January 3
Patrick Francis Matthew Cohan lingered in the bedroom of his ten-room Bayside home, despite the fact that most of his guests had already arrived. He knew his guests were out there, having met each of them at the door. He also knew about the gusty winds blowing through the borough of Queens. Those winds had greeted him each time he opened the door and now he was thoroughly absorbed in the task of patting rebellious strands of feathery white hair back into place.
Pat Cohan was always careful with his hair because he wore it long, despite the current fashion. There was no rebellion involved in the style he preferred. (Patrick Cohan was, after all, a full inspector in the NYPD, not some Greenwich Village beatnik.) It was just that a tall, broadly built, fifty-nine-year-old Irishman with a thick head of silvery hair couldn’t, on pain of being declared a Protestant, wear that hair in a two-inch brush cut.
Pat Cohan thought of his hair as “the mane,” called it that as he worked each strand into place. “Guess it’s time to tame the mane.” His daughter, Kathleen, liked to tease him about the amount of time he spent in front of the mirror. Pat didn’t particularly like to be teased-he only took it from “my darlin’ Kathleen”-but he also knew it was important that his hair always be neatly combed. Short hair, in 1958, was a badge of patriotism, the physical equivalent of a loyalty oath.
Satisfied that every hair was firmly in place, Pat Cohan drew himself up to his full height and measured the result of his efforts. His “mane” floated above a large skull, just as it was supposed to. It framed his broad brow, strong assertive jaw and blue, blue eyes. He liked to describe those eyes (to himself, at least) as the color of an Irish lake under a cloudless sky.
Of course, there were the negatives. (There were bound to be negatives when you were on the wrong side of fifty and tied to a desk.) His once-flat belly had gone the way of his colleagues’ hair. And Pat Cohan had jowls, too, and the florid complexion and small broken veins of the habitual drinker. Not that he was a drunk, by any means. Alcohol was the curse of the Irish and every Irishman knew it. But the functions he was expected to attend as an NYPD inspector often required him to stand in a little circle of politicians with a drink in his hand. There were only forty-two inspectors in the 24,000-man NYPD and they spent as much time on the politics of the job as they did on policing the City of New York.
But not tonight. Tonight was special. This was a ‘friends only’ occasion and Pat Cohan’s definition of the word ‘friend’ excluded all politicians. As far as Pat Cohan was concerned, politicians, with their addiction to public opinion, were only one step above the journalists who created that opinion.
“Not bad, Pat,” he said to himself, pulling his vest down over his belly. He was wearing a black three-piece suit cut from the finest Irish broadcloth and tailored by a Lithuanian from the Yorkville section of Manhattan. The black suit was his trademark and, offset by a starched white shirt and a blue tie that matched his eyes, it made him instantly recognizable, even from a distance, whenever he was out of uniform.
Pat Cohan was just about to return to his guests when someone knocked softly on the closed bedroom door. The door opened before he had a chance to offer an invitation and Detective Lieutenant Salvatore Patero entered. Patero, Cohan noted, was wearing his customary white, two-button cardigan, a duplicate of the cardigans Bing Crosby wore on the golf course. Pat Cohan, who’d seen many similar sweaters on Salvatore Patero’s back, felt that putting a guinea into the Crooner’s cardigan was like putting the vestments of a Cardinal on a gibbering ape.
“Salvatore, my boy,” Pat Cohan said quietly, “it’s not polite to barge into another man’s bedroom.”
Patero’s thick, dark eyebrows shot up in wonder. The gesture was habitual and every bit as conscious as Pat Cohan’s hearty Irish handshake. “I knocked, didn’t I? I mean, your wife’s in the other room, Pat.”
Cohan sighed and let the matter drop. The guineas were coming into the Department in larger and larger numbers. You had to make a place for them, but that didn’t mean they were civilized. Civility would take another generation to master. At least.
“Let’s hear the news, boyo. And would you try to make it good news. We’re celebratin’ my daughter’s engagement tonight.”
Everything about Salvatore Patero was sharp, from his chin to his chiseled Roman nose to his wiry hair. Even his slim, muscular body was all knees and elbows. Patero didn’t particularly like cops. He didn’t like being a cop, but “like” just wasn’t part of the deal for kids from large families. Not when it came to choosing a profession. Patero had first gone out to work when he was eleven years old, carrying milk, eggs and butter from a horse-drawn cart to the doorsteps of Brooklyn housewives. He certainly liked being a cop better than that.
“I spoke to Accacio. I told him exactly what you said.”
“Which was what, Sal?”
Patero held his temper. Maybe, one glorious day in the future, the pompous Irish assholes who ruled the Department would be driven out, but he’d be long retired before it happened. “I told him how unhappy the Department was about what happened at the whorehouse. I told him I didn’t know if we should protect a guy who can’t take care of his own business, who hires amateurs instead of professionals. I told him it’s not nineteen twenty-five anymore. Civilians ain’t supposed to get hurt, much less dead. You got a problem, put it in a Jersey swamp where it belongs.”
“I’ll bet he loved hearing that.”
“He didn’t react much. I mean he didn’t seem frightened or anything. He told me the thing at the O’Neills’ was an accident. He said if there was any heat coming down, he’d cut off the links between his people and the event.”
“The lad is takin’ steps to protect himself,” Cohan interrupted. “How nice. Does he think we’re worried about him?”
Patero threw his palms up in the air and shrugged his shoulders. “What could I say, Pat? It’s the practical thing to do. I mean, I know you can handle your end, but there’s pressure comin’ down from the precinct.”
“From exactly who in the precinct? I’ve already spoken to the captain and he assured me …”
“We’re talkin’ about a homicide, Pat, not about gambling and whores. It’s not a thing a detective can ignore.”
“Be serious, boyo. Dead Puerto Ricans are as expendable as you guineas were forty years ago. Tell our friend Accacio that he needn’t fear the Seventh Precinct. He should be afraid of me.”
“That’s what I told him.” Patero absorbed the remark about “you guineas.” It was the price he had to pay and he knew it. “Look, Pat, I just wanna go on the record about this. We’re not doing the right thing, here. I’m not saying we should go out and bust Steppy Accacio. But I am saying we should let the investigation take its course. It was a homicide.”
“You finished, Sal?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now, I want to speak to you about my prospective son-in-law.”
“Stan ‘The Man’ Moodrow? The hero?” Patero laughed softly, covering his mouth with his hand.
“Shut up, Sal.” Pat Cohan’s voice demanded obedience. He waited until he got it, before continuing. “If you think what he did was nothing, boyo, you could always arrange to get in the ring with him. Maybe you could teach him a lesson.”
Patero’s face reddened. Like most cops, he didn’t react well to having his courage challenged, but he couldn’t very well punch the shit out of Pat Cohan, he being a lousy detective and Patrick Cohan a full inspector. Besides, Pat Cohan wasn’t that far off the mark. Salvatore Patero would sooner have been assigned to the Bomb Squad than get in the ring with Stanley Moodrow.
“Don’t take it the wrong way, Pat. I know Stanley’s got the balls of an elephant. Besides, I like the kid.”
“That’s good to hear, boyo, because you’ll be seein’ a lot of him. Stanley’s gettin’ his gold shield tonight, though for the life of me, I can’t see why he wants it.” Pat Cohan had nothing but contempt for the “elite” Detective Division. They strutted through the precincts in their suits and overcoats like roosters in a barnyard, but they rarely had two dimes to rub together. You couldn’t blame young cops for being drawn to the Gold Shield, but the truth was that there was no money to be made from assignments to the Missing Persons Bureau or the Photographic Unit or the Crime Laboratory. The only potential money maker in the Detective Division was the Narcotics Bureau. Fifteen years earlier, when Pat Cohan was a mere precinct captain, heroin had been a minor part of the crime pantheon. Now, it was the scourge of the city.
“What I want you to do, Sal,” he continued, “is show him the ropes. I want you to take him around with you.”
“Look, Pat, I don’t give out assignments …”
“He’ll be assigned to you. It’s already taken care of.”
Patero shook his head. “You’re makin’ a mistake here. You oughta put the kid in a decent squad and let him work his way up. The way you wanna do it, he’s gonna be the most unpopular suit in the precinct.”
“Stanley Moodrow’s going to marry my daughter. I don’t want him takin’ her back to some Lower East Side tenement after the honeymoon.” Pat Cohan’s voice was devoid of any Irish charm. “Darlin’ Kathleen” was his only child. His only surviving child. His son, Peter, had been lost in the waters off Omaha Beach. They hadn’t even found his body.
“All right, Pat, I catch your drift. But I got my doubts that you’ll get what you’re after. The kid wants to be a detective. He wants to solve crimes, make arrests. It’s only natural.”
Pat Cohan thought it over for a minute. There was more than a little truth in Patero’s argument. Stanley Moodrow was naive.
“Boyo,” Cohan said, “you may be right, but the thing of it is that I’ve got a little problem. Stanley’s tough as nails. He’s also smart and ambitious, and I suppose that’s all to the good. But he doesn’t know anything about how the Department operates. I want him to find out before he marries my daughter.”
Stanley Moodrow stood in the center of Pat Cohan’s living room, his left arm draped about the shoulders of his fiancee, Kathleen, and recited the details of his recent victory to several newly arrived guests. It was the fifth re-telling of the evening, but there was no way he could get out of it. The guests were all cops and they all outranked him.
“Were you trying to get him to come after you? Was that a plan or a lucky break?” The cop standing in front of him (Moodrow couldn’t remember his name or his rank) was middle-aged and stubby. As he spoke, he pulled on the thoroughly chewed end of a long cigar, sending clouds of smoke into the champion’s face.
What Moodrow wanted, more than anything else, was to sit down. No, lie down. His upper body ached, every inch of it, from his neck to his waist. His right shoulder spit fire whenever he lifted it to shake another hand.
“I had to make him come to me,” Moodrow said. “I knew I couldn’t catch him.”
What he knew was that he looked like one of the gargoyles on St. Patrick’s Cathedral. X rays had shown that his nose wasn’t as badly broken as he and Epstein had thought, but it was definitely broken. The doctor in the Bellevue Hospital emergency room had fitted his nose with a V-shaped metal plate, then covered the plate and half of Moodrow’s face with white surgical tape.
But the doctor hadn’t bothered to cover the eleven stitches he’d put in his patient’s eyebrow. They stood out like insects, like ants, and drew even more attention to the swelling around Moodrow’s eye. The bruise hadn’t begun to darken yet. It was still red and puffy, but within a few days it would turn black, then green, then yellow. It wouldn’t disappear for a week.
Moodrow’s three inquisitors, the ritual of congratulations now complete, turned tail and headed for the bar. Moodrow watched them with contempt. How was it possible that what he did in the ring somehow made them better? It was funny how they were perfectly willing to share in the victory, but they couldn’t feel any of the pain. They could raise their shoulders without a twinge and they did so eagerly, glasses of Irish whiskey clutched in their hands.
“How ya doin’, Stanley?” Kathleen Cohan’s arm encircled his waist and squeezed. The gesture was meant to be affectionate, but the sharp protest from his bruised ribs made it seem more like atrocious assault.
“Easy, Kate. My ribs are killing me. You got any aspirin?” He looked down at her upturned face and smiled. She was so perfectly, wonderfully Irish, with her pug nose and blue eyes and the spray of freckles high on each cheek. He could never quite accept the fact that she loved him. Especially since she hated violence. He’d managed to get the attention of half the Department with his fists, but what in the world had gotten her attention?
“Sure, I’ll get you some,” she said, but before she could move away, her father entered the room and approached the two of them.
“You okay, boyo?” he said to Moodrow.
“I’d like to make it a short night, if you don’t mind, Pat. My face feels like a water balloon.”
“I understand,” he replied shortly. Moodrow’s air of independence irritated Pat Cohan. It wasn’t that Moodrow didn’t want to show the proper attitude. He just didn’t know how. “I’ll make the announcements right away.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned to his guests. “Your attention, ladies and gentlemen. Your attention, if you please. I’ve two important announcements to make.” He paused while the assembled cops and cops’ wives moved closer. “The first thing I have to say is that Patrolman Stanley Moodrow is a patrolman no more.” He held up a thin leather billfold, hesitated for a moment, then let it drop open to reveal the coveted gold shield. “He is now to be called Detective, Third Grade, Stanley Moodrow.” Cohan handed the billfold to Moodrow. “My heartiest congratulations.” He grabbed Moodrow’s sore right hand and gave it his Irish best. “If ever a man deserved his reward, it’s you, boyo.”
The guests, on cue, broke into light applause. Pat Cohan held up his hands, palms out, and the applause stopped. “I don’t want to belittle Stanley’s victory the other night, but …” He wrapped his arm around his daughter’s waist and pulled her close. “But long after Stanley Moodrow’s pugilistic skills have evaporated, long after his triumph is forgotten, he’ll still be savoring the fruits of his second victory which I announce here tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, my good friends, and, you, too, Salvatore.” He paused again, waiting for the laughter to fade. “As of this night, Detective Stanley Moodrow and my darlin’ Kathleen, my one true treasure, are engaged to be married. May their union be long and healthy. And may they not wait too long to give me a grandson.”
Pat Cohan raised his glass on high. Thirty other glasses rose to meet it. “Hurrah,” Pat shouted. “Hurrah,” they answered.
“ ‘Ah, my darlin’ Kathleen,’ ” Moodrow imitated. “ ‘My one true treasure.’ ”
“Stop it, Stanley.” Kathleen Cohan somehow managed to shake her head in disapproval and giggle at the same time. She loved her daddy with all her heart, but sometimes he was pompous. Kathleen was twenty-two years old, too old to be called ‘my darlin’ Kathleen,’ but Daddy was Daddy and no one told Pat Cohan what to call his own daughter.
They were standing in a small closed porch. The front door was open behind them and they could hear the buzz of conversation from inside the house.
“And why would ya be so hard on me, girlo, when I’m only after larnin’ the ways of the Department?”
“He doesn’t talk like that.” Now she was laughing out loud. “Stanley, you’re terrible.”
Kathleen Cohan, educated by the nuns and priests from kindergarten through college, had been a good girl all her life. Upon graduation from St. Mary’s College, she’d chosen to teach at Sacred Heart Grammar School when she could have gotten a lot more money teaching public school. But she didn’t want to get away from the faith any more than she wanted to get away from the father who needed her so much. Needed her because her mother had walked away from the family on the day the telegram had come, the one announcing the death of Rose Cohan’s only son. Her only son and, for all the affection she’d ever shown her daughter, her only child. She’d walked away from the family and buried herself in the broad bosom of her faith.
Kathleen Cohan never spent much time worrying about her mother. She was a practical woman and there was too much to be done at home. The house had to be cared for and even if she didn’t have to do it herself, she still had to supervise the colored girl who came in twice a week. And somebody had to balance Daddy’s checkbook and pay the mortgage and get the plumber when the pipes leaked.
“Stanley?” she whispered.
“No.”
“How do you know what I’m going to say?”
“I don’t want to live here. I don’t want to live with your father.” He would have given her his most determined look, the one with the narrowed eyes and the pinched lips, but his face hurt too much. He had to settle for saying ‘want to’ instead of ‘wanna.’
They’d been having the same argument for months, ever since her father made the offer. They’d probably be having it until the day he moved her into her own apartment. Not that he was complaining. What he liked best about Kathleen Cohan was her stubborn determination. Most of the time she dressed like a high-school girl. Right now, she was wearing a starched white blouse and a blue pleated skirt that covered her knees. Add that to the freckles and the long, honey-blonde hair and she seemed as insubstantial (and as sexy) as the fairy on a bottle of White Rock ginger ale. But underneath that schoolgirl uniform, she wasn’t insubstantial at all. She was heavy-boned and solid and believed in herself as much as she believed in her God. Or her father.
Ignoring the sharp twinge in his shoulder, Moodrow put his arms around Kathleen and pulled her in close. He kissed her on the lips and felt her mouth open beneath his. He wanted to slide his hand down over her buttocks, but the door was open and there was always a chance one of the assembled cops would look up from his drink at the wrong time. Besides, she was undoubtedly wearing a girdle-she almost always wore a girdle under her dresses and skirts because it gave her that “smooth line.” Girdles, in Moodrow’s estimation, were the modern equivalent of the medieval chastity belt. You couldn’t seduce a woman wearing a girdle. You couldn’t slide a girdle over a woman’s hips. It took so long to get it off, the act had to be deliberate, had to be premeditated. It couldn’t just happen.
But maybe that was all to the good. More than a few of Moodrow’s peers had gotten their girlfriends pregnant despite the conscientious use of Trojans. Almost all those peers had done the right thing, but he knew of one girl who’d gone uptown for an abortion and come back home on a slab. The suits had tracked down the doctor who’d implicated the boyfriend who was now doing eight to twelve in Sing-Sing. Moodrow, having listened carefully to Pat Cohan’s warnings, would rather do the time than confess that he’d gotten the Inspector’s daughter pregnant. Pat Cohan was president of the NYPD Holy Name Society. He was an officer in the Knights of Columbus and a patron of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He would neither be understanding nor forgiving.
Of course, that didn’t mean there weren’t times when they’d worked up enough heat to scorch the plastic cover on Inspector Pat Cohan’s living-room couch. Times when darlin’ Kathleen had pressed Moodrow’s face into her breasts, not even bothering with the ritual “no,” not protesting even when his lips and tongue ran over the smooth skin of her belly. Times when she’d opened her legs to allow his fingers to work their way under her slacks, her white cotton underpants.
“Doesn’t this hurt?” Kathleen asked, pulling back.
Moodrow touched his fingers to his puffy lips. “It does, now that you mention it.”
She reached out and took his left hand, bringing it to her cheek. “I have to go back inside.”
“Why? Your father’s in his glory. He wouldn’t care if you stayed out here until tomorrow morning. He probably wouldn’t even notice.”
“Stanley, it’s freezing. I don’t have a coat on.” She took a step back, but continued to hold onto his hand. “I won’t see you for three days.”
“Unless you visit me.” Moodrow had three days’ vacation coming to him and he intended to pass them going from his bed to a hot bath to the kitchen table. He was scheduled to report to the lieutenant at the 7th on Tuesday morning and he didn’t want to walk into the squadroom a cripple.
“I can’t, Stanley.” She dropped his hand and looked down at her shoes. “Daddy …”
“I can understand ‘old-fashioned.’ Your father wants to protect you and I guess that’s all to the good. But you’re not sixteen years old. You’re a college graduate, a working woman. And we’re engaged, for Christ’s sake.”
“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”
Moodrow put his hands on Kathleen’s waist-he wanted to put them on her shoulders, but he couldn’t raise his hands that high-and looked directly into her eyes. “If you wanna wait until you’re married to become a woman, that’s okay with me. And I’m not talking about sex, either. But once the priest says ‘I now pronounce you man and wife,’ you’ve gotta stop being ‘darlin’ Kathleen’ and start being Katie Moodrow. What scares me is that I don’t think you have any idea who Katie Moodrow is. I can see the woman in you, but you can’t. Or won’t.”
“You can be very hateful, Stanley.”
“I don’t wanna marry your daddy.”
“He needs me, too.”
“Katie, your mother spends half the day in church and the other half in her room with a rosary. It’s sad, but it’s not your fault. Just tell Pat that you’re coming to see me and let that be the end of it. You’re twenty-two years old and you’re engaged to be married. That entitles you to come to my apartment when I’m too sore to get up and come to you.”
She didn’t want him to leave like that. Didn’t want him to walk out carrying the same argument they’d been having for months. This was 1958. He was right about that. She should be able to do as she pleased, guided by her own conscience and not her father’s.
“I’ll try,” she said. “I’m not promising, but I’ll try.”
“Good,” Moodrow grunted, “because as soon as I get you inside, I’m gonna lock the door, rip off your clothes and force you to do ten or fifteen obscene acts I learned from all the prostitutes I was forced to arrest in the course of doing my duty.”
“Stanley, you’re impossible.” She was grinning up at him, happy again. He had a way of making things better, of easing their arguments. As if he knew it would be all right, even if she didn’t.
“Not impossible, Katie. Just very, very unlikely.”