A Piece of the Action

it with both hands, because it’s gonna kick back hard. In fact, don’t shoot at all if ya don’t absolutely have to. Better you should just whack ’em with it. A good crack with this gun’d most likely kill a moose.”

Ma Leibowitz sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you think we should maybe leave town?”

“They killed Izzy, ma.” Jake noted his mother’s sharp reaction. “And they killed Abe Weinberg, too. Me, I don’t feel like runnin’.”

“Ha, just like your father. So tell me, what am I supposed to do in my old age? Maybe I could shrivel up like a dried bug. From starvation, already.”

“I got a few grand stashed away. That oughta hold ya for a year or so.”

“Jakey, listen to your mamaleh. It’s better we should leave the Lower East Side. We could maybe go out to Williamsburg.”

“Jesus, ma, Williamsburg’s only a mile away. It’s right over the goddamned bridge.”

“But it’s not here. That’s the difference.”

Jake smiled. He couldn’t help it. “You’re nuts, ma.”

“All right, then. Brighton Beach. We could move to Brighton Beach. That’s practically a foreign country.”

“It’s still Brooklyn. Sooner or later, they’d find me, the cops or the guineas. What am I supposed to do, spend my whole life tryin’ to watch my back? I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory. Like Poppa did.”

Stanley Moodrow pulled back the curtain and stared down at the street below. It was pea soup out there again. A blend of morning fog and fine rain obscured a winter sun that wouldn’t get high enough to shine between the tenements, anyway. He dropped the curtain and plucked a black trenchcoat from the hall closet. As he pulled open the front door, he took a moment to admire himself in the mirror.

“Ya know something, Stanley,” he said, “you’re in danger of looking like a goddamned detective. Your whole body’s shoutin’ Cop, Cop, Cop.”

It was funny. One of the prime benefits of the Gold Shield was not having to wear an NYPD uniform, not having to carry all that crap around your waist. What did everyone, patrolman and detective alike, call detectives? Suits? So why did the “suits” end up looking so much alike they might as well be wearing uniforms?

Moodrow was carrying a small bag when he left, enough underwear and socks for a few days, plus his shaving kit and toothbrush. He stopped down at Greta’s to hand over Sal Patero’s signed statement. Patero, uninjured, had been gone for almost an hour. Moodrow wasn’t worried about what the lieutenant might or might not do. Most likely, the worry was coming from the opposite direction.

“Another Christmas present, Greta,” he said as she opened the door.

“Hanukah gelt, more likely,” Greta answered, taking the folded looseleaf sheets.

“I’m gonna be gone a couple of days. Something came up and I decided not to surrender. If you need to get in touch with me, I’ll probably be sleeping at Berrigan’s Gym. It’s in the phone book. If not, I’ll give you a call as soon as I can.

Greta nodded thoughtfully. “You’re sure you don’t want to stay with me?”

“No, they’ll be watching the building.”

“Well, good luck, Stanley. And be careful.”

“Caution. That’s my middle name.” Moodrow started to turn away, then thought better of it. “Greta, if something should happen to me …”

“Don’t talk like that, kayn aynhoreh.”

“It isn’t the evil eye that worries me, Greta. It’s the evil forty-five. Anyway, if something happens to me, something permanent, I want you to take those papers and burn them. Understand?”

“No, I don’t.”

“They’re insurance papers. Life insurance papers. No life, no insurance.”

Greta sniffed loudly. “From revenge, you don’t wanna know, right?”

“What’s the point of revenge if you’re not around to enjoy it? Those papers are like a virus. You put them out in the world, you don’t know who’s gonna get hurt.”

Moodrow was tempted to sneak out through the basement, but decided against it. What was the point? He wasn’t particularly afraid of an arrest and he didn’t intend to crawl through the Lower East Side. In fact, what he intended to do was pay a visit to Pearse O’Malley, who was being guarded by a cop. If the cop had been warned to look out for a certain detective, third grade, named Stanley Moodrow, he wouldn’t make it through the morning.

Still, he found himself looking in both directions as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He didn’t see any cops, but a brand-new Cadillac parked across the street caught his attention. The man sitting behind the wheel certainly appeared to be on a stakeout, even if the Cadillac was a bit conspicuous.

Moodrow’s first impulse was to cross the street and confront whoever it was, but before he could move, the man rolled down the window and waved to him.

“Hey, Stanley,” he yelled. “C’mere.”

C’mere? Moodrow stood on the sidewalk and stared across at the Cadillac. The car was parked in shadow and he couldn’t make out the features of the man sitting behind the wheel. As he watched, the Cadillac pulled out into the center of the one-way street, then backed up until it was right in front of him.

“Don’t be a hard-head, Stanley. I just wanna talk to ya.”

“Carmine?”

“Ya remember me. I’m flattered.”

Carmine Stettecase was a notorious bully who’d gone through St. Stephen’s two years ahead of Stanley Moodrow. They’d had any number of battles until, somewhere toward the end of grammar school, Carmine had decided to leave his younger schoolmate alone. Predictably, Carmine had left school in ninth grade to go into business with his Uncle Stefano, a small-time bookie. Five years later, when Uncle Stefano dropped dead in a bar on Grand Street, Carmine had recruited his old buddy, Dominick Favara, another of Moodrow’s contemporaries, to help him out with the business. Over time, as they’d moved into prostitution, loan-sharking and heroin, Favara had become the boss and Carmine the worker.

Moodrow knew all about Stettecase and Favara. Their progress had been a common topic of conversation among St. Stephen’s alumni. He recalled standing in the rain one day, in his uniform, when Dominick had come sailing down the street in a new Chevy. Favara had gone out of his way to run through a puddle, sending a wave of muddy water splattering against Moodrow’s black rubber raincoat.

“What’s up, Carmine,” Moodrow said casually. “You decided to confess to your crimes?”

“Yeah, ha-ha, that’s a good one. Hop in, Dominick wants to talk to ya.”

Moodrow felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. For a moment, he was too excited to answer. This was the way it had to be. You pounded the streets, screamed in people’s faces, ate slammed doors, walked until your feet fell off. You kept doing it until something gave. It wasn’t about clues and brain power. It was about persistence. Persistence and, as Sam Berrigan had insisted, desire.

“What’s he want?” Moodrow asked. There was nothing to be gained by showing his excitement to Carmine Stettecase. “And why doesn’t he come to me? I’m not too crazy about taking orders from punks like Dominick Favara.”

“He can’t come to you. Whatta ya, crazy? I’m takin’ a big chance myself, so if ya don’t mind, let’s get outta here before someone sees me talkin’ to a cop.”

Moodrow strolled around to the passenger’s side and got in alongside Stettecase. “This better be good, Carmine. If it isn’t, I’m gonna haunt your ass for the next twenty years.”

“Jeez, Stanley, you ain’t changed at all. I mean I woulda hoped ya matured a little, but ya still a hard-head. Only you could think I’d do this and not be playin’ square.”

Moodrow expected a quick ride over to Little Italy, but Stettecase steered the car onto the East River Drive and headed downtown.

“Where we heading?” Moodrow asked, as they entered the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. “I oughta warn you, if you’re kidnapping me, I’m not worth shit.”

“That’s good, Stanley.” Carmine turned his moon face away from the line of traffic. “It’s good to see you’re loosenin’ up, because this here is your lucky day. I wish I could tell ya the thing Dominick’s gonna tell ya, but, hey,