Lieberman's Choice by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

true?”
    Kearney looked around at Brooks and the two policemen, who weren’t even pretending to do something else. Kearney nodded toward the bedroom door and led the way. Carla followed him as he entered, turned to the cop at the phone, and said, “Just leave the fucking door closed and stay out.”
    With that, she shut the door behind her and faced Kearney.
    Jason Belding’s bedroom had been reasonably untouched by Operation Seven. A few people had taken short rests on the bed, used the bathroom, but it could be saved. Alan Kearney wasn’t so sure the same could be said of him. He turned to face Carla, who stood with her arms folded just below her breasts.
    â€œIt’s true and it’s not true,” he said. “I knew Olivia before she married Bernie. I went out with her. I went to bed with her once, but it was nothing either one of us wanted to do again. Once. That was it and was before I introduced her to Bernie. After they were married, I stayed away from her, both of them, asked for a transfer and got it and a promotion.”
    â€œThen,” asked Carla, “why is he doing this?”
    Kearney felt the stubble on his cheek and lifted his arms.
    â€œI’m not sure,” he said. “He wants to blame somebody, anybody but Bernie Shepard, and it looks like I’m the somebody.”
    â€œAnd that’s all?”
    â€œThat’s all. I’m sorry. I’m not happy about it.”
    Carla moved forward and took his face in her hands.
    â€œI’m not happy about it either, but we’ll ride it out.”
    Kearney examined her beautiful face and saw the tension in her tight lips.
    â€œAnd your father?”
    â€œHe doesn’t watch television.”
    â€œHe has other people who do it for him.”
    â€œI’ll handle my father.”
    And with that, she kissed him.
    â€œBrickass Brixton would love this weapon,” Carl said, holding his rifle barrel up to the window. The sun shone down the ribbed tunnel, and Carl was happy. Chuck Norris, eat your goddamn heart out. Dave’s rifle lay in his lap. He was breathing softly and watching “Divorce Court” on TV. He glanced down to watch the ice-cream bar tattoo on his chest ripple with his breath.
    Dave McAulife was not too gung ho keen on this whole plan, but he hadn’t had a major thought of his own since he met Carl Binyon four years ago. Carl had talked him into the army, into coming to Chicago, into whatever shit they were about to get into. Now Dave was doing something that resembled thinking, and Carl didn’t like it.
    â€œWhat is so hard? I mean what is so goddamn difficult here?” asked Carl. “We had worse shit patrols in Saudi. Remember that town. Town, shit, that oil rig with the tin shacks? What was that called, Ali Khan, some shit like that? What did we get for that? Bumper stickers.”
    â€œThat was a while back, Carl.”
    Carl put the rifle down, stood, and pointed at the television set.
    â€œDid you see the TV? Were you lookin’, Dave? With your eyes open?”
    â€œI was lookin’, but …”
    â€œBut my ass,” said Carl, pointing to his ass in case David in his newfound inquiring mood might have forgotten where it was. “We go up there, take this guy out, and we’ll be fuckin’ heroes. Interviews. Geraldo, Oprah, Donahue. Women. What’d that guy say on Joan Rivers? The Enquirer’ll pay two grand easy to interview us. Maybe there’s a book.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” said Dave, looking at the window.
    â€œYou don’t …” Carl kicked a crumpled potato chip bag and shook his head in disgust. “We got no jobs, running out of money. Cops try to kick our butts out of here and call us pigs, and you don’t think so. You got a better idea?”
    The few ideas he had put together this morning had given Dave a headache. There was no way he could come up with something