LITMIR.BIZ

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where to?”

      “Still pulling on innocent folk’s eyelids?”

      “Ha ha. It was a hoot, wasn’t it, Sam? How you doin’? You goin’ to buy me a burger?”

      “Hey, Rudy. I’m working right now. Let me give you a shout in a couple of days.”

      “Listen to this. Weighed in this morning and sure enough, down one.”

      “Excellent. Wife happy?”

      Oh, yeah. Says the thought of me with a six pac makes her feel warm all over.” He laughs uproariously.

      “Well, gotta say, thinking of you with a six pac kinda does it for me too.”

      “Uh oh. Uuuuh oh. I got ‘em comin’ at me from all directions.”

      I laugh. “Listen, Rudy. If you’re free, can you swing by Emanuel and pick up my friend Mark Sanderson? I’ll have him meet you in the lobby.”

      “Consider it done. Just gassin’ up and I’ll be there in ten.”

      “Thanks, Rudy. I’ll call you in a couple three days for a burger.”

      “Ten four, Sam.”

      I click back to Mark. “Hey, me again. Got a cab coming for you. He’ll meet you in the lobby in ten. His name is Rudy, black man, huge belly. I guarantee he will cheer you up before you get all the way home.”

      “Thanks, Sam. Appreciate it. How’s it feel to be on the bricks?”

      “Weird, good, fish out of water, exhilarating. How’s David?”

      Long pause, then softly, “The same. I’m … scared. Got a bad feeling.”

      “I think you’ll feel better after eating some nutritious food and sleeping a solid eight in your own bed.”

      “Maybe you’re right.”

      “I am. You heading down to the lobby?

      “Almost there. Thanks, Sam. Talk to you later.”

      Angela has been standing a few feet away fiddling with her cell. When I pocket mine, she asks, “How’s the lieutenant doing?”

      “Hurting physically and hurting more mentally. He’s really worried about David.”

      She shakes her head. “Sons of bitches,” she says through gritting teeth.

      “I concur.”

      “Is Second Chance on the corner there?” Angela asks. Before I can answer, she does. “Yes, it is. I can see the little sandwich board on the sidewalk. What’s the man’s name?”

      “Mister Efrem Axelbrad.”

      “A mouthful,” Angela says, pushing open the door. “Sounds Jewish.”

      “Detectives Reeves!” the seventy-four-year-old man shouts from the back of the cluttered and dusty second-hand store. “Come in, sweet man. And your friend too.” The old man clasps his hands and shakes them vigorously above his head as he twists and turns his way through all the old crap lying about. He points upward as he approaches, and says, “Praise God I can see you today, my sweet detective.” He grips my arms and looks at me, his head nodding. His face shows hard years of worry and strain, his large nose and elongated ears sprouting more hair than his mole-covered, balding scalp. “Praise God. How are you, my friend?”

      I laugh and touch his arms. “I am well, and you, Mister Axelbrad?”

      “I am alive! Because of you.” He looks at Angela. “Young woman, did you know? Detective Reeves saved my life. Four months, eight days, and,” he looks at a big clock over his door, “one hour ago. He saved my life. Not at this store, my other one on Taylor, on the other side of the river. A hero. No, no, an angel,” he says, jabbing his finger heavenward. “Sent from God himself. I’m seventy-four years old and Detective Reeves gave me a few more years.”

      Realization spreads across Angela’s face as she looks from the old man to me. “Ooooh, so this is the man …”

      I nod, wondering if either of them can hear my pounding heart. Four months, eight days, and one hour ago, I interrupted an armed robbery in progress. A doper was pressing a gun against Mister Axelbrad’s head—he was about to blow a hole in it, but I shot the tweaker first, right under the nose and into his medulla oblongata, which stopped all his body functions instantly, preventing him from reflexively pulling the trigger. A couple months later, I would shoot two more people.

      “I am so happy to see you, Detective. But such terrible nightmares I have. You too?”

      “Yes,” I say, and pocket my trembling hands. “This is Detective Angela Clemmons.”

      The old man bows several times, his hands still clasped. “So happy to meet you. You are a very pretty lady.” He wags his finger at her. “Be careful of my friend here. He is most handsome, is he not?”

      Angela shrugs indifferently, then smirks at me.

      He points at her again, laughs. “Ooooh. Detective Sam. I think it is you who should be careful.

      “We are investigating the hanging over on Third,” I say quickly, wanting to terminate the uncomfortable moment.” Mister Axelbrad shakes his head. “Ocnod. So sad. He was in here last week, you know? Bought a … what was it? Oh, yes, a clock.” He shrugs his thin shoulders. “Buys a clock and the poor bastard didn’t have much time left. God has a sense of humor, no?”

      “Did you know him well, sir?” Angela asks, looking at a dusty Darth Vader helmet.

      “Ocnod? Not at all. He came in a few times, just looking around. He looked my age, you know, so I tried to engage him in conversation, but he didn’t make an effort. Turned down my offer for some tea.” He shrugs. “Shy maybe, or just not sociable.”

      “Too bad,” I say. “He say anything about anyone bothering him, harassing him?”

      Mister Axelbrad shakes his head. “Hard enough getting a hello out of him.”

      “How often are you at this store, sir,” Angela asks.

      “My brother and I rotate between the two stores. So I’m here three days a week usually.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I don’t like so much working at the other place … ever since …” He pats my cheek and smiles, and I take a deep breath to slow my heart, which has been in the red zone since we walked through the door. “And my brother doesn’t like working there anymore either. Might shut it down and work here for another year or two. My Hannah wants me to retire.” He shrugs. “Maybe she is right. It is about time.”

      Angela touches his arm. “Have you seen anyone around who’s caught your eye? You know, someone who didn’t look right among all these other people who don’t look right?”

      “Yes, a woman!” he says, angrily swatting at the air. “An awful woman. Oy-vey! A big man-woman. Had a fucking swastika here.” He jabs his finger at the back of his hand. “Farshtinkener! I saw it and my stomach …” He clenches his fist “. . . it did like this.” He steps over to a counter loaded with old, dusty junk, and picks up a foot and a half-long bone, bleached, chipped, from an animal’s leg, or a human’s, maybe. “I lift this up in my hand like this, and I tell her, ‘You nafka! You whore. You get out of my shop or I will beat your ugly face in.’”

      “What did she do?” I ask, thinking he looks like Samson had he lived into his senior years.

      “The bitch left,” he says with a shrug. “Who wants their face beat in with someone’s bone?”

      “What day?” Angela asks, eyeing the weapon. “What was she looking at in here?”

      “A week ago, I think. Looking at knives, under the counter there. I felt like giving her a knife,” He smacks his stomach. “Right in the kishka.”

      I

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