“Two-gun Jake,” Jake Leibowitz said to himself. “Fastest Jew in the Wild Wild East.” He admired himself in the mirror for a moment, adjusting the two.45’s. One, his own, rested in a custom-made shoulder rig. The other, formerly the property of Abraham Weinberg, was snugged into the waistband of his trousers.
What a fool he’d been to hold onto Abe’s automatic. It was a murder weapon, for Christ’s sake. What a double fool he’d been for believing Joe Faci when Faci insisted the matter had been taken care of. Well, it didn’t make any difference now. Because he’d decided not to run. Because the wops had killed Izzy. Because he’d had enough bullshit to last for a lifetime. A short lifetime.
Who are they gonna send? he thought. It won’t be Steppy or Faci or Santo, because he’d kill any one of those bastards the minute he laid eyes on him. No, they’d have to find a stranger, one of those faceless guineas who hung around the social clubs looking to get discovered. If Accacio was really connected, of course, he’d bring in a pro from out of town, but Jake had long ago stopped believing that Steppy Accacio was anything more than an ambitious neighborhood punk.
Jake thought of all the crow he’d eaten trying to get in with Dominick Favara. What a waste of time that had been. Favara wouldn’t save him. Not with Izzy gone. Why should he? Favara could wait for the garbage to sort itself out, then make his move. One thing for sure, there wasn’t going to be any dealing in the projects on Avenue D while Jake Leibowitz was alive. Not by Accacio, not by Favara, not by nobody.
“I hate this shit. I hate it.”
God, how he missed Izzy. God, how he hated being completely alone. It was like being locked up in isolation with the hacks on the way to administer a midnight beating. You could play the wall, take out one or two with your fists, but sooner or later you’d be overwhelmed and the beating would be all the worse because you had the balls to fight back.
“Maybe I oughta take a trip,” he said. “Maybe I oughta take a trip out to New Jersey, stop in and see old Steppy.”
“Jake? Who ya talkin’ to?”
Mama Leibowitz came through the door like she owned the place. Which, Jake supposed, she did.
“This is my bedroom, ma,” Jake said. “You could at least ask if I’m decent.”
“As if you got something I ain’t already seen. What’s with all the guns? You think maybe you’re Jesse James?”
Jake sighed. “We got trouble, ma. And we gotta be careful. Don’t open the door to anyone ya don’t know, even if it’s the cops. Let ’em kick the door in, but don’t open it voluntarily. And don’t stand in front of the door when you’re askin’ who it is, either.”
“Pogrom,” Ma Leibowitz whispered. “Pogrom,” she repeated.
“Yeah, ma, only this time they’re doin’ it with Italian Cossacks.” Jake had heard all the stories about the old country, about living on the Polish-Russian border, about soldiers who killed Jews because the soldiers were drunk and didn’t have anything better to do. Or because it was Christmas and driving a sword through a Jewish body seemed like a good way to celebrate the birth of Jesus.
“Wait here a minute, Jakey. There’s something I gotta show you.”
Damn, Jake thought, for a fat woman, she can sure move fast. He watched his mother fly out the door, then reappear a moment later with the largest revolver Jake had ever seen. The barrel was at least eight inches long.
“Where the fuck you get that?”
“Your grandfather bought it when he first came over. That was 1891. He gave it to his son, your father, when your father went into business for himself. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is what makes America great. In Poland, only the goyim have guns.’ ”
Jake shook his head in wonder. “Lemme see it, ma.” He took the revolver and hefted it in his palm. The damn thing felt like it weighed ten pounds. And it was so dirty, it was more likely to kill the person holding it than anyone else. He cracked the cylinder open and yanked out the swollen cartridges.
“Jeez,” he said, “forty-five caliber. Did Poppa use this on jobs?”
“You think he pointed with his finger? Bang, bang, bang?”
“Take it easy, ma. I ain’t bustin’ balls …”
“Stop with the language, already.”
“Sorry. What I’m gonna do is clean this sucker up good and load it with new ammo. If you gotta shoot it, hold it with both hands, because it’s gonna kick back hard. In fact, don’t shoot at all if ya don’t absolutely have to. Better you should just whack ’em with it. A good crack with this gun’d most likely kill a moose.”
Ma Leibowitz sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you think we should maybe leave town?”
“They killed Izzy, ma.” Jake noted his mother’s sharp reaction. “And they killed Abe Weinberg, too. Me, I don’t feel like runnin’.”
“Ha, just like your father. So tell me, what am I supposed to do in my old age? Maybe I could shrivel up like a dried bug. From starvation, already.”
“I got a few grand stashed away. That oughta hold ya for a year or so.”
“Jakey, listen to your mamaleh. It’s better we should leave the Lower East Side. We could maybe go out to Williamsburg.”
“Jesus, ma, Williamsburg’s only a mile away. It’s right over the goddamned bridge.”
“But it’s not here. That’s the difference.”
Jake smiled. He couldn’t help it. “You’re nuts, ma.”
“All right, then. Brighton Beach. We could move to Brighton Beach. That’s practically a foreign country.”
“It’s still Brooklyn. Sooner or later, they’d find me, the cops or the guineas. What am I supposed to do, spend my whole life tryin’ to watch my back? I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory. Like Poppa did.”
Stanley Moodrow pulled back the curtain and stared down at the street below. It was pea soup out there again. A blend of morning fog and fine rain obscured a winter sun that wouldn’t get high enough to shine between the tenements, anyway. He dropped the curtain and plucked a black trenchcoat from the hall closet. As he pulled open the front door, he took a moment to admire himself in the mirror.
“Ya know something, Stanley,” he said, “you’re in danger of looking like a goddamned detective. Your whole body’s shoutin’ Cop, Cop, Cop.”
It was funny. One of the prime benefits of the Gold Shield was not having to wear an NYPD uniform, not having to carry all that crap around your waist. What did everyone, patrolman and detective alike, call detectives? Suits? So why did the “suits” end up looking so much alike they might as well be wearing uniforms?
Moodrow was carrying a small bag when he left, enough underwear and socks for a few days, plus his shaving kit and toothbrush. He stopped down at Greta’s to hand over Sal Patero’s signed statement. Patero, uninjured, had been gone for almost an hour. Moodrow wasn’t worried about what the lieutenant might or might not do. Most likely, the worry was coming from the opposite direction.
“Another Christmas present, Greta,” he said as she opened the door.
“Hanukah gelt, more likely,” Greta answered, taking the folded looseleaf sheets.
“I’m gonna be gone a couple of days. Something came up and I decided not to surrender. If you need to get in touch with me, I’ll probably be sleeping at Berrigan’s Gym. It’s in the phone book. If not, I’ll give you a call as soon as I can.
Greta nodded thoughtfully. “You’re sure you don’t want to stay with me?”
“No, they’ll be watching the building.”
“Well, good luck, Stanley. And be careful.”
“Caution. That’s my middle name.” Moodrow started to turn away, then thought better of it. “Greta, if something should happen to me …”
“Don’t talk like that, kayn aynhoreh.”
“It isn’t the evil eye that worries me, Greta. It’s the evil forty-five. Anyway, if something happens to me, something permanent, I want you to take those papers and burn them. Understand?”
“No, I don’t.”
“They’re insurance papers. Life insurance papers. No life, no insurance.”
Greta sniffed loudly. “From revenge, you don’t wanna know, right?”
“What’s the point of revenge if you’re not around to enjoy it? Those papers are like a virus. You put them out in the world, you don’t know who’s gonna get hurt.”
Moodrow was tempted to sneak out through the basement, but decided against it. What was the point? He wasn’t particularly afraid of an arrest and he didn’t intend to crawl through the Lower East Side. In fact, what he intended to do was pay a visit to Pearse O’Malley, who was being guarded by a cop. If the cop had been warned to look out for a certain detective, third grade, named Stanley Moodrow, he wouldn’t make it through the morning.
Still, he found himself looking in both directions as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He didn’t see any cops, but a brand-new Cadillac parked across the street caught his attention. The man sitting behind the wheel certainly appeared to be on a stakeout, even if the Cadillac was a bit conspicuous.
Moodrow’s first impulse was to cross the street and confront whoever it was, but before he could move, the man rolled down the window and waved to him.
“Hey, Stanley,” he yelled. “C’mere.”
C’mere? Moodrow stood on the sidewalk and stared across at the Cadillac. The car was parked in shadow and he couldn’t make out the features of the man sitting behind the wheel. As he watched, the Cadillac pulled out into the center of the one-way street, then backed up until it was right in front of him.
“Don’t be a hard-head, Stanley. I just wanna talk to ya.”
“Carmine?”
“Ya remember me. I’m flattered.”
Carmine Stettecase was a notorious bully who’d gone through St. Stephen’s two years ahead of Stanley Moodrow. They’d had any number of battles until, somewhere toward the end of grammar school, Carmine had decided to leave his younger schoolmate alone. Predictably, Carmine had left school in ninth grade to go into business with his Uncle Stefano, a small-time bookie. Five years later, when Uncle Stefano dropped dead in a bar on Grand Street, Carmine had recruited his old buddy, Dominick Favara, another of Moodrow’s contemporaries, to help him out with the business. Over time, as they’d moved into prostitution, loan-sharking and heroin, Favara had become the boss and Carmine the worker.
Moodrow knew all about Stettecase and Favara. Their progress had been a common topic of conversation among St. Stephen’s alumni. He recalled standing in the rain one day, in his uniform, when Dominick had come sailing down the street in a new Chevy. Favara had gone out of his way to run through a puddle, sending a wave of muddy water splattering against Moodrow’s black rubber raincoat.
“What’s up, Carmine,” Moodrow said casually. “You decided to confess to your crimes?”
“Yeah, ha-ha, that’s a good one. Hop in, Dominick wants to talk to ya.”
Moodrow felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. For a moment, he was too excited to answer. This was the way it had to be. You pounded the streets, screamed in people’s faces, ate slammed doors, walked until your feet fell off. You kept doing it until something gave. It wasn’t about clues and brain power. It was about persistence. Persistence and, as Sam Berrigan had insisted, desire.
“What’s he want?” Moodrow asked. There was nothing to be gained by showing his excitement to Carmine Stettecase. “And why doesn’t he come to me? I’m not too crazy about taking orders from punks like Dominick Favara.”
“He can’t come to you. Whatta ya, crazy? I’m takin’ a big chance myself, so if ya don’t mind, let’s get outta here before someone sees me talkin’ to a cop.”
Moodrow strolled around to the passenger’s side and got in alongside Stettecase. “This better be good, Carmine. If it isn’t, I’m gonna haunt your ass for the next twenty years.”
“Jeez, Stanley, you ain’t changed at all. I mean I woulda hoped ya matured a little, but ya still a hard-head. Only you could think I’d do this and not be playin’ square.”
Moodrow expected a quick ride over to Little Italy, but Stettecase steered the car onto the East River Drive and headed downtown.
“Where we heading?” Moodrow asked, as they entered the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. “I oughta warn you, if you’re kidnapping me, I’m not worth shit.”
“That’s good, Stanley.” Carmine turned his moon face away from the line of traffic. “It’s good to see you’re loosenin’ up, because this here is your lucky day. I wish I could tell ya the thing Dominick’s gonna tell ya, but, hey, loose lips sink ships, right?”
“How about telling me the price I have to pay. Or are you and Dominick giving out charity in your old age?”
That was the whole thing, of course-the price. Moodrow had no doubt that Dominick Favara knew the identity of Melenguez’s killer. Or that Favara would use that information to bury Accacio. It made perfect sense. They were both from the neighborhood, both young and ambitious, both trying to find a niche in the ever-expanding heroin trade. Moodrow wondered, for a moment, if Accacio was from the neighborhood. He hadn’t gone to school at St. Stephen’s, but that meant less than nothing. There were a dozen Catholic schools in lower Manhattan.
“You didn’t answer my question, Carmine. Where we going?”
“There’s a lunchwagon on Bond and President Streets. Dominick’s waitin’ for us there.”
The hand-painted sign read Louie’s Luncheonette. Stuck between two small warehouses, it was little more than a shack with a kitchen, the kind of a place that opened at four in the morning and closed as soon as the local workers went home in the afternoon. It sold soup and sandwiches, coffee and soda, cigars and cigarettes. The french fries would be so greasy you could wring them out like wet laundry.
“Hey, Stanley,” a voice called from the back, “over here.”
“He’s in the booth,” Carmine said, as if Moodrow had suddenly gone blind.
“I could figure that out,” Moodrow said. He strode to the back of the lunchwagon, ignored Favara’s outstretched hand and sat down hard on the bench. “What’s up, Dominick?”
Favara frowned, letting his hand drop into his lap. “I don’t see why ya takin’ that attitude,” he said. “Bein’ as we was always friends at St. Stephen’s.”
“We were never friends,” Moodrow said quietly. “You were the class bully. You bullied anybody weaker than yourself. Correction, anybody you thought was weaker. I was the kid who kicked your ass.”
“He ain’t bullshittin’,” Carmine said. “Ya remember in seventh grade, Dominick? What we decided after gettin’ into about ten fights with this kid?”
“Leave Stanley alone,” the two men said in unison, then broke out laughing.
Moodrow felt his face redden. He wanted to reach across the table and smack Favara’s face, but he held himself in check. “Enjoy your joke, Dominick,” he said, “but not for too long. You got five minutes to get this over with.”
“Whatta ya gonna do?” Carmine asked. “Walk home?”
“What I’m gonna do is take the keys out of your pocket, Carmine, and drive back to the Lower East Side. That’s after I smack the shit out of you.”
“Listen, you prick …”
Dominick Favara put a restraining hand on Carmine’s shoulder. “Ya gotta forgive Carmine,” Favara said. “He ain’t used to havin’ people call his bluff.”
Moodrow grinned. “I forgive you, Carmine. But you’ll still have to stay after school and wash the blackboards. Now, what’s the story, Dominick? You gonna tell me who killed Judge Crater?”
“Would ya believe Harry Truman?”
“I’ll arrange a press conference for high noon.”
“See, Carmine?” Favara slapped his partner’s back. “I told ya he’d loosen up.”
Moodrow leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his closed fists. The truth was that Dominick Favara and Carmine Stettecase could have busted his chops for a week and he still wouldn’t walk away. He felt almost feverish, the flush of excitement something like the few seconds between knowing your opponent’s helplessness and finishing him off. Now the tension would go on for days while he gathered enough evidence to make an arrest. Until he slapped the cuffs on a killer for the first time. What Moodrow suddenly realized, his eyes boring into Dominick Favara’s as if they could push their way into Favara’s brain and pluck out the information, was that he loved his job. And that he wanted to continue doing it until he was too old to tie his shoes.
“Jeez, I hate fighters,” Favara said. “They don’t blink. You can never beat ’em when it comes to hard looks.”
“C’mon, Dominick,” Moodrow whispered. “Let’s do business.”
Favara leaned over the table, putting his face within inches of Moodrow’s. “Here’s what I heard, Stanley. I heard you’re lookin’ for the people who blasted that spic on Pitt Street. I can tell ya who was there and why they were there. I can tell ya, for instance, that the whole thing happened because some asshole panicked. I can tell ya that same asshole is now dead. Also one of his partners. I can tell ya …”
“Get to the point,” Moodrow said. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing. Right now. But maybe, somewhere in the future, I’ll ask for a favor. Nothing big, Stanley. I ain’t gonna ask ya to fix the grand jury. Sometimes I get a phone number and I need an address. For you, it’s nothin’. For me, it’s a royal pain in the ass. Plus …”
“So you can find the deadbeats, right?” Moodrow interrupted. “That’s why you’d want an address.”
“Yeah. Like that.”
“And then you can send Carmine with a baseball bat to make the collections.”
“Hey, Stanley …”
“Forget it, Dominick. Wipe that crap out of your mind. It ain’t gonna happen.” Moodrow pulled his head back, freeing his hands. “I’m gonna tell you what I told your partner. If you brought me here to jerk my chain, I’m gonna make your life miserable for the rest of my career. You’re gonna be my personal project. Days off? Vacations? Some guys take up fishing to pass the lonely hours. I’m gonna take up Dominick Favara.”
“You expect me to give it up for nothin’? I tell ya, Stanley, I’m startin’ to lose my temper.”
“Go ahead, Dominick. Go ahead and lose it. See what happens.” Moodrow leaned back and smiled. “The way I see it, Dominick, is that you and Carmine are a couple of ambitious punks. You’re both trying to move up in the world and if you can do it by putting me onto Steppy Accacio, so much the better. Look at it this way, Dominick, you tell me who killed Luis Melenguez, you’re payin’ yourself.”
“If you got all the answers, whatta ya doin’ here?”
“I’m waiting for you to cut the bullshit and say what you have to say.”
Favara looked over at his partner for a moment, then turned back to Moodrow. “That part of the Lower East Side, Pitt Street and along the river, is being run by Steppy Accacio, who you already know about. Nobody operates east of Avenue B without payin’ Steppy off. The pimp got behind on his payments. He was makin’ noises like he didn’t see why he should have to pay at all. Accacio can’t ignore this. He’s gotta do somethin’, because if he don’t, nobody’s gonna pay. You gettin’ the picture?”
“Keep goin’, Dominick. And don’t forget the punch line.”
Favara grinned. “I won’t forget, Stanley, but I gotta save it for the end. Like any good comedian. Now, what Steppy does is hire three outside guys, three Jews, to break the pimp’s face. It’s supposed to be a lesson for everyone, a real simple deal. Only this little spic walks into the middle of it and one of the Jews plugs him. The shooter, by the way, ain’t been seen since right after it happened. The word on the street is that he was punished by his partners for makin’ everybody’s life miserable.
“That was supposed to be all she wrote. It was supposed to be the whole story. Only last night, one of the Jews comes to me and says he ain’t happy with Steppy. He’s lookin’ to be on his own. Then, today, I hear from a guy who’s very close to Steppy, a mug who also wants out. He tells me the Jew’s partner got into a car with the wrong people. Now he’s sleepin’ in the trunk. Steppy’s runnin’ scared, Stanley, because the cops are puttin’ the heat on him. Which is very interestin’, seein’ as it was the cops who were supposed to fix it.”
“What about O’Neill and his wife? You know about them?”
“They seen what happened, Stanley. They had to go.”
“Who killed them?”
“The Jews. The ones who killed the spic. At least, that’s what I heard. I don’t want ya to think I was there.”
“Anything else?”
“Just the punch line, Stanley. One little, two little, three little Jewboys, right? Number one, the shooter, was named Abe Weinberg. Number two, who’s sleepin’ in a trunk, was named Izzy Stein. Number three, who’s still walkin’ around, is named Jake Leibowitz. If ya wanna play Dick Tracy and solve this crime, ya better move fast, Stanley, ’cause Mister Leibowitz ain’t gonna be around much longer. Steppy’s cuttin’ his losses.”