Piece of the Action (34 page)

“Then why deal with him? Why deal with a punk?”

“We take money from street pimps, don’t we? I’m telling you that Steppy Accacio is only two steps removed from the street.”

“Did he pull the trigger, Sal? Did Accacio kill Melenguez?”

Patero looked directly into Stanley Moodrow’s eyes. “I don’t know who killed Luis Melenguez. Accacio told me he wasn’t there. He claimed it was an accident and that he and his boys would take care of the shooter. ‘It won’t happen again.’ That’s what he said. ‘Just help me out this one time.’ ”

“You think he was telling the truth?”

“Yeah, I believe him. I know that he was trying to expand and the rumor is that he hired outside talent.”

“How far outside? Boston? Chicago? Los Angeles?”

“More like Avenue B. I think they’re still working for him.” Patero looked at his watch and began to rise. “Stanley, I gotta go.”

“Wait a minute, Sal, there’s something else. Look, sooner or later Rosten’s gonna come for me. How am I supposed to operate with a warrant hanging over my head? Maybe I should go down to the house and surrender.”

“Don’t do it. Don’t give up your badge and your gun. Without a badge, you got no right to stop people on the street, no right to question suspects, no right to make an arrest.”

“But if I make bail, I can move around freely until the trial and we both know it’s never gonna come to a trial. If I don’t surrender, I’m gonna spend all my time looking over my shoulder.”

“So what? When they come, they come. It’s not gonna be any worse if you wait until they find you. Same warrant. Same charges. The main thing is to hang onto your badge and gun as long as possible. If I was in your position, that’s what I’d do.”

Moodrow offered his hand. “Maybe you got a point. I gotta think about it.” He took Patero’s hand in his. “It’s good you came here today. I mean it, Sal. It’s good. Unfortunately, it doesn’t get you off the hook.”

He yanked Patero’s right hand forward and down, simultaneously driving a left hook into the right side of the lieutenant’s face. The force of the blow drove Patero over the back of the couch and onto the floor. Moodrow, worried about the Smith & Wesson nestled in Patero’s shoulder rig, circled quickly. He needn’t have bothered. Sal Patero was lying motionless on the rug.

“Never drop your right hand, Sal. Not when you got a glass jaw. It just gets you in trouble.” He scooped Patero off the rug, tucked him under his arm, trotted off to the kitchen and sat the lieutenant in a chair. “Here you go, Sal. Your home away from home.”

If Moodrow had had four sets of cuffs, he could have done the job right, but he had only two, his and Sal Patero’s. Still, he managed to secure Patero firmly, wrists to the right rear leg of the chair, ankles to the left front. When he was finished, he left the kitchen, and rummaged in the hall closet until he found his old nightstick and a copy of the Manhattan yellow pages.

“Ya know, Sal,” he called as he walked back to the kitchen, “I wish I had a girlfriend living here. Because, the way it is, I haven’t got a nightgown for you to wear. But we can always pretend, right?”

“What, Stanley, what …?” Patero was starting to come around. He was lost in confusion for a moment, staring blankly up at Stanley Moodrow. Then he realized that his hands and feet were cuffed and he began to panic. “For Christ’s sake. For God-almighty-sake. Jesus Christ.”

“This isn’t gonna be difficult, Sal. Being as you’ve been through this drill once or twice, I won’t have to soften you up. What I want is a signed statement. In your handwriting. I want everything. Names, dates, places.”

“You’re crazy.”

Moodrow smiled. “Not crazy, Sal, just greedy. I want Melenguez’s killer and I
don’t
wanna be crucified in the process. I don’t wanna end up being some kind of noble sacrifice. Does that sound unreasonable? Your statement, along with everything else I’ve managed to accumulate, is gonna keep me off that cross. And I think I should warn you about something else. I found out more than you think I did. Much more. If you lie to me, I’m gonna know it. Lemme tell ya, Sal, lying is not your best option. Now, you wanna start talking? You could begin with your first contact with Accacio after Melenguez was killed.”

“This is bullshit. You think a forced confession is gonna stand up in court?”

“If the confession’s bullshit, you shouldn’t mind giving it to me. C’mon, Sal, make up your mind. How do you wanna play it?”

“Fuck you, Moodrow. Go fuck yourself.”

Moodrow giggled. The sound startled him and he quickly brought his hand up to his mouth. “Excuse me, Sal, for being so rude. Now, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna put this phone book on top of your head and you’re gonna keep very, very still. That’s so it stays balanced. Then, I’m gonna take my nightstick and smash it down on top of the phone book. One thing I gotta warn you about, if you move your head and the book falls off, I’m gonna crack your fucking skull open. You gettin’ my drift, Sal?”

“You’ll pay for this. I mean it.”

“Do you
really
mean it? Would you swear on your integrity as a police officer?”

“Fuck you.”

“Now you’re repeating yourself.”

Moodrow laid the phone book on Patero’s head, holding it there with his left hand. He raised the nightstick over his head. “Say ‘cheese,’ Sal.”

“Don’t hit me. Don’t. Don’t.” Patero was close to tears. “I’ll do what you want.”

Moodrow slapped his nightstick into the phone book. He didn’t use much force, but the sharp crack was impressive, nonetheless. Patero screamed first, then began to sob.

“That was for old times’ sake. Now, we can get to work.”

“T
WO-GUN JAKE,” JAKE LEIBOWITZ
said to himself. “Fastest Jew in the Wild Wild East.” He admired himself in the mirror for a moment, adjusting the two .45’s. One, his own, rested in a custom-made shoulder rig. The other, formerly the property of Abraham Weinberg, was snugged into the waistband of his trousers.

What a fool he’d been to hold onto Abe’s automatic. It was a
murder
weapon, for Christ’s sake. What a double fool he’d been for believing Joe Faci when Faci insisted the matter had been taken care of. Well, it didn’t make any difference now. Because he’d decided not to run. Because the wops had killed Izzy. Because he’d had enough bullshit to last for a lifetime. A
short
lifetime.

Who are they gonna send? he thought. It won’t be Steppy or Faci or Santo, because he’d kill any one of those bastards the minute he laid eyes on him. No, they’d have to find a stranger, one of those faceless guineas who hung around the social clubs looking to get discovered. If Accacio was
really
connected, of course, he’d bring in a pro from out of town, but Jake had long ago stopped believing that Steppy Accacio was anything more than an ambitious neighborhood punk.

Jake thought of all the crow he’d eaten trying to get in with Dominick Favara. What a waste of time
that
had been. Favara wouldn’t save him. Not with Izzy gone. Why should he? Favara could wait for the garbage to sort itself out, then make his move. One thing for sure, there wasn’t going to be any dealing in the projects on Avenue D while Jake Leibowitz was alive. Not by Accacio, not by Favara, not by nobody.

“I hate this shit. I hate it.”

God, how he missed Izzy. God, how he hated being completely alone. It was like being locked up in isolation with the hacks on the way to administer a midnight beating. You could play the wall, take out one or two with your fists, but sooner or later you’d be overwhelmed and the beating would be all the worse because you had the balls to fight back.

“Maybe I oughta take a trip,” he said. “Maybe I oughta take a trip out to New Jersey, stop in and see old Steppy.”

“Jake? Who ya talkin’ to?”

Mama Leibowitz came through the door like she owned the place. Which, Jake supposed, she did.

“This is my
bedroom,
ma,” Jake said. “You could at least ask if I’m decent.”

“As if you got something I ain’t already seen. What’s with all the guns? You think maybe you’re Jesse James?”

Jake sighed. “We got trouble, ma. And we gotta be careful. Don’t open the door to anyone ya don’t know, even if it’s the cops. Let ’em kick the door in, but don’t open it voluntarily. And don’t stand in front of the door when you’re askin’ who it is, either.”

“
Pogrom
,” Ma Leibowitz whispered. “
Pogrom
,” she repeated.

“Yeah, ma, only this time they’re doin’ it with
Italian
Cossacks.” Jake had heard all the stories about the old country, about living on the Polish-Russian border, about soldiers who killed Jews because the soldiers were drunk and didn’t have anything better to do. Or because it was Christmas and driving a sword through a Jewish body seemed like a good way to celebrate the birth of Jesus.

“Wait here a minute, Jakey. There’s something I gotta show you.”

Damn, Jake thought, for a fat woman, she can sure move fast. He watched his mother fly out the door, then reappear a moment later with the largest revolver Jake had ever seen. The barrel was at least eight inches long.

“Where the fuck you get
that
?”

“Your grandfather bought it when he first came over. That was 1891. He gave it to his son, your father, when your father went into business for himself. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is what makes America great. In Poland, only the
goyim
have guns.’ ”

Jake shook his head in wonder. “Lemme see it, ma.” He took the revolver and hefted it in his palm. The damn thing felt like it weighed ten pounds. And it was so dirty, it was more likely to kill the person holding it than anyone else. He cracked the cylinder open and yanked out the swollen cartridges.

“Jeez,” he said, “forty-five caliber. Did Poppa use this on jobs?”

“You think he pointed with his finger? Bang, bang, bang?”

“Take it easy, ma. I ain’t bustin’ balls …”

“Stop with the language, already.”

“Sorry. What I’m gonna do is clean this sucker up good and load it with new ammo. If you gotta shoot it, hold it with both hands, because it’s gonna kick back hard. In fact, don’t shoot at all if ya don’t absolutely
have
to. Better you should just whack ’em with it. A good crack with this gun’d most likely kill a moose.”

Ma Leibowitz sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you think we should maybe leave town?”

“They killed Izzy, ma.” Jake noted his mother’s sharp reaction. “And they killed Abe Weinberg, too. Me, I don’t feel like runnin’.”

“Ha, just like your father. So tell me, what am I supposed to do in my old age? Maybe I could shrivel up like a dried bug. From starvation, already.”

“I got a few grand stashed away. That oughta hold ya for a year or so.”

“Jakey, listen to your
mamaleh.
It’s better we should leave the Lower East Side. We could maybe go out to Williamsburg.”

“Jesus, ma, Williamsburg’s only a mile away. It’s right over the goddamned bridge.”

“But it’s not
here.
That’s the difference.”

Jake smiled. He couldn’t help it. “You’re nuts, ma.”

“All right, then. Brighton Beach. We could move to Brighton Beach. That’s practically a foreign country.”

“It’s still
Brooklyn.
Sooner or later, they’d find me, the cops or the guineas. What am I supposed to do, spend my whole life tryin’ to watch my back? I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory. Like Poppa did.”

Stanley Moodrow pulled back the curtain and stared down at the street below. It was pea soup out there again. A blend of morning fog and fine rain obscured a winter sun that wouldn’t get high enough to shine between the tenements, anyway. He dropped the curtain and plucked a black trenchcoat from the hall closet. As he pulled open the front door, he took a moment to admire himself in the mirror.

“Ya know something, Stanley,” he said, “you’re in danger of looking like a goddamned detective. Your whole body’s shoutin’
Cop, Cop, Cop.
”

It was funny. One of the prime benefits of the Gold Shield was not having to wear an NYPD uniform, not having to carry all that crap around your waist. What did everyone, patrolman and detective alike, call detectives? Suits? So why did the “suits” end up looking so much alike they might as well be wearing uniforms?

Moodrow was carrying a small bag when he left, enough underwear and socks for a few days, plus his shaving kit and toothbrush. He stopped down at Greta’s to hand over Sal Patero’s signed statement. Patero, uninjured, had been gone for almost an hour. Moodrow wasn’t worried about what the lieutenant might or might not do. Most likely, the worry was coming from the opposite direction.

“Another Christmas present, Greta,” he said as she opened the door.

“Hanukah
gelt,
more likely,” Greta answered, taking the folded looseleaf sheets.

“I’m gonna be gone a couple of days. Something came up and I decided not to surrender. If you need to get in touch with me, I’ll probably be sleeping at Berrigan’s Gym. It’s in the phone book. If not, I’ll give you a call as soon as I can.

Greta nodded thoughtfully. “You’re sure you don’t want to stay with me?”

“No, they’ll be watching the building.”

“Well, good luck, Stanley. And be careful.”

“Caution. That’s my middle name.” Moodrow started to turn away, then thought better of it. “Greta, if something should happen to me …”

“Don’t talk like that,
kayn aynhoreh.
”

“It isn’t the evil eye that worries me, Greta. It’s the evil forty-five. Anyway, if something happens to me, something permanent, I want you to take those papers and burn them. Understand?”

“No, I don’t.”

“They’re insurance papers.
Life
insurance papers. No life, no insurance.”

Greta sniffed loudly. “From revenge, you don’t wanna know, right?”

“What’s the point of revenge if you’re not around to enjoy it? Those papers are like a virus. You put them out in the world, you don’t know who’s gonna get hurt.”

Moodrow was tempted to sneak out through the basement, but decided against it. What was the point? He wasn’t particularly afraid of an arrest and he didn’t intend to crawl through the Lower East Side. In fact, what he intended to do was pay a visit to Pearse O’Malley, who was being guarded by a cop. If the cop had been warned to look out for a certain detective, third grade, named Stanley Moodrow, he wouldn’t make it through the morning.