A Piece of the Action

i.d. What I’d like you to do is take a hike while I ask him a few questions about his secret identity.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that.” Samuelson’s companion stepped forward. “We can’t allow you to abuse a prisoner.”

“Stanley,” Samuelson said, “this is Detective Lieutenant Rosten.”

Moodrow managed a smile. “You slumming, Lieutenant?”

“Patero’s transferring out to Forensics at the end of the month. What I’m doing is getting my feet wet.”

“You’ll get your head wet, too, standing out in the rain.”

“It doesn’t bother me. In fact, it reminds me of the old days. When I used to walk a beat. Samuelson’s right, by the way. You’d do yourself a favor by getting that wound sewn up. We can handle the details.”

Moodrow knew he could insist on coming into the precinct to make sure the details jibed with his own version of what happened, but he didn’t see what good it would do him. The idea that Samuelson, accompanied by Sal Patero’s replacement, just happened to be driving down the street was too stupid to contemplate. Most likely, his assailant (along with Detective Lieutenant Rosten) had been sent by Pat Cohan. Most likely, his assailant was a cop. Most likely, if he went down to the 7th Precinct, he was the one who’d be arrested. For the first time, Moodrow had the sense that he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

“I think you’re right about the cut,” he said. “It’s still bleeding. Why don’t we get in a car and write up a preliminary report. You got complaint forms in there, right?”

“Yeah, sure.” There wasn’t anything else Samuelson could say. Every detective carried a variety of forms. It went with the territory.

“Great, because the thing of it is, I want a copy. A signed copy. Everything I say, plus everything you saw. And don’t forget to put the bat in there. I haven’t touched it, so any fingerprints have to belong to this slimeball. The blood, on the other hand, which you’re gonna have tested, belongs to me alone.”

“Is that necessary?” Rosten asked. “It sounds like you don’t trust us.”

“Well, let me put it this way. If you refuse, I’m taking this asshole to the Thirteenth Precinct and book him there. It’s closer than the Seventh and being as I’m not in the greatest shape, it doesn’t make a lotta sense for me to walk all the way down to Clinton Street. You try to stop me and I’ll put your face through the windshield.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Thank you.” Crazy was the ultimate street compliment.

“I won’t forget this.”

“That’s just what I was hoping. That you won’t forget anything.”

Jake Leibowitz was just a little pissed off. Maybe it wasn’t necessary and maybe they hadn’t talked about it, but the least Izzy could have done was call to wish him luck. After all, their future hinged on what he, Jake, was going to do tonight. It hadn’t taken long to find out who Steppy Accacio’s rival was. The gangster (a wop, naturally) who’d controlled the dope in the projects before Accacio took over was named Dominick Favara. In a way, he and Steppy could have been brothers. Despite the fact that Favara was as dark as Accacio was fair. They were both young and ambitious, both trying to work their way up, both trying to impress the mobsters who ran New York City.

Well, Izzy or no Izzy, Jake was determined to pull it off, to make the switch from Accacio to Favara before Accacio knew what was happening. He was wearing his absolute best, his black cashmere coat over his double- breasted gray suit. Even his mustache was perfect. He’d allowed Mama Leibowitz to trim it, despite the anxiety he felt whenever she had a sharp object in her hands.

“All right, Jake,” he said aloud, “this is it. Ya fuck this one up, ya gonna have to leave town tomorrow.”

He pushed open the door of the Ragusa Social Club and walked inside.

“Yeah?”

The man who stepped in front of Jake was as wide as he was tall. One of those monsters, Jake thought, who spend their days collecting for the bookmakers and the shylocks.

“I’m here to see Dominick Favara. He’s expectin’ me.”

“Ya got a name?”

“Jake Leibowitz.”

“Leee-bowww-wwwitz?”

“Listen, tubby, if you don’t turn ya fat ass around and go tell ya fuckin’ boss I’m here to see him, I’m takin’ a powder. That’s after I kick ya face in.”

“Could I help somebody?”

Jake answered without looking away from the man in front of him. “I’m lookin’ for Dominick Favara.”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Jake Leibowitz. We got an appointment.”

“I been expectin’ ya. Come in the back.”

“You oughta put a chain on ya dog,” Jake said. “He ain’t trained yet.”

“Don’t let Carmine bother ya. That’s just his way.”

“Yeah,” Carmine said, “that’s just my way. No offense.”

“None taken. And please forgive me for threatenin’ to kick ya face in.”

Jake crossed the room, shook hands with Dominick Favara, then stepped through the doorway into Favara’s small office.

“Pull up a seat, Jake. Take a load off ya mind.”

Jake removed his hat, then carefully arranged his cashmere overcoat before sitting down. “Hey, Dominick,” he said, “I’m sorry I lost my temper. What happened was I started off the day on the wrong side of the bed. I ate my mother’s cookin’.”

Favara chuckled appreciatively. “I heard you was a tough guy, Jake. In fact, I been hearin’ a lot about you lately. Ya did some time, didn’t ya?”

“Some? Try forever and a day.” Jake quickly outlined his problems with the army.

“Tough break. I mean ya had a perfectly good plan, but nobody could read the future. Sometimes it don’t turn out like you expect.”

“Yeah, but sometimes ya get a chance to make it right before the sky falls on ya head. I’m hopin’ that now is one of them times. Ya know what I’m doin’ in the projects?”

“I heard all about it.”

Jake, noting the sudden gleam in Favara’s eye, was careful to keep his own expression neutral. Now, they understood each other. “What it is is I ain’t happy with my current supplier. He thinks I’m an employee, but what I wanna be is an independent contractor. I mean, I been givin’ it a lotta thought and what I come up with is this. If I got plenty of cash, if I don’t need credit, why can’t I deal with more than one supplier? Competition. Ain’t that what America’s all about? Ain’t it competition that makes people work harder?”

“I think I get the point.”

“If ya do, then ya one up on Steppy Accacio. Steppy don’t want me buyin’ from anybody but him. That way he can make the price as high as he wants.”

“Can ya blame him?”

“Can ya blame me for not goin’ along? I didn’t do all those years in the joint so’s I could end up bein’ a flunky.”

Favara stood up and walked over to the window. “So that’s what ya want from me? To buy dope? Ya don’t want nothin’ else? You ain’t, for instance, askin’ me to watch ya back when Steppy comes lookin’ for ya?”

“Ya gotta protect your interests, right?”

“That guy you did in the projects? With baseball bats? Ya know he worked for me?”

“Not at the time.”

Favara walked back over to his desk and sat on the edge. “What I hear is that you’re crazy, Jake. What I hear is that you been killin’ people right and left. Like that spic in the whorehouse.”

“It was a mistake. Jesus Christ, does the whole world know about it?”

“You went in there for Steppy is what ya did. To do the job on the pimp and his old lady. They used to be my customers. Before Steppy took over the projects. O’Neill talks too much. Just like the rest of the micks.”

“Yeah? Well, he won’t be talkin’ no more. I ain’t pretendin’ to be no saint, Dominick. But I only made one