A Piece of the Action

Twenty-nine

What it is, is I’ve lost almost everything I value, Pat Cohan thought, and I don’t want to lose the little I have left.

It was really that simple. He’d known the truth of it as he’d handed his retirement papers to Deputy Chief Morton. It’d sunk into him like droplets of rain sinking down between grains of desert sand. He could still feel it in every pore of his skin.

“Pat,” Morton had said, “this isn’t necessary.”

But Morton hadn’t refused to accept them. No, he’d dumped Inspector Pat Cohan’s retirement papers in a desk drawer, then sucked on his pipe like the gutless fairy he was.

“How long have you been on the job, Pat?” Morton had asked.

“Thirty-seven years. Since January eighth, 1921. I’ve seen a lot over the decades, but I’ve never seen a deal as dirty as this. When the Department takes the word of a rookie detective with five years in the job over the word of a full inspector … let’s just say the force I joined in 1921, the force my father joined in 1898, the force my grandfather joined in 1867, has changed too much to include the likes of me.”

Pat Cohan watched Morton hem and haw. The situation, pleasing as it may have been to the deputy chief’s sheeny soul, had apparently taken him by surprise. “What makes you think we believe Stanley Moodrow?” he’d finally asked.

“I think you believe him, boyo, because you stepped all over my authority. Because you put the heel of your shoe on my head and ground me into the sidewalk like you were disposing of a cigarette butt.”

“Aren’t you being overly dramatic, Pat?” Morton’s head had wobbled on his skinny neck as he denied Cohan’s statement. “Believing Moodrow has nothing to do with the situation. In our best judgment, he has enough information, be it true or false, to make the Department very uncomfortable. What I’m trying to say is you don’t have to protect your pension by retiring.”

The little bastard may have been surprised, but it’d hadn’t taken more than a few seconds to figure it out. If he, Pat Cohan, was dismissed from the force as the result of a departmental investigation, his pension would fly out the window like an escaped canary. If, on the other hand, he retired before the investigation, they’d have to get a court conviction to take his money away.

“Well, that’s neither here nor there, Milton. I’ve handed in my papers and you’ve accepted them. The only thing left is for me to warn you about Stanley Moodrow, which I intend to do whether you’ve got the time or not.”

Morton, resigned, had puffed out a little sigh, then settled back in his chair. “Go ahead, Pat. Tell me.”

“Moodrow’s a vicious dog. He deliberately seduced my daughter, then left her like you’d leave a prostitute on the street. He stalked her, waited until she was vulnerable, then took her innocence. I know this to be true because my daughter told me. When I confronted Stanley Moodrow, he invited me to come out behind the house and settle matters. When I refused, he swore he’d get even some other way. Sal Patero’s statement was forced, Milton. It’ll never stand up in court.”

“Just a minute, Pat. We’re under the impression that you pulled Sal Patero out of the Seventh Precinct before he, shall we say, confessed. By the way, I don’t actually know what Patero said. The only one who’s seen this so-called confession is a sergeant named Epstein. I did call Patero into the office, but he refused to talk to me. I might add that Lieutenant Patero seemed fit as a fiddle. There wasn’t a mark on him.”

“You don’t have to leave bruises to get a confession, Milton. I realize you never had much street experience, but you ought to know that much. A cocked thirty-eight will do just fine.”

But that’d been that. There was nothing more to be said. He’d left and come home to Bayside. To his house and his wife and his daughter. And to the money, of course. He’d done quite well over the years. That had to count for something in a man’s life. He’d taken care of his family and put enough away for a comfortable old age. It had to count for something.

He was making himself a cup of tea when the front door opened. Quickly, while Kate was shrugging out of her coat and pulling off her galoshes, he added a shot of Bushmill’s to the tea, then hid the bottle in a cabinet beneath the sink.

“That you, Kate?”

“Yes, Daddy, it’s me.” Kate bounced into the room, smiling.

“Yer a sight for sore eyes, darlin’. A sight for sore eyes.” She’d always had that bounce. As far back as he could remember. A tomboy to her bones. “Kate, do ya remember the time I had to pull you out of the oak in the back yard?”

“Yes, Daddy. How can I forget when you remind me at least once a week?”

Pat Cohan ignored the comment. He’d begun knocking down shots the minute he’d walked through the door. Not that he was falling-down drunk or anything close to it. No, he was on the kind of jag that glues you to the barstool. That makes your thoughts spin through your mind until you have to reach out for an anchor. Or another shot, which is the same thing.

“You couldn’t have been more than ten years old.”

“I was eleven. And if you hadn’t panicked, I’d have gotten down by myself.” She walked over to the stove, lit the right front burner with a match, then hefted the teapot. “Is the water hot?”

“Almost. I just poured meself a cup.” He raised the cup to his mouth, sipped a little, spilled more. “B’Jesus,” he muttered. “Now I’m after foulin’ meself.”

“Daddy, have you been drinking? It’s only three o’clock.”

“I’m sober as a judge.”

“Then why are you putting on that Irish accent? You only do that when you’ve been drinking.”

“Well, I may have had a drop, darlin’. It’s in the way of a celebration.”

Kate turned back to him, smiling. “That’s swell, Daddy. What’s the event?”

“I’ve retired from the New York Police Department. Did it this afternoon. Just walked in and handed my papers over to the sheeny in charge …”

“Don’t say that word.” Kate turned back to the stove. The teapot was whistling madly. “You must be drunk. You know how much I hate that kind of talk.”

“Now, darlin’ …” He could see the gears turning in her head. The questions were going to fly and he didn’t have any good answers.

Kate took her time, dipping the teabag, then pressing it dry against the spoon before tossing it into the garbage. “Daddy,” she said, coming back to the table, “what made you decide to retire? Didn’t you always say, ‘They’ll have to rip the uniform off my back’?”

Pat Cohan put his cup on the table, noting, with satisfaction, that he hadn’t spilled a drop. “When the time comes, the time comes,” he proclaimed. “You don’t have to pull on the rope to hear the bell toll.”

“And Stanley? Has Stanley been arrested?”

Damn, but she was persistent. There had to be some way to talk about Moodrow without looking like a criminal. There had to be. “You saw the warrant yourself, Kate.”

“Has he been arrested, Daddy? Is Stanley in jail?”

“No, he hasn’t been arrested and he’s not in jail.” He wanted to lie, but he couldn’t take the chance that she’d call him and find out for herself.

Kate stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her tea, then blew the steam away before sipping delicately. “What are they waiting for?”

“They’re trying to find him. The charge is simple assault, remember? That doesn’t exactly make him public enemy number one. Eventually, he’ll come in on his own.”

“And Stanley had nothing to do with your retirement?”

Pat Cohan took a deep breath. It was ‘do or die’ time. “Kathleen, do you know when the first St. Patrick’s Day parade was held in New York City?”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“Please, darlin’, indulge your father on the day of his retirement. If you don’t know, give us a guess.”

“All right, March seventeenth, 1892, that’s my guess.”

“You’re off by a hundred and thirty years.” He noted her surprise with satisfaction. “The first St. Patty’s Day parade was held in 1762. Think about it, Kate. There were enough Irishmen in New York before the Revolutionary War to hold a parade. Do you know how they got here? They were indentured servants. They were brought here to serve the Brits and the Dutch. To wait on ’em like good Irish slaves. Well, we kept on coming, even though we didn’t get anywhere. We came to work the railroads and the coal mines and the factories. We dug the tunnels, built the roads and the bridges. Our reward was to be treated like dogs for a hundred years. Have I ever spoken of the Five Points? Or the Fourth Ward? There were years when the cops didn’t enter the Five Points at all. Whatever happened in the Five Points-murder, rape, robbery-the residents were on their own. Now, add cholera, flu, smallpox and the like …”

“You’ve made this speech before, Daddy. Many, many times. I don’t get the point. What has this got to do with Stanley?”

Pat Cohan drained his cup. “We were talking about my retirement, were we not, darlin’?” He waited until she acknowledged his point with a resigned shrug. “It took us a long time to fight our way out, but we finally did it. We took over New York, made it our own. You wait and see, Kate. One day soon we’ll have ourselves a president. Only, by the time it happens our day in New York will be over. That’s happening as we speak. Robert Wagner will be the last Irish mayor.” He stopped for a moment, dropping his eyes to the tabletop. What he wanted was a stiff drink, but the timing was all wrong. “I’m a fossil, girl. It’s not my Department anymore. The Jews and the Italians run the city now. That’s why they brought in the Puerto Ricans. That’s why they give them welfare and build projects. The Puerto Ricans would vote for a communist if he promised to increase the dole.”

He was rambling now, and he knew it. It was time to cap his argument. Make that final point and hope for the best. He raised his eyes to meet his daughter’s. “You were right, in a way, Kate. It is about Stanley Moodrow. There was a time in my life when I couldn’t have made the mistake I made when I allowed him to court you. I was his rabbi, Kate. Do you know what that means?”

“Does it have something to do with the Department?”

“It has everything to do with the Department. A rabbi is a protector, a guardian angel, a mentor. Without a rabbi, there’s no way to rise up in the job. And that’s the point. In my Department, a man didn’t turn on his rabbi. He didn’t bite the hand that fed him. But it’s not my Department anymore. No, it’s gone over and it’s time for me to go over with it. What I decided to do was count my blessings. I’ve my health and enough money so I won’t be puttin’ out my hand in my old age.” He let his voice drop to a hoarse whisper. “I also have you, Kate. And the grandchildren you’ll one day give me.”

Pat Cohan wanted to examine his daughter’s face the way he’d once, long ago, examined the faces of suspects in basement interrogation rooms. But he couldn’t do that. It was a time for weakness, not strength. Besides, he wasn’t the interrogator, here; he was the suspect. So what he did was let his eyes drop to his folded hands, a sad old man facing the loss of his power.

He stayed that way for a full minute before raising his eyes. When he did he found his daughter, hands on hips, staring down at him. “What happened to Sal Patero, Daddy? Why hasn’t Sal been around? He used to be here every other day.”

“That wop is exactly what I’ve been talking about. Guineas like him don’t belong in the Department. Not my Department.” It was out before he could put a brake on his mouth. He’d had no more control over what he’d said, than over the twin scarlet roses blossoming on his cheeks.

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on, Daddy?” She was turning away from him, walking back into the foyer. “How long do you expect me to be the family pet? How long do you want me to be Lassie? Every time I talk to Stanley, he tells me to grow up. He doesn’t tell me about his side of the story. He tells me to grow up.”

Pat Cohan stared at the bottom of his empty cup, then looked back at his daughter. “Are you calling me a liar, Kate?” This time the whisper wasn’t forced. His momentary anger had fled as suddenly as it had come. What he felt was close to terror.

“No, Daddy, not a liar. But I can’t take your word for it, either. I have to go find out for myself.”

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and Moodrow, walking up Allen Street toward his apartment, was trying to connect the events of the day. He was going to have to put the day into some kind of order if he hoped to find Jake Leibowitz. That was a given. It was funny, in a way. Initially, he’d been worried that somebody would get to Jake before he did. Now, he was afraid that Leibowitz had left the city altogether, that he might never be taken.

After four hours of cooling their heels in the hallway, he and Epstein, accompanied by Paul Maguire, had finally gotten into the Leibowitz apartment. Their search had taken almost two hours as they looked under beds, behind cabinets, inside the toilet tank. As they unrolled pairs of socks, fumbled in Jake’s silk underpants, pulled out empty drawers and flipped them over.

In the end, Moodrow had found what he was looking for in a closet not ten feet from where he’d entered the apartment. A forest of hats rested on two shelves. Beneath them, a black cashmere overcoat hung on a wooden hangar. A spatter of dark spots was just barely visible on the hem of the overcoat.

Moodrow was sure it was blood, the blood of Al O’Neill or Betty O’Neill or both. They’d been killed with knives, butchered, and there was no way Jake Leibowitz could have kept himself entirely clean. There’d be traces of blood in the car, too. Assuming they found it.

Allen Epstein had been dubious, but Paul Maguire had put his years of experience on the line.

“It’s blood, all right,” he’d said. “I’d bet my pension on it.”

“He couldn’t be that stupid,” Epstein had said.

“Maybe he didn’t see it. The coat’s black, for Christ’s sake. Besides, if it wasn’t for stupid, we wouldn’t catch any of them. Stupid is what we count on.” Maguire had carefully folded the coat before easing it into a paper bag. His movements were respectful, almost reverent, as if he was handling priestly vestments or folding the flag at sundown. “Congratulations, Stanley. Jake Leibowitz’s fat is now officially fried.”

Epstein had continued to be skeptical, even when they’d found more dark stains on the seam of the right arm, even when they’d found spatters on the brim of a black fedora. He’d refused to surrender his disbelief until they were standing in one of the M.E.’s labs and a white-coated technician officially pronounced the stains to be bloodstains.

“We still don’t know the blood came from Al or Betty O’Neill,” he’d insisted.

By that time Moodrow had grown tired of it. Epstein, sergeant or not, was a patrolman, not a detective. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t) understand. There were times when you knew where it was going, when you could feel the energy racing through the wires and you either raced along with it or got left behind. Permanently.

“Sarge,” he’d said, “what I’d like you to do is go back into the house and see how the search for Jake is being organized. I’d like to know what Rosten’s doing, if anything. Paul and I will interview Sarah Leibowitz.”

“Look, Stanley, you can’t order me around. I know you like to have things your own way, but you’re gonna have to wait until you pass the lieutenant’s exam before you start telling me what to do.”

Moodrow had grinned, holding up his hands defensively. “Easy, Sarge. I’m not trying to take anything away from you. But you have to admit that investigations are for detectives. Paul and I have legitimate reasons for questioning Sarah Leibowitz. Nobody’ll challenge our authority. I’m afraid that Rosten’s gonna try to fix it so Jake never sees the inside of a jail cell. You can talk to the beat cops in the Seventh. I don’t know if we can do anything about it, but if there’s an all-out hunt for Jake Leibowitz, it’d be nice if we knew about it.”

Epstein had snorted his disapproval, then driven off to the precinct while Moodrow and Maguire headed up to Bellevue Hospital where Sarah Leibowitz, half her head covered with gauze, rested in a private room. She began to moan as soon as she saw the two detectives.

“Mrs. Leibowitz,” Moodrow had begun, “I’m Detective …”

Coming over, he and Maguire had carefully worked out their strategy. Sarah Leibowitz was not going to be charged with any crime in connection with the death of Santo Silesi, so they had no leverage on that end. If they couldn’t appeal to Sarah Leibowitz’s conscience, they’d explain that the only certainty here was Jake’s eventual capture. If he resisted, he’d be shot down like a dog. Plus (as Santo Silesi had ably demonstrated) the mob was after him and they’d have no mercy at all. The best thing Jake could do was surrender quietly.

It’d seemed like a decent approach to both detectives: prod the worried mother with promises of protection for her son, appeal to her motherly instincts. What could be simpler? In Sarah Leibowitz’s presence, however, their strategy had evaporated like morning mist under an August sun. Before Moodrow could finish introducing himself, the Leibowitz moan had turned into a howl that brought doctors and nurses running. Sarah Leibowitz, having suffered a serious head injury, had to be kept quiet. She wasn’t up to an interview, much less an interrogation. So sorry, but it would just have to wait.

Moodrow and Maguire had retreated to Maguire’s car, then decided to separate. Maguire had to go into the precinct. The Silesi shooting was his responsibility and he wanted to make sure the paperwork was in order before he wrote his own reports. Moodrow had accepted a ride to Houston Street, then, in the time-honored tradition of stymied detectives everywhere, had begun to pound the pavement.

He’d made mental notes as he worked the bars and the small bookie joints, as he stopped numbers runners on the street and interrupted the shylocks working the lofts and factories. The message he’d projected had been the same to one and all: the heat was coming down. There would be no “business as usual,” not while Jake Leibowitz was on the loose. Their best move was to give Jake up before the raids began.

“How come I never seen you before?” Sam Gelardi, a low-level bookie had asked.

Moodrow, ignoring the question, had jammed his index finger into Gelardi’s chest. “Do yourself a favor,” he’d hissed, “if ya kill the bastard, leave his body where it can be found. If he disappears, I’m gonna make it my personal business to run you off the Lower East Side.”

Of course, he’d had no idea whether or not he could deliver on his various threats. That wasn’t the point, anyway, because he was preparing for a time when Jake Leibowitz was long forgotten. As he went along, he began to create an internal file, matching names to reactions. So-and-so had examined the photo carefully. So-and-so had admitted knowing Jake Leibowitz. So-and-so had provided some tidbit of gossip concerning Jake’s history. So-and-so had known nothing, but had shown fear.

It was all necessary, he told himself as he fumbled with his keys. It was necessary if he intended to own the Lower East Side, to make himself indispensable to the precinct brass, to build a protective wall between himself and the wrath of Pat Cohan. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t exhausted.

He stood in the lobby of his building for a moment, looking up at the stairs. He’d been climbing those stairs for a lot of years, had made it a habit to take them two at a time when he was in training. Now, they looked like Mt. Everest.

But there was nothing to be done about it. Not unless he wanted to sleep in the lobby. Wearily, lost in thought, he began to climb the four flights to his apartment. He was on the third floor landing when a familiar voice called out to him.

“Stanley, Stanley. Come here a minute.”

“Greta, please, I don’t …” He looked down the hallway and was stunned to see Kate Cohan standing in the hall next to Greta Bloom. His fatigue vanished in an instant. He’d been telling himself that he’d never see her again, that he could get along without her. That even if Pat Cohan vanished, along with his lies, their love could never overcome their differences. Not in the long run.

Now, as he stood with one foot on the stairs leading up to the next floor, his mouth hanging open, the “long run” had no meaning whatsoever. You couldn’t dump the present because you were afraid of the future. His own father had squirreled away every extra penny, saving for an “old age” that never came.

“Stanley, say something,” Greta demanded.

“Stanley?” Kate Cohan took a hesitant step forward. “Can I talk to you?”

“When did you get here?” It was the first coherent sentence that popped into Moodrow’s mind.

“I got here a little after three.”

“I went up to see you, Stanley,” Greta interrupted, “and I found her standing by your door. She’s a lovely girl. You should have brought her to meet me long ago.”

“What’s next, Greta?” Moodrow asked. “You gonna invite us in for coffee and homemade rugelah?”

“Such a fresh mouth,” Greta said to Kate. “I don’t see how you put up with such a fresh mouth. Stanley, you’re too old to be a bondit.”

“A what?” Kate asked.

“There’s no word in English,” Greta said. “It means like the boy in the funny papers. The one with the blond hair.”

“Oh,” Kate said, “I get it. Dennis the Menace.”