Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

“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 aranas, 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, senor. 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 …

The doorbell interrupted his thoughts. He answered it, half-expecting to discover Greta Bloom returning for a second assault, but found a smiling Allen Epstein, instead.

“Just like the old days. Right, Stanley? You ready for some road work?”

Moodrow managed a smile. “C’mon in, Sarge. You want coffee?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Moodrow poured Epstein a mug of coffee, then topped off his own mug. Already depleted by Greta’s visit, he launched into his story, detailing the events following his rise to the rank of detective, third grade.

“The thing of it is, Sarge,” he concluded, “I don’t want the money or the bullshit that goes with it. I just wish I could see a way to get out from under without screwing up the rest of my life.”

Epstein took the time to put his thoughts together. He’d dealt with a lot of would-be fighters in his role as trainer-manager of the Manhattan South Boxing Club. Moodrow wasn’t the only one who’d come to the ring full of ambition. But Epstein had never met a cop or a fighter as determined as Stanley Moodrow. It both surprised and saddened him to find his protege floundering.