“I’m twenty-five years old and I’ve never been with a man because I loved him. Or even liked him. I’ve never had sex with a man because sex feels good or because I wanted him to feel good. It’s always been a transaction. A deal. Sex for money. Or drugs. Or a place to stay. Or to protect my children. Don’t you think that makes me a virgin?”
“No.” He smiled when he said it. “It makes you a victim, though.”
The distinction didn’t seem to bother her. “That’s why I waited until after you told me you wouldn’t throw me out.” She tossed her hair back from her forehead, an unconscious gesture as sexy as a full scale striptease. “You know, after I came off the drugs, when Lee was born, for a long time I didn’t even think about sex. I didn’t want to use my body as trade bait and I didn’t know there was any other use for it. But after a couple of years, I began to wake up and there were a number of times I was really tempted. Of course, Lee and Jeanette acted as a natural filter and most men, white or black, fled at the sight of them, but still, men asked me out often enough; patients where I worked or other students at the school. But there was always Levander and the thought of what he would do to them if he found out. I mean I didn’t just want to have sex. I had to care about the man I was with, but if I cared and I saw him again, Levander would find out. And he would kill him. Or cripple him.
“What do you do about that? I figured it was better not to get started and for the last five years my sex life’s consisted entirely of being raped by my ex-husband. Sounds like fun, right?” She took a deep breath, then smiled. “Without him I’d be free. Shit, I’m already free. I’m free in my heart and in my mind. You know, when I first went to the shelter, they put me in these group therapy sessions. There were a dozen women most of the time and all they talked about was what they would do to avoid falling into the same situation again. But I had no fear of that. I know I’ll never fall under a man’s domination again. If I survive Levander, it’ll be like the knight surviving the dragon. After that, there are no more dangers.” Tilley’s apartment got afternoon sun and it was still pretty warm. Rose dropped the sweater and ran her hands over her arms. “I feel so safe here. I feel like nothing can happen.” She grinned. “And you’re so pretty. Such a pretty man.”
Tilley thought briefly of her motivation. Gratitude. Protection. Perhaps an insurance policy. But he wanted her so badly, he really didn’t care why she was coming on to him. For a moment, he flashed back to Fort Greene, to come-ons to the single women who asked him for directions. Half the cops in the job (including the married ones) had women stashed in the various precincts. But he would never have tried it with Rose, not in his own apartment like this. She wanted him, though, that was the thing. Such a pretty man. He wondered if she was the kind of woman to get him into bed and then go to the department complaining of sexual harassment. No, Moodrow trusted Rose completely. She wanted him. And he was so hot.
“You know my mother and I have an arrangement about not bringing our lovers into the house.”
“We already talked about it.”
Tilley came out of the chair in a hurry and Rose shrank back on the couch. He supposed she’d seen that anger before and the look in her eyes checked his annoyance. “I wish the two of you would stop fucking with my head. And goddamn Moodrow, too. It’s not the way I’ve lived my life.”
“I don’t like it either, but I couldn’t take a chance that she’d find out and ask me to leave. I have to protect my family.”
Neither one of them said anything for a minute. That’s the problem with talking your way into bed, but the ordinary course of seduction, the dinners and the movies and the drinks were closed to them. Sitting there, ready to fly across the room, Tilley realized that he’d wanted her from the first time he’d seen her; had found her stunningly beautiful and brave in a way he couldn’t begin to understand.
“I want you to pick me up and carry me into the bedroom,” she said. “Isn’t that the right way for a virgin? To be carried across the threshold?”
She weighed less than nothing, but when her arms went around his neck and she buried her face in his throat, his knees buckled. He stumbled into the room and they fell across the bed. Her laughter rang out as she swung herself up to sit across his chest.
“Now let’s say a quick prayer, Jimmy. One quick prayer.”
“What are we praying for?”
She slid her halter up to her throat and pressed her breasts into his face. “Repeat after me,” she said. “Please, Lord, don’t let the kids wake up.”
12
TILLEY DIDN’T SLEEP AT all that night. He and Rose made wet, sloppy love for a long time and when, near dawn, they finally dropped back onto the sheets, it was more from exhaustion than from any lack of desire. Nevertheless, Rose popped off before Tilley could reassure her with the usual bullshit about how wonderful it was. She stretched, curled her back into his chest, closed her eyes and began to snore lightly. At first he thought she was making a joke about men and how they pass out after sex, but when he nudged her, she rolled onto her back and the snore deepened. She was straight out unconscious.
So he spent the rest of the night thinking about her. Thinking and looking. It seemed like every ten minutes he had to pull back the sheet and stare at her body. She was fairly short, maybe five-two, but she was strong at the same time (despite the delicate bones in her wrists and ankles) with the muscles of her forearms and her thighs pressing firmly against translucent, ivory skin. Tilley had been with a lot of women, even with a few upcoming movie stars when he was fighting and there was the possibility of a championship somewhere in his future. They had beautiful bodies and faces like angels, but none of them had ever affected him as strongly as Rose. Perhaps because she’d been so vulnerable for so long. Or because she was so strong and so determined, despite the physical reality of Levander Greenwood’s fists. Despite the heroin, the pills, the cocaine. And even despite the reality of blowjobs in the backseats of automobiles. Of strange men thrusting their hands into her crotch. “Just wanna make sure you’re a little girl and not a little boy. Don’t take it personal, honey.”
By five o’clock, he was up and running. The one good summer day had passed in the night, replaced by a drizzly warm front that reeked of humidity. The difference in the weather mirrored the difference in his body. His legs felt like rubber bands, his Nikes like lead weights. His swollen head wobbled on a neck that felt as strong as an overcooked noodle reheated in a microwave. It was a wonderful run.
Back inside, with everyone sleeping, he showered, dressed and headed downtown for Moodrow’s. New York is one of the busiest places on earth, but even here, there are moments when the city pauses for a deep breath. Tilley came down Second Avenue, catching every light, including the long one by the 59th Street Bridge. Even the cabbies and the bus drivers had forgotten their vows of eternal hatred and cruised without benefit of the upraised finger. Maybe in the suburbs or out in the country, families were putting on their Sunday best and getting ready for church, but in Manhattan, the citizens were in bed with the Sunday papers and would remain there until noon, at least.
It was a quarter to eight when he arrived at Moodrow’s and the building was deserted. He pushed open Moodrow’s door, as usual, and stepped dreamily inside. His mind was still reviewing Rose’s body (he couldn’t get the salty odor of her breasts out of his nostrils) and the last thing he expected was the tall black woman, telephone in hand, who cried out in surprise as he stepped into the living room.
Naturally, Tilley panicked. It was like being in a dream. Even though the furniture was identical to Moodrow’s and the building was Moodrow’s building, he didn’t have the slightest doubt that somehow he’d entered the wrong apartment. His first thought was to prevent a panic and he started to mumble something about being a police officer when she smiled and said, “You’re Jim Tilley, right? You’d better be.” She held out her hand. “I’m Leonora Higgins. I’m representing the district attorney. Moodrow’s down on Delancey Street
picking up blintzes and sour cream. The captain’s gonna be a little late. You want coffee?”
Tilley nodded his head and sat down at the kitchen table. Leonora Higgins was a very good-looking woman, maybe thirty-five years old. She gave off an air of self-confidence as neat and tailored as the navy blue suit and white silk blouse she chose to wear on a muggy Sunday morning. She poured out coffee, passed him the milk and sugar, dug out a small paper napkin with such graceful assurance, he was suddenly convinced this wasn’t the first time she’d been in Moodrow’s apartment. In the short time he’d known his partner, Moodrow had never spoken about any woman (except the snitch-prostitutes that screwed their way through his Dailies), but if this was his woman, he’d done all right for himself.
“Have you known Moodrow for a long time?” Tilley asked innocently.
“Not long, but it’s been intense. If you know what I mean.”
Tilley raised his eyebrows in mock horror. “You telling me this never stops? The test never ends?”
To his surprise, she took the question seriously. “Not that I know exactly what happens out there between you two, but I’d say Moodrow doesn’t change much from day to day. There’s a story circulating about an illegal motorcycle wrecking yard on 4th Street. But then Moodrow always did like to stay busy.” She grinned deliberately, obviously teasing him. “You know the district attorney is committed to civil rights for all New Yorkers. Even criminals.”
Tilley sipped his coffee and tried to make the question as casual as he could. “But no one’s gonna do anything anyway? That’s what you’re saying?”
“Your partner’s very good at walking the edge, but then again, he’s got plenty of time.” She grinned again. “That’s all he does.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying Moodrow doesn’t drink. I’m saying he doesn’t gamble. There’s no drugs. No steady girlfriend. No church. No politics. Not even inside-the-department politics. Moodrow’s only got one hangup and that’s justice. He’s addicted to it and he doesn’t give a damn about regulations or rights or what a bunch of politicians wrote two hundred years ago. Each time it’s a different problem. Each time he solves it or tries to, at any rate. He’s a very practical man, once he makes up his mind to do something.”
Tilley held up his hand. “This is not a summation, counselor. And I’m not the jury, either.” She grinned apologetically and he went on. “What I’d like to know is what makes you such an expert on Stanley Moodrow. You don’t look like his type. Don’t get insulted. I mean you could do better, not him. So the point is why you care at all.” He wasn’t trying to challenge her, just curious, and she understood.
“I used to be an FBI agent and he and I and Captain Epstein were on a big case together.”
As soon as she said “FBI agent” the whole story clicked into place. The “case,” of course, had involved The American Red Army, and the story (which was universally believed) was that Moodrow had originally planned to execute all five of the terrorists and had been shot by an FBI agent because a bullet was the only way she could convince him not to go through with it. That agent had been a black woman and her name was Leonora Higgins.
“I followed him for a long time before the arrests were made and I got to know him. He’s a very rare type. You don’t meet many people who live their lives according to moral principles.” She reached across the table and touched the back of Tilley’s hand. “You’d expect a man like him to be innocent, somehow. Vulnerable, that’s a better word for it. But we don’t worry about him, not as long as he remains a cop. Moodrow’s been bullshitting the department for thirty-five years. The captain is worried about you. He asked me to try to speak to you alone. To ask you how things are going.” She hesitated momentarily, then finished it. “See if you want out.”
Tilley thought of Rose sitting in his apartment uptown; of Levander Greenwood holed-up in some basement, sitting on a couch, maybe, with a crack pipe on the table and a shotgun across his legs. Without a sound, he walked around the table and kissed Ms. Higgins on the cheek. “If you and Epstein are as close to Moodrow as you say, Lenny, it’s just gonna be one big happy family.” He stepped away from her. “Funny thing is the son of a bitch gives me such a hard time, I don’t feel I should have to take it from anyone else. Like I already did my penance, ya know?”
She looked at him for a second, trying to read his smile, then tossed her hands in the air. “I was going to tell you that if you wanted to stay with Moodrow, you were going to have to let yourself be a little crazy, but I see you’ve managed to accomplish that without my assistance.”
“Most likely that’s why Moodrow picked me in the first place.”
They passed a few more minutes with general bullshit about the job and the D.A.’s office, then he asked her if she knew anything about a cocaine possession case involving a boy named Marvin Morgan. He explained that Marvin was a friend of a friend and that he’d been swept up in a larger raid. Now Morgan’s relatives didn’t trust the legal aid lawyer and wanted to know how strong the case was.
He expected to be put off (no A.D.A. likes to feel pressure from a cop), but Higgins was familiar with the prosecution and perfectly willing to talk, explaining that Morgan was part of a much larger operation and, yes, he was guilty as hell. Only his clean record and his efforts to gain an education stood between him and a stretch upstate.
“Tell him to take the plea, Jimmy. If he does, I’ll get him before a judge next week and he’ll be on the street again. If he goes to trial and he loses, he’ll draw three years minimum.”
Tilley was nodding his agreement when Moodrow and Epstein showed up. He was anxious to finish this business and get back uptown, to retrieve what was left of his Sunday, but the smell of hot blintzes was too strong and they spent the following half hour with their faces stuck in Moodrow’s chipped plates and coffee mugs, shoveling cheese-filled pancakes smothered with sour cream into their mouths.
Nobody said a word, not even small talk, until they were finished and the dishes were piled in the sink. Then Captain Epstein took a handful of manila envelopes from his briefcase and dumped them on the table.
“We got Greenwood’s file here plus files on all the narcs in the precinct. I’ve been through them quick and I don’t see any obvious connection.”
“What about the last cop that busted him?” Higgins asked. “The time he got sent upstate.”
“He’s retired,” Moodrow volunteered. “That was Donaldson.”
“Retired and dead,” Epstein said. “His heart stopped on a Boca Raton golf course about two months ago.”
Tilley glanced over at Moodrow, knowing how he felt about retirement, but his face was impassive and Epstein continued with his briefing. “Nobody knows these files have been copied. Nobody but the four of us and I’m determined to keep it that way. Leonora’s only here because we need to cover our asses. We got a corrupt cop out there and we, meaning Tilley, Moodrow and myself, don’t wanna be accused of a coverup if it should come out some other way before we make the bust. You’re listening, I hope? Nobody says anything about a corrupt cop until I give the word. Capisch?”
He passed the folders over to Moodrow who tossed them on top of a bureau. The move seemed casual enough, but Tilley knew he’d be spending his Sunday going through them syllable by syllable.
“May I say something about the witness you’re protecting?” Leonora asked. “Rose Carillo and her children?” Epstein nodded and she went on. “If you want, I can register her and the kids in a witness protection program. That way, there won’t be any questions later on.”
“Forget it.” Tilley was shocked to hear his own voice.
Epstein looked up in surprise. The young cop was low man on the totem pole and Epstein could have shot him down easily enough. Instead, he asked, “Why do you have a problem with the program?”
“For the same reason we’re keeping word about a corrupt cop among ourselves. You register them, put it all down on paper in some filing
cabinet, you don’t know who’s gonna have access. It’s possible that whoever’s running Greenwood reads his file everyday. We already know Greenwood blames his wife for giving us information. Face it, the fewer people know where Rose Carillo’s hiding, the fewer people can give her away.”
Tilley spoke as forcefully as he could and when he’d finished, there was a brief silence, broken, again, by Leonora Higgins. “You can do what you want,” she explained, “but if some lawyer gets ahold of this witness and turns her around, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“How so?” Epstein asked.
“Say she claims she’s being held against her will, maybe as bait for her ex-husband. Or supposing he should somehow find her in spite of where she’s hiding. Suppose he should hurt her or her children. How will you explain the lack of paperwork? At the very least, you should get a notarized statement from her, indicating her cooperation.”
“That’s bullshit.” Moodrow spoke up for the first time. “Jimmy’s right. The fewer people who know, the fewer fuckups there’ll be. Rose will never make trouble for us.”
“Look, it’s no skin off my nose,” Higgins declared. “I’m only a lawyer. What do I know?”
“Not much.” Moodrow smiled when he said it. “But you’re getting better. Look, Leonora, Rose Carillo gave us information when we didn’t have any way to persuade her. It wasn’t a trade, understand? Now I have to protect her.”
“It’s Jimmy who’s going to be hurt, if the shit hits the fan.”
“So be it,” Tilley said and realized that he already thought of Rose as a lover. As a regular lover and he didn’t want her moving any further from his bed than absolutely necessary.
“Ease off, already,” Epstein said firmly. “What we say here in this room protects all of us. If one goes, we all go. I’m saying that in my judgement and in my capacity as precinct commander, the public will be better protected if we keep Rose Carillo and the possible existence of a rogue cop out of the files. After all, the whole point of Higgins presence is to let us bypass department regulations. We’re supposed to report this to Internal Affairs, but we’re not doing it. And we’re not registering Rose Carillo, either. Now let’s get on to other things.” He paused, waiting until their brains made the jump, then planted his thought. “Peter Katjcic says a cop’s running Levander Greenwood. I say, ‘So what?’ Why should we believe an asshole like Peter Katjcic? How do we know it isn’t bullshit?”
Force of Nature Page 12
