Lieberman's Choice by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page A

looked as if she might be in great need of salvation.
    He was considering approaching her when the man on the television began talking about a policeman on a roof who had killed his wife and someone else.
    All thoughts of the salvation of old women in black hats fled.
    The man on the television speculated, said early reports were that the policeman had found his wife in bed with another man.
    â€œThen,” said Frankie softly to himself, “he was but the arm of the Lord and will be taken unto his breast.”
    â€œHuh?” asked the man behind the counter.
    â€œMore coffee,” said Frankie.
    The family, yes, he thought. The family is the only salvation for civilization. The husband must hold the family together. It is God’s way. Always was. His own father had held his family together with a strong hand and a mighty heart.
    Frankie Kraylaw loved his wife, loved his little boy, loved the Lord and the memory of his own mother and father. But the Lord knew best and the Lord had told Abraham to get rid of his wives and sacrifice his son, Isaac.
    â€œIf you do not put your faith in the Lord and let him guide your thoughts and your hand, that is an abomination.”
    â€œYou talking to yourself or me?” asked the counterman, who was beginning to think that this kid with the goofy smile was losing him some of the early morning regulars.
    â€œSorry,” said Frankie, getting up.
    â€œDon’t act so nuts,” the counterman said, leaning over. “My advice. You can control it, control it. If not, keep it home or take it someplace else.”
    â€œI understand,” said Frankie, looking over at the old woman in the black hat.
    He did not want to lose her. God had put her salvation in his hands. The man with the mint breath behind the counter should have his eyes plucked out, for he had no use for them. He was blind to the truth and the ways of the Lord.
    Frankie smiled and walked to the door of the doughnut shop, and the counterman dreaded the thought that the kid with the goofy smile would probably be back the next day.
    The living room of the sixth-floor apartment of the Shoreham Towers was a beer-bottle, ash-strewn mess. Officer Sandra Anxman opened the door with a passkey and stepped in with Officer Craig Pettigrew behind her, carrying a clipboard.
    â€œAnd,” said Anxman, “he’s all the time telling me it doesn’t count as overtime, when the union contract says …”
    The look and smell of the apartment hit her, and Anxman said, “Who the hell lives here—Porky Pig?”
    â€œBinyon, Carl, and McAulife, David,” said Pettigrew, checking his clipboard.
    Pettigrew put the clipboard under his arm, and the two officers began to check the apartment, looking behind sofas, opening closets.
    â€œYou’d think,” Anxman said, pushing open the bedroom door, “in a building like this … Look at this crap. Shepard shot the wrong fuckin’ tenants. He would have done the health department a favor by painting the walls with the guys who live here.”
    â€œI’m not touching anything,” said Pettigrew. “Smells like shit in here. Let’s go.”
    â€œCheck it off,” Anxman agreed. “No one here.”
    Anxman stepped out and Pettigrew took one last look at the apartment, shook his head, and said, “How do people live like this?”
    Before the door was completely closed, Anxman was saying, “So I’m calling it overtime. I don’t give a shit what Walsh calls it. He can talk to the union.”
    When the voices of the two police officers had faded, a closet door in the apartment opened and Carl and Dave crawled out from beneath a pile of ratty blankets.
    â€œDid you hear? Porky Pig? Christ, we did a search like that in Kuwait City, we’d be dead meat. Stupid-ass cops.”
    Carl stood. He was no more than thirty, but life had not treated him well. Actually, life had treated him as he