A Piece of the Action

“Yeah. She had stitches.”

“Where’d the accident happen?” Moodrow shoved the.38 back in its holster.

“On Houston Street. She got hit by a car.”

“That right, Betty? You get hit by a car?”

“Yeah,” Betty mumbled. “I got run over.”

“You make a report?”

“Huh?”

“An accident report. Did you make an accident report?”

No answer. Moodrow let the silence stand while he checked the room. He went through the desk, finding a.22 caliber revolver which he pocketed, then walked over to a door at the back of the room and opened it to reveal a tiny bathroom. There was a window set high up on the wall, too narrow and too far up for an adult to crawl through.

“All right, here’s what we’re gonna do,” Moodrow announced. “Betty, you’re gonna go in the toilet while I question your husband. When I’m finished with him, I’m gonna bring you out and ask you the same questions. What I’m sayin’ here is that I wouldn’t like it if you gave different answers. Let’s go.”

Betty O’Neill’s face reddened. She tried to protest, but her words were a hopeless jumble. Not that it mattered, because Moodrow wasn’t interested anyway. He took Betty’s arm and hauled her to her feet.

“Well, well, well. Take a look at this.” He ran a finger along the dark scars on the veins of her left forearm. “Ya know somethin’, I bet if I looked real hard I could find where you hid your dope. And if I did, I bet I could get you thrown in the Tombs for a few days. And if that happens, you’d have to kick the habit cold turkey. You probably wouldn’t like that, would you?” The look in her eyes, a mixture of absolute terror and fierce hatred, gave him all the answer he needed. He stroked her face and smiled. “But don’t worry. What I’m doing here is investigating a homicide. You help me out and I’m willing to overlook your nasty habit. You fucking lie to me, on the other hand, and you’ll be puking your guts out before the sun goes down. And you might wanna keep in mind that sunset comes early this time of year.”

Betty O’Neill walked into the small bathroom and closed the door. Moodrow motioned Al O’Neill into the chair behind the desk and turned on a small radio, setting the volume loud enough to guarantee that Betty wouldn’t overhear the conversation. Then he sat on the edge of the desk, two feet from Al O’Neill, and grinned.

“You did it, Al. You killed Melenguez.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Melenguez was shot from inside this room. This room just happens to be your office. I know Melenguez came here to get laid, because I know the name of the girl who took care of him. You killed him. You or your junkie wife. What I wanna know is why.”

Moodrow was sure that Al O’Neill hadn’t killed Luis Melenguez. He was almost sure that the killer and the man who’d smacked Betty O’Neill around were one and the same. His problem was that he couldn’t come back to 800 Pitt Street. The minute he left, O’Neill would call his contact who’d call his contact who’d call his contact. Eventually, it would get back to Patero and Cohan. That would be the end of that.

“I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t even here. I was checking one of the girls. Ya know what I’m sayin’, right? She didn’t wanna service her john. Didn’t wanna do what he asked her.”

“And the little lady? Where was she?”

“Betty was visiting her mother.”

“Wrong, Al. According to the first cops on the scene, the little woman was in the building.” Without shifting his weight, Moodrow slapped Al O’Neill across the face. It wasn’t much of a blow, by Moodrow’s standards, but it came so fast that O’Neill, unprepared, flew out of the chair.

“The thing about it is,” Moodrow said calmly, “that I know you keep your money and your records in this office. Which means that nobody gets in here without your permission. You were here, Al. In the room. Now, I can accept that maybe it wasn’t a murder. Maybe he surprised you and you shot him because you thought he was a thief. I could buy that. But what I can’t buy is that you weren’t here. And I’ll thank you for not insulting my intelligence by insisting on that particular piece of bullshit.”

O’Neill dragged himself off the floor, then pulled the chair upright. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Melenguez. How could I mistake that little spic for a thief? He looked like he was right off the fuckin’ boat.”

“You saying your old lady killed him?”

“No, I ain’t sayin’ that.”

“Lemme see if I got this straight. You were in the room, you and Betty, but neither one of you killed Luis Melenguez. Does that mean someone else was here, too?”

O’Neill slumped in the chair. “Figure it out for yourself,” he muttered.

Moodrow held out his hand, palm forward, men slowly curled his fingers, one at a time. His hands, small for so large a man, were still huge by ordinary standards. The knuckles had been so flattened by years of workouts with a sixty-pound bag that his fist looked like a block of wood.

“I’m not leaving here without answers, Al. It’s that simple.”

“So what’re you gonna do? Kick my ass? Throw me in jail? If I talk to you, I’m dead. Simple as that, cop. I’m dead.”

“You might wanna consider something, Al.” Moodrow, knowing that if he was in O’Neill’s position he wouldn’t talk either, was thinking as fast as he could. Which translated as saying the first thing that came into his head. “New York is a death penalty state. Now, I got a good idea who’s covering for you down at the precinct, but this case isn’t in the precinct anymore. The Hispanic Improvement Society is pushing the mayor and the mayor’s pushing the commissioner. That means the case has got to get cleared. Somebody’s goin’ down, Al, and I don’t see any reason why it can’t be you.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“You’re not thinking logically, Al. You were here. In this fucking room. You think I can’t prove it? Look, I’d like to nail the bastard who pulled the trigger. I’m a cop, a hunter. I don’t like settling for a rabbit when I’m after a bear. But if I gotta settle, I gotta settle. I’m not in a position where I can go back without a trophy.” Moodrow paused long enough to grab O’Neill’s face and raise it up until their eyes met. “You know what’s gonna happen if I walk upstairs and start leaning on the whores? I’ll tell ya, buddy. What’s gonna happen is two or three of ’em are gonna say they saw you come out of that office right after the shots were fired. That gives you opportunity. The same two or three, plus two or three more, are gonna say they heard your wife screaming just before the shots were fired. If you and Betty were the only people in the room, then you were the one kicking her ass. Now here’s what the prosecutor’s gonna say. He’ll say that Melenguez, on his way out, heard the screams and came riding to the rescue. He came through that door and you, in a blind rage, shot him down. Which gives you a motive. Motive and opportunity. When the jury sees the medical reports on your wife, they won’t be asking what happened to the gun.”

“Whatever you’re gonna do, it’s better than dyin’. I talk to you, I won’t live a week.”

Moodrow let his left fist fly. “You don’t talk to me, you might not live through the day.” He peered down at O’Neill, wondering if he’d actually knocked the man out. He’d never knocked a man out with a jab. But no, O’Neill wasn’t unconscious, he was just smart enough to stay on the floor.

“Hey, Al, I’m sorry,” Moodrow continued. “I don’t actually wanna hurt you, but I need to make you understand that I’m serious here. I need to make you understand that after I establish motive and opportunity, I’m gonna drag your ass uptown and persuade you to confess to this awful crime. Now, you shouldn’t take this to mean that I can’t appreciate your point of view. I can see you’re in a tough spot and maybe it’s better you should risk gettin’ electrocuted five years from now than risk gettin’ blown away next week. But I got my own priorities.”

Moodrow reached down, grabbed O’Neill by the shirt, hauled his 225 pounds upright and slammed him into the chair. He was about to resume his interrogation when he heard a voice in the hallway.

“Al, where the hell are you? What’re you doin’?”

Moodrow, caught by surprise, looked around for a place to hide, then thought better of it. The panic in Al O’Neill’s face gave him a better idea.

“C’mon in,” Moodrow said. “I’m in the office.”

The man who walked into the room was young and blond. He hesitated when he saw Moodrow, but only for a second. “Hey, what’s doin’?” he said.

“Nothin’ much,” Moodrow answered. “How’s by you?”