Piece of the Action (44 page)

“Is that Yiddish?”

“No, it’s Italian. But it’s good to see you’re tryin’.”

I
F YOU ABSOLUTELY
have
to stand around outside, Moodrow thought as he took up a position on the north side of Houston Street near the East River, you couldn’t pick a better day, not in the winter in New York.

It was seven o’clock in the morning and the temperature was already in the forties. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky above the tenements to the west or the river to the east. The edge of a solid-gold sun was just visible over the factories and warehouses lining the Queens side of the river. Its sharply angled light sparkled on the red-brick facade of the nearly completed Baruch Houses across Houston Street. The Baruch Houses, when finished, were expected to provide a little over two thousand heavily subsidized apartments to as many worthy families. There was a fly in the proverbial ointment, however. According to the
Daily News,
the waiting list already held ten thousand names.

Moodrow was standing in front of another project, the Lillian Wald Houses, one of the known dealing addresses of Santo Silesi. It seemed as good a place to do random canvassing as anywhere else. He didn’t expect much to come of his efforts, but that didn’t mean he could allow himself to duck them. He held his badge in one hand and his quarry’s photo in the other, approaching residents as they came out of the doorway.

“Can I talk to you a minute? You know this guy?”

Most hurried past with a quick glance and a quicker shake of the head. A few stopped for a closer look. Fewer still were known to Moodrow, some from school and some from his days in the gym. They were friendlier, more willing to consider the problem, but one and all, they professed ignorance.

Whenever possible, Moodrow filed away the names and faces of those who tried to help. He’d always had a prodigious memory. That was why he’d done so well at St. Stephen’s where a premium was placed on the rote learning and eventual regurgitation of simple, unconnected facts. Moodrow fully intended to put that asset to work for him. Every detective in the NYPD had informants, but very few could count on ordinary citizens for a steady flow of information. Having grown up in the neighborhood, Moodrow knew from experience that Joe Citizen often lived cheek by jowl with some of the most vicious maggots on the Lower East Side. That, for instance, keeping
your
kids away from the bad apples usually made the difference between college and prison for the younger generation. If he could tap into their knowledge, gain their trust …

It was almost nine o’clock when a tall Spanish kid, his nose heavily bandaged, strolled through the project doorway. He wore the tightly pegged pants and the satin baseball jacket typical of teenage gang members. Moodrow approached him with caution.

“Excuse me, son.” He flipped his shield in the kid’s face. “You know this guy?”

The kid glanced at Moodrow’s badge, then at Jake Leibowitz’s photograph. He started to push by, muttering some proof of his impending manhood, then stopped in his tracks.

“You know this guy?” Moodrow repeated.

He looked up at Moodrow for a moment. “
Si,
I have seen this
blanco.
Selling
decata.
Say to me,
Señor Policia,
do you look for him to go to jail?”

“More like the electric chair.”

“You goin’ to catch him,
Señor Policia
?” The kid’s voice dripped sarcasm.

Moodrow stepped forward, allowing his face to lose all expression. “Dig the wax out of your ears, punk, because I’m only gonna say this once. I may be asking for your help, but that don’t mean I’m gonna take your shit. You keep running that smart mouth, you’re not gonna have to worry about whether you did your homework. My name is Detective Moodrow. I
own
the Lower East Side.
Comprende
?”

“I am no your stool pigeon, Detective Moodrow. No matter wha’ you own.”

“Take it easy. Whatta ya think, I picked you out special? I’ve been standing here for two hours and I’ve been talkin’ to
everybody.
Look, this guy has killed four people. I want him off the streets. What I think is that maybe
you
want him off the streets, too. If you know where he’s holed up and you tell me, I won’t forget it. I won’t forget it and I won’t ask why you told me.”

The kid took his time, mulling it over for a few minutes before responding. “Thees
maricón,
someone seen him on Henry Street.”

Henry Street was a half-mile and several hundred thousand people away from where Moodrow was standing.

“You looking for him, kid? You lookin’ for Mister Leibowitz?” Moodrow already knew the answer. He could feel it. Poor old Jake. The cops, the mob, the Tenth Street Dragons—was there anyone who
didn’t
want to kill him?

“Do me a big favor,” Moodrow continued. “If
you
find him first, leave his carcass in the street. You’ll be making life a lot easier for both of us.”

In his own way, Jake Leibowitz was also enjoying the January thaw. He was lying in a short alleyway between two tenements on Thompson Street in Greenwich Village. Lying next to half a dozen garbage cans, dressed in rags, sucking on a wine bottle filled with grape juice. He’d been lying there all night.

It wasn’t the way he wanted it, but Jake figured it was necessary. By this time Joe Faci must be staring over both shoulders and between his legs whenever he was on the street.

“The sap’s head must look like a fuckin’ pendulum,” Jake said out loud.

It was eight o’clock in the morning and the sidewalks were crowded. Several people looked over at the sound of his voice, but then quickly turned away, that special disgust reserved for terminal drunks evident on their faces. Jake raised the bottle to his lips and kissed the side of the closest garbage can.

“Fuck ’em,” he muttered. Ordinary citizens had never been more than prey to him and now that his
own
goose was cooked, they weren’t even that. They meant nothing; they were irrelevant. Like telephone poles or fire hydrants. Pure scenery.

What next? Jake asked himself. What next after I do the deed on Joe Faci?

Santo Silesi was his best guess. He hadn’t spoken to his mother in the last couple of days and knew nothing of Silesi’s execution or the intense police scrutiny that had followed it. What he figured was that he’d take care of Joe Faci, then go after Santo. That’d wipe the slate clean. Once young Santo was resting on a slab in the morgue, he’d be free to run. Assuming that was what he wanted to do. He didn’t know and he couldn’t worry about it. Why should he?

His chances of getting past Silesi, who lived somewhere in Brooklyn, were slim to none.

The door to 1473 Thompson, directly across the street, opened suddenly and Jake slipped behind the cans. It was Joe Faci, accompanied by his wife and wearing his Sunday best. Joe was carrying two suitcases and his lumpy old lady was dragging a third bag along the ground. They hesitated for a fraction of a second, looking up and down the block, then made their way across the street to Faci’s Cadillac.

Jake rose, his back to Faci, deliberately knocking over a half-filled garbage can. He shuffled down the alley, fell hard on the pavement, then slowly dragged himself to his feet again. Pulling his battered filthy hat over his face, he turned and stumbled forward.

Jake’s plan was to touch Faci, to get Faci’s attention by rubbing his greasy fingers on the sleeve of Faci’s lambswool overcoat. He wanted to see Joe Faci’s look of disgust slowly dissolve into pure terror.

He got his wish, though he didn’t have to make contact with Faci. Faci’s wife wrinkled her nose in disgust and pointed over her husband’s shoulder at the advancing menace.

“Watch for the bum,” she said.

Faci turned quickly, his features set into the hardest look in his repertoire. The glare didn’t phase Jake. Not one bit. His eyes never left Joe Faci’s hands, hands that remained empty too long.

“Hi, Joe, how’s it hangin’?” Jake raised his eyes to meet Faci’s. Abe Weinberg’s .45, its barrel riveted on Faci’s gut, nestled comfortably in his hand. Little Richard.

Joe Faci’s expression jumped from disgust to fear to a half-assed smile in the space of an eyeblink.

“Hey, Jake, how ya doin’? Long time no see.”

“If your old lady don’t shut her mouth, you ain’t gonna
see
another five seconds,” Jake answered. He jerked his chin toward Faci’s wife. Already whimpering, she looked like she was working herself up to a full-fledged scream.

“
Statti citta
,” Joe Faci snapped. It came out ‘stata geet,’ a far cry from anything ever heard in Rome, but enough to shut his wife’s mouth.

“I killed Steppy,” Jake announced. He was starting to get excited, starting to work himself up toward a rush of pure pleasure that seemed to get more and more familiar as time went on. Now that he knew it was coming, like orgasm at the end of sex, he wanted to take his time, to enjoy the preliminaries as much as the inevitable result. Jake slid the gun back under his overcoat without taking the business end off Joe Faci’s navel.

“Ya know what ya problem is?” Joe Faci asked calmly. “Ya problem is that ya crazy.”

“Jeez,” Jake returned, “a regular Siggy Freud. He was a Jew, too, ya know. Freud, I mean.”

“All we asked ya to do is take a vacation and you turn it into this. What’s the point, Jake? What does it get ya?”

“The point is that I done twelve years in the joint and I somehow got tired of people tellin’ me what to do. When to get up. When to eat breakfast. When to go to work. When to go to sleep. When to take a fuckin’ vacation.”

“Okay, Jake, I get the picture. But how could I know ya felt like that? Look at me. Am I a gypsy fortune teller? Me and Steppy, we thought it was for your own good. If ya remember, the heat was on
you,
Jake. It was
you
the cops was tryin’ to put in the electric chair.”

“They’re still tryin’, as far as I know.” Jake wanted to see that quick flash of fear return to Joe Faci’s face, but Faci’s voice remained calm.

“Ya know, it ain’t too late to blow town. You could still get out. Maybe they ain’t got a good case. Maybe if ya weren’t goin’ around knockin’ guys off, the cops’d forget about ya.”

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.