Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

“Because we’re Jews,” Jake muttered, pushing the door open. “And nobody gives a shit about us.”

Steppy Accacio was sprawled on the bed. His red silk pajamas contrasted sharply with the starched white sheets. A black mask covered his eyes, making him look like a chubby Lone Ranger.

The mask, Jake decided, had to go. He wanted Steppy Accacio to see what was coming and who it was coming from. He walked over to the bed and slapped Accacio’s face with all his strength.

“Ahhhhhh.” Accacio’s head came off the pillow in a hurry. He ripped at the mask, cursing at the top of his lungs, then froze when he saw Jake Leibowitz and the.45 he held in his hand.

“Whatta ya say, Steppy? Surprised to see me?”

“Don’t do it, Jake. Don’t shoot me.”

“Is that what Izzy said?”

“Izzy? I don’t know any Izzy. Whatta ya …”

Jake smashed his fist into Accacio’s face. It felt so good, he did it again. Then he stepped back to watch the blood flow from Accacio’s broken nose down over his mouth and chin.

“It ain’t right, what you done, Steppy. I mean after we took care of the pimp and his old lady, that should’a been the end of it. What’d ya think, the bulls’d take me and I’d turn canary? Ya promised us a little time and then ya went out and killed Izzy. It ain’t right.”

“Ya should’ve gone to Los Angeles,” Accacio mumbled. He licked at the blood on his lips, then shuddered.

“Why didn’t you go to Los Angeles? Why couldn’t ya leave me and Izzy to deal with the cops? See this gun? It’s got a name. Little Richard. That’s what Abe Weinberg called it. Now Abe’s dead. And for what? For killin’ a spic?”

“You kept the gun?” Accacio’s amazement overrode his fear. “You kept a murder weapon?”

“Why shouldn’t I keep it? Didn’t Joe Faci tell me everything was fixed up? Huh? Didn’t he?”

“We thought it was handled, Jake. I swear.”

“Thought? Ya pretend ya such a big shot. ‘Don’t worry about nothin’, Jake. We got it covered.’ Next thing I know the cops are sniffin’ around and I gotta go to Los Angeles. Well, I ain’t ya fuckin’ dog, Steppy. I ain’t nobody’s dog.”

“Look, Jake, I got money …”

“Here? Ya got it right here in the house?”

“No.”

Jake pulled the trigger without thinking. The slug caught Steppy Accacio in the right shoulder, spinning him into the headboard. It glanced off bone and tore down the soft tissue in his arm, ripping arteries and veins before exiting just behind the elbow. The blood spread across the sheets, soaking them before either man could speak.

“Ya killed me,” Steppy Accacio finally said, trying to lift his shredded arm. “Look what ya done. Ya killed me. I got killed by a Jew.”

It was eight o’clock when Moodrow finally decided to give it up. What was the sense of pretending to be patient? Who did he expect to fool? He was the only one there and he definitely wasn’t fooling himself. If he had a rope, he’d be skipping it. If he had a heavy bag, he’d be hitting it. The truth was that he’d never been this jumpy in his life. Not even before his first fight, when Uncle Pavlov had to hold him on the stool while the introductions were being made.

Despite his earlier decision to stay away, Moodrow was back inside his own apartment. He was waiting for Allen Epstein to arrive with the package on Jake Leibowitz and his impatience was only partially due to the desire for combat and the fear of arrest. He wanted Jake Leibowitz, no question about it. From that narrow point of view, he’d be a lot better off going to Pearse O’Malley with Leibowitz’s photo in hand. But that didn’t mean he could ignore the fact that O’Malley was in danger. If Sal Patero had been telling the truth (and Moodrow had no doubt that he was), there were at least four bodies tied to the shooting of Luis Melenguez. One more wouldn’t matter. Not to the killers.

Moodrow finally decided to wait until eight-thirty. If Epstein didn’t show by eight-thirty, he’d go up to Hell’s Kitchen and warn O’Malley, even if that meant losing him as a witness. This decision firmly made, Moodrow pulled a chair up to the window and sat down to watch for Epstein’s patrol car. It was a Tuesday evening and despite the dry streets and warm temperatures, the block was nearly empty. The few pedestrians strode purposefully, heads down, arms pumping. The press liked to call New York “The City That Never Sleeps,” but that description didn’t really apply to working-class neighborhoods where the kids had to be fed, the garbage put out, the dog walked … all before The Perry Como Show. Or Gunsmoke. Or The $64,000 Question.

Still, there’d be action on Third Avenue. The hookers would be coming out now that the shops and businesses had closed for the night. Customers were already drifting south from their uptown hotels. The flesh trade worked all night, every night.

The bars were open, too. There was one on every corner and two in the middle of the block. Some catered primarily to the Puerto Ricans, some to the Poles, some to the Italians, some even to the beatniks. There were no Jewish bars, as far as Moodrow knew. Jews, if they drank, had to migrate across cultural borderlines.

At eight-fifteen, Moodrow saw a squad car turn onto the block and his heart jumped in his chest. He had the entire Melenguez file in his possession, complete with the prints lifted at the scene. All courtesy of a repentant Sal Patero. It wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to match them with Leibowitz’s prints. Assuming there was a match to be made. If not, he’d still have a photo. And not a mug shot smuggled out of the precinct, either. Leibowitz had been in an army prison, a federal prison. The photo would come from J. Edgar Hoover’s boys and Moodrow could take it wherever he liked.

The cruiser drove past Moodrow’s window, hesitated at the corner, then jumped the light and disappeared. Moodrow’s rising excitement disappeared with it. Then the phone rang and Moodrow found himself cursing Ma Bell. It had to be Allen Epstein and it had to be bad news. Maybe the FBI was stalling. Or, worse yet, maybe they’d refused Epstein’s request altogether. There was no way to predict what the feds would do in a given situation. And no way to apply pressure, either, because FBI agents answered only to J. Edgar Hoover and Hoover answered only to God. (Or to Satan, depending on whose opinion was asked.)

Moodrow, as he picked up the phone and muttered a greeting, was totally unprepared to discover Kate Cohan on the line. He was even more unprepared for the sorrow in her voice. What he heard was near to grief. He’d been telling himself any number of things about Kate. Telling himself that, for instance, Luis Melenguez’s right to justice overrode Kate’s pain. Or that there was nothing he could do about it, anyway. Or that Pat Cohan, at least for the time being, was holding all the cards, but he, Stan ‘The Man’ Moodrow, would someday make it up to her.

Maybe all of that was true, but now he could actually feel Kate’s intense confusion as she bounced from her father to her lover like a medicine ball tossed between two heavyweights. He could feel it and he wasn’t sure the injustice done to her didn’t equal the injustice done to Luis Melenguez.

“Crime would be a lot easier,” he said, “if innocent people didn’t get hurt. It’d be a lot easier if it was just one crook killing another crook. If there were no families, no innocent bystanders, no …”

“Stanley, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you, Kate. Your father wants to put me in jail, but the funny thing is that I’m not worried about myself. Maybe I should be, but I’m not. I’m worried about you. ”