Read Angelfall: Parts 1 to 5 Online
Authors: Conrad Powell
Angelfall: Parts 1 to 5 (15 page)
“Tell me something. Who lives in this building?”
“Oh let’s see. There is Mr. Bent in #3C. #3D is empty. On the second floor in #2A are The Crenshaws. The Wilsons are in #2B. #2C has old man Smikle. He’s been here the longest probably when the building was first built. #2D is Ronaldo Etienne, the Haitian man. Nice fella - Keeps to himself and works as a janitor downtown. The first floor is empty except Mr. Pilar, the Superintendent who lives in #1A. That’s about it.”
I jotted it all down.
“Thank you.” I rubbed my eyes. I jumped into Bessie and left Willmohr. I became alert again when I stepped out of my car into the underground garage of my apartment building in Flatbush.
I didn’t recall when I had turned onto Linden Boulevard, back on Church Avenue and onto Flatbush Avenue.
I dropped everything on the kitchen table and somehow made it to the bedroom where I fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter 7
London – Tuesday Morning.
It was 4 AM when Errar packed up to head home. He drove his three-toned blue, red and silver Lamborghini to the edge of the exterior gate and waited for it to recoil. He revved and sped along the lonely dirt road that led away from Thames.
Thames was one of the few remaining private prisons in England, originally built in 1802 when pirates ruled the seas and gallows were the punishment of choice.
The Board of Directors modernized it into the two buildings now shaped like the number 11. The original building became administrative and the new one held Cell Blocks A to E. It was encircled by a large solid metal barrier complete with barbed wire and sharpshooters on every corner to prevent attempts at early checkout.
Huge floodlights scanned the space in between the buildings now known as the prisoner’s courtyard.
The inmates came out once a day if it wasn’t raining. The buildings boasted electronic circuitries, and recoiling metal doors. The cells were retrofitted with toilets and sinks. Gone were the days of piss buckets.
Errar was a workaholic who lived at Thames, or so his little wife, Rosalina, thought. It was the perfect cover for his money laundering empire with an occasional illegal arms deal thrown in to pass the time.
The Board recruited Errar early last year from Spain. When he wasn’t building his empire or devouring Rosalina’s homemade pies, he amused himself by making life hell for the prisoners.
Fresh meat at Thames got an earful from the prisoners in their informal “Welcome to Thames” orientation. The infamous tale of inmate Malachi Grant headed the subjects covered.
Malachi Grant had been there five years before Errar came on the scene. Malachi was a champion of rights, liberties and all things noble with a penchant for writing to The Human Rights Commission.
When Errar showed up, the prisoners had already received his curriculum vitae. Malachi’s days were numbered and the prisoners knew it. Sgt. York posted the spread.
How many days would Malachi last before he was placed in solitary confinement? The highest odds were on ten days which paid out 50 to 1.
Errar came and Malachi wrote.
On the ninth day, Critter O’Reilly, who had wagered 1,000 pound sterling on the ten day pick, rerouted Malachi’s letter to Errar’s inbox. On the tenth day Malachi was found dead in the courtyard with pitchforks rammed in his belly and head and O’Reilly became 50,000 pounds richer.
Malachi’s letter to the Commission lay beside him in a pool of blood. None expected such a heavy reaction and all letters from Thames ceased. Errar made his position clear. He was the king in control of his kingdom.
The king’s car phone rang.
“Incoming call from Over Easy,” said the car phone speakers.
“Answer call,” said Errar.
“Answering in progress. Please wait,” said the car speakers. “Call connected. Proceed.”
“They are meeting as we speak. I told them no details as yet,” said Fall.
“Fine. I-”
The car phone speakers chirped that there was an incoming call on the other line.
“Let me take this other call.”
“Ok.”
“Incoming call from Florentine,” repeated the car phone speakers.
“Answer call,” said Errar.
“My friend. How are you mate?” said Emeil McSweeney, the Minister of Commerce for Australia.
“I’ll be better when I hear you say it is a go.”
“How is our hand glider? I hear he is on location,” said McSweeney.
“Well they haven’t actually accepted yet, but I hear he is down there.”
Errar turned onto the long stretch road that led to his posh home at The Jester Court Estates.
Jester Courts was a sprawling gated community with flourishing mini estates nestled on the outskirts of town. Rumor had it that a few celebrities set up temporary residence there.
Errar pulled into his semi-circle driveway under the arch and lingered in the car. Rosalina ran out to meet him as usual. She waited for the car door to open.
“We are almost ready mate. I have all assurances from Scrambled that we are on board.”
“Is it on location?” said Errar.
“Yes. They are staying put until Scrambled gives the word.”
“Excellent. Tell Scrambled not to delay. We have to move soon.”
His wife lightly tapped on the car window.
“We’ll talk soon,” said Errar and commanded the phone to disconnect.
He turned off the car, grabbed his lunch container and stepped out. He never brought work home.
“Hello Darling,” said Rosalina as she rewrapped her robe to keep out the chill.
“Mi Amor,” said Errar in his usual best-husband-in-the-world kind of tone. He followed her into the house.
Chapter 8
Brooklyn.
I really hated mornings. I am not sure where I picked up the night owl practice but I just hated morning. I sat at the Spinner Blues Café on Court Street stirring my black coffee with sugar.
The café wasn’t as packed as the Starbuck’s next door. But I preferred to spend only 75 cents for my coffee and the place was much quieter without the Starbucks crowd.
There was hardly a soul inside except for me and a couple of weirdo’s whom I’m sure could only afford the 75 cent expenditure.
My mind meandered from the Willmohr Street case to my dog case. No not Rottweiler or Doberman but dog cases. Cases from long ago that haunted your every thought whenever your mind became lazy. Everyone on the force had them.
My dog case was a man named Joshua Fall. Fall was the biggest case I ever had in my last position and the one that almost got me fired.
Fall caused me much sleepless days. I didn’t even want to go to work sometimes. I remembered how much I struggled with it.
It was five years of approved wiretaps, countless agents caught in the crossfire of the most notorious and ambitious international weapons ring, not to mention the drugs for guns trade that casted a shadow over the New York City Police Department.
I knew Fall was a small fry but he wouldn’t give me the bigger fish. He led me on more wild goose chases than I cared to remember.
Joshua Fall got away on a technicality. It was some bull about coerced confession and prosecutorial hee-bee jee-bee. I thought I had unplugged the interview room camera. I never knew I was taped from a different source.
The real players were still at large including corrupt cops in high positions. But that’s New York politics for you. New York ran like the well oiled Tammany machine of old gangster Chicago.
I knew there were breaches in the force but I was off the case and would never know.
Fall was sort of one of those prime cases you worked on every now and then.
I wasn’t satisfied. I can see why people love to hate lawyers or is it that they hate to love them? They caused Fall to disappear from my radar and for that I am eternally pissed off.
I refocused away from Joshua Fall and meandered back to my snail pace morning commute. From as far back as I could remember I had been working the morning shift even though I hated it.
My red Nokia cell phone blurted an Earth Wind and Fire.
“Yes Cap?” I said.
“Start, get over to 1078. Fire broke out early this morning.”
Sure enough the small television in the café confirmed the news.
Weidermeier’s toupee looked gigantic on the small television. In the midst of sporadic coughs and - eh ehms, he began. That dude really needed to lay off the cigarettes.
“Good morning. Late breaking news from East, eh ehm – excuse me – East Flatbush. It has been reported that a fire broke out in the early morning hours at 1078 Willmohr Street which had been the scene of a homicide as reported just last night. Our Kathy Bellamy is at the scene. Kathy, eh eh ehm. Kathy can you hear me?”
Kathy popped up in split screen holding her earpiece as she glanced at the charred remains behind her.
“Hi. Robert. It is true.”
“Do you know how it happened?”
“I spoke with a few people in the area and no one knew how it started. Robert.” said Kathy.
“Was anyone hurt?”
“As far as I can tell, no. Not seriously. Fire Chief uh Ken Blythe, uh I spoke with the Fire Chief a few minutes ago. Of course he is tending to the department investigations which he promises will begin today.”
Kathy glanced behind her at the passerby crowd that gathered.
A few people waived behind her getting in their ten seconds of fame while a couple of kids made funny faces.
I just realized the Captain had hung up. Kathy leaned into the crowd and a few people shouted to her.
She continued.
“I’m hearing from the crowd that some persons were taken to Brookdale Hospital. I imagine they were treated for smoke inhalation and minor burns.”
Someone in the crowd pointed at Mrs. Lichtenstein who was seated on the side near the emergency treatment tent. Kathy took the cue.
“I think I see a victim over there,” said Kathy as she scuttled over to Mrs. Lichtenstein. The camera followed.
“Hi. I am Kathy Bellamy from Channel 7. What’s your name?”
Kathy bent down and stuck the microphone under Mrs. Lichtenstein’s chin.
Mrs. Lichtenstein trembled.
“I, Where is Noel? Where is my grandson?”
She glanced about hoping to spot him. She stopped and stared into space rubbing her reddish hair thinned out by years of No. 8 Auburn Dye.
