Trap (9781476793177) (20 page)

Forsling almost gave in. But he was the one who'd called for the protest outside of the bakery. “Someone has to stand up to the lies about the ‘Holocaust' and the threat of Zionism,” he'd told the other drunks at The Storm Trooper bar the night before. If he didn't show up, he'd lose face.

“I got to go,” he'd said. “We're having an important meeting. Promise me you won't smoke in bed.” But his mother shifted her bulk and turned away from him without saying anything.

“I'll see you later, Mother,” he'd said. “I'll check in with you when I get home.”

There was still no reply, so he'd left without saying anything else. As usual, he felt guilty leaving her; then again it was no different than any other time he tried to do anything on his own. She even complained when he got the job checking out the tenement construction site, shining a flashlight around a couple times a night to make it look like there was regular security. He didn't like going over there at night—there were a lot of spics and niggers in that neighborhood—but he didn't have a lot of employment options, and he was trying to save up for his move to Idaho.

Looks like I'll be moving sooner than expected,
he thought as he began climbing the stairs to the top of the building. He'd saved a few hundred dollars and there'd been roughly another hundred in the till at The Storm Trooper. Enough to get out there, he figured, and once there, he'd drop some hints that he'd been responsible for the car bombing they might have heard about in New York. He imagined the admiring acceptance he'd receive once among the white supremacist militias; he'd assume a fake name and identity and blend in.

Thinking about his new life was followed by a pang of guilt. His mother was lying in a morgue, her skin charred, her lips curled in some ghastly grimace of pain. He imagined the dark figures who'd crept into their home and up the stairs in the dark, dousing her with gasoline as she slept and then lighting the match. She would have woken from her drunken stupor as the flames engulfed her and pain began. And there was no one to protect her. No one to save her. She'd died alone as predicted.

The thought made him angry, and he climbed the stairs faster. He was going to get his revenge and then he'd be on his way to the Promised Land. He'd explained it all to the teenagers and the old woman as they drove north on Third Avenue. “Blame your old man for what's going to happen,” he said. “He's trying to frame me for setting off that car bomb . . . him and that nigger cop of his. That's the way you Jews operate. Figure out who needs to be removed so that you can get away with your lies, then get the mud people to do your dirty work.”

“My dad wouldn't frame anybody. You didn't plant the bomb?” the skinnier of the teens asked.

Forsling scoffed. “No. I had nothing to do with it, though I could not care less that there's one less Jew in the world. I was there to stand up to the lies about the Holocaust. But I didn't kill anybody. I was sitting in a cop car when the bomb went off. But they hauled my ass to jail, and then burned my mom out, so now you got to pay.”

He looked over at the old woman expecting to see fear in her eyes. Instead, she smiled at him then leaned over and patted his knee. “If God wills us to die tonight, so be it,” she said, though there was a strange quality to her voice as if she didn't use it much.

When they reached the entrance to the fence around the tenement, Forsling handed a key to the teen in the passenger seat to unlock the padlock and remove the chain so they could drive in. “If you try to run away I'll shoot the old woman and your brother.”

Giancarlo had done as he was told and then got back in the van. He'd then instructed the driver to pull up as close to a side door leading into the building as he could and made the passenger get out and unlock the door. With the boys in the lead and the old woman walking in front of him with the gun pointed at her back, they started ascending the stairs.

Reaching the tenth floor, the old woman, who had been struggling, suddenly collapsed. “Carry her,” he'd instructed the larger teen, who picked her up and brought her to the loft. He'd then placed her on an old mattress that had been left by workmen.

“You sit,” Forsling had told the bigger teen, pointing the gun at an old wooden chair. “And you grab that rope and tie his wrists to the arms of the chair. . . . Now wrap it a few times around his waist.”

Once that was done, Forsling had tied the other teen down in a similar fashion though it was with some difficulty with one hand still holding the gun. “Try anything, and I'll make sure the old woman dies first,” he'd warned.

Satisfied that both teens were secure, he'd just turned around when he was surprised by a large rat that scurried across the floor ten feet away. He screamed and backed away, almost losing his balance.

“Wow, some tough Nazi you are,” said the larger of the two teens. “You peed in your pants?”

Forsling felt shame flood to his face at the kid's comments. He walked up to the mouthy teen and backhanded him across the face.

“Why don't you untie me and see if you dare doing that again,” the teenager snarled.

Forsling struck him again. It felt good. He felt powerful. “Yeah, you're talking big now,” he said. “Let's see what you say when I stick this gun in your mouth before I pull the trigger. I've already killed three guys today, and they were my friends. Shooting you will be even easier.”

With that he'd stormed out of the loft and down the stairs. He was worried that someone would see the van parked inside the gates and call the cops. But first he placed a call to Karp. He wanted the man to suffer. Negotiate for my safety, yeah right, he thought, like I'm going to fall for that Jew trick.

Karp thought he was stupid, but he had a plan. First he'd get his revenge while Karp listened to his kids die. Then he'd drive the van to Newark, where he'd ditch it and catch a bus to Idaho. There among the green mountains and clear rivers, he'd live among like-minded supremacists, away from the mud people and Jews. Maybe even find a good Aryan woman for a wife.

The daydreaming had been put on hold when he reached the loft and got ready to exact his righteous revenge. At first seeing the rat again had thrown him off, but backhanding the teen had put him back in the mood. He'd loved hearing Karp pleading with him to not kill his sons. “Which one should I shoot first?”

“Me, shoot me.” The old woman's voice surprised them all. She was standing unsteadily on her feet, her hands bound at the wrist in front of her. “I'm old. Shoot me if you must kill someone for your mother.”

Forsling pointed the gun at her. But looking in her clear, calm eyes, he couldn't pull the trigger.

“No, me,” the thinner of the teens said. “I'm not afraid of you, you Nazi son of a bitch.”

Anger took over Forsling's brain. He aimed the gun at the teen. “Well, you should be,” he snarled, intending to pull the trigger.

“Hey, asshole!” the other teen yelled.

“WHAT?” The kid was really getting on his nerves.

“Catch.”

The comment was so unexpected that at first he didn't recognize the large gray object the teen lifted off the floor with the toe of his shoe and flung up at him. Not until the rat landed on the arm he held outstretched with the gun in his hand. Even then the rodent had scampered onto his shoulder and bit him on the ear before he reacted.

First, he screamed so high and so loud that some part of his brain registered surprise that the sound had come from him. Then he shook his arm so violently that the gun flew from his hand and clattered across the floor. Next he reached up with the other hand and grabbed the rat, which bit him again, causing him to howl in pain and fear as he flung the rodent across the room.

At the same time, the larger of the two teens, though still bound by his wrists and waist to the chair, bellowed with rage and propelled himself at Forsling. He struck him so hard he was propelled backward, with the teen landing hard on him.

“Get her out of here,” the youth yelled at his brother. Forsling turned and saw that the other teen had slipped his bonds and was helping the old woman toward the door. Then the teen on top butted him in the head.

Hurt and suddenly afraid, at first all he could think about was disentangling himself from the battling youth and fleeing. But all of that weight lifting hadn't been a waste and as he fought back, he discovered his strength, especially against an adversary who was at such a disadvantage. He balled his fist and struck the boy and then struck him again.

Grabbing the teen's neck, he tried to strangle him, but the youth was too strong and struggled, using his knees to strike at Forsling. Getting desperate, he pushed the youth off him and sprung to his feet while his adversary struggled to rise with the chair still attached.

Forsling ran to where the Luger had landed and grabbed it with a yell of triumph. He turned, intending to shoot them all. However, instead he found himself looking at a petite woman who was pointing a gun at him.

For a moment time seemed to stand still. He saw the larger teen still on the floor. The other teen and the old woman were off to the side. “Drop your gun,” the woman demanded.

There was a brief moment when he considered doing what she said. But he thought about the past twenty-four hours and then about what the rest of his life would be like. No Idaho, only prison. He raised the weapon and felt something kick him in the chest, and at the same time there was a loud shot that seemed to fill the entire loft. Then something kicked him again and he fell backward to the floor.

Life seemed to play out in slow motion after that. The woman approached, still aiming the gun at him. Her face was a mask of rage, but then it softened as she looked down at him and he wondered if her expression was one of sorrow. Then another face appeared; the old woman, who knelt beside him and held his hand.

One part of him wanted to accept the sorrow and the kindness. But the larger part of him grew angry. Idaho was gone. His mother was dead. He was dying and it was all Karp's fault. But there was still a way to get even, still a way to be a hero to the Aryans in the West.

He tried to speak but it was difficult because of the blood in his mouth. “I did it,” he managed to blurt out, raising his head. “It was my bomb that blew up the car. I killed the Jew bitch.”

Then it was too much of an effort to speak anymore. His head felt so heavy and he lay it back down. Everything was fading, and the last image was of a mountain stream before the lights went out.

T
OMMY
M
ONROE ENTERED THE
J
AY
Street Bar and looked around suspiciously. It was a Tuesday evening and the crowd was light, just a few regulars and a couple of people he didn't know. These he looked over carefully.

One was a young Hispanic guy sitting at the bar, dressed in a long wool coat and beanie cap with a New York Knicks logo, and drinking a beer. He glanced at Monroe and went back to minding his own business. A large black man in a leather coat and black beret sat at a back table with his eyes closed, nodding his head to whatever music was playing into the earplugs he wore as he sipped a glass of wine. Across the room a youngish couple cozied up with their heads together; the man's hand was beneath the table and he appeared to be stroking her leg, from her giggles and mild protest noises.

He nodded to a big, rough-looking guy in a Yankees letterman's jacket slouching on one of the seats at the bar. The guy wasn't a regular; he was a New York City cop on Brooklyn DA Olivia Stone's payroll who'd been sent on ahead to look out for any traps and provide muscle if needed. His unconcerned facial expression comforted Monroe.

The person he'd come to meet was sitting at the back table where Monroe usually sat. Micah Gallo spotted him and raised his chin to acknowledge he'd been seen, but didn't bother to get up or shake his hand when Monroe approached the table, carrying a briefcase and a laptop. He set the device on the table and the briefcase on the floor, then took a seat.

“Micah.”

“Tommy.”

“New glasses?” Monroe said, pointing to Gallo's face. “They look good. Sort of Clark Kent, only stylish. Must have cost a bundle.”

“Quit with the small talk, Tommy; you could give a shit about my glasses or how I look. Is that my money?” Gallo said, nodding toward where Monroe set the briefcase.

They both fell silent as a buxom, middle-aged waitress approached. “What can I get for you?” she asked with a heavy Brooklyn accent.

“You're new,” Monroe said to her, turning on the charm while his eyes flicked to her chest. “Where's Julie?”

“Yeah, honey, just started tonight,” the waitress replied, making sure he got a good look at her assets. “Julie's off till tomorrow. The name's Gail. Can I get you anything?”

“I'm sure you could, baby, but in the meantime I'll settle for an Old Forester, make it a double,” Monroe said.

“Be right back with that, sweetie.”

Monroe watched her sashay away with a smile. But his frown returned. “Your money? You're blackmailing us, you little son of a bitch, and you're calling it your money?”

Gallo shrugged. “Turnabout is fair play. You're a fine one to talk; you ruined my career; bought me off, and you're calling me a son of a bitch?”

Monroe sneered. “It wasn't that hard, pretty boy. Don't tell me you don't like the fancy cars, the nice digs, and the pricey girlfriends.”

“I'm not denying that,” Gallo said. “But I didn't sign up for killing anybody.”

Monroe's face hardened. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Rose Lubinsky. The other two women. I didn't sign up for that shit, and I want out.”

“I still don't know what you're implying,” Monroe said. He looked around again. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to them. “Let's go have a little talk in my office.”