A Piece of the Action

in with their billy clubs. And this is the point I’m making here. Your mother was only fifteen when the union put her to work as an organizer. She was so young and pretty, the bosses didn’t suspect her. But on the picket lines she was a demon. What I’m telling you now, I saw with my own eyes. So many times she had her head cracked I couldn’t even count them. And she gave as good as she got. One time I remember like it was yesterday. The cops were driving their horses into the picket line, hammering the workers with their clubs. Your mother pushed a hatpin into the horse’s tuchis. I’m telling you, Stanley-right in there. The horse jumped up and the cop fell off. He fell into a circle of strikers. That day we got even a little.”

“I don’t know anything about this.”

“That’s the point. Your mother was not a young girl when you were born. She was almost thirty and she figured she’d done her duty. The garment workers were mostly organized by then, anyway. What was the point of looking for trouble? She decided to stay home with you while you were young. Then came the war and everybody went off to fight Hitler.”

Moodrow refilled Greta’s cup without asking. He put a few jelly doughnuts on a plate and set them out on the table.

“My mother must have been pretty disappointed when I became a cop,” he said.

“If she was, she didn’t say anything to me about it. I think by that time she was just happy you weren’t going to be a boxer. She was afraid you were some kind of a savage. Also, times had changed. When there came a strike, the cops protected the workers instead of attacking them. And remember, your father’s brother was a policeman and your mother knew he wasn’t a bad man.”

“Greta, I know I asked you this before, but what do you expect me to do here? About Melenguez. I …”

Greta Bloom, straightening up in her chair, seemed to transform herself. The kindly neighbor disappeared and her eyes grew hard. “Nothing happens without risk. When your grandmother died, your mother could have said, ‘See, this is what happens. This is the way it is. What can I do about it?’ Instead, she fought back. That thing with the horse? It didn’t just happen. She brought the hatpin with her, because she knew the cops would use their horses and there was no other way to bring the horses down. Now, I have to go. I got the laundry and my shopping to do. Plus, I also have a Hadassah meeting at the shul. I tell you, Stanley, I’m busier now in my old age than when the children were young.”

“Wait a minute, Greta. This time I have a question for you. Did you tell these stories to your own children? I mean your kids went to City College. They’re professionals. Now they live out on Long Island somewhere.”

Greta Bloom sighed. “I told them, but they don’t wanna know from the old days. What’s the use of complaining? Every time I turn around, somebody’s kids are moving out. But you, Stanley, you’re different. You’re a fighter like they never were. You could understand what I’m trying to say. Luis Melenguez’s killer should not go unpunished.”

Fourteen

Greta Bloom departed, carrying her little circle of energy with her. Moodrow finished dressing in the island of calm she left behind, then he, too, left. It was cold outside, as expected, and Moodrow felt the urge to break into a trot, to begin his roadwork as he had so many times before. It had been much simpler when he was still fighting. An opponent stood in front of you, gloves up, and you either beat him or you didn’t. The whole thing was over in a few minutes. It was over and the result became part of your record forever.

Now, he could see any number of ways to win and lose at the same time. For instance, to put Inspector Cohan where he belonged while losing Inspector Cohan’s daughter. Or to marry Kate and find her dragging a lifetime load of resentment into their marriage. What was clearly lost was the fantasy that’d carried him through all the hours in the gym. The June-moon-spoon fantasy that had the two of them, Stanley Moodrow and Kate Cohan, living happily ever after.

He walked down First Avenue, past Houston, to Stanton Street, then turned left for a block, then right on Orchard. In the summer, the shopkeepers along Orchard Street stood outside, hawking their wares to passersby. Now, the doors and windows were shut tight against the cold, but, still, an occasional shopkeeper stood by the glass with his back to an empty store. One and all, they knocked on the window and waved to the former cop who’d protected their merchandise, to the local boy who ran through the streets in search of glory.

Moodrow waved in return, but kept on walking. He was a block from Pitt Street before he admitted where he was going. Begin at the scene of the crime. That’s what the instructor at the Academy had told the new recruits. In this case, of course, the crime scene wasn’t exactly fresh, but, according to Maguire, there were witnesses who hadn’t come forward with the truth, who could make sense of Pat Cohan’s bullshit.

He went over it in his mind as he walked toward the doorway of 800 Pitt Street. The pimp’s name was Al O’Neill. His wife’s name was Betty. The prostitute who’d serviced Melenguez was named Mariana. He had no last name for her and no intention of questioning her, either. At least not right away. He had to assume that Patero and Cohan were covering for somebody. If he left O’Neill alone for any length of time, O’Neill would call that someone and that someone would call Patero. The last thing Moodrow needed was Patero showing up before the interrogation was completed.

Moodrow rapped sharply on the door, then stepped in front of the peephole, which looked newly installed. After a moment, a man’s voice called out: “Whatta ya want?”

Moodrow held up his shield. “Police,” he announced.

“Whatta ya want?”

“Open the door.”

“You got a warrant?”

Moodrow answered by driving the heel of his right shoe into the peephole. The door held, but the muffled cry of pain from inside the building was so pleasing that Moodrow decided to give it another try. The door opened before he could deliver.

“Ya cut me.” The man holding his eye was fat and middle-aged. A thick bandage covered his forehead and his mouth was grotesquely swollen.

“Try being more hospitable. Then you won’t draw these hostile reactions.” Moodrow stepped inside.

“I can’t give no more. Ya hittin’ me up every other day.” The fat man stood his ground, arms folded across his chest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Al. I’m here to investigate a homicide. You remember Luis Melenguez? Got blown away on December 26. One day after Christmas.”

O’Neill, shocked, took a careful look at the huge cop standing in front of him. He, himself, was a large man, heavily muscled beneath the fat that coated his body, but his head barely came up to the detective’s shoulder.

“The cops already checked that out,” he said. “It’s been taken care of. You should call your boss before …”

“I wanna go back in the office where it happened.”

“Look …”

“Just fucking do it, Al.”

O’Neill shrugged and led Moodrow past the staircase and down a hallway to the back of the building. The office, Moodrow noted, was a long way from the stairs. Melenguez didn’t just happen to wander back here. Something must have drawn him down the corridor. Something loud and violent.

“Okay if I make sure my wife is dressed?” O’Neill asked.

Moodrow answered by drawing his.38 and holding it down by his side. “Don’t say a word, Al. Not a word. And you better hope there’s no surprise behind that door. Because if there is, I’m gonna shoot you first.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Open the door.”

Betty O’Neill was seated behind the desk when the door swung open. She looked up in surprise, muttering something inaudible.

“Her jaw’s wired,” O’Neill explained. “She had an accident.”

“What about her hair? That an accident, too?” Betty O’Neill’s skull was shaved in three places.