Force of Nature

by Stephen Solomita

  “You live with your mother?” At first he thought she was making fun of him, but then she said, “Damn, I wish I had a mother to go to.” Whispered it, really; wistful as a young girl dreaming of spring. Then she clapped her hands and the two children jumped off the couch. “Lee. Jeanette. We’re moving again. We’re going to a place where we’ll all be safe. All three of us.”

  “Weren’t we safe here?” Jeanette asked seriously. “We had the door locked.”

  Her brother stared up at the cop defiantly. Everytime he came around it meant trouble for them.

  “What are you gonna do, Lee?” Tilley asked. “You gonna stand there or you gonna help your mother get ready? I promise you’re going to a place where you won’t have to yank open any doors, all right?”

  “Who are you?” he demanded, ignoring Tilley’s suggestion entirely.

  “You can call me ‘Mr. Tilley.’”

  Jeanette giggled loudly. “What kind of name is that? Mr. Tilley. It sounds silly. Silly Tilley.”

  Out of the mouths of babes.

  11

  TEN MINUTES LATER ROSE Carillo had her family’s possessions crammed into three large suitcases and they were on their way. Tilley eyeballed every doorway, half-hoping Levander would emerge, like a bear from a cave, but the building was quiet, as tenements usually are when cops are present. Enrique was still manning his station when they came outside and he waved eagerly. Whatever nightmare Tilley represented, it wasn’t about to haunt his dreams. Tilley flipped him a “Gracias, Enrique,” and the Hispanic kid flashed a brilliant smile. “Vaya con Dios, Señor Policia,” he called.

  Though she knew she wasn’t returning, Rose kept her face turned away from Enrique’s, hurrying her children along. The way they followed her instructions amazed Tilley. In the house, when she told them to pack, they’d complied without a murmur of protest and now, on the street, they scurried obediently into the backseat of the Plymouth while Rose loaded the suitcases into the trunk.

  The Drive was slow as usual, due to permanent construction in the underpass below Gracie Mansion, but it was early Saturday afternoon and the summertime weekend rush for the beaches and the mountains was in full swing, so most of the traffic was going the other way. Even here, on the Drive, in the most anonymous of anonymous situations, Rose kept looking around, examining the faces in the cars that surrounded them. And it was not the look of a panicked woman, but that of a grazing antelope, as natural as that sudden graceful leap at the first hint of danger. She was so beautiful. Tilley’s mind kept wandering back to her lips and her throat. The bones of her shoulders seemed as soft and delicate as those of a bird. He couldn’t accept the idea that she could be exploited. In his experience, women like her inevitably made men (or him, at least) afraid. But Rose was more than afraid; she was permanently scarred by fear and for the first time, Tilley got a glimpse of the man he was hunting. But it wasn’t a man he envisioned. It was a force of nature, a phenomenon unrelated to humanity or even to life itself. Tilley could see him, just as Rose had suggested, coming through the door of his apartment, shotgun in hand. There would be no more chance of reasoning with him than with a bolt of lightning.

  Of course, that couldn’t happen. Tilley had complete confidence in Moodrow’s integrity. With only the two of them knowing, there was no way for Greenwood to make the connection. Still, he was glad to pull up in front of his building. He flipped down the sun visor so the restricted parking permit taped to it could be read by the traffic department (who would probably ticket it anyway) and while Rose hustled the kids out of the car, he pulled the bags from the trunk and led the way into the lobby of the building. He was so intent on getting inside (and so pleased to be there) that he ignored everything else until he heard a familiar voice.

  “That you, Jim?” It was Mr. Strauss from 1B. He’d been in the building even longer than the Tilleys and for a while, when Tilley was in grade school, had played the part of “daddy” to a fatherless boy. At least he was the man Jim Tilley could talk to when he needed to talk to a man. Now, he was staring at Tilley, not only puzzled, but accusing as well.

  “Yep, it’s me, Josef. You were maybe expecting a burglar?”

  It wasn’t much of a joke and Tilley didn’t get a hint of a return smile. Josef was looking past him at Rose and her two children. Later on he told a neighbor that he couldn’t understand what the two little schwartzers were doing with Rose. He guessed she must be some kind of social worker. That she was the mother of the children and had, presumably, copulated with a black man in order to conceive them was so outside the realm of his understanding, it never even occurred to him.

  When Tilley finally realized what was bothering his neighbor, he was angry at first, then embarrassed for Rose. She, on the other hand, seemed unaware of his scrutiny. She was gazing at the lobby like she was Dorothy entering the wonderful city of Oz. As they walked up the stairs, children in tow, she suddenly took his hands and held them up. For a second Tilley thought she was going to cry again, but she simply said, “Thank you” and kissed his cheek. He read the kiss neither as promissory nor as reward. Just relief.

  Susanna was waiting in the small foyer when Tilley opened the door. She and Rose looked at each other closely for a moment; The children never stirred, never made the slightest attempt to leave Rose’s side. Finally, Susanna introduced herself. “I’m Susanna Tilley.”

  “I’m Rose Carillo.” She smiled a smile that didn’t seem terribly sure of itself, then turned to the children. “This is Lee and this is Jeanette.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Tilley,” Jeanette said.

  Mrs. Tilley? Jim Tilley really wasn’t surprised to hear it, but the tension was thick enough to spread on a sandwich. And straight lines are straight lines. “What do you mean Mrs. Tilley? What happened to Silly Tilley?”

  “You’re Silly Tilley,” Jeanette replied with perfect logic. “Two people can’t have the same name.” She pointed to his mother. “She’s Mrs. Tilley.”

  “I’d rather be Susanna,” his mother replied.

  “All right,” Rose said eagerly. “Susanna.” Rose just assumed she would be called by her first name. She began to walk slowly into the living room, looking around her as she went. “I can’t remember the last time I felt safe. I think maybe not since before my mother died. Maybe never.” She turned toward Tilley. “I trust Moodrow completely,” she said. “You know what I’m saying? Moodrow would never screw it up. I don’t know you, Tilley, so I’m asking you. Please don’t tell anyone that we’re here. Don’t trust anyone.”

  He looked at her for a minute, then turned to his mother. All of a sudden, he was very pissed off at the little conspiracies going on around him. He hadn’t been in charge of anything since he pulled on his t-shirt and went out for a run. Now it was time for a little payback. “Well,” he said evenly, “I’ve still got a lot of work to do today. I’ll take off and let you all get to know each other. Rose, make yourself at home. I’m sure we’ll have Levander in a couple of days.”

  Susanna Tilley looked surprised, then shocked and then stricken. She hadn’t foreseen being left alone with three strangers (one of whom was an admitted prostitute and drug addict) when she made the offer to Moodrow. “Do you have to go?”

  “Oh yeah,” Tilley replied. He even threw in a little New Yawk, just to make sure she understood. “Wit guys dis bad we gotta work all kinda hours. Ya never get no rest wit guys like dese.”

  When Moodrow left his partner’s apartment, he took a cab down the Drive to Houston Street. He had every intention of working, but, no matter how hard he tried to place his attention on the Greenwood case, his thoughts kept returning to Jim Tilley and to his own precarious position in the job. He recalled chasing a perp two weeks before, a very ordinary runner, the sort Moodrow would have brought down without any trouble a few years ago. Yet, this time, he didn’t make a single block before the pain in his chest brought him up short. It wasn’t his heart, the doctor at Beth Israel explained, but it was a warning.


  “Go slow,” the doctor, a young resident, had advised breezily. “You’re not as young as you used to be. You have to learn to relax.”

  But Moodrow was relaxed. He had no wife, no girlfriend, no family. Not even a dog or a cat. His family, such as it was, was the NYPD and he did not relish the end of that relationship, although he knew it was coming. Even if they didn’t fire him, they would put him behind a desk somewhere and that would be the end. He would have to turn in his papers. For a second, he imagined the new captain, a half-smile on his face, accepting the proffered badge, saying, “We’re sure gonna miss you around here.”

  The image was enough to depress him and he turned his thoughts to his new partner, Jim Tilley. The kid was clearly sharp and willing. Moodrow would not have to worry about his back. On the other hand, Tilley was also ambitious and, as Moodrow well knew, the best way to promotion is to play it conservatively. Which is exactly what Moodrow had never been able to do. Not that he had any regrets; his career had been an adventure all the way, both in relation to the criminals he pursued and the department which dogged his every step. If it hadn’t been for Allen Epstein, who both protected and exploited the big cop, Moodrow would have been gone fifteen years before. And he knew it.

  Some men are obsessed with children as the key to personal immortality. Moodrow had never been married and, as far as he knew, had never fathered a child. His immortality revolved around leaving someone behind him, a cop, who would protect the 7th the way he protected it. And, of course, Jim Tilley was the most likely candidate.

  No one, not Higgins nor Epstein, knew how carefully he’d chosen his young partner. The college education intrigued Moodrow, but, by itself, would not have been enough to make him Moodrow’s choice. It was the boxing that had swung Moodrow over. Moodrow coached the young boxers at the Boys Club on Houston Street twice a week. He knew enough about the fight game to pass for a half-assed trainer and he had seen Jim Tilley fight. The kid was good. Too slow to make it in the three-round amateurs, but strong as a bull and seemingly impervious to pain. As a pro, he’d inevitably caught up with his opponent by the fifth round. By the eighth round, they’d lost the will to fight and were looking for an excuse to fall down and stay there, which young Jim Tilley, with his absolutely devastating short-armed left hook, was glad to provide.

  From Moodrow’s point of view, matching Tilley with Rose had been a brilliant idea. Moodrow knew of a dozen places where Rose would be more than safe, but if Tilley fell for Rose, it might bring him to live on the Lower East Side. Moodrow considered it essential that a good cop live in the precinct he served. The rest of the police force considered it proof of a well-developed psychosis. After all, what sane cop wants to carry the job around twenty-four hours a day? Don’t shit where you eat was the most common rationale for the majority of cops who lived outside of New York City altogether.

  Even lost in his ruminations, Moodrow managed to work. Stopping in at the various stores, the boutiques and the bodegas, he passed along a copy of Levander Greenwood’s mug shot with the stern warning that they not try to apprehend Greenwood by themselves. The managers in the boutiques, of course, were completely ignorant of Levander’s existence, while the hispanics behind the counters of the small grocery stores knew him without seeing his photograph. Still, all denied knowledge of his present whereabouts.

  “You kill him, man,” one store owner said, his helpers echoing the sentiment. “Shoot him like a dog in the street, before he kills anyone else.”

  “I’ll do that,” Moodrow replied. Whatever they wanted. He would promise it in return for the phone call that gave him Levander Greenwood.

  His promise to Rose, on the other hand, presented him with more serious problems. Contrary to his reputation, only once had he been prepared to kill a man without regret. Actually two men and three women. But that had been personal. Levander Greenwood had to be taken off the street, but an arrest would keep him behind bars until he was far too old to cause any more damage. Still, despite that reality, he had made promises to Rose and to Louise Greenwood. Conflicting promises. Clearly, only one could be kept. Unless, of course, the task force got to Greenwood first. Then it would be out of his hands.

  His route took him south, across Houston, to the center of the dope scene on the Lower East Side. As he turned up Rivington he spotted a kid he knew, one of the new breed of crack dealers who never carried drugs on his person. Didn’t even use them. He was wearing the obligatory gold chain (which not only announced the affluence of the wearer, but his ability to keep it as well) along with a sparkling new leisure suit.

  “Hey, Cool,” Moodrow shouted, walking toward the dealer, who didn’t move a muscle. “I wanna talk to ya for a minute.”

  “What you want, cop?”

  “I want Levander Greenwood.”

  “You think I know where he is? That fucker hit one of my boys for sixty vials two days ago. The boy is lucky Kubla didn’t kill him.”

  “Listen up, Cool. I don’t give a fuck what you know. If we don’t get that scumbag in a day or two, nobody’s gonna do business on the Lower East Side. You remember Operation Pressure Point? We’ll put that shit back in the neighborhood and keep it here till you have to pawn that gold you’re wearing for cigarette money.”

  “I’m legit,” Cool protested. “I don’t do no dope. I’m in real estate.”

  “I don’t give a fuck if you’re in your sister’s asshole. If Greenwood ain’t found, everybody pays. I pay because the papers and the brass are up my ass. You pay because we scare all your customers away, and maybe kick your ass for the fun of it.”

  Cool was not accustomed to direct assaults by policemen, but he understood the reality surrounding the murders of cops. The police grab anything they can see and keep shaking until the killer drops out.

  “Man, you askin’ a lot. Greenwood’s a ghost, man. He comes out at night, then disappears. Like into nowhere. The nigger just vanishes. But I will keep an eye out for him. If he shows up I’ll send one of my boys over with the particulars. Levander a crack freak now. A fool like that don’t belong on the street no way.”

  “One more favor,” Moodrow finished. “Put the word out among all your people. If we don’t have Greenwood, we’re gonna put two hundred uniforms on the street. Plus the detectives are gonna hit the apartments. Clean out the abandoned buildings.”

  Moodrow walked away without another word. There was nothing more to say. He suddenly felt a rush of pleasure. Putting one foot in front of the other was all he really knew. He had no doubt that Levander would be taken. It was just a matter of time.

  Remembering the children, Tilley unlocked the door and came in as quietly as he could. It was after 11 P.M. and, as expected, his mother was in bed. Only Rose was awake. She was lying on the couch in front of the TV, wearing gym shorts and a white cotton halter with a sweater thrown across her shoulders. As Jim Tilley walked into the room, her smile nearly blew him away. It was impossibly young.

  “Your apartment is so beautiful. How in God’s name did you manage to find it?”

  Quickly, he explained the history of his digs; of his father, a firefighter who’d died when a roof collapsed in a tenement on 143rd Street, and his plans for an immediate increase in the Irish population of Yorkville. He’d told the story hundreds of times and had it down pat. “When he first did it, his neighbors told him he was crazy to pay so much rent. Now, if the building went condo, it’d be worth three quarters of a million.”

  Then he told her the rent and she said, “That’s what I pay for that hole on the Lower East Side. Where’s the justice, right? I’ve been on the waiting list for the projects for six years. I can’t even find anyone to tell me where I am on the list. ‘Please don’t call us, Ms. Carillo. You’ll be notified when your turn comes.’”

  She sat up and stretched and Tilley’s gaze immediately dropped to her breasts. When he looked back up she was staring into his eyes. Yet there was neither amusement nor condemnation in her glance.

  “Y
ou get along all right with my mother?” Tilley asked, trying to ease over his lecherous stare.

  “I think she’s a good woman. I mean I think she won’t throw us out. That’s the only thing that worries me. If we got thrown out, we wouldn’t have any place to go.”

  “My mother’s a pretty strong woman,” he said. “But we share the apartment. We split all the bills down the middle, including the rent, which means nobody gets ‘thrown out’ unless we both want them gone. Me and Moodrow are committed to you. No matter what, you aren’t leaving until Levander’s caught. Unless you want to leave.”

  “Uh-uh,” she said. “I think I’ll hang around.” She hesitated for a moment, but Tilley could see she wanted to say something else and he waited patiently. What she finally said, however, nearly blew him out of the chair. She said, “You’re really a pretty man.”

  “What?”

  “Especially that scar over your eye. Your mother says you used to be a fighter. She said you were very good before you got hurt.”

  “I might have been good. There’s no way to know. I never had a fight so close I had to see what was in my heart. And besides, you’re not too bad yourself.” Was this possible? Suddenly it occurred to him that he might actually get laid here and the idea began to make itself visible. As casually as he could, he took his shirt out of his pants and laid it loosely in his lap.

  “Sometimes when I think about it, I feel like I’m still a virgin.”

  “How do you figure that?” As an ex-prostitute and mother of two, Tilley didn’t see how she’d qualify for innocence.