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

had treated it. His hair was naturally light and curly, which saved him from the impossible task of combing it. He liked to think that he looked a little like Chuck Norris, which wasn’t the least bit true. Dave crawled out after him, a thin creature with a military haircut and no shirt. Dave had a single tattoo on his chest, an ice-cream bar with one bite missing. Dave began searching the rubble for something while Carl went on, “You think this room is a mess?”
    â€œI can’t find my shoes, Carl.”
    Carl, brooding, cleared a space for himself on a chair and plopped down.
    â€œThat’s not the fuckin’ issue here, Dave. The issue here is sanitary conditions. You like the cops sayin’ you’re unsanitary is what I’m asking you?”
    Dave pushed a pile of newspapers out of the way and realized by the pregnant pause that he was expected to supply some answer.
    â€œI suppose I don’t like it much.”
    â€œLike what?” Carl said.
    â€œWhatever we’re talking about I’m not supposed to like. I’m looking for my shoes here, Carl. Give me a break.”
    Dave stepped over a filthy pillow on the floor and saw his shoe.
    â€œNo one kicks us out of the place we pay rent for,” said Carl, hitting the arm of the sofa with the flat of his hand. “We’ve got our self-respect.”
    Dave had one more shoe to find. Instead of the shoe, he turned up an unopened can of Miller beer.
    â€œThis,” he said, “should be in the refrigerator. God. I do not like being barefoot. Makes me feel …”
    â€œâ€¦ vulnerable,” Carl supplied. “That’s what I was talking about, Dave. Your self-respect.”
    Dave had heard it before.
    â€œI know. I know. We get our jobs back. We get our self-respect.”
    â€œI don’t like hiding in closets, Dave. I tell you that for a fact. It doesn’t become a man to hide in closets. We had enough hiding in that fuckin’ desert. From now on …”
    â€œWe hide from no man,” Dave completed, finding his second shoe. “Hot damn.”
    Dave displayed the shoe proudly, but Carl paid no attention.
    â€œI’m getting an idea here, Dave,” Carl said, sitting up.
    Carl looked up at the ceiling and Dave looked at Carl, not liking what he saw in his friend’s face.
    â€œDon’t upset me, Carl. I just want to get my shoes on and …”
    â€œWhen’s the last time we cleaned the rifles?” asked Carl, and Dave knew he was in some deep, deep shit.

4
    A LAN KEARNEY CHECKED THE clock on the dashboard of his car, opened the door of his glove compartment, and took out his electric razor. It was a minute or two before seven. He had come out of the apartment to be alone, have a cup of coffee, and try to think.
    Behind him, at the far end of the street, the yellow-and-black wooden barriers were in place with two police cars behind them and a quartet of men and women in uniform keeping the curious out. The Shoreham apartments and all the apartments and houses on Fargo had been evacuated, the residents being promised motel money and a per diem that, Kearney knew, would be damned hard for them to collect.
    He shaved, losing himself in the hum and the task, sorry when he had finished. He found a place he had missed under the chin, another near his right ear. He stroked them slowly, turned off the razor, and checked his cheek with his palm.
    He had a spare shirt, a change of underwear, and a toothbrush in the trunk, emergency supplies. He would get to them later. Kearney got out of the car with his plastic foam cup of no-longer-hot coffee and walked toward the lake. The sky was clear and the September sun hot. An hour earlier Kearney had checked with the weather bureau. There was no reasonable possibility of rain. Kearney would have bet that Shepard had checked with the weather bureau before deciding that last night was the night to kill his wife and her