dry streets and warm temperatures, the block was nearly empty. The few pedestrians strode purposefully, heads down, arms pumping. The press liked to call New York “The City That Never Sleeps,” but that description didn’t really apply to working-class neighborhoods where the kids had to be fed, the garbage put out, the dog walked … all before
Still, there’d be action on Third Avenue. The hookers would be coming out now that the shops and businesses had closed for the night. Customers were already drifting south from their uptown hotels. The flesh trade worked all night, every night.
The bars were open, too. There was one on every corner and two in the middle of the block. Some catered primarily to the Puerto Ricans, some to the Poles, some to the Italians, some even to the beatniks. There were no Jewish bars, as far as Moodrow knew. Jews, if they drank, had to migrate across cultural borderlines.
At eight-fifteen, Moodrow saw a squad car turn onto the block and his heart jumped in his chest. He had the entire Melenguez file in his possession, complete with the prints lifted at the scene. All courtesy of a repentant Sal Patero. It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to match them with Leibowitz’s prints. Assuming there was a match to be made. If not, he’d still have a photo. And not a mug shot smuggled out of the precinct, either. Leibowitz had been in an army prison, a
The cruiser drove past Moodrow’s window, hesitated at the corner, then jumped the light and disappeared. Moodrow’s rising excitement disappeared with it. Then the phone rang and Moodrow found himself cursing Ma Bell. It had to be Allen Epstein and it had to be bad news. Maybe the FBI was stalling. Or, worse yet, maybe they’d refused Epstein’s request altogether. There was no way to predict what the feds would do in a given situation. And no way to apply pressure, either, because FBI agents answered only to J. Edgar Hoover and Hoover answered only to God. (Or to Satan, depending on whose opinion was asked.)
Moodrow, as he picked up the phone and muttered a greeting, was totally unprepared to discover Kate Cohan on the line. He was even more unprepared for the sorrow in her voice. What he heard was near to grief. He’d been telling himself any number of things about Kate. Telling himself that, for instance, Luis Melenguez’s right to justice overrode Kate’s pain. Or that there was nothing he could do about it, anyway. Or that Pat Cohan, at least for the time being, was holding all the cards, but he, Stan ‘The Man’ Moodrow, would someday make it up to her.
Maybe all of that was true, but now he could actually feel Kate’s intense confusion as she bounced from her father to her lover like a medicine ball tossed between two heavyweights. He could feel it and he wasn’t sure the injustice done to her didn’t equal the injustice done to Luis Melenguez.
“Crime would be a lot easier,” he said, “if innocent people didn’t get hurt. It’d be a lot easier if it was just one crook killing another crook. If there were no families, no innocent bystanders, no …”
“Stanley, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you, Kate. Your father wants to put me in jail, but the funny thing is that I’m not worried about myself. Maybe I should be, but I’m not. I’m worried about
“I’m all right, Stanley. It was really bad for a while, but I’m better now. I want to hear your side of it. That’s what I called for. I realize you don’t have to tell me anything, but I need to hear it.”
She didn’t sound all right. She sounded like she was about to burst into tears and Moodrow didn’t have the faintest idea what to do about it.
“Is your father there? Is he listening? Like the last time you called?”
“Daddy went out. I’m alone.” She hesitated for a moment. “How did you know Daddy was listening?”
“He called me. Right after you hung up. He called to rub it in.”
“Have you been arrested, Stanley?” Kate abruptly changed the subject. “Are you out on bail?”
“No, I’m still walking the streets. A couple of detectives and half a dozen patrolmen came down this afternoon, but I wasn’t here. They questioned all my neighbors.”
Actually, Greta Bloom had given him hell for coming back, but he really hadn’t had any choice. Father Sam had refused to give him anything more than a place to sleep. The priest had drawn the line at having Allen Epstein (or
“I can’t do it, Stanley,” he’d explained. “I got kids here who’ve been in trouble a time or two. If I go takin’ sides in a cop war, it could be the winner’ll come out with a grudge against Sam Berrigan. Too much of my funding comes from the Police Athletic League for me to take that risk. You wanna stay here, fine. But no calls and no visitors. My boys come first.”
“Stanley,” Kate said, “are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” Moodrow took a deep breath. “You want to know the whole story? That’s what you said?”
“I want to hear your side of it. I’m not saying …”
“Wait a minute, Kate. There’s someone at the door.”
“Don’t answer it.”
“I’d better. It sounds like the son-of-a-bitch is gonna break it down.” Moodrow covered the receiver with his hand. He knew who it was. Allen Epstein had knocked three times, then stopped, then knocked again. “Wait a minute, Sarge. I’m on the phone.”
“Stanley? Stanley?” Kate was near to panic. Her voice quivered like a plucked guitar string.
“I gotta go, Kate,” Moodrow whispered into the phone.
“Are you being arrested?”
“No, it’s something else. We’re almost to the end, now. In a few days, you should know everything.” But would she? Even as he spoke, Moodrow had the sinking feeling that Kate would never really know why her world had suddenly collapsed.
“Be careful, Stanley. Take care of yourself. I … Oh, damn, I don’t know what to say I can’t stand this.”
She hung up before Moodrow could reply, leaving him with a surge of emotion, a mixture of guilt and rage that threatened to overwhelm him. What he wanted was the simplicity of a movie western, but all he could see were victims, some dead and some living. Would arresting Jake Leibowitz or Steppy Accacio or Pat Cohan ease Nenita Melenguez’s suffering? Would cop justice, courtesy of Stanley Moodrow, feed her children?
Moodrow walked over to the front door and pulled it open. “Give me some good news, Sarge,” he said. “I could use it.”
Epstein stood in the doorway for a moment. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I just spoke to Kate. I feel like I’m killing her.” Moodrow stepped back. “Get inside. Let’s at least close the door.”
“What could I say? If there were no victims, we’d be out of business.” Epstein walked into the apartment and waited for Moodrow to close the door. “I got everything you wanted, Stanley. Or Maguire got it. His brother’s an agent, so it didn’t turn out to be a big problem.”
Moodrow sighed. “All right, let’s go into the bedroom. I don’t wanna show a light. And thanks for the sympathy.”
The bell rang before they could move.
“Who is it?”
“Police, open up.”
“Give me your hands, Stanley,” Epstein said matter-of-factly. “I been thinking about this for the last four hours.” He snatched a pair of handcuffs off his belt, slapped them on Moodrow’s wrists, then smiled. “Wouldn’t it be funny if me and Pat Cohan have been working together all this time?”
Moodrow grinned. “I think I’m starting to feel a lot better,” he said.
“That not an appropriate response, Stanley. Maybe you should see a head-shrinker.”
Epstein lifted Moodrow’s.38, then opened the door. The two detectives in the hallway performed a double- take that would have made the Three Stooges proud.
“What the fuck is this?”
The one who spoke, the oldest, was short and fat. His three chins wobbled obscenely as he jerked his head from the stitches in Moodrow’s head to the stripes on Epstein’s sleeve. The second detective was taller and smarter.
“What’s with the gun, Sarge?” he asked. “And what’re you doing here?”
Epstein grinned. “My name is Allen Epstein.
