Force of Nature

by Stephen Solomita

  “When I first made detective, I had to have the barrel changed, too. I hated it, then. It didn’t go with my image. I wanted a Bulldog .44, like Son of Sam used, but with a shorter barrel. You know what I’m saying? A real stubby, fat .44 that makes the perps think they’re peering into the tunnel of death. So it’s like a shotgun.” He let his monologue stop dead; held the silence for a few seconds longer than necessary, then started up again. “But then, about ten years ago, everything changed. I fell in love with my piece again. It seems right that California cops should use ammunition that shoots through walls. Here it’s different. It’s more civilized, even if it’s more violent. You agree with that?”

  “Why don’t you get to the goddamn point?” Kirkpatrick said it to Moodrow, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from flicking over at Tilley, who caught them, holding them prisoner for a second before Kirkpatrick could jerk them away. Tilley was looking forward to action and Kirkpatrick read it. “You think I’m afraid to get my ass kicked? You think muscle-brain over here is gonna make me shit my pants?”

  “I just asked you if you agree with what I said about the weapons?”

  Suddenly Kirkpatrick turned to face Tilley, his face red with anger and Tilley instinctively kicked out before he completed the turn. Kirkpatrick hit the carpet face first and flashed Tilley a look of pure hatred.

  “Don’t hit him in the face,” Moodrow said, his voice tight. “Don’t mark him.”

  Tilley was considering the request when Kirkpatrick decided to make one last stand. He drove a fist in Tilley’s unyielding gut while he made a grab for the young cop’s balls. Somehow, without making any decision to do so, Tilley managed to close his legs and Kirkpatrick came up with a hunk of his thigh. Then Tilley drew his own piece and placed it against the top of Kirkpatrick’s head.

  “Don’t do it,” Moodrow shouted. “Don’t do it.”

  “Why not? He don’t deserve to live. He don’t answer no questions. He goes after people’s balls. Nobody seen us come up here. Let’s do him.” Actually, Tilley had no intention of shooting Kirkpatrick, neither before nor after he gave them Greenwood. On the other hand, Rose would have been very disappointed if Tilley came back without his balls. Fortunately, Kirkpatrick froze as soon as he felt the steel on the top of his head and by the time he was shoved back in his chair, he understood, for the first time, how strong their intentions were. His physical defiance dropped away and he began to stare at the floor and to answer questions in a monotone.

  “So what do you use the place for, Paulie?” Moodrow started over, his voice patient, soothing.

  “What does any cop use a splash pad for? I meet people here. Snitches. Sometimes I bring a broad up. Sometimes I just come up here for a few beers. I got a houseful of bad memories in Staten Island.”

  “You mean about your old lady? About Maryann?”

  “Yeah. Mostly.”

  “She went senile, your old lady. Right? About fifteen years ago.”

  The words went through Kirkpatrick like an electric current. His whole body shivered. “It’s not called senile anymore,” he said quietly. “Now it’s got a name. Alzheimer’s Disease.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that. It’s incurable, right, Paulie? You can’t do nothin’ about it.”

  Kirkpatrick was whispering by this time. “No, there’s no treatment.”

  “That’s rough, Paulie. It’s hard on a cop. We need support. So where is she? In a nursing home?”

  “Yeah, in New Jersey.”

  “She still recognize you? You still go see her?”

  “I go.”

  “She recognize you?”

  “No. She don’t know who I am.” Slowly, Kirkpatrick’s head came up until he was looking Moodrow in the eye.

  “You could live a long time with Alzheimer’s Disease?” Moodrow persisted.

  “What’s the point?”

  “I’m just asking, Paulie. Don’t get so upset.”

  “Yeah, she could live another fifteen years. Maybe more.”

  “Must cost a fortune, right?”

  “It’s very expensive.”

  “Tell me something, Paulie. Where would they put her if you couldn’t pay no more?”

  “They’d put her in some kind of public place. The ones the city pays for.”

  “Like they used to do for the retarded kids at Willowbrook?”

  “Like that.” Kirkpatrick looked beaten, but wary, like he didn’t know what Moodrow was getting at. Tilley was having trouble with the same thing, but all he had to do was make sure Kirkpatrick kept answering.

  “You got anything to drink in here?” Moodrow asked. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  “In the cabinet on the left.”

  Moodrow went for the drinks, leaving his partner to guard the goods. He came back a minute later with two plastic tumblers, both covered with greasy fingerprints, and a half-filled quart of Jim Beam. “I couldn’t find any mixers,” he said. “The refrigerator’s broken, too. No ice. You want a drink?”

  He poured a couple of inches into the bottom of each tumbler, then pushed one toward Kirkpatrick. Though he must have known better, Kirkpatrick drained the glass at a gulp, then held it out for Moodrow to fill again. One more proof that he was ready to fall. Moodrow waited for him to settle down, then asked, “Did you know little Bennie Goldstein personally?”

  Bennie was the first cop Levander Greenwood had killed, the undercover cop working by the Williamsburg Bridge. When Kirkpatrick heard the name, he let out a long, soft groan that hung in the air, high and full of pain.

  “Answer him,” Tilley said, on cue. “Answer Moodrow when he talks to you.”

  Kirkpatrick looked at both of them, head swiveling slowly and mechanically from one to the other. Finally he swallowed hard and said, “No, I didn’t know him. I don’t know many of the younger guys.”

  “Then you probably didn’t know the two kids, Franklyn Peters and Orlando Cruz. The ones who got it in that tenement?”

  Tilley was fascinated, but not so lost as to forget his job. Kirkpatrick didn’t have much hair left, but Tilley grabbed as much as he could get and yanked him upright. “You set them up, you scumbag. You wanted to get rid of Greenwood and you set up three cops. You killed them. You murdered them the same as if you pulled the trigger.”

  Once again, Moodrow pulled his partner away, helping Kirkpatrick, who was crying, back into his seat. He let Kirkpatrick sob, reloading the detective’s gun, spinning the cylinder, closing it up. He eyed the .38 speculatively for a while, then laid it gently on the table. “You ever shoot anybody with this?” he asked.

  Kirkpatrick sniffed it up, his eyes riveted to the piece. “Once,” he answered, probably glad for a neutral subject.

  “Did he die?”

  There was a hesitation, then, “No. He was okay. Out of the hospital the next day.”

  “Did you know Franklyn Peters and Orlando Cruz?”

  A groan. Again. A high, keening sound announcing utter loss. A wail of sorrow. “I didn’t know them, Moodrow.”

  “Did you go to Bennie Goldstein’s funeral?”

  “Please, Moodrow. What’s the point?”

  “I knew him,” Moodrow announced. “We worked together on a narc operation near Henry Street. I liked him a lot. Short, feisty guys always get to me. They should have the good sense to keep their mouths shut, but Bennie was always at war with someone. If there weren’t any skells handy, he’d attack the job. He was anti-crime, not a gold shield, and he hated the Patrol Guide. It’s up to six hundred pages now, and, if you take his word for it, set up with contradictions so if the headhunters or the brass want your balls, they can have them. I met his wife at the funeral. She told me he was gonna run for P.B.A. delegate. Get off the street.”

  Kirkpatrick stopped him by thrusting his glass across the table. Something in him had hardened again. Moodrow filled the glass, as calm as ever. His speech about Bennie Goldstein had been matter-of-fact, as was his next comment. He reminded Tilley of a
good boxer matched with a very weak opponent. He was circling, slipping in the jab, waiting for the right moment.

  “Don’t pass out, Paulie,” he said. “Don’t get too drunk for decent conversation.”

  Kirkpatrick laughed bitterly. “Those days are long gone. I don’t hardly get high anymore. Just even.”

  “Did you ever use this apartment to meet Levander Greenwood?” The question finally asked, Moodrow sat back to admire his timing.

  “You ain’t read me my rights or nothin’,” Kirkpatrick accused. “No matter what I say, you can’t use it.”

  Tilley pushed his face within an inch of Kirkpatrick’s. “Cop killers don’t have rights,” he reminded him. “Not to another cop. You think we don’t know you set up those two cops? You think we don’t know you phoned in that tip on Greenwood’s location? You probably hoped they’d blow Greenwood away. Them or the cops that backed them up. Only thing, someone made a mistake and Levander wasn’t where he belonged.”

  “How many more funerals?” Moodrow asked, without waiting for Tilley to back off. “How many?”

  “You ain’t read me my rights,” Kirkpatrick insisted.

  He was settling down into a pattern. Hardening himself. Which is probably why Moodrow threw in the dynamite. “We got Pinky Mitchell, Paulie. Took him out of the shelter.”

  “Where is he?” Kirkpatrick’s fear came off him in waves. It stunk of beer and bourbon.

  “I got him in an apartment like this one. Over on 11th Street.”

  “Did he make a statement yet?”

  “Only to us,” Moodrow replied. “He told me about meeting you in Macy’s. About your business relationship. You know how it is. When junkies get sick, they tell you whatever you need to know.”

  “You still ain’t read me my rights.”

  “I don’t wanna arrest you. If I can help it. I wanna try to find some other way, but first you gotta tell me about Greenwood. He’s gotta come off the streets, Paulie.”

  “If I tell you, what happens? You gonna let me off the hook? I got a sick wife, Moodrow. There won’t be nobody to help her out if I’m gone.”

  “You shoulda thought about that before you started in with Levander Greenwood.” Moodrow picked up Kirkpatrick’s piece and began to play with it, unloading it again, then dry-firing it. “I can’t let you go for killing a cop.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be that way.” It came out in a rush, the dam finally broken. “When we started it was just business. How was I supposed to know he’d start using crack? That’s when he lost control. After he started in with crack, he needed money every second and he got crazier and crazier. I couldn’t control him no more and he kept coming back to me.”

  “Why didn’t you give him up?”

  “For shit sake, Moodrow, they’d take away everything. I wouldn’t even get a pension. I been on the job more than thirty years. Maryann wouldn’t get a dime. What would she do if I wasn’t there to protect her? I wanted to let nature take its course. That’s why I dropped the dime to Carerro. I never thought that stupid wop’d send three cops when he should’ve sent a hundred.” He hesitated for a moment. “I never thought Greenwood’d go down two flights to buy crack. I thought he’d stay holed up with his girlfriend on the fourth floor.”

  Moodrow put the gun back on the table. He poured another drink for Kirkpatrick and one for himself. The bottle was nearly empty. Time for the end game. “Why didn’t you kill him yourself?”

  Kirkpatrick took his time answering. “It ain’t that easy. He’s armed all the time.”

  “So you sacrificed two cops, instead?”

  “I didn’t mean for them to get hurt. I thought they’d send an army after Greenwood.” He turned then and looked directly at Tilley. “I didn’t give you up,” he said. “Levander knows you and Moodrow had his old lady stashed somewhere. He wanted your address and I told him, ‘No.’”

  “He took that?” Tilley asked quickly.

  “Well, he didn’t know she was there. Besides, he still needs me to sell what he steals. Every thief needs a fence. Plus he thinks I can find out where his kids are.”

  Moodrow reached out and took Kirkpatrick’s hand. “Look at me, Paulie. I wanna ask you one more question.” He waited until Kirkpatrick turned back to him. “Do you got the death benefits in your pension plan?”

  Absolute silence as Kirkpatrick and Tilley took it in. Death benefits are cash payments made instead of a pension to cops who die in the line of duty. They are also paid to the heirs in cases of suicide. Every cop knows about suicide. Especially the old ones and the drunks.

  “Yeah, I took ’em when they first come out. I wanted to have Maryann protected in case something happened to me. I did a stupid thing when I went over the twenty year mark and became eligible. I dropped all my insurance. That’s why I took the death benefits.”

  “How much your wife get if something happens to you?” Moodrow’s voice had just the slightest edge and when Kirkpatrick didn’t answer, he went on quickly. “Cause if we give you up, Paulie, you don’t got nothin’. They strip away your gun and your shield and your pension first. After that comes jail. You’re a cop killer. Even the P.B.A. won’t give you a lawyer.” He picked up the gun, emptied it again, then put it in Kirkpatrick’s hand. “You ever think what it would feel like? You ever put it in your mouth?” Kirkpatrick’s eyes were riveted to Moodrow’s and Tilley knew, at that minute, Moodrow was taking Kirkpatrick over familiar ground. “You know what them places are like? Where they put senile people who don’t have money? They treat ’em like meat, Paulie. I seen it with my own eyes. I been in those places. The attendants fuck the young ones and beat the old ones. I’m serious. There’s no government money anymore, so the asylums hire the cheapest attendants they can get. Pay ’em like security guards in the shelters. For crowd control.” He stopped abruptly, as if expecting a response, but Kirkpatrick had nothing to say. His eyes were frozen, unblinking, reaching into Moodrow’s. “So tell me, Paulie, how much you got in the death benefits. Thirty years on the job, it oughta be a nice piece.”

  “About three hundred thousand.” Kirkpatrick swallowed hard.

  “You got someone to handle it for Maryann? Someone to pay it out if you’re not there?”

  “Maryann’s sister lives on Staten Island. Right near me. We talked about it already.”

  “She in the will?”

  “She’s the executor and the trustee. She controls the money.”

  “You trust her?”

  “Yeah. She’s got enough for herself. She don’t need mine.”

  “You mean, she don’t need Maryann’s.”

  “Yeah.” Kirkpatrick’s eyes dropped to the table again. “I got no loose ends. I thought ahead.” He laughed for a second, then choked on it. “Can’t you let me off the hook. For Maryann? You knew her.”

  “No way, Paulie. What you done, you gotta pay for. You understand that? ‘Don’t do the crime, if you can’t do the time.’ Isn’t that what the skells say?” Kirkpatrick didn’t bother to respond. “I want you to tell me where Greenwood is. Then we’re gonna leave you to think about what you have to do.”

  “You’re gonna take Greenwood alone?” Kirkpatrick’s voice rose, reflecting the hope that suddenly jumped in his eyes.

  “Forget it, Paulie. Other people know what you did. There’s only one way you could beat it. Take it for Maryann and for yourself. If you go to trial, they’ll put you away for thirty years. Long enough to die. If you go into the population, the cons’ll kill you for sure. If you take protective custody, you’ll be wishing for the electric chair before you do a year. Tell us where Greenwood’s hiding, Paulie. Let us take him out.”

  Kirkpatrick spilled it. His voice was flat, without apology, as he gave up each detail of Levander Greenwood’s lair. There was nothing more to protect and he knew it. Moodrow and Tilley didn’t bother to say goodbye, just got up and walked out the door, unconsciously tapping their weapons, and wishing for hand grenades, rockets and helicopters.
>
  The air on the street was warm and muggy, but somehow cleaner than the air inside that apartment. Their minds were on the coming confrontation, consumed with it, because Kirkpatrick’s voice, quiet yet audible, from the window above, jolted both of them.

  “Moodrow, I can’t do it. I can’t. I tried a hundred times, but I can’t do it. Let me come with you. I’ll set him up. I’ll call him out. He knows I know where he’s holed up. He won’t be afraid if he sees it’s me.”

  “I told you already, Paulie. There’s other people who know about you. If you’re trying to set us up, it won’t help you.”

  By way of an answer, Kirkpatrick held his .38 aloft, then placed it against his temple, then into his mouth. He drew back the hammer, but wouldn’t (or couldn’t) pull the trigger. “I can’t make it, Moodrow. I want to, but I can’t. Let me go with you. I know what to do.”

  Moodrow didn’t hesitate, though his voice was tired. “All right, Paulie. Come down. Do what you gotta do.”

  30

  THERE ARE TWO POPULAR conceptions of the New York City subway system. The first is of trains running between smooth rock walls with stations every eight or nine blocks. The other involves a maze of abandoned or half-used tunnels, a system as dark and murky as the sewers of Paris in a nineteenth century French novel. In fact, neither is true. With the exception of a very short tunnel in lower Manhattan, cut as an experiment years before the present system was begun, the track is in constant use. Still, the image of trains tearing along between featureless black walls is also false. For example, there are dozens of short spurs, called layover tracks, where trains are parked at night, as well as thousands of unused equipment storage rooms, built according to no discernible plan and stuck at odd points throughout the system. These storage rooms have come to play an unexpected role in the New York City housing scheme. In every part of the city where the M.T.A. provides service, they have become an alternative to the doorways, park benches and terminals for New York’s homeless—private accommodations for those insiders smart enough to find them and strong enough to keep them. This lifestyle has become so entrenched that transit workers, performing routine maintenance on the hundreds of miles of subway track, accept and ignore the men who rest on newspaper mattresses or scribble desperately in old notebooks, preaching their truths accompanied by the echoing thunder of the trains.