A Piece of the Action

“It doesn’t matter. Quick, come in. I’ll hide you.”

“Just the papers, Greta. I’m too big to hide.”

“You can’t let them take you.”

“Hey, this is 1958. It’s not like the old days.” Moodrow could read Greta’s disbelief in the way she held her head off to one side, in the thin line of her tightly pressed lips. “Look, I could run away, find someplace to hide, but if I do that, I’m finished. I won’t be able to go out on the street. I won’t be able to investigate. But if I let myself get arrested, I’ll most likely be released without posting bail. Which means that as long as I don’t break any laws, they have to leave me alone.”

“Don’t believe it, Stanley. Once they put you in a cage, they can do anything.” She reached out and touched the wound on the side of his head. “You’ve got stitches. Tell me what happened.”

“That’s what I’m being arrested for.”

“Somebody breaks your head and you get arrested?”

“The other somebody, who got hurt much worse than me, is also a cop. And he’s singing a different song. Those papers you’re holding? They’re gonna get me out of this.”

“Tell me, Stanley. Your father-in-law is involved here?”

“Jesus, you’re a nosy old woman.”

“Jesus don’t have nothing to do with it. Better you should call on Moses or Abraham. Anyway, please answer the question.”

“My father-in-law, Pat Cohan, is what they call a full inspector. Do you understand? There are twenty-four thousand cops and forty-two full inspectors in the Department. That’s one for every …”

“Five hundred seventy-one regular cops.” She sniffed loudly. “Don’t give a look, Stanley. I worked twenty years in retail. And we didn’t have no adding machines like today.”

“Did I open my mouth?”

“You were thinking. I could hear you.”

“I gotta go, Greta. I wanna be upstairs when they come for me. If I’m not, they’re liable to wreck my apartment when they search it.”

“First say what you were gonna say.”

Moodrow sighed. “The point I was gonna make is that I don’t know who I’m fighting. It’s a problem for me. A big problem. For instance, the Patrolman’s Benevolent Association will supply me with a free lawyer. Only I don’t know if I can trust them. I don’t know if I can trust anyone. Except you, of course.”

“Of course.”

“So what I want you to do is, first of all, keep these papers safe. Second, stay by the phone for a few hours. If I need a lawyer or they start talking bail, I’ll call you. Third, leave the hatpins in the hats.”

Twenty-two

On the way back to his own apartment, Moodrow fought the urge to peer down each hallway, to crane his neck at every turn of the stairwell. He knew, from long experience, that fear can be crippling, that a scared fighter usually leaves his fight in the dressing room. Besides, the fear, if he should allow himself to feel it, would be out of all proportion to the threat. How had Greta put it? “When they get you in a cage, they can do anything.” Moodrow wasn’t worried about physical abuse. It’d take a squad to put the cuffs on him. As for being killed, the rule of thumb in the NYPD was that cop killers weren’t taken alive. Not unless they surrendered on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral with the Cardinal in attendance. And even if they did survive the actual arrest, the only thing gained was a free trip to Sing-Sing and a late-night appointment with the electric chair. If there’d been an unsolved cop killing in Stanley Moodrow’s lifetime, he didn’t know about it.

Still, for all his bravado, Moodrow took a quick look down an empty hallway before opening his door, stepping inside and locking it behind him. He went directly to his bedroom, took the better of his two suits out of the closet and laid it on his bed. A clean white shirt and a brand-new tie followed. He began to dress, then noticed his mud- stained shoes. If you’re gonna do it, he told himself, then do it right.

Ten minutes later, he was pulling on his newly polished brogans and straightening his tie. He took a moment to admire his reflection in the mirror, then strolled into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee and picked up the Daily News. He could feel his mind racing, the way it often did before a bout. It was exciting, all right, but not the kind of excitement that helped fighters to survive. He tried to concentrate on the paper, but except for a couple of headlines, U.N. Girl Is Stabbed by Teener in Park and City Aide Advises PR’s to Learn English First, he didn’t understand a word he read.

He was wondering who was going to come for him. It wouldn’t be Pat Cohan. He was out in Bayside and he’d said the arresting officers would be on their way up as soon as he made a phone call. Samuelson would be there, of course, looking to get his hands on the complaint he’d signed the night before. That would get him off the hook. Detective Lieutenant Rosten, too. If they recovered the complaint, they might even be able to make a case against him.

Patero was the question mark. Precinct detective squads were invariably commanded by a single lieutenant. His functions were almost entirely administrative as he attempted to deal with Department politics as well as precinct crime. So what was Rosten doing in the 7th? And why was he riding with a detective, second grade? Samuelson had said that he and Rosten were coming from the scene of a homicide. That was a straight-out lie. The only legitimate reason for Rosten’s presence in the precinct would be as head of a special task force investigating a single crime or a single category of crime. He would never, for political as well as practical reasons, involve himself in day-to-day precinct business.

A knock on the door interrupted Moodrow’s thoughts. He pushed himself away from the table, took a moment to straighten his tie, then strolled through the kitchen and the living room.

“Who is it,” he called. “Is that Mayor Wagner? Cardinal Spellman? President Eisenhower?”

He opened the door without waiting for an answer, expecting to find a dozen uniforms massed in the hallway to protect Samuelson and Rosten. What he found, much to his surprise, was Sal Patero, a briefcase tucked under his arm, standing by himself.

“Morning, Stanley,” Patero said. “You mind if I come inside?”

“That depends, Sal. Whatta ya want here?”

“I wanna talk, Stanley. If you can spare the time. If you can’t, I’ll take off.”

Moodrow, thoroughly confused, looked over Patero’s head at a still-empty hallway. Where were the arresting officers? Did Patero think he could make the bust by himself? He’d have to be insane.

“You wanna come in, then come in. But I’m telling you, Sal, I’m not in the mood for bullshit.”

“When you hear what I have to say, you’re not gonna think it’s bullshit.”

Patero walked into the apartment, found an overstuffed chair in the living room and took a seat. Moodrow, after locking the door carefully, slipped on the safety chain and followed.

“I didn’t expect to see you, Sal. Being as you’re not the precinct whip anymore.”

“Who told you that?”

“I made an arrest last night. Maybe you heard about it. Funny thing was two cops showed up just as I was about to interrogate my prisoner. One of them was a detective lieutenant named Rosten. I figure he was doing your job.”

Patero sighed. “You wouldn’t consider giving me a cup of coffee, would you? Being as I’m a guest in your house.”

“A guest or a prisoner,” Moodrow said evenly. “I can’t make up my mind which category you fall into.”

“Very funny. Considering that you’re the one who’s gonna be arrested. That’s what I came here for. To warn you. The guy who attacked you last night was a cop. His name’s Michael Reina. They dragged him all the way from the One-Eleven in Bayside to do the job.”

“Bayside, huh? Pat Cohan’s hometown. So how come they want to arrest me? Being as even you know that I was the victim? And if there’s already a warrant, how come nobody’s showed up to bring me in? Or maybe that’s your job?”

“That’s a lotta questions, Stanley. A cup of coffee would go a long way toward keeping me alert enough to