Trap (9781476793177)

by Tanenbaum, Robert K.

  Moishe looked over at Goldie and winked. “Think nothing of it; it’s just how a fine Jewish warrior rolls.”

  7

  LIKE EVERYONE ELSE AT IL Buon Pane, Karp stood and applauded when Rose Lubinsky finished her talk and concluded with a question and answer format that could have gone on for another hour. Then he and Marlene got in line, waiting to approach the table where the author had taken a seat to sign books.

  When they reached the front, Rose was trying to peer around them with a perplexed look on her face. Karp turned to see what she was looking at, but all he saw was a room full of chatting people, most with The Lost Children of the Holocaust clutched in one hand while the other held a cup of coffee or a pastry.

  “You looking for someone?” he asked.

  As though startled from a dream, Lubinsky looked up at him but then smiled. “I thought for a moment I saw an old friend, but I guess I was mistaken,” she replied. “I wouldn’t have expected him to show up—just wishful thinking, I guess.”

  “Maybe the next signing,” Karp said. “I don’t think Moishe could have squeezed one more body in here.”

  “I know. I’m a little embarrassed about that,” Lubinsky admitted. “Apparently, the publisher told the Times book reviewer that I’d be here, but I’d intended this to be a small gathering for friends and the people I work with at the charter school association.”

  “Speaking of which,” Marlene chimed in, “how’s that going?”

  “I’m scheduled to speak to the assembly’s Education Committee next week,” Lubinsky said. “If the bill comes out of committee with bipartisan support, I think it will pass the state assembly. So I’m going to nudge them along.”

  “What’s the opposition like?” Karp asked.

  “Running scared,” Lubinsky replied. “A lot of hand-wringing and union, partisan attempts to persuade the public—i.e., the politicians umbilically tied to the union and those who watch the polls—that it will be the end of public school education as we know it.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” Marlene said.

  “Well, we’re not trying to destroy the public school system,” Lubinsky said. “We’re trying to improve it and offer students who truly want an exceptional public education a choice. We are public after all.”

  “I take it the teachers union doesn’t see it the same way?”

  Lubinsky thought about it for a moment before she spoke. “I don’t know about the teachers, particularly the young ones—I think there’s some unrest. But the union leadership isn’t happy; we’re a threat to their power, finances, and perks. They want to protect their golden goose.”

  “What are they doing about it?”

  The old woman shrugged. “You mean besides the usual ‘lobbying’—and by that I mean bribing—politicians and the media? There’s been some attempts to intimidate me and my colleagues—the usual anonymous phone calls at three a.m., nasty notes left on the windshields of cars . . . that sort of thing. A few weeks ago, the union president Tommy Monroe asked me to meet with him so he could propose a ‘compromise’ if I’d get the bill pulled.”

  “You turned him down?” Karp asked.

  “Yes, the time for compromise is over,” Lubinsky replied. “We would have been happy to work something out years ago, but they’ve fought us every step of the way—bought politicians, lied about the purpose of charter schools and the makeup of the student body, and then painted us as racists and elitists. But the worst thing was they did it knowing they were hurting children.”

  Karp looked over Marlene’s shoulder at the line of people still waiting, some of them with “hurry up and get on with it” looks on their faces. “Well, good luck,” he said. “I think you’re on the right track. I’d like to hear more about it, but we don’t want to hold everybody up.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Karp and his family were talking to Moishe and Goldie Sobelman when he spotted another familiar face approaching. “Well, Alejandro Garcia,” he said with genuine affection. “I heard from the boys that you were working with the charter school association.”

  The young Latino flashed a toothy smile. Alejandro “Boom” Garcia had once been a notorious gang member in Spanish Harlem by the time he was fourteen. He’d earned his nickname for his willingness to use a gun to protect his home turf and friends from larger gangs. But after a short stint in juvie, he’d turned his life around with the intercession of one of Marlene’s friends, a Jesuit priest named Mike Dugan, as well as discovering a latent talent as a rapper.

  Although mistrustful of police and even Karp as the New York district attorney, Garcia had several times saved the day—as well as members of the Karp-Ciampi family—against myriad bad guys. He was smart, tough, loyal, and fearless.

  Karp and Marlene had been surprised when the twins told them a few months earlier that Garcia had gone to school to get his teaching certificate. After all, he’d been signed to a lucrative recording contract. “He’s still recording,” Giancarlo had assured them. “But he wants to give something back, especially to kids in Spanish Harlem. He got a job right out of school with the Nuevo Día Charter School and uses some of his music money to sponsor scholarships. He’s also real involved with the bill to change charter school legislation with Mrs. Lubinsky.”

  “Buenas noches, Mr. Karp,” Garcia said, and turned to Marlene, “and you, too, Ms. Ciampi. I see you’re still hangin’ with The Man.”

  “Someone’s got to keep him real,” Marlene replied with a laugh while Karp grinned.

  “Yeah, I ’spose.” Garcia smiled. “But you ever get tired of him, give me a call.”

  “Well, Alejandro,” Marlene giggled. “I’m old enough to be . . . to be . . . your older sister.”

  “Yeah, but you still fine, bella dama.”

  “So what brings you to Il Buon Pane, other than to flirt with my wife?” Karp asked. “Just to support Rose?”

  “That and somebody to watch her back,” Garcia said. “Things are getting pretty hot with this legislation.” He nodded toward the front door of the shop. “And you never know what sort of pendejos will show up.”

  Karp nodded. “You’re right there. But I think Detective Clay Fulton and his men have things under control. Speak of the devil . . .”

  The others turned to look where Karp indicated in time to see Fulton open the door and walk into the shop. He walked over stomping his feet and waving his arms to get warm. “Man, it’s cold out there,” he said.

  “Come, my friend,” Moishe exclaimed. “Let me get you something warm to eat and drink. I’ll send one of the waitresses outside with coffee and something to eat for your officers; most of our guests have left, and there’s no sense letting it go to waste.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Sobelman,” Fulton replied. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate that.”

  “What about our ‘friends’ across the street?” Karp asked.

  “Mostly dispersed, though there’s a few die-hards hanging in. This isn’t their neighborhood and they got what they wanted—face time on the ten o’clock news. Meanwhile, the neighborhood turned out in force. The Sobelmans have a lot of friends.”

  “Any arrests?” Karp asked.

  “Yeah, a thug named Lars Forsling,” Fulton responded.

  Karp frowned. “The name sounds familiar.”

  “He’s got a mouth on him and gets in the paper a lot,” Fulton said. “He was arrested last summer for spray painting Nazi crap on the wall of the Third Avenue synagogue. We also suspect he was involved in the rampage in November but haven’t been able to prove anything. A real piece of work.”

  “Oh yeah, now I remember,” Karp said. “What did he do this time to get arrested?”

  “Well, I hate to say it, but he slipped away from the area where we had them barricaded. Next thing we know, he’s over on the side of this building where some of the guests, including Mrs. Lubinsky, were parked. An officer spotted him and told him to move along, but he gave him some lip about the sidewalks being a public place and having a r
ight to be there. So we tossed him in a squad car for disobeying a lawful order. We still got him in a car until I can spare someone to take him downtown. I’m sure he’ll enjoy spending the night in The Tombs, though it won’t be his first time.”

  Fulton gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from Goldie, which he drank hurriedly. “Well, I want to get back out there. Maybe I can take a few of those to-go cups, Moishe, and help your girl out.”

  When the big detective left with the waitress, Karp walked over with Marlene and Garcia to where Rose was being helped into her long wool coat by her husband, Simon. “Are you two ready to leave?” he asked.

  “I am,” Rose Lubinsky replied. “My ride needs to get going; she lives in Queens and we have an important strategy meeting tomorrow regarding the charter school bill. But my Simon is staying behind to help the Sobelmans clean up. Actually, I think he just wants to shoot the breeze with his friend; those two are like glue and paper—once you put them together, it’s impossible to tear them apart.”

  “I assure you, my love,” Simon Lubinsky objected, “I will be along by taxi as soon as I have helped our friends. I wasn’t planning on going to the office until noon tomorrow and can sleep in. But you are the one who needs to sleep.”

  “Simon Lubinsky! Are you trying to tell me that I need my beauty sleep?”

  Simon placed his hands over his heart. “Never! From the moment I first saw you, I knew I was looking at the most beautiful woman in the world, and my opinion has grown only stronger since.”

  Rose Lubinsky laughed. A surprisingly young sound, as though from a girl. “You old flatterer. If that is your opinion, then tomorrow we must take you to the eye doctor for stronger glasses. But tonight I will accept your sweet lie.” She stepped forward and kissed him. “I love you, Simon, nothing will ever change that.”

  With that Rose Lubinsky turned toward two young women standing behind her and then nodded at Garcia. “You ready?”

  “Yes, señora, your driver awaits,” the young man replied gallantly.

  Karp and the others watched the four leave. As she drew near the door, Rose hesitated and looked back at her husband. She smiled and then raised her hand to blow him a kiss. Simon reached up as if to pluck it from the air and touched his fingers to his lips. He then looked up at Karp and blushed slightly. “An old habit,” he said.

  “Nothing wrong with it,” Karp said with a smile. He then turned and began to walk toward Marlene and his sons, who were chatting with Goldie near the pastry counter.

  Suddenly, there was a flash of light outside that illuminated the streets as though the sun had jumped out from behind a cloud. Everything beyond the windows seemed to have been frozen in place like a photograph—police officers standing near their cars or by the barricade, a few demonstrators and a television crew huddled by the back door of their van.

  Then with an enormous roar and shattering of glass, the windows on the side of the bakery blew in. The world went black as Karp was knocked to the ground.

  It took a moment for Karp to realize what had happened. A bomb. His next thought was of Marlene and the twins. He pressed himself up, feeling the broken glass beneath his hands, though pain didn’t register.

  Immediately, he spotted his family. Marlene was wiping something off Giancarlo’s face. Blood. Zak was helping Goldie to her feet.

  Sounds seemed to be muted, and he wondered if he’d lost his hearing in the blast. But then it came back as if someone had turned up the dial on the radio. He heard screams and shouts. Car horns were going off outside, and there was another noise that didn’t register, then he knew, it was the sound of fire.

  “You okay?” he shouted at Marlene.

  “Yes, go!” she replied, pointing toward the door.

  Karp ran, the glass and debris crunching beneath his feet. The front of the store was virtually untouched and nothing seemed out of place except the orange glow illuminating the streets. He burst out of the door and ran around the corner.

  Half a block away a car was engulfed in flames. He saw a short, barrel-chested man hurl himself at the front passenger side door, seemingly oblivious to the fire. Silhouetted by the blaze, and with what appeared to be superhuman strength, he tore the door open and nearly off its hinges.

  Karp suddenly realized that the man was Alejandro Garcia. He reached inside the burning car and grabbed whoever was sitting there and then threw himself backward. He landed on the sidewalk; the arms of his coat were on fire as was the woman he held in his arms.

  Running toward the young man, Karp pulled off his own suit jacket. Reaching the pair, he used the jacket to swat out the flames, aware of the intense heat at his back.

  Other men appeared, police officers and locals, shouting though he was too wrapped up in trying to help the two victims to understand. They grabbed Garcia and the woman to pull them away from the car. More hands pulled at his arms and pushed him to safety as well.

  Time seemed to stand still. A fire truck and a paramedic van arrived. Garcia and the woman, Rose Lubinsky, were hustled aboard. Karp watched them speed away but had no concept of how much time had passed since the explosion.

  Someone—Marlene—pushed a cup of coffee into his hands and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Finally, the shock began to wear off, and as it did, he was filled with anger. He walked to the front of Il Buon Pane and looked across the street at the police cruiser where Lars Forsling had been placed following his arrest.

  Forsling was looking back at him. His white, tattooed face was illuminated by the street lights and the crime scene lights that had been brought to the scene. Their eyes met and then the young man smirked. He mouthed a word.

  Karp couldn’t hear him but he knew without a doubt what Forsling had said. Jew.

  In that moment, Karp saw himself crossing the street and dragging the thug out of the cruiser, then beating him with his fists. Breaking his nose. Blacking his eyes. Beating the smirk off his face. But the moment passed.

  Instead, he pointed at the police cruiser. “Take that son of a bitch down to Centre Street and lodge him in The Tombs,” he told the sergeant standing next to him. “I’ll be in my office in an hour. Stay with him until I get to you.”

  8

  “WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG, Gallo?” Tommy Monroe looked at his watch. “I thought I told you to be here by eight at the latest. It’s almost nine.”

  Micah Gallo shrugged. “I had a few errands to run and traffic coming over the Queensboro was stacked up.”

  Monroe frowned and took a sip from the highball glass. “What were you doing in Manhattan?”

  Gallo felt his face flush. “Just some shopping and met a friend for late lunch.”

  The big Irishman narrowed his eyes and studied his “protégé,” then grinned and shook a sausage-sized finger at the younger man. “You was off getting laid,” he said, smirking. “A little afternoon nooky. Am I right? I am, aren’t I?”

  Gallo used the excuse to hide his slip about his previous whereabouts. He smiled and looked sheepishly around the Jay Street Bar as though caught in the act. “Yeah, an old flame. It was just supposed to be lunch.”

  Monroe belly-laughed. “Yeah right, ‘lunch,’ and I’m drinking Coca-Cola.”

  “What’s the big deal about being here by eight, anyway? We meeting somebody?”

  “Nah,” Monroe said, shaking his head. “Just got some shit to go over regarding the legislature for next week.”

  Monroe glanced up at the television that was hanging on the wall opposite the table where they sat and motioned for the waitress. When she came over, he held up his empty glass. “I’ll take another and whatever my young friend here wants. And see if you can get the tube switched over to the news.”

  “What’s on the news that you’re so interested in?”

  Monroe glanced sideways at him. “Nothing in particular. I just like keeping up with current events, you know. And maybe there’ll be some news about Yankee spring training.”

  Gallo shook his head. “Too c
old outside for me to even be thinking baseball already.”

  “Yeah, but rookies report in a few weeks,” Monroe pointed out. “Then the pitchers and catchers. They’re all down in Florida while we’re freezing our nuts off up here. Lucky stiffs.”

  Gallo nodded. “Yeah, lucky.” He was glad to have the conversation turn to something other than where he’d been. He wasn’t meeting a friend for a late lunch. He wasn’t shopping or getting laid. He’d gone to Il Buon Pane to listen to Rose Lubinsky talk about her book . . . and to tell her that he was sorry. That he wished he had her courage; that he wished he hadn’t given in to the bullying and threats and wanted to be forgiven and be there at her side when she spoke to the politicians about a bill that would change the course of charter schools for the betterment of the children of New York forever.

  But even before he got out of the cab outside of the bakery, he knew that it was too late for him. That he’d been bought and corrupted and didn’t have the inner strength to go up against Monroe and the union. He just hoped that he might get a moment to speak to her outside of anyone else’s hearing to say he was sorry, wish her luck, and then leave to meet his master.

  Except you didn’t even have the balls to do that, he thought. He’d walked in the door shortly before Lubinsky began her talk and stayed in the front part of the store while other people filtered in and moved forward to take seats. He’d stayed back in the shadows as she went to the podium but then he heard a familiar voice behind him.

  “Well, Micah Gallo, what brings a pendejo like you to a nice place like this.”

  Gallo immediately recognized the sing-song, Latin-accented words as belonging to an angry Alejandro Garcia. He’d turned around and found himself looking down into the short, broad-shouldered young man’s smoldering eyes.

  Caught off guard, Gallo didn’t know what to say. All the things he’d considered saying to Rose Lubinsky weren’t intended for anyone else. “I was just . . .”

  “Just what, panocha? Spying for your punk boss?”