Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

Jake nodded thoughtfully. “Ya wanna live, don’t ya, Joe? Ya wanna eat dinner tonight. Watch the Honeymooners. Give your old lady a chunk of the old salami before ya fall asleep.” He paused, allowing a smile to spread across his face. “Maybe you could help me out with somethin’, Joe. Do ya think ya could?”

“Anything’s possible.”

Jake’s finger tightened on the trigger, pulling hard enough for the hammer to ease back a fraction of an inch. Not only had Joe Faci’s voice not reflected the fear Jake expected, it was damn close to sarcastic.

“What’s the matter, Joe? You had enough life? You wanna die?”

“No, I don’t wanna die.”

The sentence whistled out of Joe Faci’s mouth and Jake took it for fear. Not that Faci was broken. No, Faci wasn’t exactly pissing his pants, but he’d shown enough for Jake to offer him a little hope.

“I got a problem, Joe, and I was wonderin’ if ya could help me out with it. Ya know, for old time’s sake.”

“Look, Jake, I think it would be good if ya took something into consideration. Sooner or later, you gotta take it on the lam. Whatta ya gonna do, kill every cop in New York? No, sooner or later ya gonna have to make like a bunny and hop outta town. How ya gonna live, Jake? Rob? Steal? You go into a strange town and start pullin’ jobs, ya gonna end up back here in the electric chair. You know that as well as I do.”

“Get to the point, Joe. It ain’t like I got all day.”

“Money, that’s the point I’m makin’ here. And not a couple of grand, either. I know you, Jake. I seen the way ya take care of yourself. I could get you the kind of dough that’d let ya live in style. Maybe you could buy youself a business somewhere. Jews are good at business.”

Jake laughed out loud. “Ya got that dough in ya pocket? Maybe packed in one of them suitcases? Or do I gotta let ya go and meet ya somewhere? Like maybe under the Manhattan Bridge at midnight.”

“It ain’t like that …”

“I said ya could help me out with something, but it ain’t money. What I’m lookin’ for is Santo Silesi. Me and Santo, we gotta have ourselves a little talk.”

“Santo’s dead.” The words were out before Joe Faci could take them back.

“Whatta ya mean, dead? Who killed him?”

“Your mother.”

“Watch ya fuckin’ mouth, Joe.”

“I mean it. Santo went lookin’ for you and your mother shot him down. He’s dead.”

“And her?”

“Look, Jake, I wasn’t there so I ain’t exactly got the whole scoop. I heard she was taken to the hospital and the cops were talkin’ to her. I’m sure you could figure out what they was askin’.”

Jake sighed. So, this was the last one. Steppy Accacio, Santo Silesi and Joe Faci. That was gonna have to do it for Abe and Izzy.

“Get in the car,” Jake said. “We’re gonna take a little ride.”

“What about my wife?”

“Don’t worry, I ain’t sunk so low as to kill a broad. Ya got ya keys in ya coat pocket?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, first ya take off your overcoat. Then ya get in the car and toss the coat on the back seat, bein’ real careful that I should see ya hands every second. What I’m gonna do is get in the back and hand ya the keys. Then we’re gonna drive somewhere to get that dough you was talkin’ about. Don’t make no mistakes, Joe. One more dead spaghetti-brain don’t mean shit to me.”

Carefully, one button at a time, Joe Faci peeled out of his overcoat. He opened the door, tossed the coat in the back, then slid onto the front seat. He kept both hands exposed all the time, finally dropping them onto the steering wheel as Jake closed the door.

“You ready, Jake?” Faci asked.

“Yeah. As Abe used to say, I’m ‘Ready, ready, Teddy, to rock-n-roll.’ ”

Jake pulled the trigger three times. Once for Izzy. Once for Abe. Once for himself. The first shot killed Joe Faci. It blew his head apart, spattering blood and brains all over the side window. The mixture, as thick as oatmeal, covered the glass. In the momentary silence between the explosions and the screams of Joe Faci’s wife, Jake, much to his satisfaction, could hear it dripping down onto the seat.

It was nearly ten o’clock by the time Moodrow finished his rounds. He’d spent most of the day on Henry Street and the surrounding neighborhood, the area where Jake Leibowitz had been spotted. Working the candy stores and lunch wagons, the lofts and warehouse by day; the bars and social clubs by night. The effort had proven fruitless, as such efforts usually did, and by the time Moodrow decided to head back to Kate and Greta Bloom, his feet were swollen tight against the sides of his shoes. Trudging up Avenue B, he looked down at his almost-new wing tips and silently wished for the black brogans he’d worn as a patrolman.

Well, he thought, at least Jake Leibowitz hasn’t skipped town. Moodrow had met Paul Maguire for dinner (taking the opportunity to phone Kate and make sure Greta was coming over) and heard the news about Joe Faci. While both had agreed that it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, Faci’s execution meant that two new elements would be added to the picture.

Now, Dominick Favara and his people would have to go after Jake Leibowitz. It was a matter of honor. The same principle, honor, apparently applied to the 6th Precinct as well. The crime had been committed on their turf. The manner in which it had been committed (in full view of witnesses; in full view of the victim’s wife) guaranteed a vigorous investigation.

“You know the captain over there?” Maguire had asked.

“Bettino.”

“Yeah, a hard-ass if there ever was one. He hates the word ‘Mafia,’ thinks they bring all Italians down. I went over to the Six around four o’clock and the suits wouldn’t talk to me. The word is Bettino wants the bust for himself. He’s decided that Jake Leibowitz compromised the honor of the Sixth Precinct. His precinct.”

“Wait a second. What makes him so sure Jake Leibowitz was the shooter?”

“He’s got witnesses, Stanley. It happened early this morning while people were going to work.”

“Jesus, this guy is crazy. It’s like he’s jumping off the roof.”

“That’s right. It’s just a matter of who’s gonna play sidewalk.”

Moodrow, within sight of home, felt his energy level rising. He was looking forward to this confrontation. Greta Bloom loved to function as Stanley Moodrow’s conscience. Now, it was his turn.

He took the first steps two at a time, then reconsidered when his feet screamed in protest. Maybe, he thought, I can’t afford to move out of the Lower East Side, but if I watch my pennies, I might be able to afford an elevator building.

The door to his apartment opened before he could turn the key in the lock. Moodrow looked down at Kate’s smiling face and broke into a huge grin. He’d been preoccupied all day, but now that they were face to face, he could scarcely believe his good fortune.

“How’d it go today?” Kate asked.

“It went and it’s gone.” Moodrow, spotting Greta perched on his living room sofa like a bird of prey, settled for a chaste kiss instead of the somewhat more lusty greeting bouncing around in his imagination.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really. But I’d take a cup of coffee. I’m gonna be up for a while.”

“There’s coffee on the stove. I’ll warm it up.”

“Thanks, Kate. My feet are killing me. I don’t think I could make it to the kitchen.”

“Stanley,” Greta called, “for me you don’t have a ‘hello’?”

“For you I have much more than a ‘hello.’ ” Moodrow dropped into an overstuffed chair and slowly removed his shoes. “I’m not takin’ off the socks, because I don’t wanna see the blood.”