Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

“What horses? What are you talking about?”

“The horses, Greta. The ones you say my mother jammed in the ass with a hatpin. How do you think the horses felt?”

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes narrowing, then dropped her gaze. “It was necessary,” she admitted. “But I felt sorry for the horses. The cops were animals because they wanted to be animals. But the horses …”

“Now, I’m gonna tell you something so you’ll understand. Right now, while we’re out here talking, Sarah Leibowitz is calling her son.”

“So maybe you should have acted like a mensch instead of a Nazi.”

“I wasn’t gonna sweet-talk her out of Jake’s address and you know it. She was wearing a goddamned fur coat. In the house. What do ya wanna bet it came from her son? And that she knew where he got the money to buy it? Look, Greta, I have to go. Just think about the horses, all right?”

Moodrow stepped out into the street and waved down a passing cruiser. He had no room, now, for Greta. Or for anybody else except Jake Leibowitz.

“Hey, Stanley, whatta ya say?”

The cop driving the car was named Fred Stone. A boxing enthusiast, he and Moodrow had sparred in the department gym on several occasions.

“What’s doin’, Freddy. You still droppin’ the left?” Moodrow crouched slightly, making eye contact with the cop riding shotgun. “Butch, how’s it goin’?” Butch Buccarelli was neither friend nor foe. A ten-year veteran, he’d already passed the sergeant’s exam and was just killing time while he waited for his appointment.

“Tell me somethin’, Moodrow,” Buccarelli said evenly, “you a bad guy or a good guy these days? I can’t keep track. You change costumes faster than Superman.”

Moodrow smiled agreeably. “I haven’t checked in with the captain this morning, but I think I’m a good guy. Look, I got a line on Jake Leibowitz. You boys interested? I could use some backup.”

Buccarelli’s eyes widened. “This a serious tip? Or a bullshit guess?”

Moodrow answered by getting into the back of the cruiser. “It’s decent,” he answered, closing the door. “Head for the Vladeck Houses. Building A.”

The problem was that he had no right to order these men around. If a detective needed help, he was expected to go through the sergeant. The line blurred in emergency situations, but the exact degree of cooperation varied with the mood of the patrolman. Moodrow was counting on a cop’s natural desire to be there for a big arrest. Jake Leibowitz was a star and the cops who took him down would bathe in his light.

“You want me to call it in?” Buccarelli asked. “Because what I’m thinking is the captain’ll wanna be present. I’m thinkin’ he’s gonna be mucho pissed if he doesn’t get an invite to this particular party.”

“Relax, Butch. What I got is a tip. It’s not like I spoke to Jake on the phone and traced back the number. What you oughta think about is what the captain’s gonna say if the whole precinct turns out for a false alarm.” Moodrow leaned back in the seat. “Of course, if you just wanna drop me off and go back on patrol, I promise I won’t hold a grudge.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. Heavy rain continued to fall, pooling up on the East River Drive, forcing traffic to standstill. Fred Stone flipped on the roof light and worked his way onto the shoulder of the road. They weren’t going far, but the ride seemed endless to Moodrow. By the time they pulled up in front of the Vladeck Houses, he was half-convinced that Jake Leibowitz had packed his bags and gone.

“Who’s supervising in the field today?” he asked.

“Epstein.”

“All right, Butch. Get on the horn. Leibowitz is up in 678. I want the building surrounded. And tell Epstein to bring the tear gas. All the apartments have steel-covered fire doors and if I can’t talk him out, we’re gonna have a hell of a time getting inside.”

“Wait a second, Moodrow. Ten minutes ago, you told me to stay off the radio. Now you want the National Guard down here. What you’re doin’ is makin’ me look like an asshole.”

Moodrow put his hand on Butch Buccarelli’s shoulder and squeezed hard. “Tell ya what, Butch,” he said. “You wanna sit on your hands, it’s okay by me. But if Leibowitz goes out the side door while you’re jerkin’ off in the cruiser, you could forget about those sergeant’s stripes. Something else, too. A forty-five, like the one Leibowitz packs, can punch holes right through the side of this car. What’re you carrying? A six-shot thirty-eight? Do yourself a favor, Butch. Call it in to the sergeant. Let Epstein make the decisions.” He released Buccarelli’s shoulder and turned to Fred Stone. “You wanna come up with me, Freddy? You wanna play cops and robbers?”

“Just call me Dick Tracy.”

Fred Stone was twenty-three years old and looked seventeen. He had a heartbreaker smile and bedroom eyes to match. Both, Moodrow knew, masked a reckless attitude.

“Freddy,” Moodrow put his arm around the young patrolman’s shoulder as they walked away from the cruiser, “I’m gonna put you at the head of the stairs. Your first job is to keep citizens off the sixth floor. Your second job is to keep Jake Leibowitz on the sixth floor. I don’t care what happens to me. I don’t care if I’m shot or if I disappear or if I scream for help. You don’t leave your post until the sergeant relieves you. Capish ?”

“Yeah, sure. But what about you, Stanley? You gonna play Superman? You gonna crash through the door?”

“We’re talking about a steel-covered fire door, remember? It’d take me five minutes to get through it with a sledgehammer. No, Freddy, what I’m gonna try to do is talk him out. I’m gonna give him a chance.”

But what, Moodrow thought as they began to climb the stairs, am I gonna do if nobody answers my knock on the door? How will I know whether or not he’s in there? Do I kick the door down and walk into an ambush? Or do I wait for Epstein and let someone else do it?

Jake Leibowitz looked at the two mattresses covering the living-room windows and shook his head. What he needed was a hammer and nails, but a quick search of the apartment had failed to turn up so much as a screwdriver. The way he had them propped up on tables, the mattresses would most likely turn back a canister of tear gas. But if the cops opened up with shotguns … “The old bitch lived poor,” Jake said to himself. “She didn’t have nothin’.” And that was putting it mildly. If he had a china cabinet or a couple of bookcases or a triple dresser, he could wedge those mattresses in good. But, no, his Aunt Golda never had two nickels to rub together. That’s why she was in Bellevue Hospital instead of Mount Sinai. That’s why she was lying in her own shit instead of on starched white sheets.

“Well, whatta ya gonna do?” Jake asked. “Whatta ya gonna do?” He strolled down the short hallway to the bathroom and stepped inside. The single opaque window was shoulder height, exactly the way he wanted it. Jake raised the window a few inches, then drew Little Richard from his belt and aimed him at the neighboring rooftop forty feet away. The foot-high ledge wouldn’t offer much protection unless you were lying right against it. Which was also the way he wanted it.

Jake took a moment to imagine the rooftop covered with fat New York City cops. He imagined shooting them down. Bing! Bing! Bing! Like ducks in a shooting gallery. By the time the flatfoots zeroed in on his location, there’d be enough bodies to make it worthwhile. And that’s what it was all about. Because once Jake Leibowitz set Little Richard to singing his song, there was no turning back. Cop killers weren’t taken alive. That’s one of the reasons they became neighborhood legends.