“That would be a bad idea,” Lieberman said, moving to Kim’s side. He moved close enough to whisper in the man’s ear. “Much to my regret and in the hope that God has forgiven me through my prayers, I have killed four people and cooperated in doing very unpleasant things to about six others. If anything happens to the Parks, if anything happens to this diner, if he even tells me that you or one of your gang has returned here, I’ll find you and I’ll shoot you.”
The young man twitched his nose trying to keep his glasses on. Lieberman helped him by pushing the glasses back with the barrel of his gun.
“You believe me?” asked Lieberman.
Kim didn’t answer.
“You know the Tentaculos?”
The three men looked at the skinny cop with the almost white hair and the white mustache. He looked a little like an undernourished old dog, one of those dogs with the sad, tired faces. They didn’t answer, but Lieberman knew the answer.
“You get in touch with El Perro,” Lieberman said in his ear. “Tell him that El Viejo said he would shoot you. Ask him if you should believe me.”
“You’re threatening me,” said Kim.
“You are a very perceptive young man,” said Lieberman softly. “I turned the tape recorder off long before I did it.”
“You are the Jew cop. Liebowitz,” the man is sunglasses said calmly. “You are the one who had been talking to our clients, costing us business. I’ve heard of you.”
“It’s nice to be famous,” said Lieberman. “The name is Lieberman.”
Three quick honks of a car horn. Lieberman nodded the trio out into the rain. He turned and smiled sadly at the Parks, who were pressed close to each other. Mrs. Park raised her hand slightly in what was probably a wave.
Lieberman ushered the three onto the street and into the back seat of the unmarked blue Geo. It took about ten seconds. Liberman closed the door and slid into the passenger seat. He was almost as soaked as Hanrahan who gunned the car into the dark wet traffic almost colliding with a bright, white, double-parked Lincoln Town Car.
“That your car?” asked Hanrahan, nodding at the Lincoln as they passed it. “Bockford Towing gets them in minutes around here, even in the rain.”
“I’ll book ’em,” Lieberman said, running his hand through his hair and glancing back at their silent prisoners. “We’ll get you to the church on time.”
“Meet you back at the station at noon?” asked Hanrahan, now driving merely recklessly instead of insanely through traffic.
“Make it one,” said Lieberman. “I’ve got an appointment too. You three comfortable back there?”
The three men in the back seat started to talk in Korean.
“Silence,” said Lieberman, half turning in his seat and pointing his gun at them. “I might think you’re planning some kind of escape. You don’t want me to think that. You have long lives and short prison terms ahead of you unless we find you’re wanted for something else.”
The young man directly behind Hanrahan said something in Korean. He was clearly frightened. The one in the middle, with sunglasses answered him with two or three clipped words and the frightened one grew quiet.
“I think, Father Murphy, that we have a winner in the back row.”
Hanrahan nodded. If one of them was wanted they would work him over, make a deal with his lawyer, get better counts on his partners. On the other hand, all three of them could be back on the street the next day. The ways of judges and lawyers were a mystery to Hanrahan. He checked the car clock and his wristwatch. He had a little over half an hour to pick up Iris and ten minutes after that to get to St. Bart’s. There was just enough room between the Bekin’s truck and an old Dodge. Hanrahan sloshed through, heading up Broadway.
“What the hell is hypotonectosis?” asked Hanrahan.
“Made it up,” said Lieberman.
“Why didn’t you just give him a real disease?”
“Spring is the mischief in me,” said Lieberman.
“What?” asked Hanrahan.
“Robert Frost,” said the bespectacled prisoner. “It’s from Robert Frost.”
Lieberman looked at Kim.
“English major,” Kim said.
Lieberman sat forward and shook his head. He listened to the torrent of rain on the car roof and thought about his lunch meeting with Eli Towser. Capturing the three in the back seat was like eating a strawberry danish at Maish’s compared to what he expected from Eli Towser.
* * *
In spite of the faded jeans, the red-and-black flannel shirt, and the little black kepuh on his head, the beard gave Eli Towser away. He was not just a Jew, he was very much an Orthodox Jew. In fact, he was no just an Orthodox Jew, he was also a rabbinical student and had come highly recommended by Rabbi Wass of Temple Mir Shavot. Since Rabbi Wass was neither Orthodox nor particularly brilliant, Lieberman had been suspicious of the lean young man who had appeared at his door a little over a month ago. The young man had introduced himself seriously, touched the mezuzah on the doorway and entered.
Eli Towser, no more than twenty-five years old, had explained that he and his wife made a modest supplement to his scholarship, she with the money earned by a part-time job while she too went to school, and he by tutoring Jewish boys for their bar mitzvah and Jewish girls for their bat mitzvah. Towser had been dressed more seriously the day he first met Lieberman, Bess, and their grandson Barry. Winter had just made up its mind to depart but left a late chill behind and the young man before them had worn a black suit, hat, and coat.
He answered all of their questions and assured them that Barry’s being bar mitzvahed in a Conservative temple would be no problem, and they came to price. Bess took care of the payments and Barry had reluctantly prepared. If there had been no reluctance from a twelve-year-old boy, Abe would have worried. For the first four sessions—two per week, after school no Tuesdays and Thursdays—the rabbinical student and the resigned boy, who bore a distinct resemblance to his father, were left alone in the Lieberman kitchen.
They practiced. Much of what Barry had to learn was simply memorization. His reading of Hebrew was going slowly. The whole process was about to go even more slowly.
Now sitting among the early lunch crowd a Kopelman’s Kosher Restaurant, Lieberman said “Eli,” as he pushed aside his bowl of rice pudding, leaving just enough left to delude himself that he was indeed eating with moderation.
The rabbinical student was methodically dipping mandel bread cookies into his coffee. With each dip, Towser smoothed down his beard to make room for the dripping delight. Four pieces of the almost oval cookies remained on the plate.
Lieberman had to speak loudly to be heard over the early lunch crowd at Kopelman’s Kosher Restaurant Lieberman felt the first twinge of a coming stomach ache. he was getting then more and more often. Two blocks east of them on Devon was the T & L Deli, owned and run by Abe’s brother Maish, but the T & L wasn’t kosher. Kopelman’s was.
Towser had consumed a lunch that would have made Marlon Brando proud: salad, pot roast, a side order of kishke, and a large glass of orange juice before coffee and desert.
“Yes?” asked Eli, reaching for a second piece of mandel bread.
“You have any idea of why I asked to have lunch with you?”
“To take me to lunch,” Towser corrected, pointing a piece of cookie across the table at Lieberman.
At the table inches away from them, one of the two women working on their kreplach soup said, “Be sensible, Rose, If he were cheating, would he give you her name?” Lieberman thought it a distinct possibility that Rose’s husband would give the name of the woman he was having an affair with. It would depend on how smart the husband was and how much Rose was willing to pretend not to know.
A few more details and Lieberman could have given a definitive answer.
“None at all,” Towser answered Lieberman with a small mile of anticipation.
“Politics,” said Lieberman, nodding at the water who had come to refill Towser’s cup and offer coffee to Lieberman. Lieberman had been a master of restraint for over a month, rigidly watching his diet, eating the inedible, drinking massive amounts of water, moderate amounts of coffee and envying all who could consume enormous quantities of fat and salt without being warned by their doctors about blood pressure, cholesterol, and inflamed intestinal walls. Today Lieberman had eaten a toasted onion bagel with nothing on it and a bowl of cold beet borscht with no sour cream. He had consumed a small bowl of rice pudding and was now working on coffee.
Towser paused mid-dunk to look at the man across the table who had taken pains to tuck his holster and pistol well beneath his armpit under his jacket. There would be no hint of anger or intimidation. Abe had promised Bess.
“Israeli politics?” Towser asked.
“In a sense,” Lieberman answered, dreading the rest of the conversation and smelling a brisket being served to the betrayed Rose and her sympathetic friend.
“You are the president of temple Mir Shavot, aren’t you?” Eli Towser said.
“My wife is,” said Lieberman. “I adroitly managed to escape that trap, only to find myself maneuvered onto the building committee.”
“I’ve seen the new temple on Dempster,” said Towser. “Very contemporary.” There was a faint touch of criticism in Towser’s observation.
“It used to be bank,” Lieberman said.
Towser dunked and nodded his head.
“You’re a good teacher,” Lieberman went on, his hands in his lap. “Barry’s learned a lot and he’s leaned fast.”
“Thank you,” said Towser. “Am I here to get a raise?”
“No,” said Lieberman, “you are here to be told politely to stop teaching your own political views to my grandson. Your job is to prepare him for his bar mitzvah.”
Towser put his piece of mandel bread aside and leaned toward Lieberman. “There is no line between the politics of Israel and the process of being a Jew,” said the young man.
“What we want is a bar mitzvah for my grandson,” said Lieberman, trying to ignore the smile of recognition from a man in a booth across the room.
“And he’ll have it,” said Towser.
“He’s talking about driving Arabs out of Israel, a return to war against the PLO,” said Lieberman. “He doesn’t even know what he’s talking about and you’ve got it in his speech.”
“Where it belongs,” said Towser.
“He’s twelve,” said Lieberman.
“My father bombed a British hotel in Jerusalem when he was twelve,” said Towser intently. “Jewish boys become men when they bar mitzvah. A thirteen-year-old stands with us in a minyan.”
Lieberman was far more familiar with what twelve-year-old boys are capable of than Eli Towser was. That was Lieberman’s point. He knew how ready they were to follow a leader into violence and their own sense of group respect, survival, and often a creative or idiotic sense of honor or territory. A minyan, a gathering of ten adult, bar mitzvahed Jews needed in order to pray, required no political posture. “I don’t want my grandson to be taught hate,” said Lieberman.
The man who had smiled at Lieberman rose from his booth, put down his napkin, and headed through the crowd.
“Over and over throughout recorded time, the Lord Our God has delivered us from those who would take away Israel,” said Towser, his eyes scanning Lieberman’s face. “But he does not just deliver us with miracles. He tells us to take up sword and return to the days of Samuel. Do you understand Hebrew?”
“No.” said Lieberman.
Towser sighed and said, “First Samuel, chapter seven, verses eleven through fourteen: ‘…and the hand of the Lord was against the Philistines all the days of Samuel. And the cities which the Philistines had taken from Israel were restored to Israel, from (Ekron even unto Gath); and the borders thereof did Israel deliver out of the hands of the Philistines.’”
The rabbinical student’s voice was rising now. Rose and her friends stopped talking and tackled their food with religious intensity. The man from the booth made his way between tables and past waiters juggling steaming trays.
Everything smelled good to Lieberman. Everything looked like trouble.
“You told Barry that it was the responsibility of every Jew to be prepared to take arms against Arabs and anyone who supported them anywhere in the world,” said Lieberman.
“Yes?” said Towser.
“Sounds too much like terrorist rhetoric for my wife and me,” Lieberman said.
“And barry’s parents? What do they say?” asked Eli Towser, his white-knuckled hands now gripping the table.
“His father is a gentle,” said Lieberman. “He teaches Greek literature at Northwestern. He thinks politics stopped over a thousand years ago, but I bet he can quote you a line of Aeschylus to counter anything you come up with from the Bible regardless of which side it takes. My daughter Lisa, Barry’s mother, is in Los Angeles seeking her Self. She thinks that a bar mitzvah for her son is a waste of time, a waste had probably won’t hurt him. She walked out on her husband and left her kids with us.”
“So?” asked Towser expectantly.
The man from the booth across the room was now hovering over their table grinning widely. Abe pretended not to see him. He wanted his moist eyes focused on the rabbinical student.
“So, the decision is mine and my wife’s. So we ask you to stop politics.”
“I can’t,” said Towser.
“I didn’t think so. I’ve seen too many people, young and old, with the look you have in your eyes,” said Lieberman. “True believers.” Lieberman reached into this inner jacket pocket, pulled out his wallet and found a check, which he handed to Towser. It was all made out. “Payment in full,” said Lieberman.
“I’m fired?” asked Towser looking at the check, off guard.
“Dismissed,” said Lieberman.
There was more to say but Lieberman was certain it would have no effect. He could talk about the anger Eli Towser needed to control, but Towser would have responded with indignation and examples from Jeremiah, the Likud Party, and the New York Times.
Eli Towser rose. People in the restaurant were looking at them. Most assumed it was an argument between father and son and lowered their voices to listen or raised them to drown out the battle. This was lunch time at Kopelman’s.
Towser pocketed the check. “I deserve this payment,” he said.
“I agree,” said Lieberman with a nod to Eli, who walked away shaking his head. Lieberman looked up at the hovering man who was casting a shadow on his now tepid cup of coffee.
“Lieberman,” the man said jovially. He was plump, around Lieberman’s age, early sixties, and had a pink, healthy face and a businessman’s smile. His suit wasn’t new, but it was definitely made from good material. Lieberman knew good material. His mother’s father had been a tailor on the West Side on 12th Street even before it became Roosevelt Road.
Lieberman looked up, wanting very much to be alone, and not recognizing the main though Lieberman had a reputation in both the Clark Street Station and Congregation Mir Shavot for never forgetting a face or a name. It might take him a while and he might have to imagine a historical context, but he seldom missed.
“Hoover,” said the man, surprised that Abe did not recognize him. “Ira Hoover.”
No bells rang for Lieberman. He did not really want to listen for them. The two women at the next table watched the exchange while they nibbled at a small plate of rugalah. Rose ate slowly.
“Itzak Hoverman,” the man prodded.
“Izzy?” said Lieberman, looking at the man again.
“The one. The only. The same. In the flesh. Only more of it,” said Hoover. “Izzy Hoover.”
“Haven’t see you around,” said Lieberman.
“For good reason,” said Hoover taking the seat Eli Towser had recently left. “I’ve been away from Chicago for more than thirty years. I’m in the front office for the Supersonics. Moved up from USBL team in Texas about four years ago.”
“How’s Seattle?” asked Lieberman.
“Nice. Wet,” said Hoover. “I hear you’re a police officer?”
Lieberman nodded, dearly wanting to be along with his thought rather than reminiscing with someone who looked like the greeter at a posh Michigan Avenue men’s store. He did not want to see this nearly bald man with a fringe of gray hair and a pink face who had once been Izzy Hoverman, one of the best shooting guards in Chicago. At Marshall High School back in the 1950s, the Commandos Juniors, 5'8" and under, four blacks, six Jews, were the best in the city, probably the best in the country. Abe’s brother Maish was three years ahead of Abe, but they got to play together for one season, the best season. Abe, the ball handler, remembered every pass, every assist, every jumper he made that season. At least he thought he remembered. Izzy and Billy “Springfeet” Springfield were the only ones who had gone on to college ball. And Billy, who had suddenly shot up to 6'6", had even been drafted out of college by the Celtics, but he hadn’t made the team.
Abe didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to talk basketball or old times at Marshall High.
“You see Hoop Dreams?” Izzy said. “The gym looked the same. The cheerleaders were leading the same. Déjà vu, you know? That Agee kid reminds me of Billy, even looks like him.”
Lieberman nodded and drank some cool coffee.
“you got stuff on your mind,” Izzy observed, standing. “I know how that is. Listen, I got to get back to my booth. My cousins. I don’t get back here much. You know how it is. How’s Maish?”
“Fine,” said Lieberman, not wanting to go into the recent death of Maish’s son.
“Nothing bother Maish,” Hoover said. “City championship game. No time left. We’re down by two and Maish has a pair of free throws. I’ll never forget. Chicago Stadium. Maybe ten thousand in the audience. School winning streak in his hands. And calm as you please, Maish sinks ’em both. We all run out, jump all over him. Pick him up. Never cracks a smile.”
“I remember,” said Abe.
“Won’t keep you any longer,” said Izzy, reaching into his pockets. “Maybe you can use these.” Izzy handed Lieberman an envelope pulled magically from his inside jacket pocket. He reached out to shake hands and Lieberman shook. “You look like you need a vacation, Abe. You ever get to Seattle, look me up. I mean it.”
And Izzy was gone. Lieberman was alone with his cold coffee. The two women at the next table were gone. A busboy was quickly clearing their table. Lieberman opened the envelope and pulled out four passes behind the Sonics bench for a Bulls-Sonics Game next season. Abe looked up for Izzy, but like the ladies at the next table, he and his cousins were gone.
 
Copyright © 1996 by Stuart M. Kaminsky

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Excerpted from Lieberman's Law by Stuart M. Kaminsky
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.