Piece of the Action (30 page)

“I do believe those boys’re doin’ the lindy hop. There’s no way you could call it
boxing.
” Father Sam was short and bow-legged. He’d been a fighter before he’d turned to the priesthood and his rapport with the tough, street-wise boys of the Lower East Side was legendary. His gym was open to everyone and many a Jewish father had dragged his troubled son through Father Sam’s door.

“I can remember when you trained ’em to be a lot meaner,” Moodrow said, turning away from the ring.

“You can’t teach mean, Stanley. Can’t teach brave, either. I saw your last fight.”

“Against the fireman?”

“Yeah. Pure desire. It made me proud. What’re you doin’ here. You slummin’?”

“I’m lookin’ for somebody.”

“One of my boys?”

“No.” Moodrow fished Santo’s sketch out of his jacket pocket and passed it to the priest. “This guy’s dealing dope somewhere in the neighborhood, probably out of the projects by Avenue D.”

“What’d he do, kill somebody?”

“Dope dealing’s not enough?”

“It’s enough, Stanley. It’s enough to mess up more than one of my boys. Only I didn’t think you cops
gave
a damn. Being as they’re dealin’ it right out in the open.”

“Look, Father, I can’t speak for the entire Department. No more than you can speak for Cus D’Amato.” Cus D’Amato, Floyd Patterson’s manager, refused to let the champion fight serious contenders, preferring rank amateurs and club fighters. The sportswriters never lost an opportunity to rake him over the coals. “But you’ve known me for a long time, so you can believe me when I tell you that the people I’m after need to be taken off the street. Permanently.”

The priest took Moodrow’s arm and pulled him to one side of the gym. “Now, Stanley, I know you’re talkin’ justice here, but it seems more like a
favor
to me. Of course, people in the community
should
be doin’ favors for each other. It’s the neighborly thing, right? Now, I’ve got this Jewish boy. Joseph is his name. Joseph Green. The boy got himself in a little trouble. Drinkin’ is what it was. He got so drunk, he smacked a cop.”

“The cop was in uniform?”

“ ’Fraid so.” The priest shrugged. “Joey’s not a bad kid. Stupid, yes, but not really bad.”

“Is he charged with assaulting a police officer?”

“Yeah, that’s it. They’re gonna give the boy hard time if he goes to court and loses. The boy doesn’t deserve hard time just for smackin’ somebody. I don’t care if it was a cop. People down here smack each other all the time.”

“Was the cop hurt bad?”

“Now, that’s the thing. Joey knocked the cop down and he hit his head on the sidewalk. I understand there were some stitches involved.”

“What’s the kid’s name again?”

“Joe Green.”

“Okay, Father. I’ll ask around, find out what’s happening. Maybe I know the cop.”

“Go see the boy, Stanley. Talk to him. He’s not a bad kid. Just stupid, like I said.”

“I’ll do what I can, but don’t expect miracles. If he’s got a record, he’s goin’ away.” Moodrow held up Santo Silesi’s picture. “You know this guy or not?”

“Well,” the priest scratched his head, then smiled, “I don’t believe he shows up for the six-thirty Mass at St. Ann’s.”

“This is serious, Father. If you don’t wanna bother, don’t waste my time.”

“Patience, Stanley. Isn’t that what I taught you? Slow fighters have to be patient. Now, it happens there’s a boy changing up in the locker room named Henry Sanchez. He lives in those projects. If you think you can refrain from callin’ him ‘Chico,’ we could ask him to look at your picture.”

“I’ll do my best.”

They walked through the gym, Father Sam leading the way, to a small locker room at the far end of the building. Henry Sanchez was pulling on his shoes when they entered the room. He looked up, glanced at Moodrow, then turned to his trainer.

“Wha’s up, Father.”

“Give me the picture,” the priest said, pulling it out of Moodrow’s hand. “You recognize this man, Henry?”

Sanchez took his time studying the sketch, then handed it back to his trainer. “Why you wanna know?”

“It has nothing to do with me,” Father Sam said. “This here’s Stanley Moodrow. He used to fight for me. Now, he’s a police officer. Stanley’s looking for the man in that picture. Says that man’s dealing dope in the projects.”

“Tha’s funny,” Sanchez said, staring straight up at Moodrow, “I been thinkin’ the cops don’ arres’ no dealers. The headknockers only arres’ the junkies.”

“Now, that’s your
whole
problem, Sanchez.
That’s
why you can’t learn to hook off the jab. You think you know all there is to know.
I’m
tellin’ you that Stanley’s on the up and up.”

“I still wanna know is he gon’ to arres’ this man?”

“Look, Henry,” Moodrow interrupted, “There was a killing on Pitt Street the day after Christmas. The victim’s name was Luis Melenguez. The man in the sketch, his first name is Santo, knows who the killers are. If I find Santo, I’ll find the killers. Simple as that.”

Sanchez took a minute to think it over. “Tha’s the name,” he finally said. “Santo. Every day he’s bringin’ dope to the projects. I seen him down by tha’ little park on Houston Street. Near the river.”

“Any special time?”

“Mos’ly I seen him when I’m comin’ back from school. But, like, he ain’ punchin’ no clock.”

“He come alone?”

“
Si.
Only I ain’ watchin’ thees
maricon
every minute.”

“All right, thanks Henry. I appreciate the information.”

Moodrow headed for the door, Father Sam trailing behind. “Slow down, Stanley,” the priest demanded. “You were never in a hurry when you were trainin’ for
me.
”

“Sorry. I can’t think about anything but what I have to do.”

“You were like that as a fighter, too. That’s why you won. Lord knows, you didn’t have any talent.”

Moodrow turned to face the smaller man. “Is there a point here, Father?”

“Now, don’t go workin’ yourself up. Just think about how easy it was for you to waltz in here and find out what you needed to know. This gym could be a real nice connection for a cop like yourself. A cop with
desire.
”

“Enough with the lecture. Whatta you want?”

The priest managed a beatific grin. “What I’m gettin’ at is how I could use some help. Somebody with desire to show these boys the fundamentals. Every time I turn around, they’re out there smokin’ marijuana cigarettes. Or some gangster is tryin’ to make ’em turn pro before they’re ready. Could be if you start comin’ down regular, you’d be doin’ yourself a favor.”

I
T
SOUNDS
GREAT, IZZY STEIN
thought. The dope business
seems
like the greatest thing since chopped liver. But what it really is, is standing out in the rain. It’s looking over your shoulder for the narcs and the thieves. It’s sick, sniveling junkies begging for an extra bag. Or for credit. Or for
anything
to relieve the endless misery of their endlessly miserable fucking lives.

“Oh, man, you gotta take this watch. It’s a gold Lady Hamilton, man. With
diamonds.
It’s gotta be worth ten bags. I got it
uptown
.”

“It ain’t worth shit to me, pal. My girlfriend’s already got a watch.”

“Please, man. I’m
sick.
”

“Whatta ya want me to do about it? Do I look like a fuckin’ doctor? Go out an sell the watch to the guy you stole it from. Me, I’m only interested in cash.”

“But
everybody
takes merchandise.
Everybody.
”

“Yeah? Well, maybe you should go find
everybody.
”

“I would, man. I ain’t bullshittin’. But like it’s
late
and I don’t know if anybody else’s around. If you could do me this favor—just this one time—I’ll never bring you nothin’ but cash.”

And that was another thing.
That
was the worst thing. You couldn’t discourage a sick junkie. No matter what. You could punch ’em, kick ’em, stab ’em. It didn’t matter. They popped up like balloons, wiped the snot off their lips and continued to beg.
Please, please, please. Gimme, gimme, gimme.
It was disgusting.

“Lemme see the fuckin’ thing.” It was a Lady Hamilton, all right. But that could mean
anything.
The watch might be gold or it might have been dipped in yellow paint. The little stones on the face might be diamonds or they might be paste. How was
he
supposed to know?

What Izzy
did
know was that he was standing in the rain, in the projects, with ten junkies waiting their turn, and he wasn’t going to get warm and dry until he took care of everybody. On the other hand, if he accepted the watch and it turned out to be a piece of shit, Jake would most likely go through the roof. Well, maybe Jake could give it to his mother.

“Three bags. Take it or leave it.”

“Oh, man, three bags won’t even get me straight. Like, I gotta go through the whole
night.
Plus I got a job lined up. I got a fucking
warehouse.
In Greenpoint. Just gimme ten bags and I’ll make it up to ya tomorrow mornin’. I swear it on my mother.”

“You could swear it on ya fuckin’ needle tracks and it still wouldn’t mean shit to
me.
Take the three bags or go find somebody else. And don’t interrupt me, ’cause I’m runnin’ outta patience.”

“Five, please. Five bags. The watch’s worth at least a hundred bucks. Five bags is only twenty-five dollars. Ya gotta help me out here.”

What Izzy was tempted to do was pull his .38 and relieve this miserable junkie of his miserable sickness forever. But what he did was count out the five bags, take the watch and motion the next junkie forward, the one pulling a wire cart stuffed with rags.

“I got a radio,” the junkie said as he approached Jake. “A fucking
Motorola,
man. Like it’s worth a hundred bucks. At least.”

It took Izzy an hour to finish up. An hour standing in the rain with the prospect of another session with a dozen sick junkies still ahead of him. Well, at least Houston Street was the last stop. Then he could walk back to the Paradise and catch a hot bath and a couple of shots of bourbon. Maybe he could even figure a way out of this bullshit. Maybe he could talk Jake into taking a turn standing in the projects. Being as they were fifty-fifty partners.

Izzy, despite his years on the street and his prison experience, was so wrapped up in his own misfortunes that he failed to notice the elderly man in the black trenchcoat until the man spoke. By then, it was too late to run.

“Police. Stop right there. You’re under arrest.”

Izzy’s mouth said, “What?” But the gun in the cop’s hand left no doubt as to his intentions.

“Get up against the car. Spread your legs.”

The hands crawling over Izzy’s body were experienced. Experienced and confident. They relieved him of his .38 and his dope, then slapped on the cuffs. All in less than thirty seconds.

“I want a lawyer,” Izzy said. “I wanna make a phone call.”

“Don’t worry, boyo,” Pat Cohan replied. “You’re going to get everything you deserve. Now, why don’t you hop in the back seat like a good little criminal? Then we can drive on down to the stationhouse and give you that phone call.”

There was nothing to be done about it. At least, not right away. The cop had searched him without a warrant and maybe a good lawyer would find a way to prove it to a judge. But that was in the future. The first step was to establish himself in the Tombs. Which was where they’d eventually take him. The second step was to find a lawyer. The third step was to make bail. The fourth step was to find a way to pay the …

The Ford screeched to a halt on 11th Street, between Avenues A & B. Izzy looked up, expecting to see the 7th Precinct, but they were parked next to an alley.

“Well, boyo, bein’ as I’ve an appointment elsewhere, I think I’ll be off. But have no fear, the officer in front will see you safely to your destination.”

Only “the officer in front” wasn’t an officer. The “officer in front” was Santo Silesi. And he was holding a small automatic. And he was smiling.

The door opened, then closed, then opened again before Izzy could pull his thoughts together.

“Hi, Izzy,” Joe Faci said, squeezing into the back seat.

“What’s the game?” Izzy finally said.

“No game. Just that I gotta thank you for giving my friend this opportunity to make his bones. I’m sure Santo, when he remembers his manners, will thank you, too.”

Izzy took a moment to think it over, then smiled and spit directly into Joe Faci’s face. Despite the handcuffs. Despite Santo Silesi’s automatic which began to bark, to spit fire, to project small chunks of lead into Izzy’s chest.

“Jesus, Santo, what you done is stupid,” Joe Faci said. “This is no place to be shootin’ nobody.”

Izzy heard that, though he missed Santo’s reply. He couldn’t move and, for a few seconds, he couldn’t remember why. It was very strange. His eyes were closed and somebody was kicking him. They were forcing him onto the floor of the car, covering him with an overcoat. He felt shoes on his back, then remembered what had happened. Oh shit, he thought, I’ve been shot. Oh shit, I’m bleeding. Oh shit, I’m dead.

What saved Moodrow’s butt, in the end, was simple habit, a series of reflexes built up over years of practice. But what got him into trouble was simple inexperience. Moodrow spent eight hours sitting in his car on the south side of Houston Street. It was his first stakeout and, all things being equal, he would have had a veteran detective sitting next to him. He would have had a guide to warn him against falling into a mental state that was closer to sleepwalking than alert and ready.

Eight hours in the rain, Moodrow supposed, thinking about it later, is enough to blur anyone’s concentration. Eight hours peering through the drops at a tiny park jammed between twelve-story brick buildings. What it did was get your mind to drifting, to thinking about what you’d spent the last couple of days trying
not
to think about. Which was Kate Cohan.

There was a basic unfairness in his relationship with Kate that went beyond the sins of her father. The simple fact was that if he wanted to marry her, to spend his life in her company, he was going to have to leave his world and enter hers. The reverse, he’d come to think, could never happen. In fact, whenever he tried to imagine Kate in her fox coat strolling down Avenue C, he was tempted to laugh out loud.