“You took me to a blind man, for shit sake. I swear to Christ you’re just as stupid as the first fucking day you walked into the academy. How in hell can a blind man identify someone from a picture?”
“I don’t know. You said where everybody goes, right? Well everybody goes here who lives in the neighborhood. Maybe he could put up the pictures by the magazines.”
“Yeah? Well what happens if the assholes see their faces up there? Gone, schmuck. Los Angeles, Chicago, Detroit—where there’s nobody like me to keep lookin’. I wanna tell you something. These same boys got Ronald Chadwick? These guys in the pictures? They also got one of Rita’s nephews. He wasn’t a bad kid, just hung out in the wrong place in a neighborhood that’s full of wrong places. I made a promise to Rita I’d get the pricks and I’m gonna get them. Now stop shitting it up and help me out.”
Drabek, awkward as a child berated by a parent, hemmed and hawed, then spotted his redeemer in a 1978 black Plymouth sedan. “What don’t we go try Murphy? Let’s try Murphy.”
“Murphy what?” Moodrow pleaded.
“The guy over there in the cab. He’s been around here a hundred years.”
Moodrow looking closer, acknowledged the accuracy of Drabek’s judgment. An old, wrinkled man, chewing a cigar behind the wheel of an illegal, though tolerated, gypsy cab, he’d probably driven nearly everyone in the neighborhood at one time or another.
“Now lemme handle this guy,” Drabek said. “He’s a testy little fucker. Lost his medallion fifteen years ago for punching out a city councilman. That’s why he’s driving gypsy.”
Murphy sat unmoving as they approached his car, as if he was unaware of the two cops, but as soon as Drabek, who was in uniform, bent over the open window, the cabbie started to moan.
“Why don’t you bastards just shoot me? Just pull me out of the car and shoot me like a sick dog. Harassment and harassment. That’s all you bastards do. Ain’t there any young guys you could fuck around out there? What happened ta solving crimes? Remember that? Two weeks ago a spic puts a gun to my head, takes the whole day. Do ya bring him around for me to identify? Do ya bring anyone at all around even if it ain’t the right guy? No. ‘Forget about it, Murphy,’ ya say. ‘Too many crimes and not enough cops, Murphy,’ ya say. Cause all you bastards are out harassin’ old men like me. Maybe if I painted myself with black shoe polish you’d gimme a break.”
“Take it easy,” Drabek said, his voice harsh. “You wanna get smacked? We’re looking for some people and you’re gonna help us out. Like real criminals, Murphy. Murderers.”
“Yeah? Who’d they kill?”
“They killed a friend of a friend,” Moodrow jumped in, shoving the likenesses of Johnny Katanos and his cohorts at the cabbie.
Murphy scrutinized the pictures for a few moments. “I think I seen this one, but I ain’t sure.” He held up Theresa’s portrait. “Ya don’t get such a good look in a rearview mirror.”
Moodrow, impartial, with absolutely no expectation of immediate results, nodded his head. “Can ya say when?”
“Jeez, I don’t know. Maybe is what I’m talkin’ about.”
“Well, hold on to the pictures. My phone number’s on the back. If you see any of them, give me a call. Might be I could scrape up a few hundred bucks for the guy who helps me out.”
“Few hundred?” Murphy studied the pictures more closely, as Moodrow hoped he would. “Sure thing. I’ll be watchin’ out for ’em.”
“Say, Murphy,” Drabek interrupted, elbowing Moodrow in the ribs, “tell us how the pigeons are treatin’ ya. Any progress?”
Murphy brightened immediately. “Cockroaches with feathers. That’s all the bastards are. Pigeons carry more diseases than rats and roaches combined. You know that?” The last was directed at Moodrow.
“Yeah. I read that in the Post,” Moodrow replied evenly. “Dirty birds.”
“Well, I got it down to a science, now. I mean killin’ ’em. My kill rate is up to thirty-three percent. If ya don’t believe me, take a look at the grille.”
“We believe you,” Moodrow said. “Tell us how you do it.”
“OK, ya know how the pigeons in the street wait till ya come right up on ’em with ya car before they fly away? Even if ya accelerate at the last second, they take off before ya get ’em. First I tried slowing down, then jammin’ the pedal to the floor, but they kept escapin’. Seemed like the bastards knew when I took my foot off the brake and flew up before I could get to the gas. Maybe they got pigeon radar or some shit. I mean, it was makin’ me crazy until I figured out how ta fool ’em. Now I come up on ’em with my left foot on the brake and my right foot on the gas, so it looks like I’m slowin’ down. Then, at the last second, I slide my left foot off the brake pedal, floor the motherfucker and splatter the little pricks all over the radiator. I got about four wings hangin’ off the grille right now. Go take a look.”
As Muzzafer wheeled around the block between Berry and Wythe Avenues for the third time and still encountered no guards in front of their target, no apparent security, he could contain himself no longer. He was in the habit of keeping observations to himself until he had all data at hand, but his amazement at Americans and what they took for granted, compelled him to speak.
“There’s no one here,” he observed.
“Isn’t that wonderful.” Johnny’s smile was almost happy in its intensity.
“It’s crazy. In Israel, I would suspect a trap. Even in Europe there would be soldiers here. In Europe, they know what we can do and they try to protect themselves. Americans are afraid of nothing. Except Negroes.” Nervous, he began to slap the steering wheel with his left hand, his voice rising in pitch. “I swear, Johnny, it’s their arrogance I hate so much. They think we’re the shit of the Earth. We’re laughable, with our funny talk and dark skins. Even our threats are pitiful.”
“What are you worried about, man?” Katanos answered, his expression unchanging. “So they’re stupid? Who cares? Maybe they figure the big ocean will protect them forever. Whatever way they’re bullshittin’ themselves, it’s gotta be great for us. Right?”
“Fuck them and their ocean.”
Johnny looked across at his companion for the first time, fixed him with an unsmiling stare that belied his words. “You know, you’re cute when you’re mad. And you’re always mad, so it works out fine.”
Muzzafer considered half a dozen retorts, rejecting each. He recalled the proposal Johnny had made at the party. On one level, everything the Greek said was true. The women were superfluous; he and Katanos could do it by themselves. Without any difficulty, he pictured the two of them moving from city to city, leaving behind a trail of terror. It seemed so logical, almost easy. They might go for years before they were caught.
“I’ll tell you what interests me,” Katanos continued. “It’s these ugly whores on Kent Avenue over here. I always thought whores were from people neighborhoods, but these bitches must be doin’ business with the truckers. Front-seat sex. Blow jobs before breakfast. Man, that is some ugly gash. Looks like it’s been on the streets for a thousand years. I gotta come back here some day. One thing I like is fucking bitches that don’t get off.”
If Johnny Katanos preferred women who didn’t enjoy sex, he would not have envied Stanley Moodrow’s afternoon. Sergeant Drabek, his friend, with malice aforethought, led Moodrow into Eleanor’s Oven, a small coffee shop and bakery on Grand Avenue at the intersection of the Long Island Expressway.
“Everybody goes here for coffee and pastries. Eleanor’s famous for her oven,” Drabek explained. Moodrow, preparing for his fifth cup of coffee at his fifth coffee shop, was oblivious. He was considering the geography of the 203rd Precinct, the main roads and shopping areas, trying to estimate how much time he would have to give in order to cover the territory fully. Three days, maybe four—he was determined to be thorough.
“Eleanor Allesandro,” Drabek said, interrupting the flow of Moodrow’s thoughts, “this here is one of my oldest friends on t
he force, Sergeant Stanley Moodrow from the Lower East Side.”
“Please to meet you, Sarge,” Eleanor stuck out a large, well-callused palm. About thirty-five-years old, with a broad, open face and a friendly smile, she gripped his hand tightly. Curly, black hair and eyebrows perpetually raised in amusement added lightness to features already beginning to coarsen. She was big-breasted with a butt to match.
“Hey, listen,” Drabek spoke up. “Stanley’s gonna show ya some pitchers. I gotta use the toilet, so I’ll see ya a little later.”
“C’mon in my office, Sarge. It’s too noisy out here,” Eleanor said, grinning broadly. A tiny, four-drawer desk in one corner of a small storage area represented the office. Moodrow, leaning over the desk, pulled out a set of drawings from a small briefcase.
“Ever see…”he began his usual spiel, a pitch cut off by Eleanor’s reaching from behind to squeeze his testicles, none too gently. The result, of course, was not very sexual from Moodrow’s point of view. He jumped so high he cracked his knees on the edge of the desk and ended up on the floor.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he yelled, turning to find his face three inches from the junction of her thighs.
“Don’t get nervous, Sarge,” Eleanor said softly. “I just like big guys. And judging from that handful, you could take it out and scare half the muggers in Harlem.”
Moodrow giggled. As a veteran obscene letter-writer, he appreciated sexual inventiveness. For a moment he imagined himself trying to describe the situation to Ann Landers, then came back to reality. This woman, for whatever reason, was offering him simple, guiltless sex. Not airbrushed, Playboy beauty, but sagging breasts, spread hips, cellulite thighs. Sex with Eleanor, he fantasized, would be swift, wet, and odorous. For just a moment, the beginning of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he contemplated taking a quick bite out of the roll of flesh around her waist. A goose was something Rita might have done (though not to a stranger), something she had done. He recalled an argument they’d had, with him continuing to complain even as he bent over the open refrigerator. The quick, hard squeeze she’d given him resulted in a violent collision between his head and the top shelf, followed by an avalanche of butter, eggs, milk, and two-day-old tuna casserole.
“Listen, Eleanor,” Moodrow said gently, “it ain’t that I don’t find your oven attractive, but I can’t right now. Just can’t.” He reached out to caress her cheek with the back of his hand and something in his manner convinced her. “Sorry.”
“OK, Sarge,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “but you come back, hear? I know talent when I squeeze it and I’m not hurt, but I wonder why Drabek told me you’d be real eager. He said you were definitely in need.”
A few minutes later, after discovering that Eleanor could not recall having seen any of the perpetrators, Moodrow walked outside to confront a thoroughly amused Victor Drabek.
“How’d it go?” Drabek asked innocently.
“Payback coming, Victor,” Moodrow responded. “I don’t know where or when, but definite, serious payback. Count on it.”
The rain had stopped completely by the time Johnny and Muzzafer decided to park the car and walk the block surrounding their target. The building fronted North 5th Street and ran through to North 6th, though there was no entrance on North 6th, only windows. It was nearly afternoon and the morning activity had died down at the various businesses on the block. A heavy, gray mist, the remnants of the previous rain, gave the two terrorists a sense of isolation and safety. Muzzafer was sure they would arouse no suspicion. Once again he expressed his amazement at the lack of security.
“This is too easy,” he said to his companion. “Maybe if we ask them nicely, they’ll light the fire for us.”
“What if,” Johnny Katanos changed the subject, “we hijacked a gasoline tanker, backed it up to one of these windows, emptied the motherfucker into the factory and tossed in a match? What do you think would happen?”
“I’ve seen these trucks everywhere,” Muzzafer responded. “How many gallons do they carry?”
“I don’t know. Like maybe five thousand. Make a big pop. Suppose we hooked in our ten phosphorus grenades on a timer and spread ’em around those barrels of oil in there so we’d have a little time to get away.”
“Yes, that’s a problem,” Muzzafer nodded. “It wouldn’t pay to be in the neighborhood when that factory explodes.”
“If we move late at night, we could run up onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and head through Staten Island for South Jersey. We’ll celebrate in Atlantic City.”
“Can you picture Effie Bloom in a casino?” Muzzafer joked.
“Coming on to the cocktail waitresses.”
By this time they were on North 6th Street, at the rear of the building. The windows, not more than five feet above the ground were ordinary, without bars, many of them broken. It was clear to both men that one blow of a heavy sledgehammer would give immediate entry.
“How long do you think it will take to execute this plan?” Muzzafer asked.
“Can’t tell. Probably have to go in there at least once. See what’s what.” Suddenly Johnny’s face lit up. “Jesus,” he said, “this is the biggest thing that’s ever been done by real people. Only governments could beat this record. I wonder if we could kill more than Hiroshima?”
A momentary silence followed, a pious contemplation of the destruction to come, a vision so intense they noticed nothing else, not even the tall, thin, black man with his even blacker automatic pistol emerging from the shadows of an alleyway running between the target building and its western neighbor.
“Welcome to mah worl’, gennemens.” The man smiled, revealing two missing teeth on the left side of his mouth as well as an artificial gold tooth in front. “Ah calls mahsef Jehovah cause I got the power of life and death here in mah han’.” His voice and the sight of the gun drew Muzzafer and his companion out of their reverie. Though he was quite familiar with organized mayhem, Muzzafer had never before encountered ordinary street violence and nearly panicked in the first few seconds. He gained control of himself only after noticing that Johnny Katanos was absolutely calm, his face, particularly his mouth and jaw, completed relaxed.
“Now why don’ y’all gennemens step back into mah boudoir.” He gestured into the alleyway, smiling his confidence. Perhaps, if he’d been psychic, he would have known how much the dark shadows of the alleyway appealed to the young Greek standing across from him, but Jehovah was far too pleased with his own importance to listen to instinct. “Well, well,” he continued, appraising Muzzafer, “it do look like we got oursefs a live, half-nigga in our domicile. What you be, boy, some kinda Potty Rican?”
“I am an Arab,” Muzzafer declared, intending to launch into a revolutionary speech, but the soft smile on Johnny’s face, the half-closed eyes like a cat waking up from a nap, cut the words off.
“A A-Rab,” Jehovah chuckled. “Ah hopes y’all be’s one a them richy A-Rabs cause ah needs ta make a big deposit befo’ mah bank close. So lets us turn that shit ova and ah mean empty pockets, watches, rings, chains. All nine yard.”
Muzzafer, the pistol trained on his face, complied instantly. The thief, seeing this and noting Katanos’ hesitation, began to slide the pistol from Muzzafer to Johnny. The Greek waited until the gun was halfway between the two of them and pointed at no one before he began to move. Muzzafer, responding to that instinct which wishes always to surrender to superior force, was at first horrified, then terrified, then fascinated. Katanos was on the man instantly. One minute the gun was moving gracefully between them and then it was flying through the air.
“What’re you gonna do now, monkey?” Johnny asked. “C’mon, nigger. Tell me what you’re gonna do. Money’s right here in my pocket. All you gotta do is take it. Whatta ya say, ape?”
Jehovah said nothing. The gun was lost in the shadows, and only the young man with the black eyes stood between him and escape. He—Jehovah suddenly returned to LeRoy Johnson—w
as six inches taller, so why was he frightened?
Muzzafer was not, of course, unfamiliar with closeup violence. He had seen many individuals tortured for information, been the instrument of several executions, but he was accustomed to pursuing violence as part of an overall design, as part of a plan. The sudden switching of roles thrilled him; his courage was now as strong as the fear he had felt a few second before. He listened to the sound of repeated blows as Johnny pulled their attacker deeper into the alleyway, like a bat striking the trunk of a tree. The man did not scream. After the first few blows, he did not even struggle. Still, the beating went on, coldly, methodically and Muzzafer, though he knew what would happen if the police had been called, if they came to investigate, did nothing to stop it. He barely breathed until Johnny walked back and took him in his arms. “Were you afraid?” the Greek asked, but the sudden jolt of sensation as their bodies came together, made it impossible to answer.
“Fuck you,” cried George Tounakis, sole proprietor of Tounakis shoe repair. “Last week you tow my car away. Five minutes I run in to grab newspaper and my car is on West Side Pier Thirty-nine. Seventy-five dollars—no check, no credit card. I spit on police. If your heart on fire, I no even piss in you mouth. Now leave my store or I call lawyer. See, as soon as I say lawyer, all police disappear.”
“So what’s in it fa you? I mean no cop works this hard fa nothin’.” Georgie Bellino, half-owner of one of the last Italian fruit and vegetable stores in New York City, stretched his tall, muscular body, glancing quickly into the mirror above the eggplants, and smiled good-naturedly while his wife, Gina, owner of the other half of the store, peered at Moodrow’s pictures.
“These people are killers.” Moodrow replied evenly.
“C’mon,” Bellino twisted his face into a grimace of disbelief. “For a bunch of nigger dope dealers? Who ya kiddin’?”
Moodrow stepped forward, his patience beginning to ebb as the afternoon wore on, and stared directly into Bellino’s eyes. “It’s personal, pal. I got a grudge and I’m gonna collect. If that’s all right with you.”
A Twist of the Knife Page 19