A Piece of the Action

do that because there wasn’t any place to wait. And besides, people were already looking for him, maybe lots of people.

Jake parked the car half a block away from Accacio’s and opened the door. “Time to go to work, Jakey,” he said aloud. “None down and three to go.”

His black cashmere overcoat was soaked before he took a dozen steps. Not that it mattered, because soon he wouldn’t need an overcoat. There was only two places in Jake Leibowitz’s future, Israel or hell. As far as he knew, there wasn’t any cold weather in either one of ’em. Still, as soon as he got within sight of Accacio’s house, he stepped beneath a huge pine tree and tried to brush the water off. When he looked up, he saw a woman standing on the front porch. She opened the mailbox, pulled out a few letters, then saw him standing there.

“Shit,” Jake said, “I ain’t even gonna get one of the bastards.” His hand was already sliding toward the butt of Abe Weinberg’s.45, when the woman put a finger to her lips.

“Shhhhh,” she said, beckoning him with a finger.

Jake peered through the mist, trying to make out the woman’s features. “Goddamned eyes,” he muttered.

Now the woman was using her whole hand to beckon him forward. And she was looking over her shoulder, signaling to someone in the house. Or making sure there was nobody watching her.

Jake was tempted to run for it. Jump in the Packard and get his ass back to the Lower East Side before he got it shot off. But then the woman did something completely amazing. She stepped off the porch and walked straight at him. That was when he recognized her, though he couldn’t remember her name. She was Steppy Accacio’s wife.

“Shhhhh,” she whispered. “You no make-a no noise.”

Jake tried to meet her eyes, but she wasn’t looking up. She was looking down at the.45 he held in his right hand.

“Are ya crazy?” Jake asked. “Comin’ out here like this. Whatta ya want?”

“Uppa-stairs,” she answered. “Antonio. Uppa-stairs. He sleeps.”

“Who the fuck is Antonio?”

“Steppy, Steppy. Uppa-stairs.” She closed her eyes and rested her head on her shoulder for a moment. “Sleepa. He sleepa.” Then she grabbed the lapel of Jake’s cashmere overcoat and half-dragged him across the lawn and into the house.

“There.” She pointed to the staircase before walking into the kitchen and closing the door behind her.

Jake didn’t waste any time. What was the point? He was inside the house which is exactly where he wanted to be. If Steppy Accacio had been waiting for him, he’d be dead already.

His grip tightened on the butt of Abe’s.45 as he quietly made his way up the stairs. Five closed doors, two on either side and one at the end of the hallway, led to the various bedrooms and to the toilet. Jake didn’t have to guess which one belonged to Steppy Accacio. Accacio’s loud snoring left no doubt. Jake, his shoes squishing with each step, walked down to the second door on the left. He put his ear to the wooden panel and listened for a moment. Somebody was sleeping in there, all right. Or something. Jake wasn’t absolutely sure it was a human being. It sounded more like a bear.

Jake looked down at Abe Weinberg’s.45. What had Abe called it? Little Richard? Yeah, Little Richard. Abe was dead. The wops had made him kill Abe. Izzy was dead, too. Lying in some Jersey swamp. And what had they done, Izzy and Abe, except follow orders? Maybe they had made that one mistake, but they’d done a damn good job of the rest of it. So why didn’t any of that matter?

“Because we’re Jews,” Jake muttered, pushing the door open. “And nobody gives a shit about us.”

Steppy Accacio was sprawled on the bed. His red silk pajamas contrasted sharply with the starched white sheets. A black mask covered his eyes, making him look like a chubby Lone Ranger.

The mask, Jake decided, had to go. He wanted Steppy Accacio to see what was coming and who it was coming from. He walked over to the bed and slapped Accacio’s face with all his strength.

“Ahhhhhh.” Accacio’s head came off the pillow in a hurry. He ripped at the mask, cursing at the top of his lungs, then froze when he saw Jake Leibowitz and the.45 he held in his hand.

“Whatta ya say, Steppy? Surprised to see me?”

“Don’t do it, Jake. Don’t shoot me.”

“Is that what Izzy said?”

“Izzy? I don’t know any Izzy. Whatta ya …”

Jake smashed his fist into Accacio’s face. It felt so good, he did it again. Then he stepped back to watch the blood flow from Accacio’s broken nose down over his mouth and chin.

“It ain’t right, what you done, Steppy. I mean after we took care of the pimp and his old lady, that should’a been the end of it. What’d ya think, the bulls’d take me and I’d turn canary? Ya promised us a little time and then ya went out and killed Izzy. It ain’t right.”

“Ya should’ve gone to Los Angeles,” Accacio mumbled. He licked at the blood on his lips, then shuddered.

“Why didn’t you go to Los Angeles? Why couldn’t ya leave me and Izzy to deal with the cops? See this gun? It’s got a name. Little Richard. That’s what Abe Weinberg called it. Now Abe’s dead. And for what? For killin’ a spic?”

“You kept the gun?” Accacio’s amazement overrode his fear. “You kept a murder weapon?”

“Why shouldn’t I keep it? Didn’t Joe Faci tell me everything was fixed up? Huh? Didn’t he?”

“We thought it was handled, Jake. I swear.”

“Thought? Ya pretend ya such a big shot. ‘Don’t worry about nothin’, Jake. We got it covered.’ Next thing I know the cops are sniffin’ around and I gotta go to Los Angeles. Well, I ain’t ya fuckin’ dog, Steppy. I ain’t nobody’s dog.”

“Look, Jake, I got money …”

“Here? Ya got it right here in the house?”

“No.”

Jake pulled the trigger without thinking. The slug caught Steppy Accacio in the right shoulder, spinning him into the headboard. It glanced off bone and tore down the soft tissue in his arm, ripping arteries and veins before exiting just behind the elbow. The blood spread across the sheets, soaking them before either man could speak.

“Ya killed me,” Steppy Accacio finally said, trying to lift his shredded arm. “Look what ya done. Ya killed me. I got killed by a Jew.”

Twenty-five

It was eight o’clock when Moodrow finally decided to give it up. What was the sense of pretending to be patient? Who did he expect to fool? He was the only one there and he definitely wasn’t fooling himself. If he had a rope, he’d be skipping it. If he had a heavy bag, he’d be hitting it. The truth was that he’d never been this jumpy in his life. Not even before his first fight, when Uncle Pavlov had to hold him on the stool while the introductions were being made.

Despite his earlier decision to stay away, Moodrow was back inside his own apartment. He was waiting for Allen Epstein to arrive with the package on Jake Leibowitz and his impatience was only partially due to the desire for combat and the fear of arrest. He wanted Jake Leibowitz, no question about it. From that narrow point of view, he’d be a lot better off going to Pearse O’Malley with Leibowitz’s photo in hand. But that didn’t mean he could ignore the fact that O’Malley was in danger. If Sal Patero had been telling the truth (and Moodrow had no doubt that he was), there were at least four bodies tied to the shooting of Luis Melenguez. One more wouldn’t matter. Not to the killers.

Moodrow finally decided to wait until eight-thirty. If Epstein didn’t show by eight-thirty, he’d go up to Hell’s Kitchen and warn O’Malley, even if that meant losing him as a witness. This decision firmly made, Moodrow pulled a chair up to the window and sat down to watch for Epstein’s patrol car. It was a Tuesday evening and despite the