Lieberman's Folly by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

one suspicious. He watched Estralda’s shade. It was still down.
    When the last customer had left the Black Moon, Hanrahan motioned to the Chinese woman.
    â€œYou Irish?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” said the woman, confused.
    â€œYou’re Irish?” Hanrahan said again, taking a serious look at the woman.
    â€œIris,” she said. “My name is Iris.”
    â€œDidn’t think you were Irish,” he said, relieved. “Irish and Chinese have a lot in common,” he said, looking at his empty glass. The woman said nothing. She was not just pretty, she was delicately pretty and, he decided, she was about Maureen’s age. He was wrong. She was ten years older than his wife. “Want to know what they have in common, the Irish and Chinese?”
    â€œYes,” said Iris. She smiled at the policeman, who was definitely drunk.
    â€œChildren,” he said. “Family loyalty. We marry late and stay together. Like the Chinese.”
    A couple went into the lobby of the Michigan Towers across the street. Hanrahan glanced at them. A taxi pulled up in front of the lobby a few seconds later. The cabby got out and went into the building.
    â€œBut never,” he said, “marry an Irishman. Are you married?”
    â€œNo,” said the woman.
    â€œEver go out with an Irishman?” he asked.
    The thought had never occurred to her.
    â€œNo,” she said. She smiled a nervous smile.
    â€œWould you like to?” Hanrahan said. “I’ve never been out with a Chinese woman. I mean I’ve been with a … Never been out with a Chinese woman. Did go out once with a Siamese lady, I must admit. Couldn’t take the curry.”
    She reached over and began to clear his plates. She called out something in Chinese to the kitchen and an old man’s voice answered in Chinese.
    â€œCalling for help?” asked Hanrahan, glancing out the window.
    The cabby who had gone into the high-rise came out carrying two suitcases. He opened his trunk, put them in, and got into the driver’s seat. The doorman opened the door and let out a woman. She was dressed in the same clothes Estralda was wearing that morning. She was also wearing a floppy wide-brimmed Annie Hall hat. She got into the waiting cab and waved to Hanrahan who lifted a hand in acknowledgment.
    â€œCan’t figure it,” he said. “She asks for help and then packs her bags and goes out.”
    â€œAsking for help?” the Chinese woman said.
    â€œAsking for …” Hanrahan repeated, and. looked up at the window of Estralda Valdez’s apartment. The shade was up. Hanrahan looked for the cab, remembered it had headed south on Sheridan. It was blocks away by then, or on Lake Shore Drive. He got up only slightly dizzy.
    â€œI talked to my father,” Iris said with a blush Hanrahan did not catch.
    â€œGot to go,” said Hanrahan. “I’ll take your card. Call you.”
    â€œMy name is Iris,” she said, watching the policeman hurry to the door, drop a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, and take a restaurant card.
    â€œAnd mine is William,” he said. “And I think I’m in deep shit.”
    Iris watched him amble across the street and into the lobby of the apartment building. She wondered if he would call and if she really wanted him to and then she heard her father’s voice scolding her from the kitchen and she knew she and her father would be getting into their car after they cleaned up and closed the restaurant and that they would drive to the apartment they shared and that he would burn incense and complain about the poor day they had had. And then if he was not too tired, her father would watch one of his Charles Bronson videotapes.
    Iris decided that she wanted the Irishman to call.
    Hanrahan had hurried across the street, but hurrying did not come easily to him, especially with two double bourbons. Once Bill Hanrahan had been the fastest lineman on