A Piece of the Action

Moodrow looked over at Freddy Stone. “Keep your mind on business, Freddy.”

“You talkin’ to me?” Jake Leibowitz asked. “Cause I can’t hear ya.”

“Say, Jake,” Moodrow called. “Do you want me to go through the deal about how you’re surrounded? About how there’s a hundred cops out here? About how they’ve got submachine guns and shotguns and tear gas?”

“Don’t bother. I could’a run when my old lady called, but I didn’t. What I want is that you should try to take me. I don’t care how many cops ya got out there, ya could only come through that door one at a time. Ya listenin’, flatfoot? I don’t care if ya got a fuckin’ army out there. Ya gotta come through one at a time.”

Moodrow saw the door behind Freddy Stone open wide. A dozen uniformed cops poured through. Half of them took up stations near the stairs. The other half ran past him to the far end of the hall. Moodrow closed his eyes as they came abreast of Jake Leibowitz’s door.

“Stanley. Come over here.”

Moodrow looked up to find Allen Epstein beckoning to him. “Whatta ya want, Sarge?” He wasn’t about to cross that doorway.

“C’mere, for Christ’s sake.”

Jake Leibowitz chose that moment to send another volley through the door. Moodrow watched Epstein’s eyes squeeze shut. The uniforms in the hallway dropped to one knee and aimed their service revolvers in his direction. As if, in the absence of a preferred target, they’d decided to shoot him. It wasn’t until Captain McElroy appeared in the doorway that he was sure they wouldn’t open fire.

“Any bodies out there?” Jake called.

“Not yet,” Moodrow answered. “But I’m glad to see you’re interested.”

McElroy tiptoed up to the doorway. “Can you keep him talking?” he whispered. “Keep him distracted? We need about fifteen minutes to evacuate the floor and set up on the rooftops.”

“I’m not gonna stay here another fifteen seconds unless you get these assholes to point their weapons at the floor.”

McElroy looked down the hallway as if seeing it for the first time. “Whatta you plan to do,” he roared, “shoot me? Lower your weapons.”

The cops complied instantly, their fear of authority considerably greater than their fear of Jake Leibowitz. Jake, on the other hand, responded by firing several shots through the door. McElroy didn’t even blink. He’d come up in the days when social workers and bleeding-heart liberals had about as much influence in city politics as the toilet bowls in Tammany Hall. When Hell’s Kitchen was still called the Tenth Ward and breaking heads was the answer to every problem.

“Fifteen minutes,” McElroy repeated. “I’m not gonna let this drag out. I want Leibowitz before the reporters show up.”

“Look, captain, I think if we let him sit for a while, he’ll come out of there. I guarantee he can cover the roofs from inside. If you put an army of cops up there …”

“Shut up, Moodrow.” McElroy jammed his fists into his hips. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit to last a lifetime. I’m ordering you to submit. Do you understand what I’m saying? You are not the fucking commissioner. You do not set policy in my precinct. You’re a piece-of-crap detective, third grade. A monkey in a suit. When I play my accordion, the monkey always dances. Always.”

“I understand.” There wasn’t anything else Moodrow could say. Jake Leibowitz had fifteen minutes and that was that. “Do you bring any tools with you?”

“What?” McElroy’s posture hadn’t changed. He was still livid.

“I could use a four-pound hammer. To hold his attention while you get ready to kill him.”

Jake Leibowitz, peering through his bathroom window, couldn’t help but smile. The six-story buildings making up the Vladeck Houses were joined to each other in rows. Only, instead of laying the buildings end-to-end, the architect had connected the buildings at forty-five degree angles, giving the project a weird, saw-toothed appearance. It was stupid, really, because the arrangement left half the windows in permanent shadow. Maybe the builder was trying to save money. Just the way he’d saved money by letting one stairwell serve an entire line of roofs.

Whatever the reason, that last part was good for Jake Leibowitz and he knew it. The small brick tower that housed the stairwell would have provided excellent cover if it hadn’t been more than eighty feet away from the roof that overlooked his apartment. Not that it would actually be impossible to shoot from behind the stairwell, but the angle was wrong. Even a sharpshooter with a telescopic sight wouldn’t be able to cover more than a tiny part of Jake’s window.

“They gotta come to me,” Jake laughed. “They gotta.”

And they did. Picking their way along the tar-covered roofs as if they were tiptoeing over hot coals. God, but it was stupid. Big, blue-uniformed men carrying Thompsons and shotguns and rifles. Dancing like ballerinas. Wishing they were anywhere but where they were.

Jake raised Little Richard and aimed carefully. The army-issue Colt.45 was a notoriously inaccurate weapon, especially when fired rapidly. It weighed a ton and kicked like a mule. What he was going to get, he knew, was one decent shot. The rest of the clip, which he fully intended to empty, was more likely to kill pigeons than cops.

Boom! Boom!

It took Jake a moment to realize that something was wrong. That there’d been two reports when he’d only pressed the trigger once. He looked at the gun, then out across the roofs. Thinking maybe one of the cops was shooting back. What he saw drove that second explosion right out of his mind. Two uniformed cops were dragging the limp body of a third cop. They were heading for the stairwell as fast as they could go, which is not to say they were moving as fast as their unburdened buddies. The rest of the cops were running.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

“What the fuck is goin’ on here?”

Then he knew what it was. They were coming through the front door.

Jake flew out of the bathroom. He began firing through the door as soon as he could see it and continued firing until the clip was empty. Then he leaped behind his makeshift barricade, expecting some kind of volley in return. But there was nothing. Just the echo of dying gunfire and the calm voice of the cop in the hallway.

“You back, Jake? I was gettin’ lonely out here with no one to talk to. That’s why I decided to knock on the door. You know, to get your attention.”

Jake peered over the back of the couch. The door was still in one piece. The lock had broken out-that’s most likely where the cops had aimed-but the bolt a foot above the knob was still intact and the bed slats hadn’t budged an inch.

“Jesus, that was close,” Jake muttered.

He replaced the empty clip, then walked over to the window and pushed one of the mattresses a few inches to the side. The roof directly across from the window was empty. A few cops were crouched behind the stairwell tower eighty feet away. He punched out the glass and aimed Little Richard in their general direction. They weren’t giving him much target, but if he waited long enough …

Boom! Boom!

“For Christ’s sake, stop doin’ that.” Jake fired through the door again. Just a single shot, this time. He didn’t want to run out of ammo before the cops made their charge.

“What do you think, Jake? You think I’m standing in front of this door? You’re doin’ a nice job on the wall out here, but you’re not doin’ shit to me.”

“Yeah? Well, sooner or later, somebody’s gotta come through that door. If your balls are as big as your mouth, maybe you’ll be leadin’ the parade.”

“If that’s the way you feel about it, why don’t you just unlock the damn thing and get it over with? This hammer’s gettin’ heavy.”

Jake took a quick look out the window. There were more cops out there, now, but they weren’t moving toward his building. They were hanging their heads while some big-shot officer chewed them out. He laid Little Richard on the windowsill and carefully sighted down the barrel.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

Somewhere along the line, Jake knew, he must have pulled the trigger. Because he could see smoke curling