A Piece of the Action

press is bound to get its hands on the story and that’ll put even more pressure on the city. I …”

“Stanley, I’m against capital punishment. Did I ever tell you this?” Greta looked up at him for the first time. “It’s decades, already, I’ve been against capital punishment. Since before the Rosenbergs. As far as I’m concerned, the death penalty is legalized murder.”

Moodrow reached out and took Greta’s hand. “I have to admit that when I first hatched this scheme I was looking forward to putting you on the spot. I thought the situation was funny. It’s not funny, now. Look, Greta, you’re about the only family I have left and I don’t want Jake Leibowitz bad enough to lose you in the process. We can’t be sure that Sarah Leibowitz knows where Jake’s holed up. Or that she’ll tell us if she does know. Let’s forget about it. Somebody’s gonna get Jake Leibowitz. It doesn’t have to be me.”

Greta continued to stare into Moodrow’s eyes for a moment. “Is it true?” she finally whispered. “If I help you, will I be saving his life?”

“Jake Leibowitz has killed at least four people. Two of them were mobsters and two others were operating under mob protection. You’ve been living down here long enough to know what that means. Now add the fact that every cop on the Lower East Side has a photo of Jake Leibowitz in his pocket. They’ve all been told that he’s wanted for multiple homicides and that he’s armed and that he’s extremely dangerous. Remember what I told you about Pat Cohan? He tried to cover up the murder of Luis Melenguez and he didn’t work alone. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out that Cohan and his buddies are as anxious as the mob to see Jake Leibowitz dead and gone. Look, Greta, all I’m really asking you to do is get Sarah Leibowitz to listen to me. And all I’m gonna do is offer her a simple proposition. If she tells me where he’s hiding, I’ll do everything I can to bring him in alive. If she can talk him into surrendering, I’ll guarantee his safety.”

“But, Stanley, the electric chair …”

“Between the trials and the appeals, it’ll be two or three years before he has to take the last walk. You remember the old saying? Where there’s life, there’s hope? Maybe Jake’ll get lucky and draw a judge who’s against capital punishment. Maybe the governor will decide to commute his sentence. Maybe the legislature will abolish the death penalty altogether. But if he’s dead, maybe doesn’t enter into it. If he’s dead, they put him in a box, dig a grave and lower him down.”

Greta turned and began to walk again. The rain poured off her bright yellow hat. Moodrow watched it run down her back and drop onto the sidewalk. At least she wasn’t heading for her own apartment.

“Let me go in alone,” Greta said after a moment. “I think it would be better if I went in by myself.”

“You sure you’re up to it?”

“Sarah’s a very nervous woman. If she sees you and decides to pitch a fit, I won’t be able to get a word in edgewise. Me she’ll talk to, because she doesn’t know what I want.”

“What are you gonna tell her?”

“The danger she already knows about. Sarah’s husband was a gangster who ended up floating in the river. What I’ll say is I’ve known you since you were a pitseleh. I’ll tell her she can’t trust the cops, but she can trust you. I don’t know if she’ll go for it, but I think it’s the best approach. There’s one thing, though. You’ve got to promise me that you’ll keep your end of the bargain. What I’m doing is hard enough without also being a liar.”

“I’m not a killer,” Moodrow returned. “I’m a cop. I hunt, but I don’t kill. On the other hand, if Jake Leibowitz decides to fight, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

They parted company in the small lobby of Sarah Leibowitz’s tenement. Moodrow, standing by the mailboxes, watched Greta until she disappeared on the second-floor landing. He noted her straight back and firm step with satisfaction. Taking both as proof of her commitment.

He listened to her footsteps for another moment, then, with nothing to do but wait, let his mind drift over the events of the last two days. He had, he decided, meant what he’d said about allowing Greta to walk away. If she’d accepted, he would have let the matter drop without a word. But even as he’d made the offer, he’d been sure that she wouldn’t take him up on it. Would he have been so generous if he’d thought she’d jump at the opportunity?

Moodrow was honest enough to admit that he didn’t know the answer. There was no way he could know. But he was sure that what he’d actually done, no matter what his intentions had been, amounted to one more nail in Jake Leibowitz’s coffin. Last night, he’d told Greta that she had to help him. That it was her duty. That by insisting on his obligation, she’d obliged herself. This morning, he’d told her it was all right to wash her hands of the whole affair. Both statements had served to advance him one step closer to his goal.

There was, he finally decided, one truth buried in his manipulation of Greta Bloom-he didn’t want to lose her. He needed Greta in his life as much he needed Kate. Maybe more. For a time after the death of his mother, Moodrow had felt as if he was floating. As if he was a speck of dust at the mercy of the slightest breeze. Greta had been there constantly, ministering to him as she had to his mother. She’d been living proof that he wasn’t alone. There were times, he recalled, when he’d resented her visits. When he’d felt it was his duty to be alone. Greta had ignored his sharp remarks, plying him with food and long stories until he’d come back down to earth.

“Stanley.”

He looked up to find Greta standing at the top of the stairs. “So quick?” he asked as he climbed the steps.

“What could I say? Sarah claims that she doesn’t know where her Jake’s hiding, but she’ll listen to you. In case he calls.”

“You believe her?”

Greta didn’t answer. She led Moodrow to a doorway on the fourth floor. Pushing the door open, she stepped back to let Moodrow enter the apartment.

“Good luck,” she whispered.

Sarah Leibowitz, wrapped in a cheap fur coat, was sitting on an upholstered chair in the living room. The glare she tossed in Moodrow’s direction convinced him to stick to a line he’d already decided to pursue. What he saw in her eyes was pure hate. It wasn’t the first time he’d come across that reaction, but the intensity was something else again. By comparison, Carmine Stettecase’s glare was caressing.

Moodrow drew his lips into a thin smile, but his eyes remained cold. He walked across the room, watching his shadow advance before him, until he was right on top of her.

“I’m not gonna fuck around,” he said, “because I ain’t got the time for it. No, I’m gonna make it real simple. Take a look at this.”

He reached beneath his overcoat and took a glossy photograph from his jacket pocket. Unfolding it carefully, he dropped it into Sarah Leibowitz’s lap. It was a forensic shot, taken at the crime scene, of Luis Melenguez’s body. Melenguez was lying on his side with his back to the camera. His jawbone had been shot away and several glistening white teeth were clearly visible in the pool of blood surrounding the body.

“This is what’s gonna happen to Jake if he doesn’t give himself up. Ya wanna know what’s gonna happen to you. You’re gonna hear a knock on the door one day. There’s gonna be a cop out there, a detective, like me. He’s gonna take you down to the morgue to identify the body of your son. Jake’s gonna look just like the body in this photograph. Except for one thing. The photo’s in black and white. Jake’s gonna be in living color. Or should I say dying color.”

He retrieved the photo and carefully refolded it before shoving it back into his pocket. He could feel Greta behind him, feel her eyes boring into his back.

“I heard your husband was a floater. How many days was he in the river? Two? Three? A week? It’s funny, you see a stiff after a couple of days in the river, you think it can’t get any uglier. Then you see one after it’s been down for a month. Who’d they get to identify your husband’s body, Mrs. Leibowitz? They get you? They pull back the sheet for you? You wanna go through that again?”

“You bastard.”

Despite the words, Moodrow could see the defiance seep out of Sarah Leibowitz’s eyes. She looked frightened now, like a trapped animal.

“I won’t argue the point,” he said. “You say I’m a bastard, I’m a bastard. A bastard who’s willing to save your kid when everybody else on the Lower East Side wants him dead. Look, why don’t you get on the phone and give