Not Quite Kosher An Abe Lieberman Mystery

1 "You sure?" Wychovski looked at Pryor, and said, "I'm sure. One year ago. This day. That jewelry store. It's in my book." Pryor was short, thin, nervous. Dustin Hoffman on some kind of speed produced by his own body. His face was flat, scarred from too many losses in the ring for too many years. He was stupid. Born that way. Punches to the head hadn't made his IQ rise. But Pryor did what he was told, and Wychovski liked telling Pryor what to do. Talking to Pryor vas like thinking out loud. "One year ago. In your book," Pryor said, looking at the jewelry store through the car window. "In my book," Wychovski said, patting the right pocket of his black zipper jacket. "And this is...? I mean, where are we?" "Northbrook. It's a suburb of Chicago," said Wychovski patiently. "North of Chicago." Pryor nodded as if he understood. He didn't really, but if Wychovski said so, it must be so. He looked at Wychovski, who sat behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the door of the jewelry store. Wychovski was broad-shouldered, well built from three years with the weights in Stateville and keeping it up when he was outside. He was nearing fifty blue eyes, short, short haircut, gray-black hair. He looked like a linebacker, a short linebacker. Wychovski had never played football. He had robbed two Cincinnati Bengals once outside a bar, but that was the closest he got to the real thing. Didn't watch sports on the tube. In prison he had read, wore glasses. Classics. For over a year. Dickens, Poe, Hemingway. Steinbeck, Shakespeare. Freud, Shaw, Irwin and George Bernard. Ibsen, Remarque. Memorized passages. Fell asleep remembering them when the lights went out. Then two years to the day he started, Wychovski stopped reading. Wychovski kept track of time. Now, Wychovski liked to keep moving. Buy clothes, eat well, stay in classy hotels when he could. Wychovski was putting the cash away for the day he'd feel like retiring. He couldn't imagine that day. "Tell me again why we're hitting it exactly a year after we hit it before," Pryor said. Wychovski checked his watch. Dusk. Almost dosing time. The couple who owned and ran the place were alway the last ones in the mall besides the Chinese restaurant to close. On one side of the jewelry store, Gortman's Jewelry and Fine Watches, was a storefront insurance office. State Farm. Frederick White the agent. He had locked up and gone home. On the other side, Himmell's Gifts. Stuff that looked like it would break if you touched it in the window. Glassy-looking birds and horses. Glassy not classy. Wychovski liked touching real class, like really thin glass wineglasses. If he settled down, he'd buy a few, have a drink every night, run his finger around the rim and make that ringing sound. He didn't know how to do that. He'd learn. "What?" "Why are we here again?" Pryor asked. "Anniversary. Our first big score. Good luck. Maybe. It just feels right." "What did we get last time?" The small strip mall was almost empty now. Maybe four cars if you didn't count the eight parked all the way down at the end by the Chinese restaurant. Wychovski could take or leave Chinese food, but he liked the buffet idea. Thai food. That was his choice. Tonight they'd have Thai. Tomorrow they'd take the watches, bracelets, rings to Walter Polk Street. Walter would look everything over, make an offer. Wychovski would take it. Thai food. That was the ticket. "We got six thousand last time," Wychovski said. "Five minKaminsky, Stuart M. is the author of 'Not Quite Kosher An Abe Lieberman Mystery' with ISBN 9780812561906 and ISBN 0812561902.