Force of Nature

by Stephen Solomita

  Moodrow took a deep breath, then he said, very quietly, “If you were any stupider, you’d be dead. I’m trying to find out what kind of drugs.”

  “Heroin. We don’t know how much.”

  “You said twenty-one thirteen Eldridge?”

  “Right. Two one one three.”

  “Muchos gracias, subhuman. Ten-four.” He slid the mike back into its holder, then turned to his partner. “Let’s go with the lights. I wanna be down there in ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes? They were on West 95th Street and couldn’t have made the Lower East Side in ten minutes with anything slower than a helicopter. The roads in Central Park were closed to traffic, as they are all summer long, and Tilley headed down Columbus, hoping to skirt the worst of the midtown traffic before he tried to cross the Island. Instead, they ran into an ocean of steaming metal which began at 74th Street and extended south as far as they could see. Moodrow, disbelieving, flipped the channel on the radio, contacted Central and was told that a Jersey Transit bus had overturned in the east tube of the Lincoln Tunnel and caught fire. The tunnel was closed in both directions and Jersey-bound traffic had flooded the west side of midtown Manhattan.

  So there was no choice but to go east along with everyone else. The flashing red bubble on the top of the car was, of course, impressing no one. Not that there was anywhere for the traffic to go. When streets are curb-to-curb metal, all you can do is wait. Of course, they would have made slightly better progress if they went with the siren. It’s absolutely unnerving to sit, motionless, in front of a screaming siren, but it would be a clear violation of department guidelines to run with the siren in a nonemergency situation. Besides which, Tilley didn’t really see the reason for Moodrow’s haste, and when Moodrow asked him to go up on the sidewalk, Tilley balked.

  “Look, Moodrow, I’m not gonna kill somebody just so we can go look at a bloodstained apartment. I seen them before and advise we get there after the M. E. carts the bodies off to the morgue.”

  Moodrow laughed. In spite of his haste, he seemed very happy about something. “Think for a minute, Jimmy. I mean you don’t know all the details, but you should be able to see something different this time. Then you’ll know why we gotta hurry.”

  They were on 65th Street, heading for the Central Park transverse. Tilley was prepared to go straight across Manhattan to the East River Drive and the trucks and taxis were making room for them. Then a city bus pulled away from the curb, forcing Tilley to brake sharply before it stopped for the red light on Central Park West. Moodrow jumped out of the car, went to the driver’s window and banged on it hard, waving his badge like a flag on the fourth of July.

  “Gimme your goddamn driver’s license,” he yelled. The bus driver seemed about to faint. Moodrow, with his massive head and his rumpled woolly jacket, looked like a carnivorous buffalo and each time he slapped his palm against the window, the bus rocked on its suspension. “Before the fucking light changes, asshole,” he demanded.

  From behind the wheel, Tilley could just see the driver’s face and it was hanging damn near to the middle of his chest. He was very, very sorry he’d cut off a cop. Most likely, the heat and the traffic had gotten to him and he just didn’t give a shit until after it was too late. In any event, he handed over his license and Moodrow carried it back to the car.

  “Let’s go,” Moodrow said as soon as he was inside. Never one to argue, Tilley pulled around the bus and crossed Central Park West against the light. In the rearview mirror, he could make out the bus driver pounding his steering wheel in frustration. It would take half a day to get a duplicate at the MVB on Worth Street; four hours of dealing with the most hated bureaucracy in New York City.

  The move relaxed Moodrow immensely, and once through the park, they began to make better time. “Listen,” Tilley said. “This ‘difference’ you talked about. That’s because it’s heroin, right?” From the little information they had, that’s the only thing that could have been different. Though he’d moved freely from one drug dealer to another (not surprising if a cop, with access to every corner of the marketplace, was running him), Levander had concentrated mainly on cocaine dealers. It was common knowledge that Levander was a terminal crack addict, so the pattern came as no surprise.

  “That’s exactly right,” Moodrow responded.

  “You know what brand?”

  “I think so, but I have to make sure. That’s why I wanna get down there in a hurry. If it’s what I think it is, we’ll catch it coming back out on the street. If we’re fast enough.”

  Moodrow was referring to a marketing device commonly used by larger heroin-dealing gangs. Ten dollar bags were now stamped with a trade name so the user could identify the source. The names, Blue Thunder, Red Dragon, Smiley D, were not very imaginative and the scrollwork surrounding the name on the glassine envelopes was equally crude. Yet the names were used week after week and whenever any especially powerful dope hit the streets, the brand name would spread quickly among the junkies. A dime bag is a dime bag, but the purity of the drug inside varies enormously.

  “So what’s your guess? What do you think it is?”

  “It’s Blue Thunder. Ninety-nine percent sure. Eldridge Street is all Blue Thunder.”

  “But isn’t that the problem?”

  “What? Spell it out.” They were on the Drive by now and moving quickly downtown. In the lighter traffic, other vehicles were making an effort to get out of the way and Tilley was doing about forty-five miles an hour which is all FDR Drive, with its massive potholes and roller coaster dips, will allow.

  “Moodrow, if all of Eldridge Street is selling Blue Thunder, not to mention the other fifteen places scattered around the neighborhood, how is it gonna help that one more dealer is handling it on the street?”

  “If it’s Blue Thunder I think I might be able to shut it off. For a while.”

  The statement sat with them like the atmosphere after a loud fart. Nobody wanted to be the first to breathe it in.

  “You really think you can do this?” Tilley finally asked.

  Moodrow looked at his partner strangely for a moment, then said, “I know the wop who runs Blue Thunder on the Lower East Side. I went to high school with him.”

  “This guy is your friend?”

  Moodrow broke into a nervous giggle. “That’s the one problem. I hated him from the first day I met him. He was a vicious bastard, so mean I took him for an ordinary bully. I thought he’d run if I stamped my foot, but I was wrong. We fought from when we were freshmen until after we graduated, without anyone coming out a clear winner. I see him on the street and I still wanna hit him. He’s a mob scumbag who feeds on human misery. A real threat to everything and everyone in that neighborhood.”

  “You mean Don Moodrow’s neighborhood?” As the hours passed, they were becoming more and more committed to, each other. It was a fact, not a decision. Now Tilley could tease Moodrow without worrying about his reaction, and though Moodrow’s testing of his partner never really stopped, he no longer looked like he expected Tilley to fail. On those few occasions when Tilley put his foot down (as he had when Moodrow asked him to pull onto the sidewalk), Moodrow respected it.

  “What makes you think they won’t repackage?”

  “If they do, they do. But I think Greenwood’s too desperate for that and, naturally, he believes there’s twenty other people out there with the same product. Nobody has any idea that I could do this thing. By the way, if I can do it, it’s gotta stay between the two of us. Understand?”

  “Not even Higgins and the captain?”

  “The two of us,” he repeated, his eyes glued to the road ahead. “Until we decide what we’re to do with cousin Levander.”

  16

  THE CRIME SCENE AT 2113 Eldridge was as gruesome as Tilley had expected. Even though Emergency Services had taken the survivor off to Bellevue and a half dozen detectives were covering the apartment in fingerprint dust while another squad plucked fragments of tissue from the rug with tweezers, t
he medical examiner had not yet arrived, so the two bodies, the man’s and the infant’s, lay exactly as they’d fallen, one in the hallway and one on the living room floor. Shotgun wounds are messy. They leave pieces of human beings in unexpected places and Tilley could not find a way to get down the hallway without squishing through a soaked, bloody carpet.

  Moodrow, oblivious, plodded along, his black brogans crunching matter-of-factly on fragments of bone. He was looking for someone he could “trust,” another detective whose judgement he respected. That definitely wasn’t O’Neill or Kirkpatrick, who nodded when he came in, then turned back to their work. The reason for their curt greeting was evident as Moodrow and Tilley continued into the living room where Chief of Detectives Franklyn Goobe stood along with Leonora Higgins and Captain Epstein around the chalk-outlined body of the dead adult. As soon as Moodrow saw them, he started to turn around, but he wasn’t nearly quick enough.

  “Just a second, Stanley,” a clearly harassed Epstein called.

  “I hope this isn’t gonna take forever,” Moodrow said. His face was set and serious. “I really gotta stay on top of what I’m doing.”

  Franklyn Goobe was an impressive individual, one of those men who receives instant respect on the basis of his appearance alone. His enemies in the job called him the “Lion Man” because of his large face and mane of snow white hair. Hair which was teased and blow-dried every day. Despite the vanity, however, Goobe, a third generation New York cop, was grudgingly admired by the department for his relentless pursuit of anyone who attacked a cop.

  “Sergeant Moodrow,” he cried, offering his hand. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, nearly forever,” Moodrow returned, dodging the technicians as he moved into the center of the room. For once, standing toe-to-toe with Franklyn Goobe, Moodrow didn’t physically dominate the scene. Epstein and Higgins, wisely silent, literally stepped away from the two of them.

  “You seem to be in a hurry,” Goobe observed affably.

  “I am.”

  “I expect that’s because you’re on your way to arrest Mr. Greenwood. Am I right?” His smile lit up the room. “Do I win the million dollars?”

  Moodrow sighed impatiently. He was addressing the chief of detectives, one of the most powerful men in the New York Police Department. It was rumored that Goobe had personal files on a number of local politicians and acted as point man for the P.C. Men like Goobe are pissed off even when everything goes right. That Levander Greenwood, with his record (which was reproduced nearly every day in the tabloids), should be on the street weeks after murdering police officers, was definitely not right. It was not remotely acceptable. Though Moodrow and Tilley didn’t know it at the time, the police commissioner had also been present. He had kicked the Murphys’ butts from one end of the apartment to the other. Now it was Moodrow’s turn.

  “No,” Moodrow said. “I don’t see anything before a few days. Maybe a week.”

  “A week.” The Chiefs eyebrows rose in surprise. “What do you think, Ms. Higgins? Do you think it’s because we haven’t been holding up our end? Have we denied Sergeant Moodrow a search warrant or refused to authorize a wiretap? How have we failed him?”

  “Sergeant Moodrow hasn’t requested anything like that, sir,” Higgins said brightly.

  The added “sir,” delivered in a forthright military manner, almost brought a smile to Franklyn Goobe’s mouth. But not quite. “I already know that, really. I know that Sergeant Moodrow hasn’t been asking for anything because I’ve been going through the Sergeant’s Investigative Daily Activity Reports for a clue as to what he has been doing.”

  As soon as Goobe said the word “Daily,” the whole room stopped dead. It was a doubletake worthy of a silent comedy. Not sure of what was happening, Tilley looked to Moodrow and saw the red blush as it crept up Moodrow’s neck and over his ears.

  “Yes,” Goobe continued. “They’re very interesting, but somewhat confusing. Take this one dated 8/24.” He paused, looked up at Moodrow with innocent eyes. “You don’t mind my asking you about this? I’m trying to keep up with the investigation, especially now that it’s going long-term.”

  Moodrow, his eyes locked with Goobe’s, shrugged in resignation. “I knew I was gonna have a bad day. This morning, when I tried to pee, my dick fell off.”

  “That usually is an accurate indicator,” Goobe nodded. He held up Moodrow’s report, peered at it for a moment, then took out his glasses and put them on. “Let’s see. Have I got the pages right?” He shuffled through them for a moment and when he began to read, the apartment was as still as the dead bodies waiting for the medical examiner. Strangely, of all the cops in that room, Jim Tilley was the only one who seemed to think Moodrow’s reprimand out of place. The simple fact of death, of carnage, of blood-spattered walls, of an infant’s body growing cold on a hallway rug meant no more to the rest of them than typewriters and desks to a vice president reaming out a junior executive.

  0200 hours. The Mansion coffee shop on 86th & York. I am meeting, by appointment, with sometimes transvestite informant, codename Samantha Bankhead, and have been offered information concerning a gang of drug dealers selling to a homosexual clientele on the west side docks. Informant wishes to sell information, declares self desperate for money to finance revolutionary business venture: Rectal Bikini Waxing.

  “Have you seen those new swimsuits we’re expected to wear this summer?” Ms. Bankhead tells me. “Have you seen what those bastard designers have done to us? They think they own us, for shit sake. Believe me, Moodrow, when that string goes between those cheeks, there’s nothing back there at all. We might as well be naked.”

  Informant then approaches close enough to whisper. “Do you know what electrolysis costs today? Thousands! And not only that, it takes dozens of visits and sometimes the damn hair grows back anyway. I can bikini wax a tush until it’s like glass for under fifty dollars. For seventy-five I can do the legs and the chest as well. Three waxes carry you right through the season. And I’m talkin’ clean, Moodrow. I’m talkin’ ‘slippery when wet.’”

  All during interview, informant continually searches faces of others in restaurant. When asked, she declares herself fearful of others stealing her idea. “I’m not as young as I look,” informant insists, “and I don’t relish the idea of dying broke. I know you can’t get by on your looks forever. Youth, alas, is not eternal, but it might be for sale. That’s why I’ve got to press ahead.” She wrings her hands pathetically. “That’s why I’ll even sell out my friends. I’m that desperate. And that sure.”

  Waiter approaches and we order coffee, mine black and Ms. Bankhead’s “as sweet as you can stand.” Then informant, sensing skepticism, presses on, gripping my hand to reinforce her conviction. “Don’t think it stops there,” she declares. “Seasonal rectal bikini waxing is only the beginning. Do you know what buttock hair does to silk?” I had to admit that I didn’t. “It’s pure el destructo. Likewise for dainty synthetics and pantyhose. And as for lace…the look alone is enough to melt the wax in my tray. Once the trade realizes how much they’re getting for their money, they’ll use my services the way women bikini wax all year round to look good in lingerie. Don’t forget, we may not be able to fuck like we did in the old days, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want to be attractive. And it doesn’t mean that when we dance together, if dancing is as far as we dare go, we don’t want to give our suitors a nice smooth squeeze to carry home with them. Moodrow, it’s a winner.”

  Finally, I ask informant if she wants to sell me information or get me to buy stock. I explain that I don’t care if she uses the money to plug her grandmother’s asshole as long as there’s something in it for me.

  “How does an ounce of cocaine every week sound to you? In the summertime, two ounces! People buy whole grams at one time!”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Informant looks at me with astonishment. “My integrity is my currency. Without it I am nothing.” Then she sits back i
n her chair. “This will be my slogan: ELECTROLYSIS IS FOREVER. WAXING IS FOR NOW. Or do you like, NOW! WHILE HE STILL CARES?”

  “How much, Samantha?”

  “Forty thousand to open the doors.”

  “Forty large for a gram coke dealer? I’d have to say that’s a real bargain. But, see, since I don’t work that precinct, you gotta go over my head for help. In fact, you gotta go all the way to the top for that kinda money. Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp, you call the chief of detective’s office at One Police Plaza and ask for Franklyn Goobe. Tell him just what you told me. He could be your first customer.”

  Pin-drop time. Not a sound from the audience of detectives. Nobody doing any work, either. Epstein looked stricken, but Higgins was proud. From her position behind Goobe, she winked at Tilley and grinned.

  “I must admit, Sergeant,” Goobe finally continued, “even though I’ve leafed through hundreds of Dailies, I’ve never come across one in which the actual words were reported in such detail. You must have recorded it and then used the tape to make up your report. My congratulations, then, on your enterprise, even though, to my knowledge, Ms. Bankhead didn’t follow up on your suggestion.”

  “C’mon,” Moodrow said irritably. “Why don’t you just tell me what the fuck you want.”

  Goobe’s eyes narrowed and all the “politician” disappeared from his face. “I want Greenwood, you fat asshole. I want him and you spend your time writing bullshit reports when you should be working. Maybe you think you’re the Rodney Dangerfield of the NYPD, but this ain’t the time for jokes. Until you take Greenwood, I want to know exactly what you do with the time you spend on the job. Every goddamn minute. If you think I’m joking, I’ll send these fucking reports to a board of inquiry in ten minutes. I’ll have you out of the department before you manage to die on the job.”

  So saying, he stepped across the body of the dead man and stalked out of the apartment, followed by Epstein and the two suits assigned to guard his body. Moodrow swayed slightly as Goobe passed him, as if he was ready to launch himself onto the district attorney. Even after Leonora placed a calming hand on his arm, he said nothing. Naturally, with the two bigshots out of the room, the other cops, as they went back to work, felt it incumbent upon themselves both to invent and to verbalize such phrases as “Oh, Samantha, would you wax my rectum, I’m going to the prom tonight” every three or four seconds.