A Piece of the Action

answer.”

“All right, Sal. A cup of coffee it is. How do ya take it?”

“Light, two sugars.”

Moodrow walked back into the kitchen. He took his time with the coffee, stalling, really, while he tried to grasp the significance of Sal Patero’s warning. Had Patero really had a change of heart? Had his conscience finally got to him? Or was this just another chunk of Pat Cohan humor? Another twist of the knife.

And even if Patero had come to his senses, what did that mean to Stanley Moodrow? The warrant was still out there. Pat Cohan was still out there. Melenguez’s killer was still out there.

“You said two sugars, Sal?”

“Yeah.”

Moodrow took the mug and carried it back into the living room. He half-expected to find Patero crouching in the middle of the room, 38 in hand, but Patero hadn’t moved. If he was acting, Moodrow decided, he was doing a hell of a job of it.

“Thanks, Stanley.”

“You’re welcome, Sal.” Moodrow sat on the couch and crossed his legs. “You think maybe you could answer a few of those questions I asked? Now that you have your coffee?”

Patero leaned forward in his chair. “You have a lot of support in the Seventh,” he began. “I mean a lot of support. That’s why nobody’s come down with the warrant. Rosten can’t put a squad together. Ordinary beat cops are telling him to go fuck himself.”

“Why doesn’t he come down and do it himself?”

“That question doesn’t need an answer. Michael Reina was beaten to a pulp. And he was the one with the baseball bat.”

Moodrow managed a smile. “Well, I thought I’d ask you the easy questions first. From now on they get harder. I want you to tell me what you’re doing here. I wanna know what’s happening in the house.”

“Look, Stanley, I never wanted to go along with Pat on the Melenguez thing. I got sucked into it. I’m not making myself into some kind of a hero, but most of what happened after the killing came from outside the precinct. That’s because Pat Cohan was pulling the strings. The decision to transfer the case out to Organized Crime, for instance. I had no control over that.”

“But you did control Samuelson and Maguire. The way I hear it, you’re Samuelson’s rabbi. The two of them, they didn’t interview Melenguez’s landlady. Which, considering they didn’t have a suspect, they should’ve done the first day. You pulled them off before the case was transferred out. You, Sal. You.”

“I knuckled under, Stanley. I’m not saying I didn’t. But it’s done now, and I can’t take it back. I have to go on from here and do what I think is right.”

“That mean you’re willing to give a statement?”

“A statement?”

“Yeah. Put it all down on paper. Get it off your chest?”

“What’ll you do with it? If I give you what you want?”

“Well, I don’t figure the Times would be interested, Sal. That’s because it’s not ‘fit to print.’ But the Daily News might run with it. That’s my favorite paper, anyway.”

“You can’t do that, Stanley. You can’t go outside the job. You know that.”

“All right, all right, I was only kidding. I won’t take it to the papers. I’ll take it to Internal Affairs. How’d that be?”

Patero took a long pull on his coffee. “Forget Internal Affairs. The Inspector running I.A.D. has been buddies with Pat Cohan for thirty years. They were in the same class at the Academy.”

“Lemme see if I’ve got this right, Sal? What you’re saying is I can’t go outside the Department and I can’t go inside the Department. Tell me something, my supporters down at the precinct, what exactly do they want me to do?”

“They want you to get Melenguez’s killer.”

Moodrow slammed his fist into the arm of the couch. “Do I look like some kind of human sacrifice?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I’m tired of bleeding for other people. I had one too many fights and I don’t wanna get hurt anymore. I’m talking about you giving me a statement that I can use to protect myself.”

“Look, Stanley, I brought you the entire Melenguez file. I had it copied before Rosten took over. They’re transferring me to the Crime Scene Unit. If I can, I’ll copy their files, too. But that’s as far as I’m willing to go.”

“It’s not right, Sal. And you know it.” Moodrow waited for Patero to respond, but Patero just shook his head. “Well, what can I say? If that’s the way it’s gotta be, I’ll just have to live with it.” Moodrow let his shoulders drop to their normal set. He took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders. “Being as the Department is the Department, I guess I oughta be thankful that I’m getting any help at all. Tell me something, Sal, you recognize this guy?”

Moodrow took the sketch of Santo Silesi from an end table drawer and passed it to Sal Patero. Patero looked at it for a moment, tapping the edge of the paper with his forefinger. “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think I’ve seen him with Joe Faci. I don’t know his name, though.”

“Who’s Joe Faci?”

“Faci works for Steppy Accacio.”

“This Accacio, he’s Mafia, right?”

“No.” Patero laughed softly. “He’s not even Sicilian. Look, Steppy Accacio is a small-time punk who’s trying to work his way into the big time. He’s ambitious, Stanley. Like you used to be. There’s a dozen Steppy Accacios on the Lower East Side. They come here like actors go to Hollywood. Looking for the big break.”

“Then why deal with him? Why deal with a punk?”

“We take money from street pimps, don’t we? I’m telling you that Steppy Accacio is only two steps removed from the street.”

“Did he pull the trigger, Sal? Did Accacio kill Melenguez?”

Patero looked directly into Stanley Moodrow’s eyes. “I don’t know who killed Luis Melenguez. Accacio told me he wasn’t there. He claimed it was an accident and that he and his boys would take care of the shooter. ‘It won’t happen again.’ That’s what he said. ‘Just help me out this one time.’ ”

“You think he was telling the truth?”

“Yeah, I believe him. I know that he was trying to expand and the rumor is that he hired outside talent.”

“How far outside? Boston? Chicago? Los Angeles?”

“More like Avenue B. I think they’re still working for him.” Patero looked at his watch and began to rise. “Stanley, I gotta go.”

“Wait a minute, Sal, there’s something else. Look, sooner or later Rosten’s gonna come for me. How am I supposed to operate with a warrant hanging over my head? Maybe I should go down to the house and surrender.”

“Don’t do it. Don’t give up your badge and your gun. Without a badge, you got no right to stop people on the street, no right to question suspects, no right to make an arrest.”

“But if I make bail, I can move around freely until the trial and we both know it’s never gonna come to a trial. If I don’t surrender, I’m gonna spend all my time looking over my shoulder.”

“So what? When they come, they come. It’s not gonna be any worse if you wait until they find you. Same warrant. Same charges. The main thing is to hang onto your badge and gun as long as possible. If I was in your position, that’s what I’d do.”

Moodrow offered his hand. “Maybe you got a point. I gotta think about it.” He took Patero’s hand in his. “It’s good you came here today. I mean it, Sal. It’s good. Unfortunately, it doesn’t get you off the hook.”

He yanked Patero’s right hand forward and down, simultaneously driving a left hook into the right side of the lieutenant’s face. The force of the blow drove Patero over the back of the couch and onto the floor. Moodrow, worried about the Smith amp; Wesson nestled in Patero’s shoulder rig, circled quickly. He needn’t have bothered. Sal Patero was lying motionless on the rug.

“Never drop your right hand, Sal. Not when you got a glass jaw. It just gets you in trouble.” He scooped