A Piece of the Action

Of course, he’d had no idea whether or not he could deliver on his various threats. That wasn’t the point, anyway, because he was preparing for a time when Jake Leibowitz was long forgotten. As he went along, he began to create an internal file, matching names to reactions. So-and-so had examined the photo carefully. So-and-so had admitted knowing Jake Leibowitz. So-and-so had provided some tidbit of gossip concerning Jake’s history. So-and-so had known nothing, but had shown fear.

It was all necessary, he told himself as he fumbled with his keys. It was necessary if he intended to own the Lower East Side, to make himself indispensable to the precinct brass, to build a protective wall between himself and the wrath of Pat Cohan. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t exhausted.

He stood in the lobby of his building for a moment, looking up at the stairs. He’d been climbing those stairs for a lot of years, had made it a habit to take them two at a time when he was in training. Now, they looked like Mt. Everest.

But there was nothing to be done about it. Not unless he wanted to sleep in the lobby. Wearily, lost in thought, he began to climb the four flights to his apartment. He was on the third floor landing when a familiar voice called out to him.

“Stanley, Stanley. Come here a minute.”

“Greta, please, I don’t …” He looked down the hallway and was stunned to see Kate Cohan standing in the hall next to Greta Bloom. His fatigue vanished in an instant. He’d been telling himself that he’d never see her again, that he could get along without her. That even if Pat Cohan vanished, along with his lies, their love could never overcome their differences. Not in the long run.

Now, as he stood with one foot on the stairs leading up to the next floor, his mouth hanging open, the “long run” had no meaning whatsoever. You couldn’t dump the present because you were afraid of the future. His own father had squirreled away every extra penny, saving for an “old age” that never came.

“Stanley, say something,” Greta demanded.

“Stanley?” Kate Cohan took a hesitant step forward. “Can I talk to you?”

“When did you get here?” It was the first coherent sentence that popped into Moodrow’s mind.

“I got here a little after three.”

“I went up to see you, Stanley,” Greta interrupted, “and I found her standing by your door. She’s a lovely girl. You should have brought her to meet me long ago.”

“What’s next, Greta?” Moodrow asked. “You gonna invite us in for coffee and homemade rugelah?”

“Such a fresh mouth,” Greta said to Kate. “I don’t see how you put up with such a fresh mouth. Stanley, you’re too old to be a bondit.”

“A what?” Kate asked.

“There’s no word in English,” Greta said. “It means like the boy in the funny papers. The one with the blond hair.”

“Oh,” Kate said, “I get it. Dennis the Menace.”

Thirty

They were in each other’s arms before they made it to the fourth-floor landing. They held each other fiercely, mouths joined, eyes closed. As if they could live entirely in an animal present. As if they could live without regret for the past or fear of the future. As if they could rid themselves of the pain of their separation by squeezing it out like a tube of toothpaste.

Moodrow found himself beyond thought, beyond even the desire for thought. He could feel Kate’s heart beating through their bulky overcoats. It seemed to beat inside his skull, driving away every other consideration. No more Jake Leibowitz or Pat Cohan. The concrete steps, the narrow steel railing, the freezing streets, the whores, the junkies and the jack rollers: the whole stinking miserable history of the Lower East Side of New York City vanished in an instant.

Minutes later, Moodrow heard a deep groan, an exhalation of equally mixed loss and gain. It took him another moment to realize that he was doing the groaning. And that Kate’s hands were inside his jacket, her fingers cupping the long muscles running along his ribs, her lips pressed to his chest.

He was supposed to sweep her up in his arms and he knew it. He was supposed to carry her across the threshold, to lay her gently on his bed, to play the leading man. Instead, he pulled away from her and asked a question.

“Kate, are you sure?”

He wasn’t asking just about Inspector Pat Cohan. He was asking about Father Ryan and Sacred Heart Church and a lifetime in suburbia. He was talking about every facet of her life.

“No,” she admitted. “No. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to think about it. I’ve been thinking and thinking and thinking. It doesn’t get me any place. You can’t stay up in the air. You have to come down and do something.”

They made their way to Moodrow’s apartment in silence. The silence seemed right to Moodrow, but still, once inside, once their coats were off and draped over the back of the couch, he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. Despite the fact that he knew he might be tossing away the finest moment of his life.

“Kate,” he began. “Kate … do you, uh … do you want coffee or something?”

It was an astonishingly dumb thing to say and he knew it.

“Isn’t it a little late for coffee?” Kate answered, without letting go of his hand. She looked up at him for a moment, then grinned and punched him in the stomach. “If you don’t smile,” she said, “I’m gonna cry.”

Moodrow managed a quick grin. “Let’s sit down.”

“Yes, I guess we have to talk.” Kate sat on the couch, pulling Moodrow down alongside her. “Your friend, Greta, is a pretty amazing person. Was your mother like her?”

“Greta has a lot in common with most of the women who live down here. Tough times, tough women.”

Kate looked up at Moodrow for a moment. Her gaze was sharply speculative. “I guess I’m learning, Stanley. My father retired today.”

“I didn’t know that.” Moodrow’s surprise was evident. “Did he say why?”

“He gave me a speech about how hard it was for the Irish when they first came here. And about how they’re losing what it took a hundred years to gain. ‘It’s not my Department anymore.’ That’s what he said. I didn’t believe him, so I came down here to find out for myself. It was stupid not to call first.”

“How did Greta happen to find you?”

“She was bringing you some food. Potato something. I didn’t understand her when she told me. She repeated it, but I still didn’t understand, so I let it drop.”

“Potato lathes. It means ‘pancakes.’ ”

“She makes pancakes out of potatoes?”

“Yeah. It just goes to prove there are things you can do with a potato besides boiling it. Being Irish, you wouldn’t know that.”

Kate giggled, then turned serious again. “I was a real sap, Stanley. I feel like a yokel who just bought the Brooklyn Bridge. Maybe I had some doubt when I got here, but after sitting in Greta’s kitchen all night, I know the truth.” She looked up at him. “You got sucked into this, didn’t you? It wasn’t something you wanted.”

“That’s for sure.” Moodrow shook his head slowly. He could feel the tension beginning to ease. Kate was leaning against his chest; his arm was around her shoulder. “But sometimes you have to do what’s right. Especially when Greta Bloom gets on your case. The job’s pretty corrupt, Kate. Most of the guys are on the take, especially the brass. I don’t wanna get too righteous about it, because as far as I can tell, it’s always been that way. But homicide is something else. I couldn’t let it go and neither could your father. It’s been a war zone down here ever since Luis Melenguez was murdered. Your father had a lot to do with that.”

“Well, he’s out of it, now.” She hesitated, letting her eyes drop to her lap. “I made a decision while I was sitting down at Greta’s. I decided not to ask you this question and now I’m asking it anyway. What are you going to do to my father?”