Piece of the Action (25 page)

But with O’Neill and his old lady most likely talking to the cops, the only sensible thing for Steppy Accacio to do was move up to the
next
link. Which happened to be Jake Leibowitz. Jake and his buddy, Izzy Stein.

Well, Jake Leibowitz wasn’t going to run. Not from Accacio and not from the cops. And he wasn’t going to panic, either. He’d waited too long to get his piece of the action. What he’d do is watch his back at all times. Watch his back and wait for Santo Silesi to make a move.

“Yoo-hoo, Jakey, are you decent?”

Jake, staring at his reflection in the mirror, rolled his eyes. “Yeah, ma, c’mon in.”

Sarah Leibowitz pranced into the room, her rotund body encased in the rattiest fur coat Jake had ever seen. “You like?” she asked, spinning around to give him the big view.

“Great, ma. What kind of fur is it?”

She threw him her darkest look. “A hundred percent fox. If you knew from fur, you wouldn’t ask.”

“That’s what I was gonna say. Only I didn’t wanna look bad in case it was mink.”

Ma Leibowitz sniffed. “So why are you dressed so fancy-pancy? You getting married?”

“I gotta go out, ma.”

He looked back at the mirror, at his beautiful gray suit. The suit he’d almost
fought
the salesman at Leighton’s to get. “Continental,” the salesman had insisted. “Continental is the fashion now.” Then he’d brought out a three-button jacket and a pair of trousers with a little buckle in the back. “I’d rather wear a fucking dress,” Jake had said. “What I want is double-breasted and no bullshit about it.” The suit he ended up buying was a compromise because even though it
was
double-breasted, it only had one button. Way at the bottom.

“This is crap,” he’d told the salesman, but then he’d tried on the jacket, looked in the mirror and known right away. The damn thing draped his chest like a Roman toga. He looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of
Esquire.
“Do the cuffs. I’ll pick out some shirts while I’m waitin’.”

Now, he
never
wanted to take the suit off. Even though his business this morning was routine. He was supposed to meet Santo Silesi in the projects on Houston Street and hand over the day’s supply of heroin. Dope was a seven-day-a-week business. Miss a day, even a Sunday, and your customers went somewhere else. Later, after Santo had his pockets full, Jake and Izzy were going to meet down at Katz’s Delicatessen for some breakfast and a strategy session. The strategy wasn’t hard to figure: locate O’Neill before it’s too late. Find him or get ready to fight. Jake wanted to know if Izzy had come to the same conclusion. Especially about the fighting part of it.

Jake took his .45 from under the pillow and shoved it into his belt.

“What’s with the gun?” Sarah Leibowitz asked.

“You want fox, mind your own business.”

“For me he has no respect,” Sarah moaned. “For me …”

“Cut the crap, ma. I ain’t got the patience for it.”

“Huh,” she sniffed. “You could at least straighten your tie.”

He
did
straighten his tie. Then he left the bedroom. “I’ll be back when I’m back,” he said, shrugging into his black overcoat. “Don’t wait up.”

It was cold outside, cold and windy, as usual. Jake held his hat with one hand as he walked along Avenue D It was like being in Kansas, in
Leavenworth,
Kansas, where the wind came across the prairie like a bullwhip in the hand of a sadistic hack. The only good thing about this winter of 1958 was that Santo Silesi had to spend hours every day standing in it.

“I’ll bet the little prick has a face the color of Santa Claus’s costume,” Jake said to himself as he hurried along. “I’ll bet his face is so raw he screams when he shaves.”

When he finally located Silesi in a park near the river, Jake’s first thought was, “Good, he’s got customers.” But as he moved a little closer, Jake realized that something was very wrong. Silesi was surrounded by five Puerto Rican kids wearing identical baseball jackets. Jake could see young Santo’s head swiveling as he tried to watch everyone at the same time. What it was, what it
had
to be, was a rip-off. Pure and simple.

Jake pulled the .45 and laid it alongside his coat. Santo and the five kids were standing just off the path and Jake waited until he was abreast of the group, then turned, stepped forward and smashed the .45 into the nearest kid’s head. The kid dropped without so much as a groan.

“Who’s talkin’ here?” Jake asked, looking from one kid to another. “Who’s the big shot?” He paused, allowing the barrel of the Colt to swing in a slow half-circle. “What’s the matter? Nobody got nothin’ to say? You a bunch of
patos
? You a bunch of faggots?”

Their eyes were riveted to the .45. They couldn’t even
think
of anything else.

“Somebody better wake the fuck up,” Jake said. “Because I ain’t gonna
slap
the next one.” He drew the hammer back.

“I am the president,” a tall, slim kid announced.

“That’s funny,” Jake said, pointing the .45 at the center of the kid’s chest, “you don’t look a bit like Dwight David Eisenhower. Not with all that greasy hair. Ike’s bald.”

“I am president of the Tenth Street Dragons.”

“Dragons? More like the Tenth Street
Cucarachas
.”

“You have the gun,
señor.
”

“Here, Santo, take this.” Jake passed the .45 to Silesi, then took off his overcoat, folded it carefully and laid it on a bench. His hat followed, then his jacket. “Okay,
El Presidente,
let’s see what you got.”

Jake could see the kid was scared. He was scared, but he couldn’t chicken out. Not with that macho attitude every Puerto Rican was supposed to have. He
had
to fight.

“Ya know somethin’, kid? I was havin’ a
very
bad day. But since I met
you,
it’s picked up considerable.”

The kid threw a slow clumsy left. Jake took it on the forehead, a nothing punch that made no impression whatsoever, then slammed his right hand into the kid’s face. He felt the kid’s nose flatten under his knuckles, watched him fall.

“What’s the matter,
El Presidente,
you don’t wanna get up?” The kid
didn’t
want to get up. That was obvious. He was sitting on the frozen ground, holding one hand to his face, trying to shake off the dizzyness.

“C’mon, don’t be a pussy.” Jake drove the toe of his fifty-dollar Bostonians into the kid’s ribs. That got him going. The kid rolled away, trying to get to his feet, but Jake moved with him, waiting for an opening. When he saw it, he kicked the kid again, this time right in the balls.

“Guess the party’s over,” Jake said.
“El Presidente
musta ate somethin’ that didn’t agree with him. He’s pukin’ all over his sneakers. What I gotta say to the rest of you punks is that ya boss is lucky. He’s lucky he ain’t fuckin’ dead. Which is exactly what
you’re
gonna be if ya try this bullshit again. Look at yourselves. Wearin’ them stupid jackets and them sneakers in the middle of winter. Why don’t ya get a goddamned suit? A decent pair of shoes?” He paused for an answer, but nobody said a word. “Awright, pick up ya buddies and get your asses outta here. And don’t come back. Next spic that fucks with me is goin’ for a swim in the river.”

Jake took the .45 from Santo, then waited in his shirtsleeves until the kids disappeared into the projects. What he was
showing
them was that he didn’t feel the cold, but what he was
doing
was freezing his ass off. The minute they were gone, he put on his jacket, overcoat and hat. Then he started walking.

“Let’s move up to Sixth Street. In case somebody’s momma decides to call the cops.”

They walked over to Avenue D, then turned north. “What were ya doin’, Santo?” Jake asked. “Were you just gonna let ’em rob ya?”

“They weren’t thieves,” Silesi replied evenly. “The Dragons aren’t a fighting gang.”

“Then what the fuck did they want?”

“They wanted me to stop bringing heroin into the neighborhood. They said it was destroying the community.”

“No shit?” Jake shook his head in wonder. “Puerto Rican social workers. Who woulda believed it.”

“What could I say, Jake? It surprised me, too.”

“Did they happen to mention what they were gonna do? In case you decided not to take their advice.”

“You showed up before they got to that part.”

“Well, you could forget about them. They ain’t comin’ back. There’s somethin’ else I wanna talk about anyway. Ya told me your uncle had a police lieutenant in his pocket. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“So what I wanna know is how come we gotta worry about the cops? Because Joe Faci told me it was fixed. I mean was he bullshitting me or what? It seems to me if ya
really
got a lieutenant in ya pocket, you could find out where the cops hid the pimp and his old lady.”

“That’s not my end of it, Jake. All I know is some cop’s making a fuss and Steppy’s dealing with it.”

They were interrupted by what Jake, thinking about it later, called a miracle. A woman, dressed in a dark cloth coat and a woolen scarf, stepped out of a doorway and approached them. Her hands were shaking, her nose running freely.

“Sandy,” she said, “ya gotta help me out.”

Jake recognized Betty O’Neill immediately. Which is not to say that
she
recognized
him.
She wasn’t even looking at
him.
The bitch only had eyes for her pusher.

“I’m sick,” she said. “I gotta have a fix. I
gotta.
”

“I just dropped off forty bags the other day,” Silesi said calmly. “You must have some kind of habit, Betty. Maybe it’s time for you to kick.”

“It ain’t that,” Betty said. “Al dumped it in the toilet. He said that dope is what got us into the mess we’re in. I asked him, ‘What mess?’ but all he can say is we gotta run. I don’t know what’s the matter with him, Sandy. He’s turned into some kind of a pansy.”

“Was he talkin’ to the cops, Betty?” Jake asked. Now she was looking at him, trying to place him. He smiled innocently. “I mean I’m only askin’ because there’s rumors goin’ around and what with you and Al takin’ off, people are startin’ to get worried.”

“A cop
did
come to the house, but Al didn’t tell him nothin’. I swear it.”

“Then why did he run away?”

“Because he’s a damned coward, that’s why.” She paused long enough to run the sleeve of her coat across her mouth and nose. “Al figured that when Santo seen him and the cop together, he’d jump to conclusions.”

“Betty,” Jake said, “do you know who I am?”

“You’re Santo’s boss.”

“That’s right.” He took a small paper bag out of his overcoat pocket and let her take a look at what was inside. “You know what that is, don’t ya?”

“Dope.” Her hand floated up for a moment, then dropped to her side. “I got money. I’ll take it all.”

Jake shook his head. He counted out ten caps, then handed the rest to Silesi. “Go take care of business, Santo. You got customers need servicin’.” He waited until he and Betty were alone before speaking again. “What would ya give for this, Betty?” he asked. “What would ya give?”

Betty managed a crooked smile. “I’d give ya whatever ya wanted.” She put her hand beneath her coat and let it slide down her belly.

“What I want is your husband. And I ain’t no fag, either. I just gotta make sure he’s all right, that he ain’t talkin’ to the wrong people.”

“That chicken ain’t talkin’ to nobody. He don’t hardly answer the door.”

“I got an idea, Betty. Why don’t you and me go some place private? That way you could take care of what you gotta take care of. When you’re all better we could talk about this … this problem.”

“Where are we goin’?”

“To paradise. The Paradise Hotel. A friend of mine has a room there.”

The news, as far as Jake was concerned, was all good. Al O’Neill wasn’t being protected by the cops. He had to be holed up somewhere on his own, because if the cops were involved, Betty wouldn’t be roaming the streets looking for dope. She’d be climbing the walls in some locked room.

Jake led the way down Avenue D and across Houston Street. He didn’t bother watching Betty O’Neill. (He could hear her sniveling as she trotted alongside him like a stray dog sniffing at a roast beef sandwich.) Instead, he thought about what was wrong here. If Al O’Neill was talking, the first thing the cops would’ve done is drag his sorry ass into the precinct to look at the mug books. Jake was in those books. Izzy and Abe, too. So, how come …

Maybe O’Neill hadn’t talked to anyone. Maybe it was all Santo Silesi’s imagination. Maybe Silesi was only trying to make himself more important to Joe Faci and Steppy Accacio. Maybe Accacio himself was nothing more than a chickenshit sissy who panicked every time he heard a noise in the house. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But none of that mattered and Jake knew it. Because what he
should’ve
done was take care of Al and Betty when Abe plugged the spic. What he should have done was eliminate the witnesses on the spot. He’d made a mistake, just like Abe Weinberg had made a mistake, and now he had to pay for it. Or Betty O’Neill had to pay for it. That was closer to the truth. Betty and her old man had to pay the price. Permanently.

Jake wasn’t surprised to find the lobby of the Paradise Hotel deserted. The assorted whores and hustlers who lived in the Paradise weren’t exactly early risers. Plus it was Sunday, and the desk clerk wouldn’t come on duty until noon. Jake led Betty up the stairs to Izzy’s room on the second floor.

“Good morning, Izzy,” Jake said when the door opened. “I brought a guest.”

Betty O’Neill may not have recognized Jake Leibowitz, but she knew Izzy Stein well enough. “Oh, Lord,” she muttered. “Lord, Lord, Lord.”

“Don’t be shy, Betty,” Jake said, pushing her into the room. “Izzy won’t hurt ya. As long as ya tell the truth.”

“Where’d ya find her?” Izzy asked. “She fall down outta the sky?”

“Next thing to it. She come lookin’ for dope.” Jake took out three bags of heroin. “Here ya go, Betty. Have a party.”

“It ain’t enough,” she said. “I gotta have more than that.”

“Do this much first,” Jake said. “I don’t need ya so stoned ya can’t get off the floor.”