what Irwin wanted and needed and he needed someone like Antoine to tell him what to do. It didn’t matter to Irwin that Antoine was black. Irwin didn’t have a prejudiced cell in his body. People were people. Except the Pakistanis and Indians who often owned or ran the convenience stores they hit. He didn’t know why, but Irwin hated Indians and Pakistanis. He didn’t like the way they talked, the way they drove, the looks they gave him as if he was something to get away from. He liked hitting them.
And so they had risen and cruised the neighborhood up and down Howard Street. The places too close to the lake were not prime targets. They were at the edge of the Jungle, black people with no money, a lot of fear and hate walked the streets, and the 7-Eleven clerks probably had shotguns strapped under the counter aiming at each customer as they paid. They drove farther out and spotted a place near California, a small place, not one of the chains, a good four or five blocks beyond Western.
Irwin sat in the car while Antoine went in and bought a pack of Kools and a Hershey’s with almonds. He gave the candy bar to Irwin when he came out and started the car.
“Perfect,” Antoine said with a smile backing out.
Antoine was looking jumpy. He was in a hurry to spend some of their money on drugs. That was okay with Irwin. Later they would go back to the convenience store.
“Indian?” asked Irwin.
“I think so,” Antoine said, trying to drive and open his pack of cigarettes. “Mighta been some kinda Spic. Little mustache. You know?”
Irwin nodded and ate his candy bar. He was content.
CHAPTER 5
“N O CRIME,” HE REPEATED in the interrogation room, his huge arms folded.
Abe and Bill had found the man known as Clarence Millthorpe very easily. They knew he had some cellar or vacant apartment where he could hide, but they hadn’t had to take the time to search. They had found the big man right on the hood of a pickup truck eating a couple of pieces of bread with something between them.
“Look up at that window” had been the man’s first words as he pointed toward a window in the apartment behind him. “Big guy, wears one of those baseball caps with DIESEL or some such shit written on it, red beard, tough. Afraid to come down here and tell me to get off his truck.”
Abe and Bill had pulled right next to the truck blocking one lane of traffic on Lunt. They had gotten out slowly, ready for trouble. Hanrahan was not only ready. He almost prayed for it.
“We would like to talk to you,” said Lieberman. “Could you get down off that hood?”
Millthorpe slid off the hood still eating and said, “Talk to me about what?”
“Last night you threatened a woman, called her names, scared her,” said Hanrahan.
Millthorpe shrugged, stuffed what was left of his sandwich in his mouth, and wiped his hands on his scruffy trousers.
“You gonna take me in? Give me something to eat?” Millthorpe asked. “You take me in, you gotta feed me somethin’.”
“Let’s go,” said Lieberman as Hanrahan stepped very close to the big man, definitely invading his space. Millthorpe had inched past him and into the backseat of Abe’s car. He couldn’t have been more cooperative.
“I remember you,” Millthorpe had said. “Name’s … Jew name … Liebowitz … no, Lieberman.”
Lieberman driving hadn’t answered and when Millthorpe, with a pleased look on his face, turned to Hanrahan, who sat next to him, the policeman didn’t even look at him.
Now they sat in the small interrogation room, Millthorpe on one side, the two policemen on the other. On one wall was the traditional one-way mirror. The mirror was scratched and stained. Behind it was a tiny room, barely big enough for three people standing. Whoever was in that room could see and hear everything that went on. Abe knew it. Bill knew it, and ninety-nine percent of the witnesses, victims, and suspects questioned in the room knew they might well be watched and
And so they had risen and cruised the neighborhood up and down Howard Street. The places too close to the lake were not prime targets. They were at the edge of the Jungle, black people with no money, a lot of fear and hate walked the streets, and the 7-Eleven clerks probably had shotguns strapped under the counter aiming at each customer as they paid. They drove farther out and spotted a place near California, a small place, not one of the chains, a good four or five blocks beyond Western.
Irwin sat in the car while Antoine went in and bought a pack of Kools and a Hershey’s with almonds. He gave the candy bar to Irwin when he came out and started the car.
“Perfect,” Antoine said with a smile backing out.
Antoine was looking jumpy. He was in a hurry to spend some of their money on drugs. That was okay with Irwin. Later they would go back to the convenience store.
“Indian?” asked Irwin.
“I think so,” Antoine said, trying to drive and open his pack of cigarettes. “Mighta been some kinda Spic. Little mustache. You know?”
Irwin nodded and ate his candy bar. He was content.
CHAPTER 5
“N O CRIME,” HE REPEATED in the interrogation room, his huge arms folded.
Abe and Bill had found the man known as Clarence Millthorpe very easily. They knew he had some cellar or vacant apartment where he could hide, but they hadn’t had to take the time to search. They had found the big man right on the hood of a pickup truck eating a couple of pieces of bread with something between them.
“Look up at that window” had been the man’s first words as he pointed toward a window in the apartment behind him. “Big guy, wears one of those baseball caps with DIESEL or some such shit written on it, red beard, tough. Afraid to come down here and tell me to get off his truck.”
Abe and Bill had pulled right next to the truck blocking one lane of traffic on Lunt. They had gotten out slowly, ready for trouble. Hanrahan was not only ready. He almost prayed for it.
“We would like to talk to you,” said Lieberman. “Could you get down off that hood?”
Millthorpe slid off the hood still eating and said, “Talk to me about what?”
“Last night you threatened a woman, called her names, scared her,” said Hanrahan.
Millthorpe shrugged, stuffed what was left of his sandwich in his mouth, and wiped his hands on his scruffy trousers.
“You gonna take me in? Give me something to eat?” Millthorpe asked. “You take me in, you gotta feed me somethin’.”
“Let’s go,” said Lieberman as Hanrahan stepped very close to the big man, definitely invading his space. Millthorpe had inched past him and into the backseat of Abe’s car. He couldn’t have been more cooperative.
“I remember you,” Millthorpe had said. “Name’s … Jew name … Liebowitz … no, Lieberman.”
Lieberman driving hadn’t answered and when Millthorpe, with a pleased look on his face, turned to Hanrahan, who sat next to him, the policeman didn’t even look at him.
Now they sat in the small interrogation room, Millthorpe on one side, the two policemen on the other. On one wall was the traditional one-way mirror. The mirror was scratched and stained. Behind it was a tiny room, barely big enough for three people standing. Whoever was in that room could see and hear everything that went on. Abe knew it. Bill knew it, and ninety-nine percent of the witnesses, victims, and suspects questioned in the room knew they might well be watched and
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