A Piece of the Action

“Not free, Daddy, but freer. I used to be imprisoned by lies. From here on, I intend to make my own decisions based on the truth.”

“Ah yes, lies.” He put the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. “I won’t bother to deny ’em, Kathleen. Nor are explanations in order. It’s your mother I’ve called to talk about. She needs to see you. Needs you to dry her tears. ‘First Peter, now Kathleen.’ That’s all she can say, Kate. She’s been crying for the last twenty-four hours and I don’t know how to stop it. Is it possible you could spare a few hours for your poor suffering mother?”

He paused for a moment, listening to the metallic hiss of his own heavy breathing through the receiver. “I love ya, Kathleen. I don’t suppose that makes much difference, now. Why should it, considerin’ the things I’ve been after doin’ to ya? But that’s over. You’ve found me out, girl, and I know it can never be like it was. I know this, but does what I’ve done to ya have to mean that your mother and myself are out of your life forever? For God’s sake, Kathleen, come home for a visit. Talk to your mother. She thinks she’s never going to see you again. I swear before the Almighty that I won’t try to hold you.”

“Okay, Daddy. I have to come back sooner or later, anyway. I need my clothes and I need to settle things between us. Just give me an hour to get myself together before I leave.”

“Thank you, darlin’. Thank you.”

Pat Cohan gently lowered the receiver. He looked down at the bottle in his hand for a moment, then heaved himself erect and slowly walked up the stairs to his wife’s room.

“Top of the mornin’, Rose,” he said. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? You could at least be polite.”

It’d been months, maybe years, since he’d felt this good. “The last last straw,” he muttered, “is the last straw you play.”

There was an upholstered chair next to his wife’s bed. A useless ornament, really, because she never got up off her knees. He tucked the bottle under one arm, slid the chair across the room until it was facing the door, then sat heavily.

“Any regrets?” he asked himself.

“None,” he answered, putting the barrel of his.38 into his mouth, cocking the hammer, splattering his brains all over the ceiling.

Thirty-three

Stanley Moodrow, on his way down to Greta Bloom’s apartment, knew that he had a problem. On the one hand, he felt that Greta had a better chance of penetrating Sarah Leibowitz’s armor if she confronted Sarah without a cop (namely, himself) being present. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure that given Greta’s general reluctance, she’d push Mama Leibowitz very hard if Stanley Moodrow wasn’t around to give her an occasional nudge.

It was Greta, herself, who finally enabled Stanley Moodrow to make up his mind. There were no blintzes waiting for him when he knocked on her door. Not even a cup of coffee. Greta, answering his soft knock, was dressed to go out.

“We’ll talk on the way,” she announced, pushing past him.

Moodrow was stunned. Not by her attitude, which he’d more or less expected; it was her outfit that left him openmouthed. She was encased from head to toe in a bright yellow slicker with a matching hat that swooped down in back to cover her collar. Moodrow didn’t know who’d owned the raincoat before she’d gotten her hands on it, but he was positive that she hadn’t bought it new. It was so big the bottom seam dropped to the tops of her galoshes. The sleeves, even rolled up, covered all but the tips of her fingers.

“Greta,” Moodrow said, “could you please come back here for a minute.”

Already halfway down the hall, Greta stopped and turned to face him. “If you don’t mind, please, I’d like to get this over with,” she said.

“Me, too, Greta. Which means we should go in there with some kind of a plan. Do you know what you’re going to say?”

Amazed, he watched a shudder run through Greta Bloom’s body. The situation was tearing her apart. He wondered, briefly, if she’d eventually forgive him. Greta had a reputation for holding a grudge to the bitter end.

“What you should think about,” he said, “is how you’ll feel if we don’t find Jake Leibowitz at the end of this rainbow. If you go through with it and fail.”

“Stanley,” Greta declared, planting her fists on her hips, “you’re nothing but a bully.”

Moodrow shrugged. “You already said that, Greta. And it might actually bother me if I wasn’t a hundred percent convinced that you’d never do this, not even if I put a gun to your head, unless you knew it was right. You wanna blame me, that’s fine. But let’s get Jake Leibowitz, okay?”

“We’ll talk as we go,” Greta insisted.

“Can we at least take our time about it? Do we have to run?” Moodrow, at that moment, knew he’d be going into the Leibowitz apartment with Greta. He knew he’d be doing some of the talking, too. Despite everything, Greta simply wasn’t tough enough for the job. Well, he’d brought a little surprise with him. A kicker to sweeten the pot.

“We’ll talk as we go,” Greta repeated, turning away.

Moodrow hustled after her, following her down two flights and out into the street before she ran out of gas.

“All right, Stanley, I’m too old to run. Tell me your scheme, already. One thing I’m sure is that you got one.”

“Ya know, Greta, it would’ve been nice to do this inside. Where it’s dry.”

The January thaw was definitely over. It was raining steadily and the temperature was in the high thirties. Moodrow watched the rain bounce off Greta’s slicker for a moment, then launched himself into it.

“I spoke to the detectives who caught the Leibowitz case. I know it sounds unbelievable, but they suspect that Santo Silesi was shot deliberately. You understand what I’m saying, right? Not in self-defense, but deliberately. Now, I’m not the judge and jury here, but I have a real strong feeling that we’re not gonna convince Sarah Leibowitz to give up her kid by appealing to her conscience. We’re gonna have to offer her something, something she can understand. That something is gonna be her son’s life.”

“You’re God, Stanley? You can give life?” Greta began to walk, staring down at her feet as she stamped through the puddles.

“You’re gonna tell her that he knows too much, that the cops want to kill him as much as the mob. He’s only got one chance at survival and that’s to give himself up to the right man.”

“Should I guess who that is?”

“It’s not a joke, Greta. What I’m telling you is close to the truth. If the mob finds him first, Jake’s dead. We’ll be lucky to find the body. Now, maybe the cops haven’t actually been told to gun him down, but if he puts up any resistance the neighbors’ll think World War Three broke out. And if he runs, nobody’s gonna bother with a warning shot. They’ll kill him before he takes a step. Jake Leibowitz only has one chance at survival and that’s to surrender.”

“Surrender for what? So you can send him to the electric chair? Maybe I didn’t have your education, but this I don’t call survival.”

Moodrow put a hand on Greta’s shoulder, stopping her long enough to allow a milk truck to plow through an enormous puddle.

“Thank you, Stanley.”

“You’re welcome.”

They crossed the street in silence, stepping onto the opposite curb before Greta spoke again.

“What makes you think you can protect him? If so many people are trying to kill him?”

“I can get him down to the precinct in one piece. That takes the cops out of it. Once he’s booked, I’ll go over to the DA’s office and put myself on the record. I’ll tell them I know Jake Leibowitz’s life has been threatened by members of organized crime. If I’m on the record, the city’ll have to protect him. Plus, the