A Piece of the Action

should he?

His chances of getting past Silesi, who lived somewhere in Brooklyn, were slim to none.

The door to 1473 Thompson, directly across the street, opened suddenly and Jake slipped behind the cans. It was Joe Faci, accompanied by his wife and wearing his Sunday best. Joe was carrying two suitcases and his lumpy old lady was dragging a third bag along the ground. They hesitated for a fraction of a second, looking up and down the block, then made their way across the street to Faci’s Cadillac.

Jake rose, his back to Faci, deliberately knocking over a half-filled garbage can. He shuffled down the alley, fell hard on the pavement, then slowly dragged himself to his feet again. Pulling his battered filthy hat over his face, he turned and stumbled forward.

Jake’s plan was to touch Faci, to get Faci’s attention by rubbing his greasy fingers on the sleeve of Faci’s lambswool overcoat. He wanted to see Joe Faci’s look of disgust slowly dissolve into pure terror.

He got his wish, though he didn’t have to make contact with Faci. Faci’s wife wrinkled her nose in disgust and pointed over her husband’s shoulder at the advancing menace.

“Watch for the bum,” she said.

Faci turned quickly, his features set into the hardest look in his repertoire. The glare didn’t phase Jake. Not one bit. His eyes never left Joe Faci’s hands, hands that remained empty too long.

“Hi, Joe, how’s it hangin’?” Jake raised his eyes to meet Faci’s. Abe Weinberg’s.45, its barrel riveted on Faci’s gut, nestled comfortably in his hand. Little Richard.

Joe Faci’s expression jumped from disgust to fear to a half-assed smile in the space of an eyeblink.

“Hey, Jake, how ya doin’? Long time no see.”

“If your old lady don’t shut her mouth, you ain’t gonna see another five seconds,” Jake answered. He jerked his chin toward Faci’s wife. Already whimpering, she looked like she was working herself up to a full-fledged scream.

“Statti citta,” Joe Faci snapped. It came out ‘stata geet,’ a far cry from anything ever heard in Rome, but enough to shut his wife’s mouth.

“I killed Steppy,” Jake announced. He was starting to get excited, starting to work himself up toward a rush of pure pleasure that seemed to get more and more familiar as time went on. Now that he knew it was coming, like orgasm at the end of sex, he wanted to take his time, to enjoy the preliminaries as much as the inevitable result. Jake slid the gun back under his overcoat without taking the business end off Joe Faci’s navel.

“Ya know what ya problem is?” Joe Faci asked calmly. “Ya problem is that ya crazy.”

“Jeez,” Jake returned, “a regular Siggy Freud. He was a Jew, too, ya know. Freud, I mean.”

“All we asked ya to do is take a vacation and you turn it into this. What’s the point, Jake? What does it get ya?”

“The point is that I done twelve years in the joint and I somehow got tired of people tellin’ me what to do. When to get up. When to eat breakfast. When to go to work. When to go to sleep. When to take a fuckin’ vacation.”

“Okay, Jake, I get the picture. But how could I know ya felt like that? Look at me. Am I a gypsy fortune teller? Me and Steppy, we thought it was for your own good. If ya remember, the heat was on you, Jake. It was you the cops was tryin’ to put in the electric chair.”

“They’re still tryin’, as far as I know.” Jake wanted to see that quick flash of fear return to Joe Faci’s face, but Faci’s voice remained calm.

“Ya know, it ain’t too late to blow town. You could still get out. Maybe they ain’t got a good case. Maybe if ya weren’t goin’ around knockin’ guys off, the cops’d forget about ya.”

Jake nodded thoughtfully. “Ya wanna live, don’t ya, Joe? Ya wanna eat dinner tonight. Watch the Honeymooners. Give your old lady a chunk of the old salami before ya fall asleep.” He paused, allowing a smile to spread across his face. “Maybe you could help me out with somethin’, Joe. Do ya think ya could?”

“Anything’s possible.”

Jake’s finger tightened on the trigger, pulling hard enough for the hammer to ease back a fraction of an inch. Not only had Joe Faci’s voice not reflected the fear Jake expected, it was damn close to sarcastic.

“What’s the matter, Joe? You had enough life? You wanna die?”

“No, I don’t wanna die.”

The sentence whistled out of Joe Faci’s mouth and Jake took it for fear. Not that Faci was broken. No, Faci wasn’t exactly pissing his pants, but he’d shown enough for Jake to offer him a little hope.

“I got a problem, Joe, and I was wonderin’ if ya could help me out with it. Ya know, for old time’s sake.”

“Look, Jake, I think it would be good if ya took something into consideration. Sooner or later, you gotta take it on the lam. Whatta ya gonna do, kill every cop in New York? No, sooner or later ya gonna have to make like a bunny and hop outta town. How ya gonna live, Jake? Rob? Steal? You go into a strange town and start pullin’ jobs, ya gonna end up back here in the electric chair. You know that as well as I do.”

“Get to the point, Joe. It ain’t like I got all day.”

“Money, that’s the point I’m makin’ here. And not a couple of grand, either. I know you, Jake. I seen the way ya take care of yourself. I could get you the kind of dough that’d let ya live in style. Maybe you could buy youself a business somewhere. Jews are good at business.”

Jake laughed out loud. “Ya got that dough in ya pocket? Maybe packed in one of them suitcases? Or do I gotta let ya go and meet ya somewhere? Like maybe under the Manhattan Bridge at midnight.”

“It ain’t like that …”

“I said ya could help me out with something, but it ain’t money. What I’m lookin’ for is Santo Silesi. Me and Santo, we gotta have ourselves a little talk.”

“Santo’s dead.” The words were out before Joe Faci could take them back.

“Whatta ya mean, dead? Who killed him?”

“Your mother.”

“Watch ya fuckin’ mouth, Joe.”

“I mean it. Santo went lookin’ for you and your mother shot him down. He’s dead.”

“And her?”

“Look, Jake, I wasn’t there so I ain’t exactly got the whole scoop. I heard she was taken to the hospital and the cops were talkin’ to her. I’m sure you could figure out what they was askin’.”

Jake sighed. So, this was the last one. Steppy Accacio, Santo Silesi and Joe Faci. That was gonna have to do it for Abe and Izzy.

“Get in the car,” Jake said. “We’re gonna take a little ride.”

“What about my wife?”

“Don’t worry, I ain’t sunk so low as to kill a broad. Ya got ya keys in ya coat pocket?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, first ya take off your overcoat. Then ya get in the car and toss the coat on the back seat, bein’ real careful that I should see ya hands every second. What I’m gonna do is get in the back and hand ya the keys. Then we’re gonna drive somewhere to get that dough you was talkin’ about. Don’t make no mistakes, Joe. One more dead spaghetti-brain don’t mean shit to me.”

Carefully, one button at a time, Joe Faci peeled out of his overcoat. He opened the door, tossed the coat in the back, then slid onto the front seat. He kept both hands exposed all the time, finally dropping them onto the steering wheel as Jake closed the door.

“You ready, Jake?” Faci asked.

“Yeah. As Abe used to say, I’m ‘Ready, ready, Teddy, to rock-n-roll.’ ”

Jake pulled the trigger three times. Once for Izzy. Once for Abe. Once for himself. The first shot killed Joe Faci. It blew his head apart, spattering blood and brains all over the side window. The mixture, as thick as oatmeal, covered the glass. In the momentary silence between the explosions and the screams of Joe Faci’s wife, Jake, much to his satisfaction, could hear it dripping down onto the seat.

It was nearly ten o’clock by the time Moodrow finished his rounds. He’d spent most of the day on Henry Street and the surrounding neighborhood, the area where Jake Leibowitz had been spotted. Working the candy stores and lunch wagons, the lofts and warehouse by day; the bars and social clubs by night. The effort had proven