Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

“Sarge,” he’d said, “what I’d like you to do is go back into the house and see how the search for Jake is being organized. I’d like to know what Rosten’s doing, if anything. Paul and I will interview Sarah Leibowitz.”

“Look, Stanley, you can’t order me around. I know you like to have things your own way, but you’re gonna have to wait until you pass the lieutenant’s exam before you start telling me what to do.”

Moodrow had grinned, holding up his hands defensively. “Easy, Sarge. I’m not trying to take anything away from you. But you have to admit that investigations are for detectives. Paul and I have legitimate reasons for questioning Sarah Leibowitz. Nobody’ll challenge our authority. I’m afraid that Rosten’s gonna try to fix it so Jake never sees the inside of a jail cell. You can talk to the beat cops in the Seventh. I don’t know if we can do anything about it, but if there’s an all-out hunt for Jake Leibowitz, it’d be nice if we knew about it.”

Epstein had snorted his disapproval, then driven off to the precinct while Moodrow and Maguire headed up to Bellevue Hospital where Sarah Leibowitz, half her head covered with gauze, rested in a private room. She began to moan as soon as she saw the two detectives.

“Mrs. Leibowitz,” Moodrow had begun, “I’m Detective …”

Coming over, he and Maguire had carefully worked out their strategy. Sarah Leibowitz was not going to be charged with any crime in connection with the death of Santo Silesi, so they had no leverage on that end. If they couldn’t appeal to Sarah Leibowitz’s conscience, they’d explain that the only certainty here was Jake’s eventual capture. If he resisted, he’d be shot down like a dog. Plus (as Santo Silesi had ably demonstrated) the mob was after him and they’d have no mercy at all. The best thing Jake could do was surrender quietly.

It’d seemed like a decent approach to both detectives: prod the worried mother with promises of protection for her son, appeal to her motherly instincts. What could be simpler? In Sarah Leibowitz’s presence, however, their strategy had evaporated like morning mist under an August sun. Before Moodrow could finish introducing himself, the Leibowitz moan had turned into a howl that brought doctors and nurses running. Sarah Leibowitz, having suffered a serious head injury, had to be kept quiet. She wasn’t up to an interview, much less an interrogation. So sorry, but it would just have to wait.

Moodrow and Maguire had retreated to Maguire’s car, then decided to separate. Maguire had to go into the precinct. The Silesi shooting was his responsibility and he wanted to make sure the paperwork was in order before he wrote his own reports. Moodrow had accepted a ride to Houston Street, then, in the time-honored tradition of stymied detectives everywhere, had begun to pound the pavement.

He’d made mental notes as he worked the bars and the small bookie joints, as he stopped numbers runners on the street and interrupted the shylocks working the lofts and factories. The message he’d projected had been the same to one and all: the heat was coming down. There would be no “business as usual,” not while Jake Leibowitz was on the loose. Their best move was to give Jake up before the raids began.

“How come I never seen you before?” Sam Gelardi, a low-level bookie had asked.

Moodrow, ignoring the question, had jammed his index finger into Gelardi’s chest. “Do yourself a favor,” he’d hissed, “if ya kill the bastard, leave his body where it can be found. If he disappears, I’m gonna make it my personal business to run you off the Lower East Side.”

Of course, he’d had no idea whether or not he could deliver on his various threats. That wasn’t the point, anyway, because he was preparing for a time when Jake Leibowitz was long forgotten. As he went along, he began to create an internal file, matching names to reactions. So-and-so had examined the photo carefully. So-and-so had admitted knowing Jake Leibowitz. So-and-so had provided some tidbit of gossip concerning Jake’s history. So-and-so had known nothing, but had shown fear.

It was all necessary, he told himself as he fumbled with his keys. It was necessary if he intended to own the Lower East Side, to make himself indispensable to the precinct brass, to build a protective wall between himself and the wrath of Pat Cohan. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t exhausted.

He stood in the lobby of his building for a moment, looking up at the stairs. He’d been climbing those stairs for a lot of years, had made it a habit to take them two at a time when he was in training. Now, they looked like Mt. Everest.

But there was nothing to be done about it. Not unless he wanted to sleep in the lobby. Wearily, lost in thought, he began to climb the four flights to his apartment. He was on the third floor landing when a familiar voice called out to him.

“Stanley, Stanley. Come here a minute.”

“Greta, please, I don’t …” He looked down the hallway and was stunned to see Kate Cohan standing in the hall next to Greta Bloom. His fatigue vanished in an instant. He’d been telling himself that he’d never see her again, that he could get along without her. That even if Pat Cohan vanished, along with his lies, their love could never overcome their differences. Not in the long run.

Now, as he stood with one foot on the stairs leading up to the next floor, his mouth hanging open, the “long run” had no meaning whatsoever. You couldn’t dump the present because you were afraid of the future. His own father had squirreled away every extra penny, saving for an “old age” that never came.

“Stanley, say something,” Greta demanded.

“Stanley?” Kate Cohan took a hesitant step forward. “Can I talk to you?”

“When did you get here?” It was the first coherent sentence that popped into Moodrow’s mind.

“I got here a little after three.”

“I went up to see you, Stanley,” Greta interrupted, “and I found her standing by your door. She’s a lovely girl. You should have brought her to meet me long ago.”

“What’s next, Greta?” Moodrow asked. “You gonna invite us in for coffee and homemade rugelah ?”

“Such a fresh mouth,” Greta said to Kate. “I don’t see how you put up with such a fresh mouth. Stanley, you’re too old to be a bondit. ”

“A what?” Kate asked.

“There’s no word in English,” Greta said. “It means like the boy in the funny papers. The one with the blond hair.”

“Oh,” Kate said, “I get it. Dennis the Menace.”

They were in each other’s arms before they made it to the fourth-floor landing. They held each other fiercely, mouths joined, eyes closed. As if they could live entirely in an animal present. As if they could live without regret for the past or fear of the future. As if they could rid themselves of the pain of their separation by squeezing it out like a tube of toothpaste.

Moodrow found himself beyond thought, beyond even the desire for thought. He could feel Kate’s heart beating through their bulky overcoats. It seemed to beat inside his skull, driving away every other consideration. No more Jake Leibowitz or Pat Cohan. The concrete steps, the narrow steel railing, the freezing streets, the whores, the junkies and the jack rollers: the whole stinking miserable history of the Lower East Side of New York City vanished in an instant.

Minutes later, Moodrow heard a deep groan, an exhalation of equally mixed loss and gain. It took him another moment to realize that he was doing the groaning. And that Kate’s hands were inside his jacket, her fingers cupping the long muscles running along his ribs, her lips pressed to his chest.