Piece of the Action (8 page)

“Great.” Jake opened the door and stepped out of the car. Abe followed a moment later. “I’m gonna talk it through while we’re goin’. First, this is the gun we’re gonna use.” Jake held up a .22 caliber revolver. “We don’t need no forty-five goin’ off like a howitzer. From up close, a twenty-two is just as deadly and you’re gonna be right on top of him. But remember, we wanna do this guy in the
swamp.
That means you can’t shoot him before we get here unless you absolutely
gotta.
So, what you’re gonna do is keep your finger
off
the trigger. Like this.”

Jake held the .22 up again. He took his index finger off the trigger and laid it underneath the cylinder.

“What if he tries to run?”

“How’s he gonna run when he’s handcuffed inside a locked car? Ya getting me pissed off again, Abe.”

“Ya can’t learn if ya don’t ask questions.”

“Ya can’t learn if ya don’t ask questions,” Jake mimicked. “What do I got here, a goddamned schoolteacher? What ya should be thinkin’ is that ya can’t learn if ya don’t shut ya mouth and listen.” He waited for the message to sink in before he continued. “When we get here, I jump out of the car first. I come around to your side and cover this guy in case he decides to run.
Then
you unlock the door and get him movin’. Now, we’re both gonna go up the path here, but
you’re
gonna be the one who’s right behind him.
Don’t
get too close. If ya get too close, he could turn and kick the rod outta ya hand. But,
also,
don’t get too far away. If he jumps into them bushes, we’ll never find him. Remember, it’s gonna be dark. I don’t wanna use a flashlight unless it’s so black we’re gonna fall over each other. What you gotta do is stay arm’s length plus two steps away. Let’s try it.”

Jake walked over to Abe with his left arm outstretched. He stopped when his fingers were touching Abe’s chest. “Now, take two steps back. Perfect.
Memorize
this distance. Ya don’t let him get no closer and ya don’t let him get no further away. Ya got that?”

“Yeah, but one thing. When we’re marchin’ him up the path, do I still keep my finger off the trigger?”

Jake looked up at the clean, blue sky. “How come it’s always me, Lord?”

“What’d I say, now?”

“Abe, this is where we’re gonna
do
it. Ya don’t think he’s gonna
know
that? Ya don’t think he’s gonna
know
this is his last chance? Once he gets outta the car, you gotta be ready. Don’t be a
schmuck.
”

“All right, all right. I get the point.”

“Good, now let’s walk in there and see what it looks like.”

What it looked like was perfect. The narrow track wound among the cattails for a hundred yards, then ended abruptly in a small clearing. There was a pond on one side of the clearing (which would have been a great place to dump a stiff except that it was frozen like a rock) and a solid wall of reeds on the other. All you had to do was dump the body ten or fifteen yards off the clearing and by the time the rats got through with it, it’d be nothing but bones.

“Okay,” Jake said, “we’re here. Whatta ya do next?”

“I make him kneel with his head
away
from me so he can’t see it comin’.”

“Do it.”

“C’mon, Jake. I’ll ruin my pants.”

“I’ll buy you another pair.”

Abe knelt down and stared into the reeds. “Is that all right? Do I pass, teacher?”

“I gotta give it to ya,” Jake admitted, firing three shots into the back of his buddy’s head. “You ain’t as stupid as ya look.”

S
TANLEY MOODROW SAT IN
the kitchen of his Avenue B apartment, thumbing his way through a copy of the
Daily News
while he waited for the coffee to boil. Moodrow had been reading the
Daily News
at the kitchen table for a long time. He couldn’t remember exactly when he’d begun to take an interest in the news of the day, but he could clearly recall his father passing him the comic section at a time when he’d been too young to do more than look at the pictures. And he could remember his mother picking up the paper, too.
After
his father went off to work. That’s when
she
got
her
breakfast.

The way Moodrow saw it, his family had gone through a lot of ups and downs when he was a kid, but there’d always been two fixed pillars in their lives. Heirlooms to be handed down from generation to generation. One was the
Daily News
and the other was a baseball team called the Brooklyn Dodgers. He was reading the
Daily News,
but the Dodgers were out of his life. Permanently and forever.

What did the sportswriters call Walter O’Malley? The most hated man in New York? And it was true—even Yankee fans hated O’Malley. For Dodger fans, the feeling was almost pathological. Moodrow could easily imagine putting a bullet into Walter O’Malley’s fat carcass. All those years waiting for a World Series? His father hadn’t lived to see it. His mother, either.

Moodrow got up to check the glass bulb on top of the percolator. The bubbling liquid wasn’t really coffee yet, but it wasn’t all that far away. He left it to boil and took a box of Cheerios out of the cupboard. Moodrow wasn’t crazy about cereal, but the soreness in his ribs had eased considerably and he didn’t want to upset the applecart by messing with pots and pans. He was scheduled to report for assignment in two days and he was determined to do nothing more than eat, read the papers and watch television in the meantime.

The doorbell rang before he could sit down. “Be there in a minute, Greta,” he called, reaching for his robe. It was a little early for Greta Bloom, his mother’s oldest old friend, to come up from the second floor, which she did whenever Moodrow was sick or hurt.

“I just wanna see you’re okay. What’s the harm?”

That was her answer whenever he tried to discourage her. Greta Bloom was a professional philanthropist. An
impoverished
philanthropist. Living on social security, the only thing she had to give was time. Greta went out to the
shul
on Clinton Street every day. She belonged to a dozen charitable “societies” and had more energy than Stanley Moodrow on fight night.

“Good morning, Stanley. I know it’s early, but I wanted I should catch you before you went to work.” Greta Bloom, in a worn yellow housedress, was barely five feet tall. She peered up at Moodrow through pale gray eyes. Her face was small and round with sharp, narrow features that complemented her nervous energy. Even the wrinkle-lines on her forehead danced in time to her enthusiasm.

“I’m not going to work today, Greta, so it doesn’t matter.”

“
Oy vey,
Stanley. You’ve been fighting again. I thought you gave that up. I thought you were a policeman.”

“Sometimes a policeman has to fight, too. You want coffee?”

“I can’t stay. The sisterhood meets at ten o’clock and I didn’t even get into the shower yet. I was wondering could you do me a favor? Not for me, for a neighbor. Rosaura Pastoral who lives in 2D. You know her?”

“Maybe if I saw her, I …”

“It doesn’t matter. So many people moving in, moving out … it’s impossible to keep count.”

“Unless you hang around the mailboxes and gossip all morning.”

“Please, Stanley, I don’t have time for your wiseguy remarks. I told you I’m in a hurry. Anyway, Rosaura has a boarder—
had
a boarder, I should say—named Luis Melenguez who got killed on Pitt Street the day after Christmas. With a gun, Stanley. Somebody shot him. It’s been a week and nobody knows nothing. Rosaura went down to the precinct and the detectives wouldn’t even talk about it. Told her to go home and mind her own business. Can you imagine?”

Moodrow
could
imagine. Cops know they have to take abuse from the victim’s family. It’s expected and you deal with it. But the
landlady
?

“You want me to teach them some manners?” he asked without so much as cracking a smile. “Slap ’em around a little bit?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. And it’s not
me.
It’s not what
I
want. It’s for your neighbor, for Rosaura Pastoral. She’s a very nice woman.”

“
What’s
for Rosaura Pastoral. What do you want me to do?”

“Find out what’s going on. You told me last time you were gonna be a big-shot detective. That’s what I told Rosaura when I saw her last night. ‘Stanley’s gonna be a big-shot detective. He’ll find out what’s going on.’ ”

Moodrow knew better than to refuse Greta Bloom. A compromise was the most he could hope for. “I’ll ask around, Greta. Find out who’s handling the case and where it’s going. But don’t expect me to jump in and solve the crime. This isn’t
Gunsmoke
and I’m not Matt Dillon.”

“Stanley, don’t have a heart attack. Nobody expects miracles. If
you
tell Rosaura that everything’s kosher, I’m sure she’ll be satisfied. Now, I gotta run,
bubbe.
And put some ice on your face. You look like Frankenstein.”

He closed the door behind her, then headed back for the kitchen. The doorbell rang again before he got to his Cheerios. “What did you …” he asked as he swung the door open.

The sight of Kathleen Cohan in her new fox coat froze him in mid-sentence. It was funny how you could spend half the summer in a bathing suit, but you felt almost obscene in a striped bathrobe with your hairy calves sticking out.

“Jeeeeeesussss Christ.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name, Stanley. I’m hoping that Jesus isn’t watching me, anyway.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You invited me, remember? Anyway, I’ve come to observe your domestic habits.” She pranced into the room and took off her coat. “I think it’s important to really know a person
before
marriage. Especially if you’re a Catholic and you have to stay married forever.”

“Yeah? Great. Only don’t put that coat down or the roaches’ll kidnap it. My domestic habits ain’t that good.”

“Ugh. You have cockroaches? I
hate
them.”

“
Everybody
in the city has roaches.” He hung her coat in the hall closet.

“
I
live in the city and
I
don’t have cockroaches.” She snuck up behind him, put her arms around his waist and squeezed gently.

“Bayside, where you live, ain’t the city.” He paused for a second. “And that hug didn’t hurt. I must be getting better.”

“If Bayside isn’t in the city, why do I pay city taxes?”

He turned and kissed her. “For kids who grew up in this neighborhood,
Bayside
is Never-Never Land. Peter
Pan
lives in Bayside.”

“In that case,” she giggled, “you can call me Tinkerbell.”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She responded eagerly, wrapping her arms as far around his back as they’d go. Moodrow, despite the fire pulling at his crotch, didn’t quite know what to make of her sudden appearance. He’d been trying to get into bed with her for the better part of a year, but he’d always respected her whispered refusals. That was the way good girls were
supposed
to act. At least according to the prevailing mythology. Was it possible that an official engagement changed the rules? He let his fingers slide down her spine, expecting to find that latex chastity belt under her skirt, but what he felt was the firm globes of her buttocks.

“Kathleen …”

“I’m supposed to be with Joanna. At the movies.” Joanna Buchanan was Kathleen’s best friend.

“What?” Preoccupied as he was, Moodrow barely understood the words.

“Daddy thinks I’m with Joanna. I actually
was
with her. We had breakfast after church, but then I came to see you. Joanna went to the movies. With her boyfriend.”

Moodrow didn’t know what to say next, but he was smart enough to realize that she was running the show. And smart enough to let her, too.

“I thought I’d probably find you in bed,” she declared. “I mean, if you’re in too much pain to come out and see me, you should at least be flat on your back.”

“Right now, you could definitely knock me over with a feather,” Moodrow admitted. He waited for her to say something else, but she just stood there, grinning. Finally he asked her if she wanted a cup of coffee.

“Great.”

“Sit on the couch and relax. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He was pouring the coffee when he figured it out. She’d come here to go to bed with him. Deliberately and consciously. Yet he
still
had to seduce her. The realization didn’t come easily. The girls he’d known before he met Kathleen had mostly grown up on the Lower East Side. Some of them would do it and some wouldn’t, but whichever way it went, they didn’t need to play out this elaborate charade. Sex was a lot different in Bayside. In fact, as far as Stanley Moodrow was concerned, sexual politics out in the suburbs were more complicated than the politics at the U.N.

Moodrow congratulated himself on his insight (“pretty deep for a twenty-five-year-old kid,” was what he told himself) and walked back into the living room prepared to do what he had to do. The only problem was that Kathleen wasn’t there. He glanced over at the front door, half expecting to find it open, but it was closed and locked.

“Stanley?”

There were only two other rooms in the apartment and they were both bedrooms, so that was where she had to be. In a bedroom. If his career as a detective went anything like this, he’d be back to walking a beat in a month.

The bedroom was dark when he came in, but he could see well enough to know that she was in his bed. And that her clothing was draped over the back of a chair. He reached out to put the cup on the bureau and missed by a foot. The cup landed on the wood floor and splattered hot coffee over his right foot. He didn’t notice it any more then he’d noticed the punch that’d broken his nose.

“I love you, Stanley,” she whispered. “And I don’t want to wait anymore. Not another minute. Even if you
do
look like Frankenstein come back from the dead.”

Moodrow touched a finger to the tape covering his nose. He thought about taking it off, then realized that what he was going to
have
to take off was his bathrobe. With Kathleen watching.