A Piece of the Action

“I am president of the Tenth Street Dragons.”

“Dragons? More like the Tenth Street Cucarachas.”

“You have the gun, senor.”

“Here, Santo, take this.” Jake passed the.45 to Silesi, then took off his overcoat, folded it carefully and laid it on a bench. His hat followed, then his jacket. “Okay, El Presidente, let’s see what you got.”

Jake could see the kid was scared. He was scared, but he couldn’t chicken out. Not with that macho attitude every Puerto Rican was supposed to have. He had to fight.

“Ya know somethin’, kid? I was havin’ a very bad day. But since I met you, it’s picked up considerable.”

The kid threw a slow clumsy left. Jake took it on the forehead, a nothing punch that made no impression whatsoever, then slammed his right hand into the kid’s face. He felt the kid’s nose flatten under his knuckles, watched him fall.

“What’s the matter, El Presidente, you don’t wanna get up?” The kid didn’t want to get up. That was obvious. He was sitting on the frozen ground, holding one hand to his face, trying to shake off the dizzyness.

“C’mon, don’t be a pussy.” Jake drove the toe of his fifty-dollar Bostonians into the kid’s ribs. That got him going. The kid rolled away, trying to get to his feet, but Jake moved with him, waiting for an opening. When he saw it, he kicked the kid again, this time right in the balls.

“Guess the party’s over,” Jake said. “El Presidente musta ate somethin’ that didn’t agree with him. He’s pukin’ all over his sneakers. What I gotta say to the rest of you punks is that ya boss is lucky. He’s lucky he ain’t fuckin’ dead. Which is exactly what you’re gonna be if ya try this bullshit again. Look at yourselves. Wearin’ them stupid jackets and them sneakers in the middle of winter. Why don’t ya get a goddamned suit? A decent pair of shoes?” He paused for an answer, but nobody said a word. “Awright, pick up ya buddies and get your asses outta here. And don’t come back. Next spic that fucks with me is goin’ for a swim in the river.”

Jake took the.45 from Santo, then waited in his shirtsleeves until the kids disappeared into the projects. What he was showing them was that he didn’t feel the cold, but what he was doing was freezing his ass off. The minute they were gone, he put on his jacket, overcoat and hat. Then he started walking.

“Let’s move up to Sixth Street. In case somebody’s momma decides to call the cops.”

They walked over to Avenue D, then turned north. “What were ya doin’, Santo?” Jake asked. “Were you just gonna let ’em rob ya?”

“They weren’t thieves,” Silesi replied evenly. “The Dragons aren’t a fighting gang.”

“Then what the fuck did they want?”

“They wanted me to stop bringing heroin into the neighborhood. They said it was destroying the community.”

“No shit?” Jake shook his head in wonder. “Puerto Rican social workers. Who woulda believed it.”

“What could I say, Jake? It surprised me, too.”

“Did they happen to mention what they were gonna do? In case you decided not to take their advice.”

“You showed up before they got to that part.”

“Well, you could forget about them. They ain’t comin’ back. There’s somethin’ else I wanna talk about anyway. Ya told me your uncle had a police lieutenant in his pocket. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“So what I wanna know is how come we gotta worry about the cops? Because Joe Faci told me it was fixed. I mean was he bullshitting me or what? It seems to me if ya really got a lieutenant in ya pocket, you could find out where the cops hid the pimp and his old lady.”

“That’s not my end of it, Jake. All I know is some cop’s making a fuss and Steppy’s dealing with it.”

They were interrupted by what Jake, thinking about it later, called a miracle. A woman, dressed in a dark cloth coat and a woolen scarf, stepped out of a doorway and approached them. Her hands were shaking, her nose running freely.

“Sandy,” she said, “ya gotta help me out.”

Jake recognized Betty O’Neill immediately. Which is not to say that she recognized him. She wasn’t even looking at him. The bitch only had eyes for her pusher.

“I’m sick,” she said. “I gotta have a fix. I gotta.”

“I just dropped off forty bags the other day,” Silesi said calmly. “You must have some kind of habit, Betty. Maybe it’s time for you to kick.”

“It ain’t that,” Betty said. “Al dumped it in the toilet. He said that dope is what got us into the mess we’re in. I asked him, ‘What mess?’ but all he can say is we gotta run. I don’t know what’s the matter with him, Sandy. He’s turned into some kind of a pansy.”

“Was he talkin’ to the cops, Betty?” Jake asked. Now she was looking at him, trying to place him. He smiled innocently. “I mean I’m only askin’ because there’s rumors goin’ around and what with you and Al takin’ off, people are startin’ to get worried.”

“A cop did come to the house, but Al didn’t tell him nothin’. I swear it.”

“Then why did he run away?”

“Because he’s a damned coward, that’s why.” She paused long enough to run the sleeve of her coat across her mouth and nose. “Al figured that when Santo seen him and the cop together, he’d jump to conclusions.”

“Betty,” Jake said, “do you know who I am?”

“You’re Santo’s boss.”

“That’s right.” He took a small paper bag out of his overcoat pocket and let her take a look at what was inside. “You know what that is, don’t ya?”

“Dope.” Her hand floated up for a moment, then dropped to her side. “I got money. I’ll take it all.”

Jake shook his head. He counted out ten caps, then handed the rest to Silesi. “Go take care of business, Santo. You got customers need servicin’.” He waited until he and Betty were alone before speaking again. “What would ya give for this, Betty?” he asked. “What would ya give?”

Betty managed a crooked smile. “I’d give ya whatever ya wanted.” She put her hand beneath her coat and let it slide down her belly.

“What I want is your husband. And I ain’t no fag, either. I just gotta make sure he’s all right, that he ain’t talkin’ to the wrong people.”

“That chicken ain’t talkin’ to nobody. He don’t hardly answer the door.”

“I got an idea, Betty. Why don’t you and me go some place private? That way you could take care of what you gotta take care of. When you’re all better we could talk about this … this problem.”

“Where are we goin’?”

“To paradise. The Paradise Hotel. A friend of mine has a room there.”

The news, as far as Jake was concerned, was all good. Al O’Neill wasn’t being protected by the cops. He had to be holed up somewhere on his own, because if the cops were involved, Betty wouldn’t be roaming the streets looking for dope. She’d be climbing the walls in some locked room.

Jake led the way down Avenue D and across Houston Street. He didn’t bother watching Betty O’Neill. (He could hear her sniveling as she trotted alongside him like a stray dog sniffing at a roast beef sandwich.) Instead, he thought about what was wrong here. If Al O’Neill was talking, the first thing the cops would’ve done is drag his sorry ass into the precinct to look at the mug books. Jake was in those books. Izzy and Abe, too. So, how come …

Maybe O’Neill hadn’t talked to anyone. Maybe it was all Santo Silesi’s imagination. Maybe Silesi was only trying to make himself more important to Joe Faci and Steppy Accacio. Maybe Accacio himself was nothing more than a chickenshit sissy who panicked every time he heard a noise in the house. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But none of that mattered and Jake knew it. Because what he should’ve done was take care of Al and Betty when Abe plugged the spic. What he should have done was eliminate the witnesses on the spot. He’d made a mistake, just like Abe Weinberg had made a mistake, and now he had to pay for it. Or Betty