A Piece of the Action

And a cop named Moodrow.

It was unthinkable, really. Or, at least, it always had been. Killing a cop, the ultimate crime in the eyes of the NYPD. Hell, you could shoot the mayor and half the force would go out and have a beer to celebrate. But let a cop get killed and it didn’t matter if he was the dirtiest lowlife on the force. Two thousand uniformed patrolmen, accompanied by the Emerald Society bagpipers, would turn out for his funeral. The killer would not live to see a jail cell.

Pat Cohan drew a deep breath. His whole life was falling apart. There was no use pretending things were under control. His life was falling apart and he wasn’t going to get any help from the Department. From his Department. From the Department that his father and his father’s father had helped to build.

Maybe it would have been easier if the word had come from an Irishman. From someone whose family had known the pain of the Five Points and the Fourth Ward. Someone whose family had lived through cholera, diphtheria, smallpox, tuberculosis. Nobody came to help you when you needed help. Not in 1847 when his grandfather had arrived in New York. And you didn’t send for the doctor when Granny got sick. No, you nursed your own as best you could and when they died you tossed the corpse out in the street. The morgue wagon came through every morning, just before dawn, to collect the bodies.

What it made you was strong enough to fight your way out. Strong enough to elect your own mayors and councilmen. Politicians who made sure you got the best jobs. Who gave you a shot at an education. Who gave you the New York Police Department as your one special jewel.

That was why it came so hard. So hard to be summoned to the office of Deputy Chief Milton Morton. Summoned all the way from Bayside by a hooknosed sheeny with a collection of degrees that covered the wall behind his desk like flypaper. So hard to be told, in no uncertain terms, to back off, to let Stanley Moodrow pursue his investigation unimpeded.

“Do not hinder,” Morton had said. “Do not help. Do not do anything at all.”

Then he’d leaned on the desk, forming a little tent with his fingers and palms as if he was about to pray. “I’m not jumping to any conclusions here, Pat,” he’d continued. “But from everything I can gather, Stanley Moodrow is a good cop.”

“There’s a warrant out for Stanley Moodrow. He assaulted a police officer.”

“Well, there seems to be two sides to that question.” Milton Morton had gotten up and crossed the room. “At least, that’s what I’m hearing from the commander of the Seventh Precinct. McElroy thinks we should, as they say, let sleeping dogs lie. Eventually, the pieces will sort themselves out.” He’d opened the door and waited, a wet smile pasted to his narrow pock-marked face.

“Have you spoken to Chief Rooney?”

“Chief Rooney and I are in perfect sync on this, Pat. The Chief, as you know, is a big fight fan. He admires Stanley. Always has.”

Pat Cohan took the exit for Cross Bay Boulevard, made a left at the light and headed south. His destination wasn’t really Howard Beach. It was a neighborhood with no name, a small island suspended between Far Rockaway and the Queens mainland.

Cross Bay Boulevard, at 197th Avenue, was lined with touristy restaurants and closed real estate offices. A cluster of houses sat far back in the shadows. They were summer homes for the most part, escapes from the broiling city, and the overwhelming majority were dark. An occasional lit window, glowing dimly in the fog, announced the presence of souls hardy enough to brave the cold relentless winds that ordinarily blew off Jamaica Bay.

But there was no wind tonight. And it wasn’t cold, either. Tonight the fog curled around the streetlamps like cotton candy. It slithered down telephone poles to fall on already glistening sidewalks.

Pat drove along the Boulevard, peering through the fog at the various neon signs until he found the one he was looking for-Sharkey’s Seafood Palace. He took a deep breath and turned into the parking lot. It was time, now. Time to do or die.

The restaurant, on first inspection, seemed to be deserted. Pat Cohan, standing just inside the still-open door, had to resist an urge to flee. Then he saw Joe Faci sitting in the shadows at the end of the bar. Faci was smiling and waving him over.

“Good to see ya,” Faci said as Pat approached. He offered his hand and waited until Cohan took it. “I thought maybe ya would’a found it tough goin’. What with the fog and all. Cross Bay’s a bitch for fog.”

“I guess I got used to it, Joe. Being as I’ve been out in every kind of weather.”

“Them was the old days. You been sittin’ behind a desk for a long time.”

Pat Cohan stiffened momentarily. Was he being insulted? Faci’s tone was friendly, but you could never be sure with these people. They’d feed you for hours before stabbing you in the back. Sausages and switchblades. That was their way.

“Who would’a believed a Jew could cause so much trouble?” Faci continued. “Who would’a believed that a Jew could kill Steppy Accacio?”

“You don’t seem too upset,” Pat Cohan observed. He sat on the barstool next to Faci and looked around for the bartender.

“We’re havin’ a private party here, Pat. Whatta ya want?”

“A Scotch would be nice. I don’t suppose you’ve got Irish whiskey.”

“Hey, Carmine,” Faci called. “We got Irish whiskey?”

A door behind Joe Faci opened and a short, thick man emerged. “Irish whiskey? You got the wrong neighborhood, pal.”

“Pat,” Joe Faci said, “this here is Carmine Stettecase. He’s takin’ over for Steppy.”

Pat Cohan grinned. “Now, I was thinking that job would fall to you, Joe. I was thinking you’d get yourself a promotion.”

“It ain’t in the cards,” Joe Faci said, his face composed. “The family wants me to take a vacation. See the old country. I got relatives in Palermo.”

“The family?” Cohan was still smiling.

“The bosses,” Carmine interrupted. “They figure this bullshit ain’t good for business. Bodies flyin’ everywhere. Hey, America’s the Land of Progress, right? So how come we’re goin’ back to the old days?”

“Does that mean you intend to let this Leibowitz off the hook, Joe?” Pat Cohan pushed the question at Joe Faci. “After what he did to your boss?”

“Life is like that,” Faci said calmly. “Especially the life we live.”

“Nobody said nothin’ about Leibowitz comin’ outta this in one piece.” Carmine took a bottle of Johnnie Walker off the shelf. He half-filled a tumbler, then set it in front of Pat Cohan. “But what with Steppy dead and Joe goin’ across the ocean, there ain’t much the sheeny can do to hurt us. If we find him first, that’ll be the end of it. If he gets busted, he’ll most likely get the chair. What we don’t want is more bodies lyin’ around where people could find ’em.”

“What about O’Malley?” Pat sipped at his drink. He could feel the bad news coming.

“O’Malley ain’t a problem for us,” Faci said, “because the only mug he saw belongs to the Jew and the Jew ain’t family. Leibowitz is hired help and we don’t have no obligation to protect him.”

“And Moodrow? The cop who made all the trouble in the first place?”

Carmine shook his head. “Stanley ain’t doin’ nothin’ to us. I mean, when ya think about it, the Jew made it easy when he knocked Steppy off. He could’a maybe traded Steppy for a life sentence. Now, Stanley’s gonna put him in the hot seat. That’s why we don’t gotta do nothin’ drastic. Stanley’s gonna fry the punk.”

“That’s the second time you said ‘Stanley.’ Is Moodrow a friend of yours?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say we was friends,” Carmine said, grinning, “but we was schoolmates at St. Stephen’s.”

Pat Cohan felt disoriented, almost dizzy. “Are you telling me that Stanley Moodrow’s working with you?”

“Ya gotta be kiddin’ me. Stanley’s the fuckin’ Lone Ranger. I got about as much chance of gettin’ to Stanley as gettin’ to heaven. Even Pius XII couldn’t fix that one.”

Pat Cohan watched the two men, Stettecase and Faci, as they enjoyed Carmine’s joke. He understood that