Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

Moodrow sipped at his coffee and glanced down at the day’s headline: HUGE DOPE RAID TIES IN LUCIANO. The Feds had conducted simultaneous raids in Philly, New York and Washington, netting twenty-one criminals, thirty-five pounds of heroin and fifty-four pounds of opium. More than the total amount seized in the entire country in 1957.

But, of course, that was the point. There were new records every year. Dope seemed to be unstoppable, like a wall of lava flowing down the side of a volcano. The papers liked to blame it on corruption, but the truth was that no one, not the most ardent cop or social reformer, had the faintest idea what to do about it.

“Morning, Stanley, anything interesting happen last night?”

Moodrow looked up to find Kate, wrapped in a large blue towel, standing in the doorway. Her hair glistened in the harsh light of an unshielded ceiling fixture. The light illuminated the spray of freckles across her cheekbones. It sparkled in her small even teeth.

In an instant, before he could take a breath, twenty-one criminals, thirty-five pounds of heroin and fifty-four pounds of opium fled up to newspaper heaven. Moodrow, his attention riveted to the corner of the towel tucked beneath Kate’s arm, lost all capacity to consider social problems.

“Damn,” he whispered.

“Damn what?” Kate was giggling.

“ ‘Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead.’ ”

They made love in the living room, Kate on the couch and Moodrow kneeling in front of it. He held her by the hips as he thrust into her. As if she might fly away if he dared to let her go. He watched her closely, the twist of her mouth, the sharply indrawn breath, the tightly closed eyes. Now she was his. The thought came to him as suddenly as the opening credits in a Technicolor movie. The theatre was dark and then … magic.

Half an hour later, they were sitting across from each other at Moodrow’s kitchen table. Moodrow was buttering a piece of toast as Kate ran a brush through her hair.

“Ya know, I heard the honeymoon suite at the Waldorf was overpriced, but I never expected this. ” He waved his toast at the four walls.

“What’d you say, Stanley?”

“I made a joke.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening. Would it still be funny if you said it again?”

“It wasn’t funny the first time. You going to work today?”

“No, I’m not ready to go back. Maybe I’ll stick around to comfort Greta after you get through brutalizing her.”

“Don’t feel sorry for Greta. She knows what she has to do. She knew it before I spelled it out last night. Ask yourself this: if she had such a problem with cops, why’d she come to me in the first place? People in this neighborhood don’t go to the police. They handle their own problems whenever they can. And that includes revenge. Me, I’m a cop and I need cooperation. I get it by giving folks a reason to do what they already know is right.”

“It seemed more like the Battle of the Bulge than gentle persuasion.”

Moodrow reached behind his chair and opened the refrigerator door. He pulled a jar of Welch’s Grape Jelly off the shelf, closing the door as he turned back to the table. “You have to do what you have to do, Kate. If there’s another way to get to Jake Leibowitz, I haven’t thought of it.”

“Stanley, do you mind if I ask you a question?” Kate leaned forward, absently rolling the salt shaker between her palms.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters. It’s very personal, but I’d like to know the answer.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“From what you told me, it’s obvious that somebody’s going to get Jake Leibowitz. The cops, the mob, somebody. Why does it have to be you?”

“Jesus,” Moodrow whispered.

“Jesus has nothing to do with this. Jesus forgave the thief, remember?”

“Yeah, I heard that somewhere. Look, I gotta get down to Greta’s. As for your question, it’s like asking Roy Campanella why he wants to hit a home run. There’re plenty of cops, detectives, too, who’d spend their tours sleeping at their desks if they could. A paycheck and a pension, that’s all they want. Me, I’m not one of them. It’s my game and I want to play it. I want to be the best. Hall of Fame all the way.”

Pat Cohan glanced at his reflection in the mirror and shuddered.

“This calls for a drink,” he said out loud. The drink, a bottle of Bushmill’s, was already in his hand. He looked at it for a second, then drank deeply before turning back to the mirror.

The alcohol had done nothing to improve the image that stared back at him. His mane was as wild as a real lion’s mane. It stood almost straight out, a thin white halo that looked more ghostly than saintly.

But his mane wasn’t the worst of it. His complexion was red, bright red. He resembled one of the heavily-rouged whores he used to roust when he was working Vice.

He thought about the whores for a moment. Thought about what they’d offered him to avoid an arrest. The memory was pleasant enough, though he wasn’t aroused by the legs and breasts that flitted through his mind. No, what aroused him was the sudden thrust of an entirely different image. He saw his darlin’ Kathleen lying on Stanley Moodrow’s sheets. Her legs were wrapped around his hips and she was moaning as he rammed into her.

“Fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

Now his face was really red. Flag red. Santa Claus red. Fire engine red. He shook the image out of his mind before they got to something even worse.

“Hair of the dog,” he muttered, pulling at the bottle as he turned away from the mirror. “Now there’s something you’ve got to do, boyo. And you know what it is.”

Pat Cohan walked down the hallway, surprised by his steady gait. The door to his wife’s room was closed, as usual. He could hear her moving inside, hear the monotonous drone as she pursued her various rituals.

“Are ya decent, Rose?” he called, pushing the door open. “Not that I give a damn.”

He found her kneeling on the bare floor. Staring up at the serene smile of a five-foot plaster statue.

“Holy Mary, mother of God,” she droned.

Did she even know he was there? He took a quick drink, then crossed the room and jerked her to her feet.

“A little talk, Rose. That’s what we’re after havin’.”

She turned and looked up at him, a bony old woman in a shapeless black dress. Her gray eyes, he noted, were surprisingly sane. Did that make it harder? Or easier?

“A talk,” she whispered. “Yes, a talk.” She cocked her head and looked at him out of the corner of one eye. “Is it Jesus you’ve come to talk about, Matthew?”

Pat Cohan started. Matthew was his Confirmation name. It was the name she’d called him during the early days of their marriage.

“No, not Jesus, Rose. It’s Stanley Moodrow. It’s the devil himself I’ve come to discuss. He’s ruined our lives and he must be punished. We can’t be lettin’ him have our darlin’ Kathleen, can we? We can’t be lettin’ them fornicate like dumb animals. They’re livin’ in sin, Rose. That’s what the pair of ’em are doin’. Ruttin’ around like dogs in the road.”

Rose Cohan turned back to her tiny altar, lips already moving.

“Not now, Rose. We’ve somethin’ to discuss. After which I promise never to interrupt your prayers again.”

He spun her around, once again struck by her lucid stare, and wondered if she’d been faking it all along. He, like everybody else, including the priests at Sacred Heart, had assumed that she was crazy. Was there a parish that didn’t have its share of Rose Cohans? Of shriveled old ladies mumbling their way to the grave? They were tolerated, their piety never questioned. And if they were stable enough to mop the nunnery basement, so much the better.