A Piece of the Action

mistake and there ain’t no witnesses left. I did what I had to do. I’m still doin’ what I have to do.”

“I ain’t sayin’ ya not, Jake. What I am sayin’ is if ya wanna buy dope from me, I’ll be glad to sell it to ya. But only for cash. As for the rest of it, I ain’t interested in coverin’ ya butt, because ya too fuckin’ hot. If ya happen to survive, which ain’t too likely, we could maybe do business long-term. But first ya gotta survive.”

Jake took a minute to think it over. Access to a dependable supply of dope would give him an income, but it wouldn’t protect him. He had to have help.

“On the other hand,” Favara said casually, “it happens I know some right guys who ain’t got work at the moment. If ya don’t mind dealin’ with Puerto Ricans, I could talk to ’em. Tell ’em you got a proposition to make.”

“Shit, Dominick.” Jake smiled for the first time. “I’m a Jew, ain’t I? I gotta take my friends where I can find ’em.”

Twenty-one

January 21

Moodrow was still in bed, still asleep, when the phone began to ring. He glanced at his Big Ben, saw it was after eight o’clock and jerked himself upright. The intense jab of pain that shot through his skull reminded him why he hadn’t set the clock. Then the phone rang again and he realized that it didn’t take movement to set his head to throbbing. Sound would do, as well.

Let it ring, he thought. Just let it go away. Just let the whole goddamned morning disappear.

But whoever it was apparently knew Moodrow was home, because they wouldn’t hang up. Not after five rings, not after ten, not after fifteen. Moodrow got out of bed and crossed the room, desperately wishing for a cup of coffee.

“Yeah?”

“Stanley? It’s me, Epstein.”

“Jesus, Sarge, you could’ve picked a better time.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I got attacked is what’s wrong. I got smacked on the head with a baseball bat. Louisville Slugger, Gil Hodges model, to be exact.” He went on to give the details, including the sudden appearance of Samuelson and Detective Lieutenant Rosten. “I’m looking at the complaint right now,” he concluded. “They both signed it.”

“This Rosten is a lieutenant?”

“That’s what Samuelson said. I didn’t ask for i.d.”

“The rule is one detective lieutenant to a precinct. Something must be happening with Patero.”

“You haven’t heard any rumors?”

“I didn’t go into the house yesterday. That’s what I’m calling to tell you. I’ve got the name of the witness, the one in the O’Neill killings. Pearse O’Malley. Another Irishman.”

Moodrow didn’t know how to respond to the last part. Hell’s Kitchen had been Irish for a long time. The Lower East Side, too, back when it was called the Fourth Ward. In fact, the whole damn city had been Irish once. Finally, he decided to ignore the comment altogether.

“This O’Malley, he talkin’?”

“I don’t know, Stanley. I know he’s being protected, but my man inside the Tenth warned me to stay away from the two suits who caught the squeal. Names are Gordon and Russo.”

“Where they keeping the witness? West Street?”

“He’s in his apartment, with a cop sitting out in the hall. A uniform.”

“You got an address and an apartment number?”

“Yeah, 2211 Tenth Avenue. Top floor, 6B.”

Moodrow sighed. “I guess I gotta go up there. Try to bluff my way past the uniform.”

“You do that, you’re gonna tip your hand to Patero and Cohan. That what you want?”

“Somebody’s gotta warn the guy, Sarge. That cop sitting in the hallway isn’t protecting Pearse O’Malley. He’s keeping him prisoner.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not gonna take the chance. Besides which O’Malley might be able to identify the men who killed the O’Neills. I’m not saying I know the O’Neills’ killer and the Melenguez killer are the same person. But I am saying if I get my hands on either one, I’ll find the other.”

“I can’t argue with that. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Yeah, Maguire said the lab boys lifted some prints at the Melenguez scene. You think you can get me a copy of those prints?”

“Why, you got a suspect?”

“I just wanna be ready when the time comes. Those prints are the only physical link we have and I got a funny feeling they’re gonna disappear. That’s if they haven’t disappeared already. It shouldn’t be a problem, because there’s gotta be several copies in the files. Forensics always makes up a bunch in case they’re needed in other precincts. Just pull one and send it out to me.”

“Those prints could belong to anyone. I’m not saying I mind snatching them for you, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s most likely a wild goose chase. Mob killers don’t leave fingerprints.”

“These guys didn’t go to the O’Neills’ with any intention of killing. They were there to teach a lesson to a couple of pimps who couldn’t complain to the cops. Plus, they had to figure Patero would cover for them if anything went wrong. Get the prints, Sarge. It couldn’t hurt.”

Pat Cohan took the envelope in his hand, thanked the officer who’d delivered it, then closed the front door of his Bayside home. Don’t smirk, he told himself. In fact, don’t even smile. Model yourself on Little Jack Burns. No one’s seen him smile in years.

Little Jack operated Burns Funeral Parlor on Utopia Parkway. His gravely sympathetic expression never changed, not even when he added up the tab and took your check. Not even when he deposited your check. The rumor was that his wife had left him because she didn’t like sleeping with a corpse. Little Jack put that same expression on the face of every stiff he touched. What Mrs. Burns didn’t know (and didn’t want to know) was who was imitating who.

So that was it. Jack Burns all the way. In recognition of Kate’s loss. Which, Pat Cohan supposed, must seem just like a real death.

“Daddy? Breakfast’s ready.”

“Be right there.” He took a second to examine his reflection in a mirror hanging over the mantle. His hands fluttered up to his hair, but there was nothing for them to do. His mane was perfect.

He came into the kitchen to find his wife sitting at the table. Rose was praying over her food, as usual. Or, at least, he guessed she was praying. He couldn’t understand a word of it. Her mumbling sounded more like a continuous low belch than human speech.

“Morning, Kate,” he said.

“Is something wrong, Daddy?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know.” Kate shook her head and laughed. “You sounded like you were going to a funeral.”

“A funeral? Well, I suppose it’s not so far off.”

Kate put down the pot she was scouring and shut off the water in the sink. “What’s wrong, daddy?”

He took a deep breath before speaking. “Stanley’s going to be arrested, Kate. You don’t know how sorry I am to have to tell you, but it’s better you hear it from me. I’ve got a copy of the warrant in my hand.” He passed it over and waited until she was looking at it before continuing. “It happened last night. Stanley assaulted another police officer.”

“But, why?”

“The officer was on surveillance. He was following Stanley when it happened. I can only assume that Stanley