Piece of the Action (26 page)

Betty took the heroin, then stripped off her coat and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse. She fumbled in her purse for a moment, then found a cracked leather billfold and dumped its contents on the table: a crusted eyedropper, the tip of a reusable needle, a bent, blackened tablespoon, a wad of cotton, a narrow strip of paper torn from a dollar bill. Despite her trembling hands, she fitted her works together in record time, wrapping the strip of paper around the open end of the eyedropper, then forcing the needle over it.

“I need water,” she said.

Izzy retrieved a glass of water from the table next to his bed. It’d been sitting there for two days.

“Thanks.” Betty tested the works by filling and emptying the eyedropper and needle several times. When she was satisfied, she squirted water into the tablespoon, added the heroin, then lit a match and heated the mixture until it came to a boil. Finally, she dumped a small piece of cotton into the spoon and set it down to cool.

“Better not leave that too long,” Jake said. “The roaches’ll drink it.”

“Ha, ha.” Betty fumbled with her sleeve again, trying to roll it up past her bicep. “Goddamn winter. It gets in your way.” She pulled her blouse off, stripping down to a lace brassiere, then wrapped a cloth belt around her upper arm and pulled it tight with her teeth. The veins at her elbow and along her bicep were black with scar tissue, but she patiently worked her finger along the dark lines until she was satisfied, then picked up the dropper and jammed the needle into her flesh. Almost miraculously, a crimson drop blossomed in the clear liquid. With a sigh, she let the belt drop out of her mouth and squeezed the bulb.

Her hands stopped trembling and her nose stopped running within seconds. Her whole body straightened as the knotted muscles in her back began to smooth out.

“That better?” Jake asked.

“Listen,” Betty said, ignoring the question, “ya gotta understand that I didn’t say nothin’ to that cop. I don’t know what’s happening to Al. Maybe he’s gettin’ soft in his old age. But I didn’t have nothin’ to do with nothin’ as far as the cop is concerned.”

“I believe ya,” Jake said. “That’s how come I know ya wouldn’t mind helpin’ us out here. I mean you was there and I wasn’t.” He waited for Betty to nod before continuing. “What’d the cop want?”

“He was askin’ about the john who got killed right after Christmas.”

“And what’d ya tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him nothin’.”

“What’d
Al
tell him?”

“See, that’s the thing. The cop locked me in the toilet so’s I couldn’t hear what was goin’ on.”

“You were in there all the time?”

“No, he took me out later and locked Al up. Then he asked me a whole lotta questions about that night the john got shot. But I didn’t say nothin’ except I wasn’t there. I told him I got run over by a car and I was sleepin’ upstairs at the time.”

“If you were in the toilet, how do ya know Santo was there when Al was talkin’ to the cop? Santo didn’t say nothin’ about seein’
you.
”

“Al told me.”

“What else did he tell ya? What’d he tell the
cops
?”

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to say. I don’t know. All Al said is Santo seen us so we gotta run. I told him we can explain it. I mean what’re we supposed to do? Ya can’t stop the cops from comin’ around, can ya?”

“Maybe Al has a guilty conscience.”

Betty didn’t answer and Jake let it go. He looked over at Izzy and smiled. “Gimme ten caps, Iz. I got a feelin’ Betty’s gonna need it.”

Izzy crossed to the far corner and yanked up one of the floorboards. He pulled out a mason jar filled with small bags and counted out ten of them.

“See, Betty?” Jake said. “I could keep ya high forever. I mean if you was
my
woman, that’s what I’d do.”

Betty attempted a coquettish smile. She squared her narrow shoulders and pushed her chest out. “I don’t know what’s happened with Al. He ain’t the man I married, that’s for sure. I mean he ain’t come near me in years. If I want some, I gotta go to one of the girls. Ain’t that unbelievable?”

Jake took the heroin from Izzy and tossed five bags on the table next to Betty’s eyedropper. Betty started to go for it, but Jake caught her arm. “It ain’t time yet. First I gotta get some answers.” He flipped her onto the bed. “I’m not gonna blame you for what ya husband said to the cops. But I don’t want no more bullshit. Ya either come clean or what I’m gonna do’ll make what Izzy done to ya seem like a honeymoon hump.”

Betty’s head swiveled back and forth, from the heroin to Jake’s face. “You ain’t gonna kill me, are ya? For what Al said?”

“As a matter of fact, I got a proposition for ya. In Providence, Rhode Island. See, ya can’t stay around here ’cause the cops’ll find ya. But I got a small establishment in Providence that’s runnin’ all fucked up. The woman there can’t keep the whores in line. I figured maybe you could take it over. Get it back to makin’ a decent profit. All I need to know is what Al told the cops and where he’s hidin’ out.”

Betty leaned back, letting her head fall against the pillows. “Ya know I used to be pretty good. When I was in the trade.”

“Cut the crap. I been patient long enough.”

She sat back up and straightened the straps of her bra. “He told the cop that Santo and the guys that beat us up both work for Steppy Accacio. The cop made Al write it out and sign a paper. Then he let us go.”

“He didn’t take ya down to look at no mug shots?” Jake felt himself getting excited. Maybe this wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. An idea began to form in his mind. The cop had eyeballed Santo Silesi, but he didn’t know who Jake was or what he looked like. If the cop went after Santo and Accacio, if he took them out of the picture, there’d be a big hole in the Lower East Side heroin business. A hole for Jake to fill if could find himself another dope connection. What Jake didn’t know is why the cop had released Al and Betty. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but if Al was holed up by himself, it also didn’t matter.

Betty shook her head. “I got the feeling he was in a hurry. Maybe that’s why he didn’t work me over.”

“Where’s ya husband now?”

“He went out to Jersey. To visit his mother. That’s how come I got out. I ain’t good enough for his mother.”

“I mean where’s he stayin’? In the city.”

“We got a room in Hell’s Kitchen. That’s where Al grew up. We had the room for years. Use it once in a while to get away from the business.”

“Could we go there
now?
Could we go over and wait for Al?”

“Just lemme do up them caps first. Then, whatever ya want. I mean Al gotta pay the price, right? If he didn’t wanna pay, he shouldn’t’ve done what he done.”

“That’s the right way to look at it, Betty. The dope is yours. Take ya time. Enjoy.”

Jake nodded to Izzy and both men crossed the room. They waited patiently until Betty pressed the bulb of the eyedropper, until she rocked back in the chair, her eyes fluttering. “Bring the saps and a knife, Izzy,” Jake whispered. “We wanna do this quiet.”

S
TANLEY MOODROW, UNWASHED AND
unshaven, was spooning Maxwell House coffee into his percolator when he suddenly realized that he was having the time of his life. Sure, he was in a battle (a war, really) and there was always the possibility of losing, but it wasn’t the kind of useless combat that fed the dreams of bloodthirsty spectators. He wasn’t likely to come out of it with a cracked nose or a split eyebrow, either. No, what he was doing, he told himself, was hunting for truly dangerous game. Like that Englishman who went from one Indian village to another, shooting man-eating tigers from the back of an elephant.

He dumped the percolator on a burner and went into the bathroom to shave. The water was barely warm, which wasn’t so great because Kate Cohan had telephoned the night before and told him that she’d decided to give the Lower East Side a chance.

“Show me around,” she’d said. “And I promise to keep an open mind.” Moodrow wondered if her open mind extended to an occasional lack of hot water. Not having a ready answer, he worked up a lather and quickly brushed it across his face. He grabbed his razor, examined it closely, then decided to change the blade. Usually, he managed to squeeze three or four shaves out of a Gilette, but the last couple were only bearable when he had plenty of hot water. When the water was this cold, he either changed the blade or his face ended up the color of a ripe strawberry.

He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment before he began to scrape at his beard. Mornings were special times for him. Ever since his mother died and he’d awakened to find himself alone, he’d used the early hours to analyze his problems. At first, he’d concerned himself with other fighters, then-strengths and weaknesses. Then he’d turned his attention to the job and his personal ambitions. Now, he found himself preoccupied with the details of the hunt. Much to his surprise, they threatened to overwhelm all other considerations, even his impending marriage.

After leaving the house on Pitt Street, he’d done what any good detective had to do. He’d canvassed the immediate neighborhood, knocking on doors, hoping that someone had seen or heard something on the night Luis Melenguez had been murdered. What he wanted was a witness, but he wasn’t surprised to come up empty. Not only had the murder taken place more than two weeks before, the Lower East Side wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where good citizens eagerly came forth to share information with the police. As far as most residents of the Lower East Side were concerned, the cops were as dangerous as the criminals.

The whole thing would have been a lot easier if he could have dragged the O’Neills into the 7th and had them look at mug shots until they put names and faces on the men who’d come visiting the day after Christmas. That wasn’t going to happen, of course, but he, Moodrow, had gotten a good look at the drug dealer called Santo, and Santo, according to Al and Betty O’Neill, worked for Steppy Accacio, the man who’d sent the shooters. Which meant that Stanley Moodrow could look at mug shots, too. Or he could if the 7th wasn’t off-limits.

Moodrow wondered what would happen if he just walked in there, pulled the mug books and started turning the pages. He couldn’t imagine Patero trying to stop him from doing what his badge entitled him to do. No, Patero would simply get on the phone and make Santo vanish. Much better to let Patero and Pat Cohan think they were in control of the situation.

What he needed was a photograph to show around. Maybe he didn’t have a stable of informants like most of the veterans, but he’d grown up on the Lower East Side. He knew a lot of people, people on both sides of the law and people who straddled the fence. If he had something to show, he’d find Santo easily enough.

The doorbell rang. He answered the door, finding Allen Epstein, as expected, and Paul Maguire.

“Hey, Paul, whatta ya say? C’mon in. You, too, Sarge.” Moodrow led the two cops into the kitchen and poured out the ritual mugs of coffee.

“I hope you don’t mind that I brought Paul with me,” Epstein said. “Paul’s an old friend of mine. You could trust him a hundred percent.”

“That mean you wanna go on the record, Paul?” Moodrow asked. He couldn’t shake the simple fact that Maguire had walked away from a homicide. Sure, Patero had
ordered
him to walk away, but if that was a good excuse, what would Maguire do if Patero ordered him to get Stanley Moodrow?

“Look, I’m willing to help you out,” Maguire replied evenly. “As long as I don’t have to put my head on the chopping block. You hear what I’m sayin’, Stanley? I got three kids and a heavy mortgage.”

What Moodrow wanted to say was, “Luis Melenguez had a wife and kids, too,” but he held his tongue. Antagonizing Maguire wouldn’t get him any closer to the man who’d killed Melenguez. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder how many other cops hid behind their families and their mortgages when a superior officer snapped his fingers.

“Why don’t you start by telling me what happened with Patero? Did he just
order
you to stop investigating? Did he give you an excuse?”

“The first thing you gotta understand is that my partner, Samuelson, is in Patero’s pocket. He wants to make detective, first grade, and Patero’s his rabbi. As for Melenguez, we did all the usual things. Interviewed everyone in the house, recovered the slugs, diagrammed the crime scene, took blood samples, dusted for prints. We knew that O’Neill was bullshitting us, but him and his old lady were busted up pretty bad, so we let ’em go off to the hospital. What I figured to do was come back and squeeze ’em, but then Patero says to lay off. He says the investigation’s going over to Organized Crime, that certain people (which he naturally can’t name) are registered informants in a city-wide probe and we don’t wanna blow their cover. I figured he was full of shit, but I kept my mouth shut. I’m not sayin’ it didn’t bother me, because it did. That’s why I’m here …”

“Wait a minute, Paul,” Moodrow interrupted. “You said you dusted for prints?”

“Yeah.”

“You come up with anything?”

“The problem is that we came up with too much. According to the lab boys, we got eight identifiable unknowns. You get one print, you can try to match it up. It takes about a week, but it
can
be done. You get
eight
prints, you gotta have a suspect before it does you any good.”

“I get the message.”

“What about you, Stanley?” Epstein said. “What have you been doing?”

Moodrow took a moment to think about it, then detailed most of his visit to the O’Neills, leaving out any mention of notarized statements. Up to this point, he’d trusted Epstein completely. But Epstein had kids and a mortgage, too. “What I need is a photo,” he concluded. “Something to show around the neighborhood. The story is that Santo and the men who killed Melenguez all work for Steppy Accacio. If I can run down Santo, I can use him to find the shooters.”

“You’re most likely right, Stanley,” Epstein said, “but what’re you gonna do when you find them? With the O’Neills on the run, you haven’t got any witnesses.”

“Maybe I’ll find the gun they used. Maybe I’ll encourage them to confess to their evil deeds. Maybe I’ll take their statements and hand them over to the newspapers.”