A Piece of the Action

Second rule of law enforcement: everybody cheats. When I first got appointed to the detectives, I was stationed up in the Two twenty-second. In the east Bronx. The captain there had a motto: ‘If it ain’t dead, it ain’t a felony.’ We had the lowest felony rate in the city for six years running.”

“Some of these burglaries were big,” Moodrow insisted. “This one on Division Street netted thousands of dollars in furs. You put that on the kid, he’s gonna go upstate for a long time.”

Patero advanced until his face was six inches from Moodrow’s chest. He looked ridiculous-like a chicken confronting a turkey-but he was much too angry to notice. “What’re you supposed to be? Sir fucking Galahad? Why don’t ya just give me your gold shield? Take it out right now and hand it over. I’ll get the captain to put ya back directing traffic for kids comin’ outta school. That way you’ll sleep good at night.”

The door opened before Moodrow could respond. O’Brien, carrying a paper bag, entered the room, followed by Mitkowski. If either of them noticed anything wrong, they didn’t show it.

“Home run,” O’Brien announced, emptying the bag onto a metal table. “Panties, slips, bras, nylons, garter belts. This one’s my favorite.” He held up a blue silk peignoir.

“He livin’ with a broad?” Patero asked.

“Negative, Sal. No dresses, coats, shoes.”

“Cosmetics?”

“A ton of it. Perfume, too.”

Patero stepped away from Moodrow. He was smiling again. “Might as well get to it.”

“I had a great idea on the way over,” Mitkowski said. “Ain’t that right, Pete.”

“Great idea,” O’Brien admitted.

Mitkowski took off his jacket, tie and shirt, then slipped into the peignoir. “Whatta ya think?” Mitkowski was small enough to button the peignoir, but his chest, covered with wiry black hair, somehow ruined the effect.

O’Brien took a scarred nightstick off the top of a filing cabinet and began to twirl it. In his expert hands, it spun like a yo-yo. “Just in case the punk ain’t impressed with Mack’s charms.”

Patero flipped on the intercom as soon as O’Brien and Mitkowski were in the room with Zayas. “I’m gonna take off, now. I got some paperwork in my office needs takin’ care of. You stay here. Do whatever you gotta do. One thing, though. You fuck it up, I’m takin’ it back to Pat Cohan. I’m gonna tell him I can’t work with you. I’m gonna say, ‘You asked me to teach Stanley about the Department, but Stanley don’t wanna learn. Whatta ya gonna do about it?’ ”

He left without waiting for an answer and Moodrow turned his attention to the interrogation room. The cops in the 7th called this room the Canary Cage, because so many suspects, caught within its walls, had been induced to sing whatever song the cops wanted to hear. Victor Zayas, however, was almost certainly a punk with no one larger than himself to give up. Which meant there was only one way out of the Canary Cage for the Playtex Burglar-his signature at the end of a confession.

Moodrow watched Mitkowski strut across the room, swinging his hips as he went. “And thith design,” he said, “is bound to get hith attention. All hith attention.” He sashayed over to Zayas and sat on the small man’s lap. “Whatta think, Victor? Do I look the part? Or would ya like to show us how ya do it for ya boyfriend?”

“I want a lawyer,” Zayas announced. “I know my rights.”

O’Brien stepped forward, grabbed Zayas’s nose between his thumb and forefinger, then twisted sharply. “I don’t wanna hear that shit. Not from no faggot like you.”

Zayas tried to pull away, but there was no place to go. The act was meant to remind him of his helplessness and O’Brien continued to drive the message home until Zayas cried out in pain. Then, seemingly satisfied, O’Brien strolled over to the far corner and picked a dusty telephone book off the floor.

“Did that bad, bad polithman hurt you, Vickie?” Mitkowski crooned.

“I want a lawyer.” Zayas was near to tears. “I’m entitled to a lawyer.”

“Oh Vickie, Vickie, Vickie.” Mitkowski was having the time of his life. When the boys in the squad room heard about this one, they’d buy his drinks for the next month. “Why are you rejecting me, Vickie? You know how thenthitive I am. Is it because I’m a fucking faggot? That doesn’t make me a bad perthon. I could thuck every cock in Manhattan and still be a good perthon. I mean it’s what’s in your heart that counth. Ithn’t it?”

This time Zayas kept his mouth shut. He sat in the chair, his eyes closed, clearly determined to ride out the storm. Of course, Zayas wasn’t the first suspect ever to demand a lawyer. Suspects were entitled to speak with a lawyer before questioning, assuming they knew their rights and requested one.

Interrogating officers usually divided knowledgeable suspects into two categories: hardened ex-cons and well-informed citizens. Most of the ex-cons would take a beating and laugh in the cop’s face. Having been through the game before, they knew that a beating only lasts for a few days, but prison goes on for years and years. Well- informed citizens, on the other hand, tended to see their right to a lawyer as an abstraction and the pain of a beating as very, very concrete.

“All right,” Mitkowski said, getting up. “I know when I’m not wanted.” He took off the peignoir, draped it over Zayas’s shoulders, then buttoned it under his throat. “Here, it looks better on you, anyway. Pete, gimme the phone book.”

O’Brien, standing behind Zayas, passed the phone book over to Mitkowski. “You gonna make a call, Mack?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna call Victor’s conscience.” He took the phone book and carefully dusted it off. “Wouldn’t wanna get ya perm all dirty, would we, Victor?” He paused, but Zayas didn’t answer. “What we’re gonna do now is for your own good. Because what I noticed here is that ya got very bad posture and how could ya be a model if ya posture’s bad? So what we’re gonna do is put the phone book on the top of ya head. Your job is to keep it there, keep ya neck and head straight. Believe me, this is great trainin’, Vickie. Course, ya could move and let the book fall down, but if ya do, I’m gonna take out my cock and make you suck it.” Mitkowski’s voice suddenly hardened. “You understand me, faggot? You understand what I’m tellin’ ya? Don’t try me, ’cause I never bluff.”

“I want …”

Mitkowski slapped Zayas’s face, a quick, sharp blow that would have knocked Zayas down if he hadn’t been handcuffed to the chair.

“No more bullshit about a lawyer. Not one fuckin’ word. Whatta ya think, we’re playin’ around here?”

“All right,” Zayas muttered.

“That’s better.” Mitkowski laid the phone book on Zayas’s head, balancing it carefully. “Very good, Vickie. See how ya holdin’ ya shoulders? And how ya neck forms a straight line? Just hold it for another minute and I’ll give you a nice reward.”

The reward turned out to be O’Brien using the nightstick like an axe, bringing it in a long smooth arc, from behind his knees to straight over his head to the top of the Manhattan phone book. The crack was sharp enough to make Mitkowski wince. Zayas, on the other hand, did nothing for a moment. Then he screamed, a long howl so elemental it was neither male nor female. It filled the room, as solid as the walls and the floor, a single note, a song of sorrow as much as pain, freezing the two detectives until it finally died out. Until Zayas, head bent, tears streaming down his cheeks, began to sob uncontrollably.

“Look what ya did,” Mitkowski said calmly. “Ya moved ya noggin and the phone book fell on the floor.” He picked it up, then grabbed Zayas’s face and lifted his head. “Now what I’m gonna do is put this phone book on ya head again. I know ya first instinct is gonna be to shake it off. Hey, it’s only natural. But ya should think about this. If there ain’t no phone book up there, then there ain’t nothin’ between ya faggoty skull and Pete’s nightstick. See what I mean?”

Mitkowski didn’t wait for an answer. He balanced the phone book on top of Zayas’s trembling head, then stepped back and nodded to O’Brien who once again brought the club through its arc. This time Zayas didn’t scream. He slumped forward, his eyes fluttering, nearly unconscious.

Zayas would have remained that way for a long time, preferring the blank dizziness to the reality awaiting him, but the sight of Stanley Moodrow crashing through the door overrode any common sense he might have had.

“What the fuck is goin’ on here?” Moodrow demanded.