Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

“There’s a warrant out for Stanley Moodrow. He assaulted a police officer.”

“Well, there seems to be two sides to that question.” Milton Morton had gotten up and crossed the room. “At least, that’s what I’m hearing from the commander of the Seventh Precinct. McElroy thinks we should, as they say, let sleeping dogs lie. Eventually, the pieces will sort themselves out.” He’d opened the door and waited, a wet smile pasted to his narrow pock-marked face.

“Have you spoken to Chief Rooney?”

“Chief Rooney and I are in perfect sync on this, Pat. The Chief, as you know, is a big fight fan. He admires Stanley. Always has.”

Pat Cohan took the exit for Cross Bay Boulevard, made a left at the light and headed south. His destination wasn’t really Howard Beach. It was a neighborhood with no name, a small island suspended between Far Rockaway and the Queens mainland.

Cross Bay Boulevard, at 197th Avenue, was lined with touristy restaurants and closed real estate offices. A cluster of houses sat far back in the shadows. They were summer homes for the most part, escapes from the broiling city, and the overwhelming majority were dark. An occasional lit window, glowing dimly in the fog, announced the presence of souls hardy enough to brave the cold relentless winds that ordinarily blew off Jamaica Bay.

But there was no wind tonight. And it wasn’t cold, either. Tonight the fog curled around the streetlamps like cotton candy. It slithered down telephone poles to fall on already glistening sidewalks.

Pat drove along the Boulevard, peering through the fog at the various neon signs until he found the one he was looking for-Sharkey’s Seafood Palace. He took a deep breath and turned into the parking lot. It was time, now. Time to do or die.

The restaurant, on first inspection, seemed to be deserted. Pat Cohan, standing just inside the still-open door, had to resist an urge to flee. Then he saw Joe Faci sitting in the shadows at the end of the bar. Faci was smiling and waving him over.

“Good to see ya,” Faci said as Pat approached. He offered his hand and waited until Cohan took it. “I thought maybe ya would’a found it tough goin’. What with the fog and all. Cross Bay’s a bitch for fog.”

“I guess I got used to it, Joe. Being as I’ve been out in every kind of weather.”

“Them was the old days. You been sittin’ behind a desk for a long time.”

Pat Cohan stiffened momentarily. Was he being insulted? Faci’s tone was friendly, but you could never be sure with these people. They’d feed you for hours before stabbing you in the back. Sausages and switchblades. That was their way.

“Who would’a believed a Jew could cause so much trouble?” Faci continued. “Who would’a believed that a Jew could kill Steppy Accacio?”

“You don’t seem too upset,” Pat Cohan observed. He sat on the barstool next to Faci and looked around for the bartender.

“We’re havin’ a private party here, Pat. Whatta ya want?”

“A Scotch would be nice. I don’t suppose you’ve got Irish whiskey.”

“Hey, Carmine,” Faci called. “We got Irish whiskey?”

A door behind Joe Faci opened and a short, thick man emerged. “Irish whiskey? You got the wrong neighborhood, pal.”

“Pat,” Joe Faci said, “this here is Carmine Stettecase. He’s takin’ over for Steppy.”

Pat Cohan grinned. “Now, I was thinking that job would fall to you, Joe. I was thinking you’d get yourself a promotion.”

“It ain’t in the cards,” Joe Faci said, his face composed. “The family wants me to take a vacation. See the old country. I got relatives in Palermo.”

“The family?” Cohan was still smiling.

“The bosses,” Carmine interrupted. “They figure this bullshit ain’t good for business. Bodies flyin’ everywhere. Hey, America’s the Land of Progress, right? So how come we’re goin’ back to the old days?”

“Does that mean you intend to let this Leibowitz off the hook, Joe?” Pat Cohan pushed the question at Joe Faci. “After what he did to your boss?”

“Life is like that,” Faci said calmly. “Especially the life we live.”

“Nobody said nothin’ about Leibowitz comin’ outta this in one piece.” Carmine took a bottle of Johnnie Walker off the shelf. He half-filled a tumbler, then set it in front of Pat Cohan. “But what with Steppy dead and Joe goin’ across the ocean, there ain’t much the sheeny can do to hurt us. If we find him first, that’ll be the end of it. If he gets busted, he’ll most likely get the chair. What we don’t want is more bodies lyin’ around where people could find ’em.”

“What about O’Malley?” Pat sipped at his drink. He could feel the bad news coming.

“O’Malley ain’t a problem for us,” Faci said, “because the only mug he saw belongs to the Jew and the Jew ain’t family. Leibowitz is hired help and we don’t have no obligation to protect him.”

“And Moodrow? The cop who made all the trouble in the first place?”

Carmine shook his head. “Stanley ain’t doin’ nothin’ to us. I mean, when ya think about it, the Jew made it easy when he knocked Steppy off. He could’a maybe traded Steppy for a life sentence. Now, Stanley’s gonna put him in the hot seat. That’s why we don’t gotta do nothin’ drastic. Stanley’s gonna fry the punk.”

“That’s the second time you said ‘Stanley.’ Is Moodrow a friend of yours?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say we was friends,” Carmine said, grinning, “but we was schoolmates at St. Stephen’s.”

Pat Cohan felt disoriented, almost dizzy. “Are you telling me that Stanley Moodrow’s working with you ?”

“Ya gotta be kiddin’ me. Stanley’s the fuckin’ Lone Ranger. I got about as much chance of gettin’ to Stanley as gettin’ to heaven. Even Pius XII couldn’t fix that one.”

Pat Cohan watched the two men, Stettecase and Faci, as they enjoyed Carmine’s joke. He understood that they were laughing at him, at what they perceived to be his foolishness. But there really wasn’t anything he could do about it. His life was falling apart. What had seemed like a gentle slide into the oblivion of retirement had become a runaway locomotive flying down the side of a mountain.

“What’s the point of this meeting, Joe?” he asked. “If all we’re going to do is sit on our hands?”

Joe Faci glanced at Carmine. To Pat Cohan, the puzzled look on his face seemed absolutely genuine.

“Pat,” Faci said, “we gotta get back to business. I’m talkin’ about the gambling business and the whore business and the drug business. That’s why I wanted ya to meet Carmine.”

Carmine Stettecase nodded agreement. “All we want is things should get back to normal. Normal has been very good for you, Pat. Very good.”

Pat Cohan leaned forward, “Listen, you stupid wop, there is no normal with ‘Stanley’ on the loose. Patero’s already running scared. He’s given ‘Stanley’ some kind of a statement. If I go and Sal goes, you end up with nothing. No protection, no contacts.” Pat Cohan took a deep breath. “Let me tell you how it works. In case you don’t know. The first thing they’ll do is eliminate ninety percent of the ranking officers in the Seventh Precinct. Captains, lieutenants, sergeants-they transfer them out or ask them to retire. The new captain knows that his job is to double the arrest rate in the first year. That covers the department’s royal behind. Now, where do you suppose, boyo, that all these arrests are going to be made? Who do you think is going to be arrested? The whores, the pimps, the runners, the bookies, the dealers … Need I continue?”

Carmine Stettecase’s expression never changed. He stared at Pat Cohan with the calm neutrality of a chemist looking through a microscope. “I could see you’re in a bad spot, Pat. Only there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it. I mean there ain’t nothin’ I could see. How ’bout you, Joe? Could ya see anything?”