“Could I help somebody?”
Jake answered without looking away from the man in front of him. “I’m lookin’ for Dominick Favara.”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Jake Leibowitz. We got an appointment.”
“I been expectin’ ya. Come in the back.”
“You oughta put a chain on ya dog,” Jake said. “He ain’t trained yet.”
“Don’t let Carmine bother ya. That’s just his way.”
“Yeah,” Carmine said, “that’s just my way. No offense.”
“None taken. And please forgive me for threatenin’ to kick ya face in.”
Jake crossed the room, shook hands with Dominick Favara, then stepped through the doorway into Favara’s small office.
“Pull up a seat, Jake. Take a load off ya mind.”
Jake removed his hat, then carefully arranged his cashmere overcoat before sitting down. “Hey, Dominick,” he said, “I’m sorry I lost my temper. What happened was I started off the day on the wrong side of the bed. I ate my mother’s cookin’.”
Favara chuckled appreciatively. “I heard you was a tough guy, Jake. In fact, I been hearin’ a lot about you lately. Ya did some time, didn’t ya?”
“Some? Try forever and a day.” Jake quickly outlined his problems with the army.
“Tough break. I mean ya had a perfectly good plan, but nobody could read the future. Sometimes it don’t turn out like you expect.”
“Yeah, but sometimes ya get a chance to make it right before the sky falls on ya head. I’m hopin’ that now is one of them times. Ya know what I’m doin’ in the projects?”
“I heard all about it.”
Jake, noting the sudden gleam in Favara’s eye, was careful to keep his own expression neutral. Now, they understood each other. “What it is is I ain’t happy with my current supplier. He thinks I’m an employee, but what I wanna be is an independent contractor. I mean, I been givin’ it a lotta thought and what I come up with is this. If I got plenty of cash, if I don’t need credit, why can’t I deal with more than one supplier? Competition. Ain’t that what America’s all about? Ain’t it competition that makes people work harder?”
“I think I get the point.”
“If ya do, then ya one up on Steppy Accacio. Steppy don’t want me buyin’ from anybody but him. That way he can make the price as high as he wants.”
“Can ya blame him?”
“Can ya blame me for not goin’ along? I didn’t do all those years in the joint so’s I could end up bein’ a flunky.”
Favara stood up and walked over to the window. “So that’s what ya want from me? To buy dope? Ya don’t want nothin’ else? You ain’t, for instance, askin’ me to watch ya back when Steppy comes lookin’ for ya?”
“Ya gotta protect your interests, right?”
“That guy you did in the projects? With baseball bats? Ya know he worked for me?”
“Not at the time.”
Favara walked back over to his desk and sat on the edge. “What I hear is that you’re crazy, Jake. What I hear is that you been killin’ people right and left. Like that spic in the whorehouse.”
“It was a mistake. Jesus Christ, does the whole world know about it?”
“You went in there for Steppy is what ya did. To do the job on the pimp and his old lady. They used to be my customers. Before Steppy took over the projects. O’Neill talks too much. Just like the rest of the micks.”
“Yeah? Well, he won’t be talkin’ no more. I ain’t pretendin’ to be no saint, Dominick. But I only made one mistake and there ain’t no witnesses left. I did what I had to do. I’m still doin’ what I have to do.”
“I ain’t sayin’ ya not, Jake. What I am sayin’ is if ya wanna buy dope from me, I’ll be glad to sell it to ya. But only for cash. As for the rest of it, I ain’t interested in coverin’ ya butt, because ya too fuckin’ hot. If ya happen to survive, which ain’t too likely, we could maybe do business long-term. But first ya gotta survive.”
Jake took a minute to think it over. Access to a dependable supply of dope would give him an income, but it wouldn’t protect him. He had to have help.
“On the other hand,” Favara said casually, “it happens I know some right guys who ain’t got work at the moment. If ya don’t mind dealin’ with Puerto Ricans, I could talk to ’em. Tell ’em you got a proposition to make.”
“Shit, Dominick.” Jake smiled for the first time. “I’m a Jew, ain’t I? I gotta take my friends where I can find ’em.”
Twenty-one
January 21
Moodrow was still in bed, still asleep, when the phone began to ring. He glanced at his Big Ben, saw it was after eight o’clock and jerked himself upright. The intense jab of pain that shot through his skull reminded him why he hadn’t set the clock. Then the phone rang again and he realized that it didn’t take movement to set his head to throbbing. Sound would do, as well.
Let it ring, he thought. Just let it go away. Just let the whole goddamned morning disappear.
But whoever it was apparently knew Moodrow was home, because they wouldn’t hang up. Not after five rings, not after ten, not after fifteen. Moodrow got out of bed and crossed the room, desperately wishing for a cup of coffee.
“Yeah?”
“Stanley? It’s me, Epstein.”
“Jesus, Sarge, you could’ve picked a better time.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I got attacked is what’s wrong. I got smacked on the head with a baseball bat. Louisville Slugger, Gil Hodges model, to be exact.” He went on to give the details, including the sudden appearance of Samuelson and Detective Lieutenant Rosten. “I’m looking at the complaint right now,” he concluded. “They both signed it.”
“This Rosten is a lieutenant?”
“That’s what Samuelson said. I didn’t ask for i.d.”
“The rule is one detective lieutenant to a precinct. Something must be happening with Patero.”
“You haven’t heard any rumors?”
“I didn’t go into the house yesterday. That’s what I’m calling to tell you. I’ve got the name of the witness, the one in the O’Neill killings. Pearse O’Malley. Another Irishman.”
Moodrow didn’t know how to respond to the last part. Hell’s Kitchen had been Irish for a long time. The Lower East Side, too, back when it was called the Fourth Ward. In fact, the whole damn city had been Irish once. Finally, he decided to ignore the comment altogether.
“This O’Malley, he talkin’?”
“I don’t know, Stanley. I know he’s being protected, but my man inside the Tenth warned me to stay away from the two suits who caught the squeal. Names are Gordon and Russo.”
“Where they keeping the witness? West Street?”
“He’s in his apartment, with a cop sitting out in the hall. A uniform.”
“You got an address and an apartment number?”
“Yeah, 2211 Tenth Avenue. Top floor, 6B.”
Moodrow sighed. “I guess I gotta go up there. Try to bluff my way past the uniform.”
“You do that, you’re gonna tip your hand to Patero and Cohan. That what you want?”
“Somebody’s gotta warn the guy, Sarge. That cop sitting in the hallway isn’t protecting Pearse O’Malley. He’s keeping him prisoner.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not gonna take the chance. Besides which O’Malley might be able to identify the men who killed the O’Neills. I’m not saying I know the O’Neills’ killer and the Melenguez killer are the same person. But I am saying if I get my hands on either one, I’ll find the other.”
“I can’t argue with that. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yeah, Maguire said the lab boys lifted some prints at the Melenguez scene. You think you can get me a copy of those prints?”
“Why, you got a suspect?”
“I just wanna be ready when the time comes. Those prints are the only physical link we have and I got a funny
feeling they’re gonna disappear. That’s if they haven’t disappeared already. It shouldn’t be a problem, because there’s gotta be several copies in the files. Forensics always makes up a bunch in case they’re needed in other precincts. Just pull one and send it out to me.”
“Those prints could belong to anyone. I’m not saying I mind snatching them for you, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s most likely a wild goose chase. Mob killers don’t leave fingerprints.”
“These guys didn’t go to the O’Neills’ with any intention of killing. They were there to teach a lesson to a couple of pimps who couldn’t complain to the cops. Plus, they had to figure Patero would cover for them if anything went wrong. Get the prints, Sarge. It couldn’t hurt.”
Pat Cohan took the envelope in his hand, thanked the officer who’d delivered it, then closed the front door of his Bayside home. Don’t smirk, he told himself. In fact, don’t even smile. Model yourself on Little Jack Burns. No one’s seen him smile in years.
Little Jack operated Burns Funeral Parlor on Utopia Parkway. His gravely sympathetic expression never changed, not even when he added up the tab and took your check. Not even when he deposited your check. The rumor was that his wife had left him because she didn’t like sleeping with a corpse. Little Jack put that same expression on the face of every stiff he touched. What Mrs. Burns didn’t know (and didn’t want to know) was who was imitating who.
So that was it. Jack Burns all the way. In recognition of Kate’s loss. Which, Pat Cohan supposed, must seem just like a real death.
“Daddy? Breakfast’s ready.”
“Be right there.” He took a second to examine his reflection in a mirror hanging over the mantle. His hands fluttered up to his hair, but there was nothing for them to do. His mane was perfect.
He came into the kitchen to find his wife sitting at the table. Rose was praying over her food, as usual. Or, at least, he guessed she was praying. He couldn’t understand a word of it. Her mumbling sounded more like a continuous low belch than human speech.
“Morning, Kate,” he said.
“Is something wrong, Daddy?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know.” Kate shook her head and laughed. “You sounded like you were going to a funeral.”
“A funeral? Well, I suppose it’s not so far off.”
Kate put down the pot she was scouring and shut off the water in the sink. “What’s wrong, daddy?”
He took a deep breath before speaking. “Stanley’s going to be arrested, Kate. You don’t know how sorry I am to have to tell you, but it’s better you hear it from me. I’ve got a copy of the warrant in my hand.” He passed it over and waited until she was looking at it before continuing. “It happened last night. Stanley assaulted another police officer.”
“But, why?”
“The officer was on surveillance. He was following Stanley when it happened. I can only assume that Stanley lost his temper. The nets are closing, Kate, and he knows it. Maybe the pressure was too much and he reverted to what he spent so many years training to do. It doesn’t matter. The officer was badly beaten. He’s in the hospital and he’ll stay there for a week.”
Pat Cohan watched his daughter cry for a moment, then reached out and took her in his arms. Her sobs, he noted, blended nicely with his wife’s mumbling. They gave some variety to the general drone.
“My darlin’ Kathleen,” he whispered, “my darlin’, darlin’ Kathleen. Life doesn’t always work out the way you expect it to. Sometimes there’s an awful lot of pain. What you’ve got to be is strong, girl. Strong enough to face the losses. Now, there’s something I think you should do. I think you should call Stanley.”
“I can’t, Daddy. I can’t do that.”
“He’s going to need a lawyer, Kate. The sooner, the better. Somebody has to warn him and I think it should be you.”
“Please, Daddy. You do it. I can’t.”
“He needs to know that you know.”
Kate shook her head. “You’re talking like it’s all over, but I still love him. It doesn’t just disappear.”
“All the more reason. If there’s any hope for the future, you’ve got to be honest with him.”
Pat Cohan could read his daughter’s indecision, see her mind jumping back and forth. Yes or no? Yes or no? Like pulling the petals off a daisy. In the end, he knew, she’d decide to obey her father. Yes, she’d decide to obey, and that decision, once made, would cut Stanley Moodrow out of her life forever. It was her father she’d be choosing, whether she knew it or not. Her father over her lover. Not that he, Pat Cohan, enjoyed seeing his darlin’ Kathleen in such obvious pain. He was doing it because it was necessary. Because if he let Stanley Moodrow, a rookie, triumph over Inspector Pat Cohan, he might as well hike on down to Jack Burns’s place and pick out a coffin.
“All right, Daddy, I’ll do it. But I want you to listen to what he says. If he has a defense, I want you to hear it.”
“Fine, Kate. I’ll pick up in my office.”
He was tempted to run for the phone, like a kid for a cookie, but he held himself in check. What he had to do was savor the moment. That was his first obligation. Stroll through the parlor, light a fat Cuban cigar, blow a thick white smoke-ring at the ceiling. Sure, he was getting old. Sure, he was rushing headlong toward retirement and a rocking chair. But, still …
When he finally picked up the phone, it was already ringing.
“Hello.”
“Stanley, it’s Kate.”
“How ya doin’, Kate?” Moodrow’s voice, much to Pat Cohan’s disgust, was soft and gentle. “I’ve been thinking about you. Wondering when you’d call.”
“Don’t, Stanley. Please don’t make it any harder. I’m calling to say you’re about to be arrested for assaulting a police officer. I’m warning you, so that you can get a lawyer.”
“ ‘Get a lawyer?’ ” Moodrow began to laugh. “That’s gotta be your father talking. Gotta be.”
“You think it’s funny. I’ve seen the warrant.”
“That sounds like your father, too. Tell me something, Kate, did he bring it home or did he have it delivered? Maybe he suggested that you call me?”
“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?” Kate was close to an explosion. It was obvious to both listeners.
“Look, Kate, I’ve got a terrific headache. I looked in my medicine chest and all I can find are Carter’s Little Liver Pills. What I was trying to do, before you called, was figure out how they got there. It’s a mystery, see. Like how I can be arrested for getting smacked on the head with a baseball bat. What I’m laughing at is the way things work out.”
“Are you saying you’re innocent?”
“What I’m saying is that your father’s guilty. He’s guilty and he’s gonna pay.”
“Stanley, the arrest warrant’s for you, not Daddy.”
“What happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?” He waited for Kate to respond, but she kept silent. “The thing is that you’ve already made a choice. Whether you know it or not.”
“But I still love you. I do.”
“Love isn’t enough. It just isn’t.”
“So, that’s it? There’s nothing more to be said?”
“That’s it for now. Later on, maybe …”
“Goodbye, Stanley. And good luck. You’re going to need it.”
Pat Cohan, puffing at his cigar, imagined his daughter sitting by the phone in the kitchen. He could almost see her shoulders heaving as she sobbed into her cupped hands. He should, he knew, go out to comfort her. He should take her in his arms, hold her gently until her tears dried, tell her that he’d do everything possible for poor, misguided Stanley Moodrow. But there was one more thing to be accomplished before he saw to his daughter’s needs. He picked up the receiver and quickly dialed Stanley Moodrow’s number.
“Yeah?”
“Stanley, boyo, how’s it going? How’s your headache?”
“Gettin’ better, Pat. I found some Buffer
in over the sink. How’s things by you?”
“Couldn’t be finer.”
“Glad to hear it. By the way, did Samuelson tell you that I have a signed copy of the complaint? He tell you there’s a baseball bat with my blood on it? He tell you the suspect wasn’t wearing gloves, so if the bat’s wiped clean of prints, someone’s got a lot of explaining to do? He …”
“Don’t waste your breath, Stanley. I’m not a fool. I know the arrest won’t stick. But it will take your gun and badge away. It will tie you up for the next couple of months. It will give me time to think of something else. How does corruption sound?”
“It sounds like you’ve gone off the deep end. It sounds like you’re ready for a straitjacket. It sounds like you’re willing to sacrifice your daughter to get to me.”
“Ah, Kate. Well, boyo, I’ve made a few mistakes in my life and matching you up with Kate was the worst of ’em. Not that mistakes can’t be corrected.
Not that I won’t have grandchildren to comfort me in my old age.”
“Tell me something, Pat. What’re you gonna do when she figures it out?”
“That’s never going to happen, boyo. You and Kate are finished.”
“Don’t count your chickens, Pat. It only leads to disappointment. By the way, you got your people waiting outside to arrest me?”
“Actually, I do. And as soon as I make a phone call, they’ll be on their way up. See you in jail, boyo.”
Moodrow, working quickly, gathered up the statements given by Al and Betty O’Neill, the complaint form signed by Rosten and Samuelson, and his personal notebooks. What he had to do was get them safe. If the arresting officers decided to search his apartment (which they would) and found the papers (which they also would), he’d have about the same chance of survival as a mouse in a lion’s cage.
He left his apartment, walked down two flights and knocked on Greta Bloom’s door.
“Stanley, come in, please.”
“I haven’t got time, Greta. What I’ve got is a problem and being as you’re the one who got it started, I figure you won’t mind helping me out.”
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