Force of Nature

by Stephen Solomita

  “Maybe you hit him,” Tilley said. “Maybe you got lucky.”

  Moodrow’s face showed no emotion whatsoever. “I’m going down the corridor.” He tossed the automatic to his partner. “Keep it trained on the doorway. You see any movement, open up. Don’t let him come out with that shotgun.”

  Moodrow was gone before Tilley could protest, flattened against the wall, his .38 held straight out before him. Tilley knew, if he’d been in charge, he would have opted to wait for backup. The idea never occurred to Stanley Moodrow.

  The stalk went slowly, Moodrow careful not to make any noise by sliding his feet. He was listening intently. Listening for a shell jacked into the firing chamber of a shotgun. A hit on a crack pipe sucked into an addict’s lungs. The desperate breathing of a badly wounded man. He heard nothing and he turned into the open doorway with the full expectation of sudden death.

  With a sigh, he let his weapon fall to his side and called his partner down the corridor. Tilley walked into the room, expecting to find Levander dead. What he found was a ventilation grating in the ceiling. It led directly to the street and Levander had easily pushed it aside before making his escape.

  31

  LEVANDER GREENWOOD EMERGED INTO the rank humidity of a New York August night like an earth dwelling animal flushed from its den into an alien world beyond all hope of safety. If he had stopped to think, he might have asked himself why he had so patiently chiseled his way through the concrete which had once anchored the subway ventilation grate to the sidewalk on the north side of Houston Street. What point in creating an escape route for a man whose only hope of refuge lay within?

  But Levander Greenwood did not stop to think.

  Levander Greenwood ran across the gray pavement of a children’s playground to 1st Street and then down an alleyway alongside a tire repair shop to the partitioned strips of land behind the tenements fronting 1st and 2nd Streets.

  New Yorkers like to call these patches of dirt “gardens” and, perhaps, in the money neighborhoods, a network of vines and shrubs might create that impression in a patch of earth which receives less direct sunlight than the floor of a cave. But in poorer neighborhoods the backyards become the dumping grounds for any piece of refuse too big to be carted away by the Department of Sanitation in the course of its ordinary rounds. Boxsprings and mattresses; refrigerators and stoves; burnt, threadbare rugs; legless chairs. The smaller stuff follows… from tenants too lazy to carry a plastic bag down a flight of stairs. And the smells follow that, especially on hot nights.

  But while the rest of us, sitting behind air conditioners, pull away in disgust, Levander Greenwood smelled only the smell of his own burrow. He sat in a damp puddle on a burnt-out mattress, lost within the shadows, and went to his pipe. The smoke ripped into his throat, tore at inflamed flesh, but the pain was instantly forgotten as Levander Greenwood became “well.”

  He wasn’t high, wasn’t anywhere near the astonishing ecstasy that had characterized his first use of crack; he had never known pleasure at that level, hadn’t even dreamed that such pleasure could exist. All he knew, fifteen minutes after that first time, when he began to panic, was that he would continue to seek it as long as he remained alive and free.

  Sitting in the darkness, oblivious to small lifeforms crawling in the slime of the backyard, to rats and roaches, he tried to concentrate on a single idea—escape.

  They would be after him.

  They would be after him.

  They would be after him.

  He had to fix it in his mind so that he could make a plan. So the mighty Kubla Khan, who used to be, would rise and keep Levander Greenwood alive for a little while longer. They would be coming.

  Then he fixed it more exactly: Moodrow would be coming. That was perfect. Moodrow would come. And whoever was with him.

  But if Moodrow had the whole precinct out, then Houston Street would have been flooded with cops. And Kirkpatrick would not have fired his pistol until he was sure of his target. They would have announced their overwhelming presence and, secure in their majesty, settled down to wait for him to show enough flesh for a clean shot.

  Then Levander remembered the automatic going off and the slugs bouncing from wall to wall and pulling himself up onto the street before he was hit. There was no question now. They would never let him surrender. They were going to kill him.

  He reminded himself to say it right. Not to forget. Moodrow would be coming to kill him. Just as he’d come all along. Just as he’d taken Rose and hid the babies away. Moodrow liked to come alone. Levander knew Stanley Moodrow. The one who killed Stanley Moodrow would have a rep forever.

  Levander began to move east, toward First Avenue, pushing through the garbage as quickly as possible. The high was already beginning to wear away, but he instinctively headed deeper into the Lower East Side with its faceless housing projects, its derelict tenements. He had to think of something. He had to have a plan. Moodrow was out to get him. He heard sirens far away, but there were always sirens at night. No reason to believe the sirens were coming for him. No reason. Just keep moving.

  And think. Think.

  Suddenly Rose, smiling kindly, floated up in front of him, straddling a wooden fence between two “gardens.” He stood before her defiantly, hands on his hips.

  “Bitch, I done everything for y’all. I took yo white ass off the street when yo was makin’ enough money to keep me fresh every minute. I took y’all and named you mah woman alone. I din’t never make you give the pussy to no other man and my homeboys was beggin’. They woulda paid anythin’ I axed for the pussy and I turned ’em away. All of ’em.” He stared up at her unchanging face. She was wearing a long blue dress and he could see her body through it. There were no bruises. No white bandage covering a deep wound. She was the perfect child-woman he had met in the bus station long ago. She was so beautiful, like that first hit of crack. “Why you fuckin’ me so bad, Rose?” He began to cry. He couldn’t help it. “Why you hurtin’ me, Rosie?”

  She turned to him and smiled, shaking her head sympathetically. “But you’re a little nigger boy, Levander. Why can’t you remember that? It’s such a simple thing and you always forget.”

  He reached up for her and heard a deep continuous rumble from the other side of the fence. A yard dog was banging hard into the lower boards and growling, not trying to frighten him, but like a fighting dog that’s been in the pit. Then Rose was gone and he knew Rose was never real. This was so much easier. He caressed the Mossberg .12 gauge which swung from a thong between his right arm and his side. The stock was gone and the barrel protruded a bare three inches. Levander slid down to sit, cross-legged, on the dirt.

  “Hey, Fido, you fucker, Ah gots ta warn y’all. Ah bites back.” He lit the pipe and sucked deeply. The dog pawed frantically at the soft earth, its nose appearing under the fence. “Ain’t you a hard workin’ little mutt?” Levander patted the dog on the nose and the infuriated animal strained to open its mouth far enough to bite.

  “Thass right, puppie. Les’ see? What ah’m gon’ call you?” He dropped to his knees and pushed his face to within inches of the dog’s. “Ah calls y’all Ol’ Yeller. Yeah. Ah be’s like that kid and you tryin’ ta save me from the bear. You fightin’ hard cause you loves me, but the bear too big for y’all.” He rocked back on his heels and offered the shotgun barrel to the dog who pushed up through the fence, tearing away a piece of the slat, and took it in his mouth.

  The roar of the shotgun filled the night and Levander, the panic rising up in a sudden, unexpected flurry, recalled the central proposition: Moodrow is after me. Moodrow is coming.

  He moved north, up an alleyway and across 2nd Street to a fence of straight steel rods. The sign, above the locked gate, proclaimed The Marble Cemetery and another plaque announced this tiny plot as the final resting place of two eighteenth century mayors of New York City. Levander knew only that it was dark in comparison with the streetlights that penetrated the shadows where he stood. The shotgun blast
would have them coming soon. There might be hundreds, like after he beat up Marlee. He had waited then, waited for Rose and she had come. Stupidly. Without looking. Even Moodrow had rushed up to the apartment. So stupid. After he killed Moodrow, his rep would be made forever.

  When the first grave opened, he thought it was meant for him. He thought he should go down into it, but his father sauntered forth, swaggering, dressed in his motorman’s uniform. “How you been, Levander? You been a good boy to your momma?”

  Instead of answering, Levander sat on a gravestone and filled his pipe. He had enough crack to last forever if forever didn’t outlast the night.

  “Poppa, you jus’ a jive muthafucka. Go off dyin’ and leave us on the welfare. Why I wanna listen to you?”

  “Can’t help dyin’, Levander. Everybody gotta die. Ain’t you gonna die tonight?”

  Levander squeezed the shotgun under his arm. Didn’t matter if his daddy was ten feet tall. Twenty feet tall. Shit, he could probably take an elephant. Why not? They were all afraid of him.

  When he went into the bars, they stopped talking. When he bought crack, there was never a problem with the count. They were always so happy when he paid them; when he didn’t kill them.

  He sucked on the pipe, lighting up again and again. He hadn’t been asleep in a long time.

  “You fucked yourself up with Rose.” His poppa’s voice was stern. “You was always a stupid boy.”

  Levander smiled, then broke into laughter. “Ah’m well, now, Daddy.” He put the pipe back into his pocket and leaned against the cool stone. “Ah’m real well. Feel nothin’ but fine.”

  “Then where you gonna go, boy? Cause Moodrow’s comin’ for you. Moodrow’s comin’ soon and you just gonna be lyin’ here like a damn fool.”

  Levander stood up and held the shotgun. He wanted to tell his father about the power of the weapon. Of the strength it gave him. Of bodies flying through the air like they were hit by the breath of God, like crack breathing down from God into your lungs.

  “Ah’m goin’ home, Daddy.”

  “Ain’t no home for you, Levander. The man’s gonna kill you tonight.”

  The graves began to open. All of them. They were coming for him. The dead ones. He began to move again. Through the backyards, fighting his away over the heaps of trash. Faster and faster. Panic closing in behind him. He needed to smoke again, but they were too close now. There were sirens everywhere. He could hear sirens piercing the wet night air.

  “My mama would let me in.” He spoke to no one, not even to the dead; not even aware that he was speaking aloud. “I know my mama would let me in.” He tripped and fell heavily, jamming his hip into something hard and sharp. He had to get off the street, but his momma’s apartment was far away. Too far. Too many cops. Moodrow was after him. The sirens were closer and closer. The sirens were screaming at him.

  Think. Think.

  He sucked on the pipe, sucked until he was straight, until his thoughts went in a straight line. There was a place to go. He remembered it now. And it was his place; his rightful place. The bitch had thrown him out. The bitch had gone to judges and lawyers to keep him away. To keep him away? He laughed out loud.

  “Kubla Khan don’t scare so easy. Kubla Khan returns and take what he want.” He could see Rose in front of his eyes. Naked. Frightened. That was the place. It was close by and he could get well there. Let Moodrow look for him in the streets. He would be safe in his place. Maybe Rose would be there. Maybe Moodrow had brought her back. Maybe Moodrow had brought his babies back. He looked for his father. He wanted to tell his father that he’d be safe now. If Rose wasn’t there, he’d wait for her. He had vials and vials of crack. His pockets were stuffed with crack. He’d simply wait until Moodrow sent her home.

  He began to go faster. Across to Avenue A and then north through the alleyways and over the fences, running close to the schoolyard walls; finding a fire escape alongside an ancient tenement; pulling himself up into the shadows. He felt his strength returning and he checked the windows as he passed, hoping one of Rose’s neighbors would pull the shade aside to see who was climbing past. But none were so stupid and he stepped onto the roof and looked out over the streets.

  They were empty. The sirens were gone; not even an ambulance or a fire truck. Where were they? The police should be everywhere. He had imagined the final scene again and again as he lay in his subway cave and pulled deeply on his pipe. An army of cops closing off the streets. A hurricane of bullets so loud it closed off your mind, then closed off your life. Where were they?

  The door to the stairwell hung open. The steps were noisy, broken, littered with junk. Levander felt the Mossberg against his side, as familiar as a third arm. He held it out in front of him, pointed it at the closed, blank doors.

  “Come on out, muthafuckas. Ah’m goin’ home to see mah lady. Yeah. Thass right, muthafuckas. She gon’ do me the way I like it, tonight. Do anything I say.”

  The doors remained closed and no sounds came from behind them, not even a television or a radio. Levander laughed. They had good reason to be afraid of him. One time he had come to see Rose and some stupid white boy had stopped him on the stairs, telling Kubla Khan, “You have to leave her alone.”

  “The only thing I got to do is cut up yo white face, honkey asshole.”

  But the boy had disappeared before the knife came out, running for his telephone, for his locks and bars. And Levander had gone in to see Rose, as he did now, pushing open the unlocked door and stepping into the darkened apartment.

  As he closed the door, Levander felt safety overwhelm him despite the black room. Every window shade had been drawn, the curtains pulled closed. Even the streetlight, which hung close to the front windows, was out, vandalized by predators, like Levander Greenwood, who find comfort in darkness.

  Carefully, Levander locked the door behind him and stumbled to the couch in the center of the living room. For the first time, he slid the .12 gauge off his shoulder and laid it gently at his feet, remembering, vaguely, that there was a round in the chamber.

  “Ready to go, baby,” he said aloud. “Ready and waitin’.” Now he could smoke to his heart’s content. Smoke till he was better than “well.” The locked door would give him time. No surprises now. He lit the pipe once, then again, then again, never considering that there might be someone already in the apartment, someone sitting patiently in a chair fifteen feet away, waiting to be recognized.

  When he finally noticed the figure, he thought it was Rose. Another hallucination sent to test his resolve, but it stubbornly refused to disappear.

  “You must be crazy comin’ back here. This the worses place you could go, Rosie.”

  “I ain’t Rosie.”

  The figure flicked on a lamp and pulled the light closer until it bathed both her face and the gun she carried.

  “Marlee?” Levander tried to take it in, noting the swollen face, the bandages. “What you doin’ here? This Rosie’s house.” He hoped she would disappear, her and the revolver she held in her hand; disappear like his father on the grave and Rosie on the fence.

  “I come to pick up some clothes for the kids,” Marlee said evenly. “You put Rose in the hospital.”

  “And don’t she deserve it?” Levander felt his anger rising again. “I done everything for that bitch. I took that bitch off the street when she was turnin’ more tricks than any whore in my stable.” He stopped suddenly and lit his pipe. Marlee couldn’t be real. It didn’t make any sense. “If you gettin’ clothes for the babies, how come you sittin’ in the dark? You ain’t gon’ find no clothes in the dark.”

  “Moodrow said you’d be coming. First he called mama, to warn her that you were loose, and when she told him where I was, he phoned me. He said you’d probably be coming here. He gave me the gun, too, after I came back from the hospital. He told me to kill you right away. Don’t hesitate.”

  Levander laughed again. “Well, he right about somethin’, Marlee. I gotta say the man ain’t no total fool.
”

  The gun never wavered. It was compact, with a thick, black barrel; a hole as big as Levander’s pipe, big enough to kill. “I finally got it right in my mind, Levander. I understand it, now.”

  Levander went for his pipe, pouring out the small pellets of crack cocaine, sucking greedily. “What you figure out, Marlee? You just a nigger bitch sellin’ tokens down in some hole. What you figure out?”

  “I realized that it wasn’t anybody’s fault, Levander.” Her voice was strong, filled with conviction, but devoid of triumph. “For a long time, I wanted to blame it on somebody. Mama tried so hard. She worked at it everyday until it was ready to eat up her life. I thought it couldn’t be all for nothing. But it was. It was for nothing. Mama’s life. My life. Rosie’s. All for nothing. There was never a chance for us or for you, Levander. But I’m not gonna let you hurt those children anymore.”

  Levander put the pipe down. Marlee was floating slightly above the chair and the .12 gauge was resting at his feet. “Mama know you here, don’t she? You kill me, she gon’ know you done it. Think she forgive you? She be goin’ to the church a long time before she forget you killed her baby boy. She be in her grave before she forget.”

  “Mama don’t care about you no more, Levander.” Marlee hesitated, but did not look away. “And maybe it don’t matter about Mama, anyway. Those babies are the only chance for this family. How can they grow up with you alive? You hurt them so bad they might never get it right in their minds. You tried to kill their mother. There ain’t no control for you.”

  Levander, his mind wide open, felt Marlee’s finger tighten on the trigger. He could go for the .12 gauge, but she’d get off one or two shots. If only he hadn’t put it down. If he had it there as his third arm it would be so much faster. Suddenly he burst out laughing and the laughter froze Marlee. “Shit, Marlee, you ain’t sposed ta kill me. That’s Moodrow’s job. If he callin’ you on the phone, he mus’ be on the way over. Les’ jus’ be waitin’ a little bit. See if the man come by. If he do it, then Mama don’t have nothin’ ta say. Y’understand what ah’m tellin’ ya, girl?”