Piece of the Action (16 page)

“Well, boyo, now that your fightin’ days are in the past, it might be time to cultivate a few healthy vices.”

“Maybe you’re right, but I don’t think I wanna begin at the top.” He nodded toward the cigar. “One of these days, maybe I’ll start with a cigarette and work my way up.”

Pat Cohan chuckled appreciatively. He swiveled his chair away from the desk, opened a cabinet built into the bookcase behind him, and fetched a bottle of Bushmill’s and two glasses. “Perhaps I might interest you in a different vice.”

“Sure, Pat, that’d be great.”

Cohan filled the two glasses halfway, then handed one to Moodrow. “Down the hatch, boyo.”

Moodrow managed not to choke, despite the fire that raged in his throat. “Damn,” he said, “I’m not used to this.”

Pat Cohan allowed himself to chuckle sympathetically, then straightened in his chair. “I’m afraid we have something serious to discuss, Stanley. Something unpleasant.”

“This I already figured out.”

“Sal Patero’s complaining. He says you’re not cooperating. He
says
you don’t care for what you’re doing.”

Moodrow sat back in his chair, looking for the right words, the words that would get his message across without offending Pat Cohan. He, too, had given the matter a lot of thought and he, too, was unsure of what Kathleen would do if forced to choose between her father and her lover.

“The
first
thing is that what Sal’s got me doing came as a complete surprise. I know you’re only trying to look out for me and Kathleen. I got no problem with that. But I gotta admit that I would’ve liked to work my way up. The other guys in the squad hate my guts and I always got along with everybody.”

“Stanley, if ya want to get ahead, you can’t worry about what some …”

“Let me finish, Pat. Before the lecture.” The whiskey was rapidly going to Moodrow’s head. Its main effect, at that moment, was fearlessness. “I went along with the collections, with the pad. I can live with that, because it’s been goin’ on for a long time. Also, the thing Sal’s got me doing with the DA’s office, the paperwork and that, is also acceptable. I’d rather be conducting investigations, but I understand that I’m doing something important. What bothers me is what he asked me to do with the kid, Zayas. I won’t put these heavy beefs on some punk kid’s head. It’s not right.”

Pat Cohan started to interrupt, but Moodrow waved him off, again. “Everything Zayas did, all those burglaries, don’t add up to a thousand dollars. Zayas is nothing but an amateur who’s small enough to get through a ventilation duct. I can’t go along with making him into a major criminal.”

“Is it my turn, now?” Cohan waited for Moodrow to nod, then continued. “It’s a question of loyalty here, boyo. Not loyalty to me or to Sal Patero. We’re talkin’ about loyalty to the Department, to the tradition. The public doesn’t give two figs for our problems.
All
the public wants is results. You really can’t blame them. Between the papers and the TV, they’re scared to death. I’m tellin’ ya, Stanley, your average good citizen sees a mugger on every corner. They see rapists under their beds. Murderers in the closet.”

Cohan took a minute to suck on his cigar. “There’s no way to educate the public, boyo. There’s no way to show them how things
really
work. Yet, we have to protect the Department from its enemies. Think about it, Stanley. Every time we turn around, we’re being attacked by some nigger-loving politician out to pick up a few votes. We
have
to protect ourselves.” Cohan sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t wanna turn this into a book, Stanley, because the answer is simple enough. We protect ourselves with statistics. As long as
our
bullshit statistics compare favorably with the bullshit statistics coming out of other cities, nobody can fault us. Now, it’s true, boyo, some of the things we do to protect the Department aren’t particularly pleasant. But those of us who’ve been in the game for a long time understand that our first loyalty is to the NYPD, not to some spic from the Lower East Side. And let me tell you one more thing, Stanley. A cop who fails to exhibit that loyalty, can’t move up the ladder. I don’t care if he’s got the
mayor
for a rabbi.”

“You have a point there, Pat, but I’m not gonna do it, anyway.” Moodrow, to his surprise, answered without hesitation. “The bad guys are the bad guys. They have to pay for their crimes, even if it means doing what O’Brien and Mitkowski did to Zayas. But I’m not gonna frame some poor
schmuck.
If that means I never get above detective, third grade, then so be it.”

Pat Cohan refilled his glass, then offered the bottle to Moodrow. “Have another, Stanley.”

“No thanks, Pat. I’m still recovering from the first one.”

“I know this is delicate, boyo.” Cohan sipped at his drink, taking his time. “And the last thing I want to be is the interfering father-in-law. But, you know, Kathleen’s my only child.” He took another sip of the Bushmill’s, swishing it over his tongue before swallowing. “The question I keep asking myself is whether Kathleen can
take
life on the Lower East Side. Everything looks so easy, when you’re young, but …”

“I already got the lecture from Sal. Kathleen and I are gonna have to take our chances. Like every other couple startin’ out. With both of us working, there’s no reason why we have to live on the Lower East Side. That’s even if you knock me off the pad, which I don’t think you’re gonna do.”

“Damn it, I don’t want my daughter working after she’s married.” Pat Cohan finally lost his temper. “I didn’t want her to work
before
she got married.”

“You trying to say she wouldn’t listen to you?”

Cohan felt his face begin to redden. He couldn’t believe this detective, third grade—who, by all rights, should still be walking a beat—had the gall to challenge him. Then he reminded himself that he’d already decided to dump Stanley Moodrow. “There’s no sense in pursuing this, is there?”

“Pat, it’s not like I’m talkin’ about goin’ to the press. Or Internal Affairs. I’m satisfied with what I’m doing. It’s just that I’m not willing to send the Playtex Burglar upstate for the next five years to make New York’s statistics better than Chicago’s.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Cohan let his fingers drift up to his stiff hair. “I’ll calm Patero down. In fact, I’ll
beat
Patero down, if I have to. You try to cooperate every way you can.”

“No problem.”

“Good, now there’s one other thing. Sal told me you were asking after a stiff named Melenguez.”

It was Moodrow’s turn to blush. “This is embarrassing.” He took a deep breath and launched into it. “I’ve got this neighbor. Greta Bloom. Used to be my mom’s best friend. Greta’s the kind of woman who sticks her nose any place it’ll fit. I’m sure you know what I mean. Anyway, it turns out that Melenguez used to room with another neighbor, Rosaura Pastoral. Rosaura is also Greta’s friend, so when Rosaura went to Greta, Greta came to me. She thinks I’m Dick Tracy or something. Anyway, I promised Greta I’d ask about Melenguez. It’s one of those things you can’t get out of. Like goin’ to the dentist.”

“Ya know, boyo, for a minute there, you had me worried. I was afraid you were
close
to this Melenguez. Now, as far as we can tell, Melenguez was a working pimp. From the way it went down, we’re sure it was a contract killing. The case is in the process of being kicked out to boro-wide Homicide and Organized Crime. They’ll share the information and work on it from different angles. It’s funny, in a way. These little greasers come over here and start committing crimes before they put down their suitcases. Welfare isn’t good enough for ’em. We do everything we can do to make their lives easy and this is how they reward us.”

What Moodrow wanted was Kathleen Cohan back in his apartment on the Lower East Side. What he got was Kathleen Cohan so repentant that she was afraid to come within two feet of him. Kathleen had had her little talk with Father Ryan, a talk that turned out to be a lecture about the impossibility of forgiveness unless the penance was performed. And, of course, she would not be allowed to receive Communion until her sins were forgiven.

Moodrow, listening to Kathleen recite the details, felt his heart drop into his shoes. “Kate,” he said when she was finished, “we’ve got enough troubles with your father. We don’t need any more.”

He went on to describe, in detail, the events leading up to his conversation with Pat Cohan. What he wanted, naturally, was for his fiancée to back him up a hundred percent. He wanted her to burn with indignation at the idea of forcing a man to confess to crimes he didn’t commit. What he got was a puzzled, frowning Kathleen Cohan.

“This Zayas,” she finally said, “is a homosexual and a thief. Did I get that right?”

“He steals women’s clothes and dresses up in them. I guess that’s a pretty big hint.”

“Well, why do you care about him?”

If Kathleen’s voice had been challenging or angry, Moodrow would have known how to respond. But Kathleen was clearly puzzled. She wanted an answer she could understand and Moodrow didn’t have one. Or, at least, he didn’t have one that would please her.

“Zayas was pitiful, Kate. Most likely, there are things happening to him right now that I can’t even describe to you. They took him over to the Tombs and he can’t make bail. I mean there’s a fair chance that he won’t even
survive.
”

“What I’m thinking,” Kate interrupted, “is that some liberal judge is going to have the same attitude you do. I’m thinking he’s going to give Zayas probation. Zayas is a
homosexual.
Do you want him out on the streets? Do you want him hanging around the schoolyards? Maybe homosexuality isn’t a sin. Maybe it’s a disease, like the psychiatrists say. But, even if it
is
a disease, it’s a
contagious
disease. The only way I know to control a contagious disease is to isolate it until the doctors invent a cure.”

Moodrow felt his mouth tighten down until it was a short straight line, almost a scar frozen on his face. “And what do you want me to do, Kate? You want me to be the judge and the jury? You want me to write my own laws? You want me to be God?”

Kathleen jerked backwards. The movement was involuntary and, for a few seconds, she was really frightened. She’d never gone to any of Moodrow’s fights, never witnessed his potential for out-and-out ferocity.

“Stanley, please …”

“What?”

Suddenly, she reached out and pulled him toward her, burying her head in his chest. “I want you to get along with Daddy,” she said, holding onto him as tightly as she could. “I’m begging you, Stanley. Daddy is all alone in the world except for me. It’s been hard for him. When he lost Peter, when he lost his only son, he was devastated. In a way he’s lost his wife, too. Maybe this is
worse
than losing her. What I’m saying is I need my father and he needs me. If I lost him, I think I’d die.”

J
AKE LEIBOWITZ WAS LOST IN
dreams when the first blow struck the exposed flesh of his back. He was dreaming of prison, of cooking up and hiding a batch of prison hooch in his cell. Somehow, despite the sharp pain and the crack of the leather belt, he failed to wake up immediately. Only the character of his dream changed. It changed from the gleeful anticipation of alcohol intoxication, to a surprise visit by club-wielding prison guards. Still asleep, Jake did what any smart con would do under the same circumstances. He put his hands over the back of his head, curled himself into a ball and waited for the hacks to tire.

When he finally opened his eyes, only to discover his pillow instead of the concrete walls of a prison cell, Jake became slightly disoriented. Somebody was screaming at him, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then, very slowly, inch by inch, it came to him. He wasn’t in prison. He was home in his own bed. And the person beating him wasn’t using a club. She was using a leather belt. And she wasn’t screaming about prison contraband. She was screaming, “A
rabbit?
A
rabbit?
A
rabbit?
”

Timing the rhythm of his mother’s assault carefully—the last thing he needed was to catch a shot in the face—Jake rolled away from the wall, grabbed his mother’s arm as the next blow descended, and pulled her onto the bed.

“Jesus Christ, ma,” he said, as he scrambled to his feet, “you shouldn’t of …” He didn’t finish the sentence, because he knew that he
did
deserve what he’d gotten.

“A rabbit for a
mamaleh
,” she moaned. “A rabbit for a
mamaleh.
”

“What did you do?” Jake gestured toward what remained of his mother’s coat. She’d cut it into pieces and scattered it all over the floor. Which meant, Jake suddenly realized, that while he was sleeping, she’d been standing next to his bed with a pair of scissors. “
Mamaleh,
I’m sorry.”

Jake’s mother, still gasping for breath, slowly pulled herself upright. “You, you, you … you
goy
!” Fueled by this insult, she got to her feet and yanked the mattress off the bed. “Where is it?” she demanded. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Jake asked, though he knew
exactly
what she was looking for.

“Don’t play the
shmegegge
with me. I’m looking for the money.” She began to rip the drawers out of his dresser, scattering his carefully folded clothing among the bits and pieces of mutilated rabbit.

“Enough.” Jake finally grabbed his mother, holding her arms tight against her sides. “There’s no money here.”

“Don’t lie to me. A
goniff
doesn’t put his money in the bank.”

“The money’s not here,
mamaleh.
Not that I have a whole lot, because I’m just gettin’ started in business. But what I do have ain’t here. Just try to calm down. I said I was sorry and I promise to make it up to you. I promise that tonight, when I come home, I’ll have a
new
coat for you.”

“You think I’d trust
you
to buy my coat? You think I’m a
schmuck
?”

“Okay, you’re right. Tonight, I’ll give you a hundred dollars to buy your own coat.”

“
Five
hundred,” she said calmly. “Not a penny less.”