A Piece of the Action

himself a great circle back to Ireland?’

“What happened was the suits gave him a choice: sit in his apartment or be held as a material witness in the West Street jail.”

Epstein grunted. “They wanted him where they could find him.”

“Which makes sense from a police point of view, because O’Malley, in addition to being a witness to murder, also happens to be in this country illegally. According to him, the British are trying to nail him for a series of bombings and shootings in Belfast. I got his confidence by telling him about Pat Cohan and Steppy Accacio before I showed him Jake’s mug shot.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said, ‘Do ya know of the troubles in Ireland, laddie? Do ya know the history of the poor unfortunates in that sad land? Do ya know how the sons and daughters of old Ireland have been driven to awful deeds in the name of freedom?’ ”

“You’ve got the accent down pat, Stanley, but does it have to be word for word?”

Moodrow stirred a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee. He was feeling too good to take offense. One of the latents found in O’Neill’s office had matched Jake Leibowitz’s left index finger. Add that to O’Malley’s signed statement placing Jake in the hallway just after the O’Neill murders and it added up to a search warrant for Leibowitz’s last known address, his mother’s apartment, and an arrest warrant for Jake himself.

“What O’Malley’s gonna do is take it on the lam as soon as he figures a way to get out of there. He’d be gone already if the fire escape outside his window wasn’t hanging by a thread. Which means that we have to move fast. We’ve gotta get the DA’s office to pull O’Malley off the street before he takes a hike. Or before someone kills him. Maybe Maguire’ll help. I didn’t wanna ask him to come out in the open, but if O’Malley disappears, the case against Leibowitz is thinner than Olive Oyl’s butt.”

Epstein held up a hand. “What you said about me being a hero for not busting you? It turned out to be a hundred percent accurate. I told McElroy that I went to your apartment to ask you to surrender. I was afraid of what you might do if someone else showed up. Then you gave me Patero’s confession and the rest of the evidence. You said that you’d go to the papers if I tried to arrest you. What could I do? I’m only a sergeant. How could I make a decision like that? By the time I finished describing Patero’s confession, the captain was ready to give me a medal. McElroy guarantees that you will not be arrested before Leibowitz goes down. He begged me to help keep the lid on. You don’t need Maguire, Stanley. You can go to the DA’s people for whatever you want.”

Moodrow got up and walked over to the kitchen window. He pulled aside the curtain and looked down at the street below. It was six o’clock in the morning and he was anxious to get to work.

“Why did McElroy cave in so fast?”

“A couple of reasons. He kicked me out of his office at one point. Asked me to wait in the bullpen for a few minutes while he made some calls. I figure he phoned his rabbi, who has to be at least a deputy chief, and his rabbi ordered him to hold off. McElroy’s only forty-five. He’s a cinch to make inspector and he could go much higher. But not if he has a major scandal in his precinct. Think about it, Stanley. It’s the precinct commander’s job to keep things running smoothly. Business as usual is what it’s all about. If the papers get their hands on Patero’s confession, McElroy’s career is over.”

Moodrow watched the raindrops bounce off the sidewalk. The temperature was down in the thirties and the few pedestrians were hunched beneath umbrellas as they hustled toward the subway. Some were actually running.

“There’s a kid named Moretti in the DA’s office. He’s eager, real eager. I think I’m gonna use him for the warrants, Sarge. Make sure it’s done right. The judges don’t read the warrants before they sign them. It could be that Cohan has enough pull to get an ADA to blow the paperwork.”

“That’s stretching it, Stanley.”

“I just wanna be sure.” Moodrow dropped the curtain and walked back to the table. “Moretti comes in early to work on pending cases. I’ve gotta get to him before he goes to court. You wanna come along and keep an eye on me? Maybe they’ll make you commissioner.”

Santo Silesi was getting very tired of trailing Mama Leibowitz through the Essex Street Market. How could anyone, even a Jew, spend an hour choosing pickled tomatoes from a barrel? Why didn’t the pickle man shove one of those tomatoes up her gargantuan butt? What the hell could they be talking about?

When Mama Leibowitz shifted her attention to a tub of double-sours, Santo emitted a groan of genuine pain. If there was any other way to get into Jake Leibowitz’s apartment, any other way to trap his uncle’s killer, he’d take it in a hot flash. Except, of course, simply kicking the door down, the only other way he could think of. Santo’s hatred of Jake Leibowitz hadn’t quite driven him over the edge. Not yet. Not while Mama Leibowitz was available to lead him through that door.

“You are having the pain, senor?”

Santo glanced down at the shoe salesman kneeling at his feet. You had to feel sorry for the little greaseball. Six pair of shoes and no hope of a sale. Not at Paolo’s Zapateria with its two-dollar cardboard specials. The shoes were so goddamned pointy they looked more like deadly weapons than something you’d wear on your feet.

Puerto Rican Fence Climbers. That’s what everybody called them. The perfect size for a chain-link fence in your neighbor’s back yard.

“Don’t you have any brown shoes?” Santo asked. He looked at his own Florsheim wing tips sitting next to one of Paolo’s specials, two thoroughbreds next to a plow horse, and shook his head. Spics and sheenys-what had the world come to?

“This is disgusting,” he said.

“You no like the shoes, senor?”

“Too greasy,” Santo muttered, slipping his feet into his own shoes. The bitch was moving at last, sliding her blubber along the concrete floor. As she passed each stall, she shouted a greeting to the proprietor.

“Yoo-hoo, Solly, how’s by you today? How’s business?”

How’s your son? Your daughter? Your wife? Your grandchildren? How’s your heart? Your liver? Your second cousin’s hairy butt? How’s … Disgusting. But maybe not as disgusting as all the bullshit he’d taken from Jake Leibowitz. He could remember every episode. Word for word. The way Santo Silesi saw it, there were only two options and both of them spelled death. Death for Jake Leibowitz. Or death for Santo Silesi.

When Mama Leibowitz stopped at Moishe’s Kosher Poultry, Santo ducked into the first available stall: B amp;B Foundation Garments.

“You want maybe a girdle?”

Santo stared down at the old lady who’d asked the question. She couldn’t have been more than four feet tall and she was skinny as a rail. Meanwhile, there was no fear in her voice. None whatsoever.

“Sorry,” Santo said, “wrong sewer.” He crossed the aisle between stalls and began to sort through a tray of men’s wallets. Mama Leibowitz showed no sign of moving on. She was busy examining a live chicken in a little wooden cage. Santo wondered what she was looking for. The cage was so small, the animal could barely move. As he watched, the proprietor, a tall skinny man with an adam’s apple that bobbed up and down like a yo-yo, put the cage back and brought out another.

“This is a chicken?” Santo heard Mama Leibowitz cry out in disbelief. She sounded the way she would after he, Santo Silesi, blew the top of her son’s head off. “This chicken is so old it’s a duck.”

“Why should an old chicken be a duck?”

“Please, I didn’t come off the boat this minute. I want a chicken that’s a chicken for roasting, not a hen for stewing.”

“Maybe you’d like to come around the counter and pick one for yourself? Before I get a hernia from carrying the cages?”

“That would be fine.”

Santo watched the proprietor swing a section of the counter up. Even turned sideways, Mama Leibowitz could barely squeeze her fat gut through the opening. Then she was in the back, surrounded by squawking birds and the acrid stench of manure. The chickens, perhaps sensing her intentions, began to flutter in the cages, sending up