A Piece of the Action

to the projects. I seen him down by tha’ little park on Houston Street. Near the river.”

“Any special time?”

“Mos’ly I seen him when I’m comin’ back from school. But, like, he ain’ punchin’ no clock.”

“He come alone?”

“Si. Only I ain’ watchin’ thees maricon every minute.”

“All right, thanks Henry. I appreciate the information.”

Moodrow headed for the door, Father Sam trailing behind. “Slow down, Stanley,” the priest demanded. “You were never in a hurry when you were trainin’ for me.”

“Sorry. I can’t think about anything but what I have to do.”

“You were like that as a fighter, too. That’s why you won. Lord knows, you didn’t have any talent.”

Moodrow turned to face the smaller man. “Is there a point here, Father?”

“Now, don’t go workin’ yourself up. Just think about how easy it was for you to waltz in here and find out what you needed to know. This gym could be a real nice connection for a cop like yourself. A cop with desire.”

“Enough with the lecture. Whatta you want?”

The priest managed a beatific grin. “What I’m gettin’ at is how I could use some help. Somebody with desire to show these boys the fundamentals. Every time I turn around, they’re out there smokin’ marijuana cigarettes. Or some gangster is tryin’ to make ’em turn pro before they’re ready. Could be if you start comin’ down regular, you’d be doin’ yourself a favor.”

Twenty

It sounds great, Izzy Stein thought. The dope business seems like the greatest thing since chopped liver. But what it really is, is standing out in the rain. It’s looking over your shoulder for the narcs and the thieves. It’s sick, sniveling junkies begging for an extra bag. Or for credit. Or for anything to relieve the endless misery of their endlessly miserable fucking lives.

“Oh, man, you gotta take this watch. It’s a gold Lady Hamilton, man. With diamonds. It’s gotta be worth ten bags. I got it uptown.”

“It ain’t worth shit to me, pal. My girlfriend’s already got a watch.”

“Please, man. I’m sick.”

“Whatta ya want me to do about it? Do I look like a fuckin’ doctor? Go out an sell the watch to the guy you stole it from. Me, I’m only interested in cash.”

“But everybody takes merchandise. Everybody.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe you should go find everybody.”

“I would, man. I ain’t bullshittin’. But like it’s late and I don’t know if anybody else’s around. If you could do me this favor-just this one time-I’ll never bring you nothin’ but cash.”

And that was another thing. That was the worst thing. You couldn’t discourage a sick junkie. No matter what. You could punch ’em, kick ’em, stab ’em. It didn’t matter. They popped up like balloons, wiped the snot off their lips and continued to beg. Please, please, please. Gimme, gimme, gimme. It was disgusting.

“Lemme see the fuckin’ thing.” It was a Lady Hamilton, all right. But that could mean anything. The watch might be gold or it might have been dipped in yellow paint. The little stones on the face might be diamonds or they might be paste. How was he supposed to know?

What Izzy did know was that he was standing in the rain, in the projects, with ten junkies waiting their turn, and he wasn’t going to get warm and dry until he took care of everybody. On the other hand, if he accepted the watch and it turned out to be a piece of shit, Jake would most likely go through the roof. Well, maybe Jake could give it to his mother.

“Three bags. Take it or leave it.”

“Oh, man, three bags won’t even get me straight. Like, I gotta go through the whole night. Plus I got a job lined up. I got a fucking warehouse. In Greenpoint. Just gimme ten bags and I’ll make it up to ya tomorrow mornin’. I swear it on my mother.”

“You could swear it on ya fuckin’ needle tracks and it still wouldn’t mean shit to me. Take the three bags or go find somebody else. And don’t interrupt me, ’cause I’m runnin’ outta patience.”

“Five, please. Five bags. The watch’s worth at least a hundred bucks. Five bags is only twenty-five dollars. Ya gotta help me out here.”

What Izzy was tempted to do was pull his.38 and relieve this miserable junkie of his miserable sickness forever. But what he did was count out the five bags, take the watch and motion the next junkie forward, the one pulling a wire cart stuffed with rags.

“I got a radio,” the junkie said as he approached Jake. “A fucking Motorola, man. Like it’s worth a hundred bucks. At least.”

It took Izzy an hour to finish up. An hour standing in the rain with the prospect of another session with a dozen sick junkies still ahead of him. Well, at least Houston Street was the last stop. Then he could walk back to the Paradise and catch a hot bath and a couple of shots of bourbon. Maybe he could even figure a way out of this bullshit. Maybe he could talk Jake into taking a turn standing in the projects. Being as they were fifty-fifty partners.

Izzy, despite his years on the street and his prison experience, was so wrapped up in his own misfortunes that he failed to notice the elderly man in the black trenchcoat until the man spoke. By then, it was too late to run.

“Police. Stop right there. You’re under arrest.”

Izzy’s mouth said, “What?” But the gun in the cop’s hand left no doubt as to his intentions.

“Get up against the car. Spread your legs.”

The hands crawling over Izzy’s body were experienced. Experienced and confident. They relieved him of his.38 and his dope, then slapped on the cuffs. All in less than thirty seconds.

“I want a lawyer,” Izzy said. “I wanna make a phone call.”

“Don’t worry, boyo,” Pat Cohan replied. “You’re going to get everything you deserve. Now, why don’t you hop in the back seat like a good little criminal? Then we can drive on down to the stationhouse and give you that phone call.”

There was nothing to be done about it. At least, not right away. The cop had searched him without a warrant and maybe a good lawyer would find a way to prove it to a judge. But that was in the future. The first step was to establish himself in the Tombs. Which was where they’d eventually take him. The second step was to find a lawyer. The third step was to make bail. The fourth step was to find a way to pay the …

The Ford screeched to a halt on 11th Street, between Avenues A amp; B. Izzy looked up, expecting to see the 7th Precinct, but they were parked next to an alley.

“Well, boyo, bein’ as I’ve an appointment elsewhere, I think I’ll be off. But have no fear, the officer in front will see you safely to your destination.”

Only “the officer in front” wasn’t an officer. The “officer in front” was Santo Silesi. And he was holding a small automatic. And he was smiling.

The door opened, then closed, then opened again before Izzy could pull his thoughts together.

“Hi, Izzy,” Joe Faci said, squeezing into the back seat.

“What’s the game?” Izzy finally said.

“No game. Just that I gotta thank you for giving my friend this opportunity to make his bones. I’m sure Santo, when he remembers his manners, will thank you, too.”

Izzy took a moment to think it over, then smiled and spit directly into Joe Faci’s face. Despite the handcuffs.