A Piece of the Action

Twenty-six

It was nearly midnight as Pat Cohan drove along the Belt Parkway near Idlewild Airport in southern Queens. He could plainly hear the roar of landing airplanes. He could hear the planes a quarter of a mile away, but he could barely see the car in front of him. The warm air and the rain had had a predictable effect on the icy waters of nearby Jamaica Bay. The fog was so thick you could taste it.

Maybe that was why Joe Faci had chosen Howard Beach for their meeting. Because you couldn’t be followed in this fog. A tail would have to work in your trunk to keep up. It was definitely a night for murder. Which is exactly what Pat Cohan wanted to talk about.

Or, better, he wanted to talk about murders. Murders past, murders present and murders future. The past was two pimps and a spic named Luis Melenguez who forgot to mind his own business. The present was Steppy Accacio, dead in his own home. The future was a Jew named Leibowitz. And maybe an Irishman named O’Malley. And a cop named Moodrow.

It was unthinkable, really. Or, at least, it always had been. Killing a cop, the ultimate crime in the eyes of the NYPD. Hell, you could shoot the mayor and half the force would go out and have a beer to celebrate. But let a cop get killed and it didn’t matter if he was the dirtiest lowlife on the force. Two thousand uniformed patrolmen, accompanied by the Emerald Society bagpipers, would turn out for his funeral. The killer would not live to see a jail cell.

Pat Cohan drew a deep breath. His whole life was falling apart. There was no use pretending things were under control. His life was falling apart and he wasn’t going to get any help from the Department. From his Department. From the Department that his father and his father’s father had helped to build.

Maybe it would have been easier if the word had come from an Irishman. From someone whose family had known the pain of the Five Points and the Fourth Ward. Someone whose family had lived through cholera, diphtheria, smallpox, tuberculosis. Nobody came to help you when you needed help. Not in 1847 when his grandfather had arrived in New York. And you didn’t send for the doctor when Granny got sick. No, you nursed your own as best you could and when they died you tossed the corpse out in the street. The morgue wagon came through every morning, just before dawn, to collect the bodies.

What it made you was strong enough to fight your way out. Strong enough to elect your own mayors and councilmen. Politicians who made sure you got the best jobs. Who gave you a shot at an education. Who gave you the New York Police Department as your one special jewel.

That was why it came so hard. So hard to be summoned to the office of Deputy Chief Milton Morton. Summoned all the way from Bayside by a hooknosed sheeny with a collection of degrees that covered the wall behind his desk like flypaper. So hard to be told, in no uncertain terms, to back off, to let Stanley Moodrow pursue his investigation unimpeded.

“Do not hinder,” Morton had said. “Do not help. Do not do anything at all.”

Then he’d leaned on the desk, forming a little tent with his fingers and palms as if he was about to pray. “I’m not jumping to any conclusions here, Pat,” he’d continued. “But from everything I can gather, Stanley Moodrow is a good cop.”

“There’s a warrant out for Stanley Moodrow. He assaulted a police officer.”

“Well, there seems to be two sides to that question.” Milton Morton had gotten up and crossed the room. “At least, that’s what I’m hearing from the commander of the Seventh Precinct. McElroy thinks we should, as they say, let sleeping dogs lie. Eventually, the pieces will sort themselves out.” He’d opened the door and waited, a wet smile pasted to his narrow pock-marked face.

“Have you spoken to Chief Rooney?”

“Chief Rooney and I are in perfect sync on this, Pat. The Chief, as you know, is a big fight fan. He admires Stanley. Always has.”

Pat Cohan took the exit for Cross Bay Boulevard, made a left at the light and headed south. His destination wasn’t really Howard Beach. It was a neighborhood with no name, a small island suspended between Far Rockaway and the Queens mainland.

Cross Bay Boulevard, at 197th Avenue, was lined with touristy restaurants and closed real estate offices. A cluster of houses sat far back in the shadows. They were summer homes for the most part, escapes from the broiling city, and the overwhelming majority were dark. An occasional lit window, glowing dimly in the fog, announced the presence of souls hardy enough to brave the cold relentless winds that ordinarily blew off Jamaica Bay.

But there was no wind tonight. And it wasn’t cold, either. Tonight the fog curled around the streetlamps like cotton candy. It slithered down telephone poles to fall on already glistening sidewalks.

Pat drove along the Boulevard, peering through the fog at the various neon signs until he found the one he was looking for-Sharkey’s Seafood Palace. He took a deep breath and turned into the parking lot. It was time, now. Time to do or die.

The restaurant, on first inspection, seemed to be deserted. Pat Cohan, standing just inside the still-open door, had to resist an urge to flee. Then he saw Joe Faci sitting in the shadows at the end of the bar. Faci was smiling and waving him over.

“Good to see ya,” Faci said as Pat approached. He offered his hand and waited until Cohan took it. “I thought maybe ya would’a found it tough goin’. What with the fog and all. Cross Bay’s a bitch for fog.”

“I guess I got used to it, Joe. Being as I’ve been out in every kind of weather.”

“Them was the old days. You been sittin’ behind a desk for a long time.”

Pat Cohan stiffened momentarily. Was he being insulted? Faci’s tone was friendly, but you could never be sure with these people. They’d feed you for hours before stabbing you in the back. Sausages and switchblades. That was their way.

“Who would’a believed a Jew could cause so much trouble?” Faci continued. “Who would’a believed that a Jew could kill Steppy Accacio?”

“You don’t seem too upset,” Pat Cohan observed. He sat on the barstool next to Faci and looked around for the bartender.

“We’re havin’ a private party here, Pat. Whatta ya want?”

“A Scotch would be nice. I don’t suppose you’ve got Irish whiskey.”

“Hey, Carmine,” Faci called. “We got Irish whiskey?”

A door behind Joe Faci opened and a short, thick man emerged. “Irish whiskey? You got the wrong neighborhood, pal.”

“Pat,” Joe Faci said, “this here is Carmine Stettecase. He’s takin’ over for Steppy.”

Pat Cohan grinned. “Now, I was thinking that job would fall to you, Joe. I was thinking you’d get yourself a promotion.”

“It ain’t in the cards,” Joe Faci said, his face composed. “The family wants me to take a vacation. See the old country. I got relatives in Palermo.”

“The family?” Cohan was still smiling.

“The bosses,” Carmine interrupted. “They figure this bullshit ain’t good for business. Bodies flyin’ everywhere. Hey, America’s the Land of Progress, right? So how come we’re goin’ back to the old days?”

“Does that mean you intend to let this Leibowitz off the hook, Joe?” Pat Cohan pushed the question at Joe Faci. “After what he did to your boss?”

“Life is like that,” Faci said calmly. “Especially the life we live.”

“Nobody said nothin’ about Leibowitz comin’ outta this in one piece.” Carmine took a bottle of Johnnie Walker off the shelf. He half-filled a tumbler, then set it in front of Pat Cohan. “But what with Steppy dead and Joe goin’ across the ocean, there ain’t much the sheeny can do to hurt us. If we find him first, that’ll be the end of it. If he gets busted, he’ll most likely get the chair. What we don’t want is more bodies lyin’ around where people could find ’em.”

“What about O’Malley?” Pat sipped at his drink. He could feel the bad news coming.

“O’Malley ain’t a problem for us,” Faci said, “because the only mug he saw belongs to the Jew and the Jew ain’t family. Leibowitz is hired help and we don’t have no obligation to protect him.”

“And Moodrow? The cop who made all the trouble in the first place?”

Carmine shook his head. “Stanley ain’t doin’ nothin’ to us. I mean, when ya think about it, the Jew made it easy when he knocked Steppy off. He could’a maybe traded Steppy for a life sentence. Now, Stanley’s gonna put him in the hot seat. That’s why we don’t gotta do nothin’ drastic. Stanley’s gonna fry the punk.”

“That’s the second time you said ‘Stanley.’ Is Moodrow a friend of yours?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say we was friends,” Carmine said, grinning, “but we was schoolmates at St. Stephen’s.”

Pat Cohan felt disoriented, almost dizzy. “Are you telling me that Stanley Moodrow’s working with you?”

“Ya gotta be kiddin’ me. Stanley’s the fuckin’ Lone Ranger. I got about as much chance of gettin’ to Stanley as gettin’ to heaven. Even Pius XII couldn’t fix that one.”

Pat Cohan watched the two men, Stettecase and Faci, as they enjoyed Carmine’s joke. He understood that they were laughing at him, at what they perceived to be his foolishness. But there really wasn’t anything he could do about it. His life was falling apart. What had seemed like a gentle slide into the oblivion of retirement had become a runaway locomotive flying down the side of a mountain.

“What’s the point of this meeting, Joe?” he asked. “If all we’re going to do is sit on our hands?”

Joe Faci glanced at Carmine. To Pat Cohan, the puzzled look on his face seemed absolutely genuine.

“Pat,” Faci said, “we gotta get back to business. I’m talkin’ about the gambling business and the whore business and the drug business. That’s why I wanted ya to meet Carmine.”

Carmine Stettecase nodded agreement. “All we want is things should get back to normal. Normal has been very good for you, Pat. Very good.”

Pat Cohan leaned forward, “Listen, you stupid wop, there is no normal with ‘Stanley’ on the loose. Patero’s already running scared. He’s given ‘Stanley’ some kind of a statement. If I go and Sal goes, you end up with nothing. No protection, no contacts.” Pat Cohan took a deep breath. “Let me tell you how it works. In case you don’t know. The first thing they’ll do is eliminate ninety percent of the ranking officers in the Seventh Precinct. Captains, lieutenants, sergeants-they transfer them out or ask them to retire. The new captain knows that his job is to double the arrest rate in the first year. That covers the department’s royal behind. Now, where do you suppose, boyo, that all these arrests are going to be made? Who do you think is going to be arrested? The whores, the pimps, the runners, the bookies, the dealers … Need I continue?”

Carmine Stettecase’s expression never changed. He stared at Pat Cohan with the calm neutrality of a chemist looking through a microscope. “I could see you’re in a bad spot, Pat. Only there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it. I mean there ain’t nothin’ I could see. How ’bout you, Joe? Could ya see anything?”

Joe Faci shook his head and Pat Cohan suddenly felt much better. Now it was finally being spelled out. He was completely alone.

“Unless,” Faci said, his face brightening, “he’s askin’ us to kill Stanley. Is that what ya want, Pat? Ya want we should knock Stanley off? And maybe Sal Patero, too?” He paused for a response, but got none. “Because if somethin’ happens to Stanley, if he should like disappear without a trace, all that shit ya say he’s got is gonna fall on your head. I mean what ya got here is a situation where ya can’t win for losin’.”

Pat Cohan got off the stool. He straightened his tie, then turned to Carmine. “Well, boyo, you’ve made yourself plain. And being as you’re in the clear, I can’t say as I blame you. Would I go out on a limb for Carmine Stettecase? Probably not. But here’s something to put between the meatballs in your dago brain. Just suppose that I do survive. Suppose that a month from now I’m still running the show in southern Manhattan. Do ya think, boyo, that I might be lookin’ to get even? To get even with you?”

Carmine sighed loudly, spreading his arms. “Pat, whatta ya want us to do?”

“I want you to kill the prick.” Now it was out in the open. “After that, it’s my word against Sal Patero’s.”

Pat Cohan started to walk out, but Carmine stopped him. “All right, ya want that Stanley should disappear. Maybe we could accommodate ya, but it ain’t like turnin’ off the radio. First, we gotta get permission. Then we gotta import the talent. Do ya think ya could hold out for a couple of days?”

“How many days is a ‘couple’?”

“A week, maybe.”

“Too long. And what happens if you don’t get permission?”

“Look, Pat, I ain’t gonna do it myself.” Carmine was angry for the first time. “If that’s what ya want, I’ll loan you a cold piece and you could put it behind Stanley’s ear and personally blow his fuckin’ brains out.”

Cohan, halfway to the door, turned to face the two men at the bar. “No, it has to be handled by a professional. But a week is too long. It’ll be over in a week.”

Joe Faci’s face brightened. “I just thought of a happy ending. Tell me what ya think of this: Stanley finds Jake; Jake kills Stanley; Jake gets the chair; everybody lives happily ever after. Cause I’ll tell ya one thing, Pat. This fuckin’ Jew is as tough as they come. What me and Steppy done is take him too light. It could be that Stanley’ll make the same mistake. I mean who would’a figured a Jew could be that tough?”

Dominick Favara waited until Pat Cohan pulled out of the parking lot before leaving the office to join his partner. Carmine, without asking, went behind the bar and poured Dominick a glass of red wine.

“Ya heard?” Carmine asked.

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Whatta ya think?”

“I think cops are fairies. What they oughta do is a little hard time. That’d toughen ’em up.”

“I don’t know about that,” Carmine said. “There’s always Stanley.”

The two men looked at each other and grinned.

“Leave Stanley alone,” they shouted in unison.

“I don’t get it,” Faci said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Favara responded. “Let’s worry about Santo Silesi instead. Santo’s real, if ya take my meaning.”

“I been tryin’ to think of somethin’ all night,” Faci said. “But I keep comin’ up blank. Santo wants to revenge his uncle. I don’t see no way to stop him.”

“He ain’t Sicilian,” Carmine grunted. “What does he know about revenge?”

“That’s the whole point, Carmine. He ain’t Sicilian. Nobody’s gonna give him a job. Uncle Steppy was his only hope in life. His ticket to the big time. Now, he’s got nothin’.”

Dominick Favara handed his empty glass to Carmine. “Do that again.” He waited until his glass was full, then took a sip before speaking. “Santo Silesi’s got nothin’ on us. Ditto for the Jew. Let ’em kill each other off. It ain’t our business. What we gotta do is prepare in case the cops put the heat on. Now, I got an idea for the dope business. The way the bulls make themselves look good is by sweepin’ up the guys on the street, right? I’m talkin’ about the junkies and the dealers. Now, ask yaself why we gotta put Italian kids on streetcorners where the cops can get to ’em when there’s a thousand spics out there who’d suck our dicks for a chance to take the risk. Steppy did a smart thing when he hired them Jews. It didn’t work out, but it was a smart thing. What we gotta do is find the meanest street gang in the projects on Avenue D and teach ’em how to make money. Maybe our profits’ll go down at first, but if things work out the way I think, we could move on every project in the city.”

Favara raised his glass to Joe Faci. “Here’s to a healthy vacation, Joe. You’ll be home in six months. I guarantee it.” He turned to Carmine. “And here’s to the future, Carmine. As the nuns used to say: ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’ ”