Piece of the Action (18 page)

Jake kept his right hand in his pocket. Gunshots weren’t part of the plan, but if Rocco Insalaco picked up on what was about to happen and decided to run, Jake was determined to do what he’d come to do.

But Rocco Insalaco didn’t run. He held his ground, eyeing Jake coldly. “Do I know you?” he asked when Jake was still ten feet away.

“That depends,” Jake answered, pulling the .45 out of his pocket. “You know who
Malakh-hamoves
is?”

“Hey!” Rocco took a step back, then froze in his tracks. “I don’t know nobody named Malik.”

“I didn’t think so. I didn’t think a wop would be acquainted with the Angel of Death.”

“Whatta ya want? Whatta ya want?”

Jake watched the man tremble, watched Izzy approach from behind, watched the bat as it whooshed through the air and slammed into the back of Rocco Insalaco’s head.

“Ya must be losin’ ya touch, Izzy. Either that or Rocco’s got a skull like a nigger. Gimme a bat. We’ll take turns.”

They took their time about it. This was one body that wasn’t going to end up in a swamp. Tomorrow morning, when the junkies heard about Rocco’s fate, they’d have plenty of respect for the man who came to take his place. Santo Silesi wouldn’t be operating on his own. He’d have the fate of Rocco Insalaco covering his back.

S
TANLEY MOODROW SAT AT
his kitchen table, a cup of coffee near his right hand and a bowl of untouched Cheerios in front of him. He’d already given up on the
Daily News.
In the first place, New York had been quiet on January 14th. There’d been no juicy murders, no subway wrecks, no crooked politicians to expose. The lead story concerned an unemployed chef who’d robbed a Queens bank with a non-existent bomb. The part about a “Queens bank” was the giveaway. The
Daily News,
not unlike New York City’s politicians, rarely paid any attention to the outer boroughs.

In the second place, Moodrow couldn’t stop thinking about his job and what it was doing to his plans for the future. He felt like Humpty Dumpty sitting on the wall. If he fell, if the hurricane pushing at his back shoved him over the edge, nobody would ever put his career back together again.

What made it funny was all the daydreams he’d had before he got his appointment to the detectives. He’d spent the six weeks before his bout with the “Fightin’ Fireman” sitting in a training class at the Academy. Everyone else in the class had already been appointed, but the idea had been to give Moodrow regular hours while he prepared for the big fight. Moodrow found the classes easy, easy enough for him to dream about life as an NYPD detective. He’d imagined himself rising through the ranks, imagined his name and picture in the
Daily News …

Well, he’d gotten this name and his picture in the papers. The
Journal-American
had printed a photo of Moodrow leading the Playtex Burglar through the side door of the 7th Precinct. The contrast between the small, slender burglar and the giant cop hadn’t been lost on the editor who’d written the caption. “Beauty and the Beast” was the way the paper had chosen to put it.

The notoriety hadn’t given Moodrow any satisfaction, but that couldn’t be said of the job he’d been doing for the last week. Sal Patero had been right about the cops in the 7th Precinct. They had an uncanny ability to mess up the paperwork. Maybe that was because the paperwork was irrelevant in all but a handful of cases.

Most of the felons on the Lower East Side couldn’t afford a lawyer. They copped out to the charges, because demanding a trial inevitably resulted in a longer sentence, usually in one of the harsher prisons like Dannemora. But there
were
trials. There were hardened ex-cons who laughed at the third degree, who were smart enough to use their ill-gotten gains to keep an attorney on retainer. There were also first-time criminals—husbands who’d gone berserk on their wives, friends who’d cut each other to pieces in a bar—who simply had the money to hire a lawyer. In these cases, the paperwork had to be right and it almost never was.

Which is why, once they’d determined his competence, the DA’s office had welcomed Stanley Moodrow like a conquering hero. Before he’d come upon the scene, they’d been cleaning up the mess by themselves. Now, they could put the burden on Moodrow. They could complain, order, cajole and, most importantly of all, blame someone else when cases fell apart due to sloppy policing.

Moodrow recalled a case that had had the prosecutors near to madness. Two patrolmen had arrested a man named Robert White for a double homicide. It should have been an open-and-shut deal, because even though the .25 caliber automatic they’d found on Mr. White hadn’t exactly been smoking, ballistics had matched it to the slugs taken out of the victims’ bodies. The only problem was that the gun couldn’t be matched to the
perpetrator.
The special Property Clerk’s Invoice used when firearms were confiscated was nowhere to be found.

The two patrolmen who’d made the arrest swore they’d done the paperwork. The detectives handling the follow-up thought otherwise.

“They oughta put them assholes in the Midtown Tunnel,” one had insisted.

“Didn’t
you
check the paperwork to make sure it was all there?”

“Hey, it wasn’t my case. All I did was interview a few drunks who overheard White braggin’ about the homicides.”

Moodrow had chosen to believe the two patrolmen. Which meant the paperwork had to be somewhere in the precinct. The search had taken the better part of a day, but he’d finally run down the missing form in the file of a sixty-year-old pornography dealer named
Richard
White. The prosecutors had taken him to lunch. Better yet, they’d called Patero and thanked him for sending them Stanley Moodrow.

So, Moodrow supposed, he was a hero, now, instead of a stubborn, uncooperative bum. Now Patero, as Moodrow drove him back and forth from the 7th Precinct to NYPD headquarters on Centre Street, chatted easily. Now, there was no further mention of “first loyalties” or “acceptable statistics.”

Moodrow had the distinct impression that he was being given a second chance, by Sal Patero if not Pat Cohan. Sooner or later, he was going to be invited to make another arrest, to pile on more charges. The only thing was that Stanley Moodrow wasn’t sure he wanted a second chance. He’d taken a stand—at least, he
thought
he had—and stands were supposed to be final. Now, he wasn’t sure what he’d do if faced with another Playtex Burglar. He even wasn’t sure what he
should
do. That was why he’d invited his old trainer, Allen Epstein, to stop over for coffee. It was also why he answered the doorbell in his underwear.

“Oh, shit,” he moaned, slamming the door on Greta Bloom, Rosaura Pastoral and a young woman he didn’t recognize.

“I have to put something on, Greta,” he shouted through the door. “I’ll be back in a second.” He ran into the bedroom, reached for a robe, then changed his mind.

“Lemme get this right,” he muttered, tossing a clean white shirt and a pair of pants onto the bed. He threw on the shirt, buttoned it wrong, re-buttoned it, jumped into his trousers, fumbled in his drawer for a pair of socks without a hole in the toe, dug his slippers out from under the bed, ran a comb through his short hair. By the time he got back to the door, he was breathing hard.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he explained. “I was expecting someone else.”

“But I called last night,” Greta said, pushing past him into the apartment. “Remember? You said you asked about Luis.”

“Yeah, Greta, but you didn’t say you were coming over at seven o’clock in the morning.”

“So, when should I come? You work all day and at night you go out to Queens to see your girlfriend.” She sat down on the couch. “You remember Rosaura, right? And this is Nenita Melenguez, Luis’s wife. She came to New York to make arrangements.”

“Mrs. Melenguez,” Moodrow nodded. “Please, everybody sit down. Would anyone like coffee?”

“You are expecting the company,” Rosaura Pastoral said, “so we should no be stayin’ too long.”

“Are you sure?” Moodrow was stalling for time. The slight figure perched on the edge of his couch looked like anything but a pimp’s wife. She wore a beltless cotton dress that fell to her ankles and a cloth coat so thin it wouldn’t keep her warm in Miami. Her eyes were riveted to the carpet, her head bent forward so that he couldn’t see her features very well.

“So tell us what you found out,” Greta said, smiling.

That was the problem. That was why he was stalling. How could he tell this woman that her dead husband was a pimp? Unless she already knew. Unless the dress and the coat were pure bullshit. Moodrow decided to find out.

“According to the lieutenant, Luis Melenguez was a pimp. A whoremaster. He was deliberately executed by person or persons unknown. The investigation’s ongoing, but nobody expects a quick arrest. Right now, the case is in the process of being turned over to a squad that investigates organized crime.”

He expected a reaction, but not the one he got. Nenita Melenguez, totally uncomprehending, looked up at Rosaura Pastoral and said something in Spanish. Moodrow understood the first words,
por favor,
but nothing else.

“She don’ understand Eenglish,” Rosaura explained. “I am suppos’ to be translating, but I don know how I can say thees.”

“She can’t say it,” Greta interrupted. “Stanley, you should please take a another look at this woman. Nenita is not the wife of a pimp. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

“My nose’s been broken too many times to be plain.”

“Stanley …”

“I’m not making this up, Greta. I went to the lieutenant, just like you asked, and I’m telling you what he told me. You wanna make up a story for Mrs. Melenguez, you go ahead and do it.”

“No, I tell her wha’ you say.”

Rosaura Pastoral turned to Nenita Melenguez and quickly translated. The effect, though it didn’t surprise Moodrow, wasn’t the one he hoped to get. The woman raised her eyes to meet Rosaura’s, then dropped them when Rosaura’s message became clear. “No,” she whispered. “Noooooo.”

“Look what you’ve done,” Greta said, taking Nenita’s hand.

“What I did is what
you
asked me to do,” Moodrow insisted.

Before Greta could respond, Nenita Melenguez began to speak. Her voice was soft and halting, the words spilling out in short, murmured phrases that Rosaura Pastoral easily translated.

“She say, ‘I have know my husban’ since he was a little boy. I know hees whole family. Luis marry me when I am fifteen. We have together three children. All hees life, Luis work in the sugarcane. He is wha’ they call
palero.
Thees is a man who takes care of the
maclaines
…’ Wait, I don’ know thees word
maclaines.
”

Rosaura spoke quickly, then listened for a moment before nodding her head. “A
maclaine
is a ditch for bringin’ water to the cane.” She nodded to Nenita who continued. “She say,
‘Palero
is a good job.
Paleros
sometime make fifteen dollars in a week. But tha’ job goes away, because the
rematista,
the foreman, is bringin’ a machine that digs the ditches faster than ten men. Luis goes back to cutting the cane, but the
rematista
brings other machines, like
arañas,
spiders, that load the cane onto the oxcarts. Then motors are put on the carts and all the
carreteros
who take care of the oxen are out of work. Luis’s
papi,
who was a
carretero,
calls
la familia
together. He says someone mus’ to go to
Nueva York,
to see if they can have a life in
El Norte.
Luis is chosen, because he is young and he is a hard worker, because he don’ spend his nights in the
nickelodeons.
Luis is only here for six months. His letters tell me how hard it is for him. How he saves his money to buy tickets for
la familia.
’ ”

Nenita Melenguez fumbled in her tiny purse for a moment, then withdrew a worn photograph and handed it to Moodrow without looking up. Moodrow examined the picture carefully, noting the young-old man standing in front of a tin-roof shack, the narrow
Indio
eyes, the mahogany skin, the full lips and flat nose, the long oval face and sharp protruding chin.

“This is Luis Melenguez?” he asked.

“Tha’ is heem,” Rosaura answered.

Moodrow looked back at the photo. Melenguez was wearing a white
guaya-bera
shirt, baggy trousers and leather shoes without socks. His face was serious, composed. The posture of a man wearing his Sunday best.

“Look, I don’t want to hurt anyone. But what can I do except report what I learned? I’m in an impossible position here.”

Greta rose abruptly. “I think we better go,” she said.

The two women followed her to the door, then Rosaura Pastoral turned to shake Moodrow’s hand. “
Gracias, señor.
For takin’ thees time for us.”

Moodrow, properly chastised, at least in his own mind, opened the door for the three women. Greta, clearly unaware of his inner contrition, was the trailer.

“I’m only happy your mother didn’t live to see this,” she said, without looking at him.

It took all of Moodrow’s self-control to close the door quietly. He went back into the kitchen, picked up his coffee then set it down again. The undeniable fact was that Greta Bloom had always been there for his mother. Nancy Moodrow had died of breast cancer, though Stanley could never figure out why it should have been called that because the cancer was everywhere in her body. It was in her lungs, her liver, her stomach, her very bones.

Death had been a long time coming. If it hadn’t been for Greta, Moodrow would have had to put his mother in the hospital. And not in a private hospital, either. He would have had to put her in one of the city-run hellholes. No, there wasn’t any doubt about it—Stanley Moodrow
owed
Greta Bloom. But did that mean he had to manufacture a story that fit her personal sense of justice?

What he’d do, he decided, was go down to her apartment and make it up to her. Maybe he’d bring her some
halavah.
There was a guy working out of a stall in the East Side Market who made his own. Greta’s sweet tooth was legendary …