Lieberman's Law Read Online Free PDF Page A

while and he might have to imagine a historical context, but he seldom missed.
    â€œHoover,” said the man, surprised that Abe did not recognize him. “Ira Hoover.”
    No bells rang for Lieberman. He did not really want to listen for them. The two women at the next table watched the exchange while they nibbled at a small plate of rugalah. Rose ate slowly.
    â€œItzak Hoverman,” the man prodded.
    â€œIzzy?” said Lieberman, looking at the man again.
    â€œThe one. The only. The same. In the flesh. Only more of it,” said Hoover. “Izzy Hoover.”
    â€œHaven’t see you around,” said Lieberman.
    â€œFor good reason,” said Hoover taking the seat Eli Towser had recently left. “I’ve been away from Chicago for more than thirty years. I’m in the front office for the Supersonics. Moved up from a USBL team in Texas about four years ago.”
    â€œHow’s Seattle?” asked Lieberman.
    â€œNice. Wet,” said Hoover. “I hear you’re a police officer?”
    Lieberman nodded, dearly wanting to be alone with his thoughts rather than reminiscing with someone who looked like the greeter at a posh Michigan Avenue men’s store. He did not want to see this nearly bald man with a fringe of gray hair and a pink face who had once been Izzy Hoverman, one of the best shooting guards in Chicago. At Marshall High School back in the 1950s, the Commandos Juniors, 5’8” and under, four blacks, six Jews, were the best in the city, probably the best in the country. Abe’s brother Maish was three years ahead of Abe, but they got to play together for one season, the best season. Abe, the ball handler, remembered every pass, every assist, every jumper he made that season. At least he thought he remembered. Izzy and Billy “Springfeet” Springfield were the only ones who had gone on to college ball. And Billy, who had suddenly shot up to 6’6”, had even been drafted out of college by the Celtics, but he hadn’t made the team.
    Abe didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to talk basketball or old times at Marshall High.
    â€œYou see Hoop Dreams ?” Izzy said. “The gym looked the same. The cheerleaders were leading the same. Déjà vu, you know? That Agee kid reminds me of Billy, even looks like him.”
    Lieberman nodded and drank some cool coffee.
    â€œYou got stuff on your mind,” Izzy observed, standing. “I know how that is. Listen, I got to get back to my booth. My cousins. I don’t get back here much. You know how it is. How’s Maish?”
    â€œFine,” said Lieberman, not wanting to go into the recent death of Maish’s son.
    â€œNothing bothers Maish,” Hoover said. “City championship game. No time left. We’re down by two and Maish has a pair of free throws. I’ll never forget. Chicago Stadium. Maybe ten thousand in the audience. School winning streak in his hands. And calm as you please, Maish sinks ’em both. We all run out, jump all over him. Pick him up. Never cracks a smile.”
    â€œI remember,” said Abe.
    â€œWon’t keep you any longer,” said Izzy, reaching into his pocket. “Maybe you can use these.” Izzy handed Lieberman an envelope pulled magically from his inside jacket pocket. He reached out to shake hands and Lieberman shook. “You look like you need a vacation, Abe. You ever get to Seattle, look me up. I mean it.”
    And Izzy was gone. Lieberman was alone with his cold coffee. The two women at the next table were gone. A busboy was quickly clearing their table. Lieberman opened the envelope and pulled out four passes behind the Sonics bench for a Bulls-Sonics game next season. Abe looked up for Izzy, but like the ladies at the next table, he and his cousins were gone.

TWO
    I F THERE IS SUCH A thing as a typical American Catholic church, St. Bartholomew’s is not it. St. Bart’s priest is Sam