A Piece of the Action

apparel. Lace bras, silk panties, a black shortie nightgown, a full-length slip. At first, the detectives who’d picked up the beef had assumed he was taking them home to his wife or his girlfriend. But as they’d gotten deeper into his m.o., they’d realized that he usually left a small pile of rejects in front of a full-length mirror.

“Well,” Patero continued, “we got the little prick. Tell him, Mack.”

“Piece of cake,” Mack Mitkowski said. “He must’ve lost his regular fence, because last night he approached someone else for the first time. A new fence. This someone else (who I ain’t gonna name) looks just like a rat, but he sings like a canary. He bought the whole load, then called me to come down and take a look at it. It matches with what went outta Kaufman’s loft two days ago. The scum’s name is Victor Zayas, a Puerto Rican. He lives on Avenue D, across from the projects. Works two blocks from here in the kitchen at Ratner’s.”

Patero shook his head. “Imagine. A spic who wears lace panties. Whatta ya think’s gonna happen to him when he goes upstate? Think he’ll be the belle of the ball?”

Moodrow started to laugh, then noticed that Mitkowski and his partner had maintained their neutral expressions.

“Mack and Pete are gonna toss the spic’s apartment,” Patero continued.

“We’re gonna go over to Ratner’s and bring him into the house. See if we can persuade him to own up to his foul deeds.”

Questions began to form in Moodrow’s mind, questions he was smart enough not to ask. First, he wanted to know if they had a warrant to search the apartment. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be able to use what they found in court. And they probably didn’t have a warrant, because if they did, they’d wait to see what they came up with before approaching Zayas. What Mitkowski was doing was protecting his informant. Or maybe the informant would never agree to testify in an open courtroom.

It amounted to the same thing. All they had was a name. That wasn’t the same as proof or evidence or anything else that would stand up in court, even if they were sure Zayas was guilty. Of course, they could put Zayas under surveillance for the next month. They could try to catch him in the act. But it would take six experienced cops to maintain round-the-clock observation. Six cops times thirty days equals a hundred and eighty payroll days which equals eight or nine thousand dollars. Maybe the captain of the 111th out in Bayside would approve the expense. Bayside was a nice, safe, low-crime neighborhood. But the 7th saw crimes involving knives and guns every day, not to mention a flourishing heroin trade. Captain McElroy wasn’t likely to invest that kind of money in the Playtex Burglar. The whole game hinged on getting Zayas to confess.

Moodrow stepped back to allow Mitkowski and O’Brien to get to the door. He sat down as soon as they were gone.

“Cheer up, Stanley,” Patero said. “You’re gonna get your picture in the papers today.”

“What am I gonna do, kill somebody?”

“What you’re gonna do,” Patero said, “is bust the Playtex Burglar. I already called the reporters. They’ll get the cameras down here whenever I give the word.”

More questions to which Moodrow knew the answers. But this time he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“How is it my bust? Mitkowski was the one who nailed him.”

“It’s your bust, because I say it’s your bust.” Patero’s voice was sharper. He couldn’t understand why Moodrow didn’t just play the game. It was a gift, this arrest, and as far as Patero was concerned, Moodrow should be grateful.

“I hear what you’re sayin’, Sal, but what I’m seeing is that these guys hate my guts. I’m supposed to be out there developing my own pack of rats. A detective’s only as good as his information. That’s what everybody says.”

“I thought we reached an understanding the other day.” Patero lit a cigarette and sucked in a cloud of smoke. He held it for a second, then let it drift out through both nostrils. “I’m tryin’ to cut down, but it only makes the ones I do smoke taste better.” He took another drag before returning to Moodrow.

“First of all, it doesn’t matter what Mitkowski and O’Brien think of you. They’re nice guys and halfway decent detectives, but they’re not going anywhere and they’re not gonna complain. Second, them and everybody else in the squad would give their right arms to be where you are now. Third, what you’re gonna learn, startin’ today, is how to do something more important than beggin’ some slimeball for a name. You’re gonna become the Seventh’s liaison with the DA’s office. You’re gonna be the one who makes sure that all the evidence and all the paperwork is in order before a case goes to trial. Take my word for it, Stanley. You won’t believe what kind of assholes you’re gonna be dealin’ with. We had a detective, first grade, name of Galowitz who once sent a thirty-eight over to the lab without doing any paperwork at all. Just dropped it off on his way home. Naturally, it turns out the thirty-eight was used in a robbery in which a homicide occurred. Before we can arrest the scumbag who owns the gun, he shows up with a lawyer. The judge threw out the thirty-eight at a preliminary hearing and the perpetrator never went to trial. I’ve been asking the captain to give me a full-time assistant for the last two years. Just when I gave up hope, you dropped into my lap.”

Victor Zayas didn’t make any fuss when Sal Patero and Stanley Moodrow showed up in Ratner’s kitchen. He didn’t even glance at the badge Patero flashed.

“What do you want?”

“We want ya to come over to the precinct and model a pair of panties for us,” Patero hissed. “Black silk panties. Trimmed with lace.”

Zayas’s face dropped through the floor. Scared shitless was the way Moodrow read it. When Patero put on the cuffs, Zayas began to tremble, a small, skinny kid made almost ghostly by his fear.

They marched him back to the 7th, letting the neighborhood get a good look at him. The idea, as Patero had explained it, was to break him down, then give him a way out. Most of the process would take place in a basement interrogation room, but it didn’t hurt to begin at the beginning. Zayas was now in the hands of the police. They could hold him for seventy-two hours without charging him. More than enough time to do what had to be done. Moodrow didn’t think the kid would last through the morning.

“All right, punk, welcome to your new home.” Patero pushed open the door to a small room and shoved Zayas inside. The only piece of furniture in the room was an armless wooden chair. The chair was bolted to the floor. “If ya want room service, I’m afraid ya gotta yell. We ain’t got around to installing telephones. Not that it matters. The filet mignon is shit here anyway.” He shoved Zayas into the chair, then cuffed his wrists and ankles to the chair’s legs. “Comfy?”

“What are you gonna do?” Zayas asked.

“We just wanna see what kind of panties you’re wearing,” Moodrow said. He noted Patero’s approving grin, then loosened Zayas’s belt and yanked his corduroys down. “Boxers.” He shook his head in disgust.

“Why are you doing this?”

“You tell us,” Patero said.

“I want a lawyer. I’m entitled to a lawyer.”

“He talks pretty good for a spic. Don’t he, Stanley?”

“My grandfather came here in nineteen oh-three. I know my rights. I want a lawyer.”

“All right, already.” Patero raised his hand defensively. “Don’t get hot. We’ll go out and find you a lawyer. You wait here.”

Patero led Moodrow into a small anteroom. He closed the door, then turned out the overhead lights. Zayas was clearly visible through a glass panel, though what Zayas saw, when he looked at the glass, was himself, handcuffed to a chair.

“You’re gonna be the good cop, Stanley,” Patero said. “After Mitkowski and O’Brien get through with him. You know what to do?”

“I’ve seen it done, but I’ve never done it.”

“Yeah, well, ordinarily I wouldn’t expect ya to bring it off. I’d let ya watch a few more times, before ya tried it yourself. But this Zayas is a punk. We pulled his jacket this morning and he came up clean. Just wait until the boys soften him up, then go in and hold his hand.” Patero took a sheet of paper out of his inside jacket pocket and tossed it over to Moodrow. “Here’s a list of burglaries we’d like him to cop out on. Addresses and dates.”

Moodrow scanned the list quickly. “These go back more than two years. I thought the Playtex Burglar’s only been working for the last six months?”

“First rule of law enforcement, Stanley,” Patero grinned. “The system runs on success. Ya gotta clear a certain percentage of the crimes committed in your command. It’s a competition. One precinct against another.