Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

“Yeah, that’s just the word I would’ve used. Personal. It’s a good word, Sarge. Keeps you interested.”

What it is, is I’ve lost almost everything I value, Pat Cohan thought, and I don’t want to lose the little I have left.

It was really that simple. He’d known the truth of it as he’d handed his retirement papers to Deputy Chief Morton. It’d sunk into him like droplets of rain sinking down between grains of desert sand. He could still feel it in every pore of his skin.

“Pat,” Morton had said, “this isn’t necessary.”

But Morton hadn’t refused to accept them. No, he’d dumped Inspector Pat Cohan’s retirement papers in a desk drawer, then sucked on his pipe like the gutless fairy he was.

“How long have you been on the job, Pat?” Morton had asked.

“Thirty-seven years. Since January eighth, 1921. I’ve seen a lot over the decades, but I’ve never seen a deal as dirty as this. When the Department takes the word of a rookie detective with five years in the job over the word of a full inspector … let’s just say the force I joined in 1921, the force my father joined in 1898, the force my grandfather joined in 1867, has changed too much to include the likes of me. ”

Pat Cohan watched Morton hem and haw. The situation, pleasing as it may have been to the deputy chief’s sheeny soul, had apparently taken him by surprise. “What makes you think we believe Stanley Moodrow?” he’d finally asked.

“I think you believe him, boyo, because you stepped all over my authority. Because you put the heel of your shoe on my head and ground me into the sidewalk like you were disposing of a cigarette butt.”

“Aren’t you being overly dramatic, Pat?” Morton’s head had wobbled on his skinny neck as he denied Cohan’s statement. “ Believing Moodrow has nothing to do with the situation. In our best judgment, he has enough information, be it true or false, to make the Department very uncomfortable. What I’m trying to say is you don’t have to protect your pension by retiring.”

The little bastard may have been surprised, but it’d hadn’t taken more than a few seconds to figure it out. If he, Pat Cohan, was dismissed from the force as the result of a departmental investigation, his pension would fly out the window like an escaped canary. If, on the other hand, he retired before the investigation, they’d have to get a court conviction to take his money away.

“Well, that’s neither here nor there, Milton. I’ve handed in my papers and you’ve accepted them. The only thing left is for me to warn you about Stanley Moodrow, which I intend to do whether you’ve got the time or not.”

Morton, resigned, had puffed out a little sigh, then settled back in his chair. “Go ahead, Pat. Tell me.”

“Moodrow’s a vicious dog. He deliberately seduced my daughter, then left her like you’d leave a prostitute on the street. He stalked her, waited until she was vulnerable, then took her innocence. I know this to be true because my daughter told me. When I confronted Stanley Moodrow, he invited me to come out behind the house and settle matters. When I refused, he swore he’d get even some other way. Sal Patero’s statement was forced, Milton. It’ll never stand up in court.”

“Just a minute, Pat. We’re under the impression that you pulled Sal Patero out of the Seventh Precinct before he, shall we say, confessed. By the way, I don’t actually know what Patero said. The only one who’s seen this so-called confession is a sergeant named Epstein. I did call Patero into the office, but he refused to talk to me. I might add that Lieutenant Patero seemed fit as a fiddle. There wasn’t a mark on him.”

“You don’t have to leave bruises to get a confession, Milton. I realize you never had much street experience, but you ought to know that much. A cocked thirty-eight will do just fine.”

But that’d been that. There was nothing more to be said. He’d left and come home to Bayside. To his house and his wife and his daughter. And to the money, of course. He’d done quite well over the years. That had to count for something in a man’s life. He’d taken care of his family and put enough away for a comfortable old age. It had to count for something.

He was making himself a cup of tea when the front door opened. Quickly, while Kate was shrugging out of her coat and pulling off her galoshes, he added a shot of Bushmill’s to the tea, then hid the bottle in a cabinet beneath the sink.

“That you, Kate?”

“Yes, Daddy, it’s me.” Kate bounced into the room, smiling.

“Yer a sight for sore eyes, darlin’. A sight for sore eyes.” She’d always had that bounce. As far back as he could remember. A tomboy to her bones. “Kate, do ya remember the time I had to pull you out of the oak in the back yard?”

“Yes, Daddy. How can I forget when you remind me at least once a week?”

Pat Cohan ignored the comment. He’d begun knocking down shots the minute he’d walked through the door. Not that he was falling-down drunk or anything close to it. No, he was on the kind of jag that glues you to the barstool. That makes your thoughts spin through your mind until you have to reach out for an anchor. Or another shot, which is the same thing.

“You couldn’t have been more than ten years old.”

“I was eleven. And if you hadn’t panicked, I’d have gotten down by myself.” She walked over to the stove, lit the right front burner with a match, then hefted the teapot. “Is the water hot?”

“Almost. I just poured meself a cup.” He raised the cup to his mouth, sipped a little, spilled more. “B’Jesus,” he muttered. “Now I’m after foulin’ meself.”

“Daddy, have you been drinking? It’s only three o’clock.”

“I’m sober as a judge.”

“Then why are you putting on that Irish accent? You only do that when you’ve been drinking.”

“Well, I may have had a drop, darlin’. It’s in the way of a celebration.”

Kate turned back to him, smiling. “That’s swell, Daddy. What’s the event?”

“I’ve retired from the New York Police Department. Did it this afternoon. Just walked in and handed my papers over to the sheeny in charge …”

“Don’t say that word.” Kate turned back to the stove. The teapot was whistling madly. “You must be drunk. You know how much I hate that kind of talk.”

“Now, darlin’ …” He could see the gears turning in her head. The questions were going to fly and he didn’t have any good answers.

Kate took her time, dipping the teabag, then pressing it dry against the spoon before tossing it into the garbage. “Daddy,” she said, coming back to the table, “what made you decide to retire? Didn’t you always say, ‘They’ll have to rip the uniform off my back’?”

Pat Cohan put his cup on the table, noting, with satisfaction, that he hadn’t spilled a drop. “When the time comes, the time comes,” he proclaimed. “You don’t have to pull on the rope to hear the bell toll.”

“And Stanley? Has Stanley been arrested?”

Damn, but she was persistent. There had to be some way to talk about Moodrow without looking like a criminal. There had to be. “You saw the warrant yourself, Kate.”

“Has he been arrested, Daddy? Is Stanley in jail?”

“No, he hasn’t been arrested and he’s not in jail.” He wanted to lie, but he couldn’t take the chance that she’d call him and find out for herself.

Kate stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her tea, then blew the steam away before sipping delicately. “What are they waiting for?”

“They’re trying to find him. The charge is simple assault, remember? That doesn’t exactly make him public enemy number one. Eventually, he’ll come in on his own.”