Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

“Hey, Stanley,” he yelled. “C’mere.”

C’mere? Moodrow stood on the sidewalk and stared across at the Cadillac. The car was parked in shadow and he couldn’t make out the features of the man sitting behind the wheel. As he watched, the Cadillac pulled out into the center of the one-way street, then backed up until it was right in front of him.

“Don’t be a hard-head, Stanley. I just wanna talk to ya.”

“Carmine?”

“Ya remember me. I’m flattered.”

Carmine Stettecase was a notorious bully who’d gone through St. Stephen’s two years ahead of Stanley Moodrow. They’d had any number of battles until, somewhere toward the end of grammar school, Carmine had decided to leave his younger schoolmate alone. Predictably, Carmine had left school in ninth grade to go into business with his Uncle Stefano, a small-time bookie. Five years later, when Uncle Stefano dropped dead in a bar on Grand Street, Carmine had recruited his old buddy, Dominick Favara, another of Moodrow’s contemporaries, to help him out with the business. Over time, as they’d moved into prostitution, loan-sharking and heroin, Favara had become the boss and Carmine the worker.

Moodrow knew all about Stettecase and Favara. Their progress had been a common topic of conversation among St. Stephen’s alumni. He recalled standing in the rain one day, in his uniform, when Dominick had come sailing down the street in a new Chevy. Favara had gone out of his way to run through a puddle, sending a wave of muddy water splattering against Moodrow’s black rubber raincoat.

“What’s up, Carmine,” Moodrow said casually. “You decided to confess to your crimes?”

“Yeah, ha-ha, that’s a good one. Hop in, Dominick wants to talk to ya.”

Moodrow felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. For a moment, he was too excited to answer. This was the way it had to be. You pounded the streets, screamed in people’s faces, ate slammed doors, walked until your feet fell off. You kept doing it until something gave. It wasn’t about clues and brain power. It was about persistence. Persistence and, as Sam Berrigan had insisted, desire.

“What’s he want?” Moodrow asked. There was nothing to be gained by showing his excitement to Carmine Stettecase. “And why doesn’t he come to me ? I’m not too crazy about taking orders from punks like Dominick Favara.”

“He can’t come to you. Whatta ya, crazy? I’m takin’ a big chance myself, so if ya don’t mind, let’s get outta here before someone sees me talkin’ to a cop.”

Moodrow strolled around to the passenger’s side and got in alongside Stettecase. “This better be good, Carmine. If it isn’t, I’m gonna haunt your ass for the next twenty years.”

“Jeez, Stanley, you ain’t changed at all. I mean I woulda hoped ya matured a little, but ya still a hard-head. Only you could think I’d do this and not be playin’ square.”

Moodrow expected a quick ride over to Little Italy, but Stettecase steered the car onto the East River Drive and headed downtown.

“Where we heading?” Moodrow asked, as they entered the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. “I oughta warn you, if you’re kidnapping me, I’m not worth shit.”

“That’s good, Stanley.” Carmine turned his moon face away from the line of traffic. “It’s good to see you’re loosenin’ up, because this here is your lucky day. I wish I could tell ya the thing Dominick’s gonna tell ya, but, hey, loose lips sink ships, right?”

“How about telling me the price I have to pay. Or are you and Dominick giving out charity in your old age?”

That was the whole thing, of course-the price. Moodrow had no doubt that Dominick Favara knew the identity of Melenguez’s killer. Or that Favara would use that information to bury Accacio. It made perfect sense. They were both from the neighborhood, both young and ambitious, both trying to find a niche in the ever-expanding heroin trade. Moodrow wondered, for a moment, if Accacio was from the neighborhood. He hadn’t gone to school at St. Stephen’s, but that meant less than nothing. There were a dozen Catholic schools in lower Manhattan.

“You didn’t answer my question, Carmine. Where we going?”

“There’s a lunchwagon on Bond and President Streets. Dominick’s waitin’ for us there.”

The hand-painted sign read Louie’s Luncheonette. Stuck between two small warehouses, it was little more than a shack with a kitchen, the kind of a place that opened at four in the morning and closed as soon as the local workers went home in the afternoon. It sold soup and sandwiches, coffee and soda, cigars and cigarettes. The french fries would be so greasy you could wring them out like wet laundry.

“Hey, Stanley,” a voice called from the back, “over here.”

“He’s in the booth,” Carmine said, as if Moodrow had suddenly gone blind.

“I could figure that out,” Moodrow said. He strode to the back of the lunchwagon, ignored Favara’s outstretched hand and sat down hard on the bench. “What’s up, Dominick?”

Favara frowned, letting his hand drop into his lap. “I don’t see why ya takin’ that attitude,” he said. “Bein’ as we was always friends at St. Stephen’s.”

“We were never friends,” Moodrow said quietly. “You were the class bully. You bullied anybody weaker than yourself. Correction, anybody you thought was weaker. I was the kid who kicked your ass.”

“He ain’t bullshittin’,” Carmine said. “Ya remember in seventh grade, Dominick? What we decided after gettin’ into about ten fights with this kid?”

“ Leave Stanley alone ,” the two men said in unison, then broke out laughing.

Moodrow felt his face redden. He wanted to reach across the table and smack Favara’s face, but he held himself in check. “Enjoy your joke, Dominick,” he said, “but not for too long. You got five minutes to get this over with.”

“Whatta ya gonna do?” Carmine asked. “Walk home?”

“What I’m gonna do is take the keys out of your pocket, Carmine, and drive back to the Lower East Side. That’s after I smack the shit out of you.”

“Listen, you prick …”

Dominick Favara put a restraining hand on Carmine’s shoulder. “Ya gotta forgive Carmine,” Favara said. “He ain’t used to havin’ people call his bluff.”

Moodrow grinned. “I forgive you, Carmine. But you’ll still have to stay after school and wash the blackboards. Now, what’s the story, Dominick? You gonna tell me who killed Judge Crater?”

“Would ya believe Harry Truman?”

“I’ll arrange a press conference for high noon.”

“See, Carmine?” Favara slapped his partner’s back. “I told ya he’d loosen up.”

Moodrow leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his closed fists. The truth was that Dominick Favara and Carmine Stettecase could have busted his chops for a week and he still wouldn’t walk away. He felt almost feverish, the flush of excitement something like the few seconds between knowing your opponent’s helplessness and finishing him off. Now the tension would go on for days while he gathered enough evidence to make an arrest. Until he slapped the cuffs on a killer for the first time. What Moodrow suddenly realized, his eyes boring into Dominick Favara’s as if they could push their way into Favara’s brain and pluck out the information, was that he loved his job. And that he wanted to continue doing it until he was too old to tie his shoes.

“Jeez, I hate fighters,” Favara said. “They don’t blink. You can never beat ’em when it comes to hard looks.”

“C’mon, Dominick,” Moodrow whispered. “Let’s do business.”

Favara leaned over the table, putting his face within inches of Moodrow’s. “Here’s what I heard, Stanley. I heard you’re lookin’ for the people who blasted that spic on Pitt Street. I can tell ya who was there and why they were there. I can tell ya, for instance, that the whole thing happened because some asshole panicked. I can tell ya that same asshole is now dead. Also one of his partners. I can tell ya …”