Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

What Moodrow wanted, more than anything else, was to sit down. No, lie down. His upper body ached, every inch of it, from his neck to his waist. His right shoulder spit fire whenever he lifted it to shake another hand.

“I had to make him come to me,” Moodrow said. “I knew I couldn’t catch him.”

What he knew was that he looked like one of the gargoyles on St. Patrick’s Cathedral. X rays had shown that his nose wasn’t as badly broken as he and Epstein had thought, but it was definitely broken. The doctor in the Bellevue Hospital emergency room had fitted his nose with a V-shaped metal plate, then covered the plate and half of Moodrow’s face with white surgical tape.

But the doctor hadn’t bothered to cover the eleven stitches he’d put in his patient’s eyebrow. They stood out like insects, like ants, and drew even more attention to the swelling around Moodrow’s eye. The bruise hadn’t begun to darken yet. It was still red and puffy, but within a few days it would turn black, then green, then yellow. It wouldn’t disappear for a week.

Moodrow’s three inquisitors, the ritual of congratulations now complete, turned tail and headed for the bar. Moodrow watched them with contempt. How was it possible that what he did in the ring somehow made them better? It was funny how they were perfectly willing to share in the victory, but they couldn’t feel any of the pain. They could raise their shoulders without a twinge and they did so eagerly, glasses of Irish whiskey clutched in their hands.

“How ya doin’, Stanley?” Kathleen Cohan’s arm encircled his waist and squeezed. The gesture was meant to be affectionate, but the sharp protest from his bruised ribs made it seem more like atrocious assault.

“Easy, Kate. My ribs are killing me. You got any aspirin?” He looked down at her upturned face and smiled. She was so perfectly, wonderfully Irish, with her pug nose and blue eyes and the spray of freckles high on each cheek. He could never quite accept the fact that she loved him. Especially since she hated violence. He’d managed to get the attention of half the Department with his fists, but what in the world had gotten her attention?

“Sure, I’ll get you some,” she said, but before she could move away, her father entered the room and approached the two of them.

“You okay, boyo?” he said to Moodrow.

“I’d like to make it a short night, if you don’t mind, Pat. My face feels like a water balloon.”

“I understand,” he replied shortly. Moodrow’s air of independence irritated Pat Cohan. It wasn’t that Moodrow didn’t want to show the proper attitude. He just didn’t know how. “I’ll make the announcements right away.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned to his guests. “Your attention, ladies and gentlemen. Your attention, if you please. I’ve two important announcements to make.” He paused while the assembled cops and cops’ wives moved closer. “The first thing I have to say is that Patrolman Stanley Moodrow is a patrolman no more.” He held up a thin leather billfold, hesitated for a moment, then let it drop open to reveal the coveted gold shield. “He is now to be called Detective, Third Grade, Stanley Moodrow.” Cohan handed the billfold to Moodrow. “My heartiest congratulations.” He grabbed Moodrow’s sore right hand and gave it his Irish best. “If ever a man deserved his reward, it’s you, boyo.”

The guests, on cue, broke into light applause. Pat Cohan held up his hands, palms out, and the applause stopped. “I don’t want to belittle Stanley’s victory the other night, but …” He wrapped his arm around his daughter’s waist and pulled her close. “But long after Stanley Moodrow’s pugilistic skills have evaporated, long after his triumph is forgotten, he’ll still be savoring the fruits of his second victory which I announce here tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, my good friends, and, you, too, Salvatore.” He paused again, waiting for the laughter to fade. “As of this night, Detective Stanley Moodrow and my darlin’ Kathleen, my one true treasure, are engaged to be married. May their union be long and healthy. And may they not wait too long to give me a grandson.”

Pat Cohan raised his glass on high. Thirty other glasses rose to meet it. “Hurrah,” Pat shouted. “Hurrah,” they answered.

“ ‘Ah, my darlin’ Kathleen,’ ” Moodrow imitated. “ ‘My one true treasure.’ ”

“Stop it, Stanley.” Kathleen Cohan somehow managed to shake her head in disapproval and giggle at the same time. She loved her daddy with all her heart, but sometimes he was pompous. Kathleen was twenty-two years old, too old to be called ‘my darlin’ Kathleen,’ but Daddy was Daddy and no one told Pat Cohan what to call his own daughter.

They were standing in a small closed porch. The front door was open behind them and they could hear the buzz of conversation from inside the house.

“And why would ya be so hard on me, girlo, when I’m only after larnin’ the ways of the Department?”

“He doesn’t talk like that.” Now she was laughing out loud. “Stanley, you’re terrible.”

Kathleen Cohan, educated by the nuns and priests from kindergarten through college, had been a good girl all her life. Upon graduation from St. Mary’s College, she’d chosen to teach at Sacred Heart Grammar School when she could have gotten a lot more money teaching public school. But she didn’t want to get away from the faith any more than she wanted to get away from the father who needed her so much. Needed her because her mother had walked away from the family on the day the telegram had come, the one announcing the death of Rose Cohan’s only son. Her only son and, for all the affection she’d ever shown her daughter, her only child. She’d walked away from the family and buried herself in the broad bosom of her faith.

Kathleen Cohan never spent much time worrying about her mother. She was a practical woman and there was too much to be done at home. The house had to be cared for and even if she didn’t have to do it herself, she still had to supervise the colored girl who came in twice a week. And somebody had to balance Daddy’s checkbook and pay the mortgage and get the plumber when the pipes leaked.

“Stanley?” she whispered.

“No.”

“How do you know what I’m going to say?”

“I don’t want to live here. I don’t want to live with your father.” He would have given her his most determined look, the one with the narrowed eyes and the pinched lips, but his face hurt too much. He had to settle for saying ‘want to’ instead of ‘wanna.’

They’d been having the same argument for months, ever since her father made the offer. They’d probably be having it until the day he moved her into her own apartment. Not that he was complaining. What he liked best about Kathleen Cohan was her stubborn determination. Most of the time she dressed like a high-school girl. Right now, she was wearing a starched white blouse and a blue pleated skirt that covered her knees. Add that to the freckles and the long, honey-blonde hair and she seemed as insubstantial (and as sexy) as the fairy on a bottle of White Rock ginger ale. But underneath that schoolgirl uniform, she wasn’t insubstantial at all. She was heavy-boned and solid and believed in herself as much as she believed in her God. Or her father.

Ignoring the sharp twinge in his shoulder, Moodrow put his arms around Kathleen and pulled her in close. He kissed her on the lips and felt her mouth open beneath his. He wanted to slide his hand down over her buttocks, but the door was open and there was always a chance one of the assembled cops would look up from his drink at the wrong time. Besides, she was undoubtedly wearing a girdle-she almost always wore a girdle under her dresses and skirts because it gave her that “smooth line.” Girdles, in Moodrow’s estimation, were the modern equivalent of the medieval chastity belt. You couldn’t seduce a woman wearing a girdle. You couldn’t slide a girdle over a woman’s hips. It took so long to get it off, the act had to be deliberate, had to be premeditated. It couldn’t just happen.