A Piece of the Action

Patero off the rug, tucked him under his arm, trotted off to the kitchen and sat the lieutenant in a chair. “Here you go, Sal. Your home away from home.”

If Moodrow had had four sets of cuffs, he could have done the job right, but he had only two, his and Sal Patero’s. Still, he managed to secure Patero firmly, wrists to the right rear leg of the chair, ankles to the left front. When he was finished, he left the kitchen, and rummaged in the hall closet until he found his old nightstick and a copy of the Manhattan yellow pages.

“Ya know, Sal,” he called as he walked back to the kitchen, “I wish I had a girlfriend living here. Because, the way it is, I haven’t got a nightgown for you to wear. But we can always pretend, right?”

“What, Stanley, what …?” Patero was starting to come around. He was lost in confusion for a moment, staring blankly up at Stanley Moodrow. Then he realized that his hands and feet were cuffed and he began to panic. “For Christ’s sake. For God-almighty-sake. Jesus Christ.”

“This isn’t gonna be difficult, Sal. Being as you’ve been through this drill once or twice, I won’t have to soften you up. What I want is a signed statement. In your handwriting. I want everything. Names, dates, places.”

“You’re crazy.”

Moodrow smiled. “Not crazy, Sal, just greedy. I want Melenguez’s killer and I don’t wanna be crucified in the process. I don’t wanna end up being some kind of noble sacrifice. Does that sound unreasonable? Your statement, along with everything else I’ve managed to accumulate, is gonna keep me off that cross. And I think I should warn you about something else. I found out more than you think I did. Much more. If you lie to me, I’m gonna know it. Lemme tell ya, Sal, lying is not your best option. Now, you wanna start talking? You could begin with your first contact with Accacio after Melenguez was killed.”

“This is bullshit. You think a forced confession is gonna stand up in court?”

“If the confession’s bullshit, you shouldn’t mind giving it to me. C’mon, Sal, make up your mind. How do you wanna play it?”

“Fuck you, Moodrow. Go fuck yourself.”

Moodrow giggled. The sound startled him and he quickly brought his hand up to his mouth. “Excuse me, Sal, for being so rude. Now, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna put this phone book on top of your head and you’re gonna keep very, very still. That’s so it stays balanced. Then, I’m gonna take my nightstick and smash it down on top of the phone book. One thing I gotta warn you about, if you move your head and the book falls off, I’m gonna crack your fucking skull open. You gettin’ my drift, Sal?”

“You’ll pay for this. I mean it.”

“Do you really mean it? Would you swear on your integrity as a police officer?”

“Fuck you.”

“Now you’re repeating yourself.”

Moodrow laid the phone book on Patero’s head, holding it there with his left hand. He raised the nightstick over his head. “Say ‘cheese,’ Sal.”

“Don’t hit me. Don’t. Don’t.” Patero was close to tears. “I’ll do what you want.”

Moodrow slapped his nightstick into the phone book. He didn’t use much force, but the sharp crack was impressive, nonetheless. Patero screamed first, then began to sob.

“That was for old times’ sake. Now, we can get to work.”

Twenty-three

“Two-gun Jake,” Jake Leibowitz said to himself. “Fastest Jew in the Wild Wild East.” He admired himself in the mirror for a moment, adjusting the two.45’s. One, his own, rested in a custom-made shoulder rig. The other, formerly the property of Abraham Weinberg, was snugged into the waistband of his trousers.

What a fool he’d been to hold onto Abe’s automatic. It was a murder weapon, for Christ’s sake. What a double fool he’d been for believing Joe Faci when Faci insisted the matter had been taken care of. Well, it didn’t make any difference now. Because he’d decided not to run. Because the wops had killed Izzy. Because he’d had enough bullshit to last for a lifetime. A short lifetime.

Who are they gonna send? he thought. It won’t be Steppy or Faci or Santo, because he’d kill any one of those bastards the minute he laid eyes on him. No, they’d have to find a stranger, one of those faceless guineas who hung around the social clubs looking to get discovered. If Accacio was really connected, of course, he’d bring in a pro from out of town, but Jake had long ago stopped believing that Steppy Accacio was anything more than an ambitious neighborhood punk.

Jake thought of all the crow he’d eaten trying to get in with Dominick Favara. What a waste of time that had been. Favara wouldn’t save him. Not with Izzy gone. Why should he? Favara could wait for the garbage to sort itself out, then make his move. One thing for sure, there wasn’t going to be any dealing in the projects on Avenue D while Jake Leibowitz was alive. Not by Accacio, not by Favara, not by nobody.

“I hate this shit. I hate it.”

God, how he missed Izzy. God, how he hated being completely alone. It was like being locked up in isolation with the hacks on the way to administer a midnight beating. You could play the wall, take out one or two with your fists, but sooner or later you’d be overwhelmed and the beating would be all the worse because you had the balls to fight back.

“Maybe I oughta take a trip,” he said. “Maybe I oughta take a trip out to New Jersey, stop in and see old Steppy.”

“Jake? Who ya talkin’ to?”

Mama Leibowitz came through the door like she owned the place. Which, Jake supposed, she did.

“This is my bedroom, ma,” Jake said. “You could at least ask if I’m decent.”

“As if you got something I ain’t already seen. What’s with all the guns? You think maybe you’re Jesse James?”

Jake sighed. “We got trouble, ma. And we gotta be careful. Don’t open the door to anyone ya don’t know, even if it’s the cops. Let ’em kick the door in, but don’t open it voluntarily. And don’t stand in front of the door when you’re askin’ who it is, either.”

“Pogrom,” Ma Leibowitz whispered. “Pogrom,” she repeated.

“Yeah, ma, only this time they’re doin’ it with Italian Cossacks.” Jake had heard all the stories about the old country, about living on the Polish-Russian border, about soldiers who killed Jews because the soldiers were drunk and didn’t have anything better to do. Or because it was Christmas and driving a sword through a Jewish body seemed like a good way to celebrate the birth of Jesus.

“Wait here a minute, Jakey. There’s something I gotta show you.”

Damn, Jake thought, for a fat woman, she can sure move fast. He watched his mother fly out the door, then reappear a moment later with the largest revolver Jake had ever seen. The barrel was at least eight inches long.

“Where the fuck you get that?”

“Your grandfather bought it when he first came over. That was 1891. He gave it to his son, your father, when your father went into business for himself. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is what makes America great. In Poland, only the goyim have guns.’ ”

Jake shook his head in wonder. “Lemme see it, ma.” He took the revolver and hefted it in his palm. The damn thing felt like it weighed ten pounds. And it was so dirty, it was more likely to kill the person holding it than anyone else. He cracked the cylinder open and yanked out the swollen cartridges.

“Jeez,” he said, “forty-five caliber. Did Poppa use this on jobs?”

“You think he pointed with his finger? Bang, bang, bang?”

“Take it easy, ma. I ain’t bustin’ balls …”

“Stop with the language, already.”

“Sorry. What I’m gonna do is clean this sucker up good and load it with new ammo. If you gotta shoot it, hold