Richard Carson stood right in front of the dormant dart board, holding a beer and smiling. Smiling. His neat dark jeans and green collared shirt looked nice against his caramel complexion and dark brown hair. He’s wearing nothing on his head, no longer needing to hide under a baseball cap. Like before.
Carson was not at the bar to meet Carmella Russo incognito, like he met her two times in the past. In the spring of 1987 Rashid wanted him dead. In the summer of 1993, Rashid wanted him to blow up the Lincoln Tunnel. Rashid was in jail now. All that stuff was in the past. Tonight, Carson was here for drinks and friendship.
And his birthday. Celebrating with his co-workers, his friends. He has worked with the same crew for the past seven years but became friends with the other toll-collectors on the day the Lincoln Tunnel almost blew up.
Four years ago.
What if they knew he drove the van-bomb into the tunnel that fate-full day? Would they still embrace him as a friend or would they push him out as a traitor? Rashid may discover that he is a traitor to The Impoverished and have him killed. Crazy, but he would rather be found out by Rashid than by his friends. Even though Rashid was locked up, he could easily order Carson’s execution from behind bars.
Carson was under Rashid’s orders to drive the van-bomb into the Lincoln Tunnel, light the fuses, and casually walk out of the tunnel dressed in his Port of Authority Uniform shirt. But neither Rashid nor Mohamed, nor anyone else at The Impoverished suspected that Carson did not light the fuses. As far as Carson could tell, the thought never crossed their minds. Carson played his part as a loyal member of the terrorist group well.
He feigned bewilderment when the bomb did not explode. He told Mohamed that he lit the fuses with the red Bic lighter that he gave him. The NYPD’s bomb squad must have diffused the bomb before it blew, Carson lied.
Mohamed believed him. Carson was able to stay in The Impoverished as a mole. As an insider, he kept a close eye on the terrorist group’s activities.
He shook his head, casting away those morose thoughts. He sipped his Budweiser and grimaced when he swallowed a mouthful of room-temperature beer. He glanced at the small group of friends and snuck off to the bar. If any of them spotted him, they would not let him buy the next round of drinks. It’s his birthday, but he still wants to reciprocate.
He was about to place the order when the bartender handed him a cold bottle of Bud. “It’s from the lady and gentleman at the end of the bar.”
Carson peered down the long mahogany bar. His mouth morphed into a sparkling grin. Carmella and Matt sat at the short end of the L-shaped bar. Catching his eye, they raised their beer bottles ever so slightly. Carson flashed them a wink.
Still smiling, Carson returned to his group of friends, his arms loaded with cold beer bottles.
Chapter 2
After saluting her friend, Carmella tapped the neck of her Coors Light against Matt’s Budweiser. They each took a long guzzle before placing the empty bottles on the bar top. Carmella fist bumped Matt’s knuckles and gripped his hand.
She blinked away tears and ordered another round for her partner and herself. “Carson looks fantastic, don’t you think?”
Matt squeezed her hand and held it tight. “I know. It’s great to see him like this. I hate to think of what might have happened to him if you never arrested him, Mel. He would be in jail or worse.”
Mel shook her head, “No Matt.” The tip of her long ponytail hit her right cheek and then the left cheek before settling on the back of her head, where it started out. “If not for him, I would surely be dead.”
She caressed her abdomen under her breast bone, remembering the night she was shot.
She was a rookie, posted on the outskirts of Bed-Sty when she stumbled upon a burglary in progress. She followed an armed perpetrator into a building. He surprised her and shot her square in the chest. The perp was about to shoot her for a second time. This time though, his .45 caliber handgun was pointed at her head. No way would she survive a head shot at close range. Just as the gunman’s trigger finger started to squeeze off the fatal round his accomplice called from the second floor window, “We gotta go. More cops are on the way.”
That voice belonged to Richard Carson. He told the guy with the gun not to shoot her because he saw flashing police lights from the window. There were no cops on the way. Carson lied to save her life.
That is how she and Richard Carson met.
A few weeks later, Carson was recruited by the NYPD and has been working deep undercover for the JTTF ever since.
Matt’s voice brought Mel back to her barstool.
“If not for him, we could not have stopped the Day of Terror.”
“The United Nations and Federal Building attacks would have been foiled with or without him.” Mel lowered her voice. “But, there is no way we could have saved the tunnels without him.”
“The van-bombs in the Lincoln and Holland Tunnels would have detonated. Who knows how many people would have died?”
“It would’ve been horrible. He sure is invaluable as a mole, but I hope he can get out soon. He can get made at anytime. The Impoverished won’t hesitate to kill him.”
“Yeah, but look how long he has fooled them. He has been undercover for seven years.” Matt jerked his head towards the lively crowd at the pool table. “Look at him. He’s a natural.”
“He is, isn’t he? Still wish it was all over, though.”
Chapter 3
Carson had no business sitting behind the wheel of a motor vehicle. It took him two tries before he managed to place the gear shift into reverse. Then the steering wheel slipped from his hand. He slammed on the brake pedal just in time to keep the rear bumper from hitting the green pole on the curb. He straightened out the Blazer as best he could and threw the gear shift into park. Resting his forehead on the steering wheel, he took a couple of deep breathes. The smell of stale beer bounced of the dashboard and into his nose.
The beers hit him harder than he thought, totally forgetting about the shots of tequila he downed. He slid out of the driver’s seat, propped himself against the rear bumper of the truck and glanced at the green pole he almost creamed. He was sober enough to read the parking regulations attached to the pole. Good thing, because there were two signs up there. At eight AM the street sweeper will go by and at nine AM the parking meter takes effect. He was looking at two fines, and maybe the inconvenience of his car being towed, if he did not get back in time to move the truck.
Carson took the train home, wondering if he would remember where he parked the truck in the morning.
The swish-swish motion of the train coaxed him into a light sleep. Screeching of train brakes woke him up in time to make his stop. He trudged up the stairs of the Atlantic Ave subway station and walked a few blocks to his apartment building.
Seeing light shining from Nelley’s grocery store windows, he continued past his doorway. He knocked on the bullet-proof Plexiglas window. Nelley’s head jolted up from the newspaper.
Nelley was robbed three times in two years. The last time he was shot in the arm. The robber ran to the Atlantic Avenue subway station and disappeared onto a maze of train platforms. There are ten subway lines at the station, including tunnels to the Pacific Avenue train station and the Long Island Railroad. Once the robber reached the station he was home free. Never caught.
“Hey, can I get a bottle of Gatorade?” Carson mumbled.
Nelley smiled when he recognized Carson. “Lemon-lime or Fruit-punch?”
“Whichever works best for a hangover,” Carson said. A burp slipped out. “Ooow, excuse me.”
Nelley chuckled and placed a yellow bottle in the Plexiglas cubby-hole. “Hope it helps.”
“Me too.” Carson’s head swayed.
While walking the few yards from the grocery store to the front door of his building, Carson twisted off the cap of the bottle, tilted his head and took a long gulp. His knee smacked right into metal garbage can. He caught his balance, but spilled Gatorade al
l over his favorite shirt.
Carson pictured his kitchenette garbage pail spilling over with trash. The image of creeping roaches climbing through the walls got him to climb the stairs to his apartment. He grabbed the white trash bag and carried it down the stairs.
He could not reach the lids to any of the gray metal garbage cans because there was a television, a Video Cassette Recorder and a stereo piled on top. Carson lifted the television and it nearly flew out of his hands. Turning over the television set, he found an empty plastic casing where the electronic components should be. The Video Cassette Recorder and stereo were stripped casings too. Strange.
While balancing the empty stereo casing on the lid of the garbage can, Carson managed to squeeze the white trash bag in the can with as little noise as possible. He did not want to wake his neighbors. He did not want any trouble.
Chapter 4
At first Carson thought the buzzing sounds were coming from the subway that ran under his building, or the construction work across the street. But it was the alarm clock. He slapped his hand on the snooze button. It was a few minutes after seven. He lifted his head. No spinning. No nausea. The bottle of Gatorade, combined with a few hours of solid sleep, did the trick. No traces of a hangover. Now that’s a birthday present.
Remembering that he left his truck parked outside the bar, he grabbed his wallet and keys and ran down the stairs. He had to catch the train to Flatbush Avenue before a Brownie tickets his Blazer.
He nearly knocked down Ibrihim and another man, who was dragging a large tattered suitcase up the narrow staircase. Ibrihim lived in the apartment across the hall from Carson’s studio. Ibrihim moved in a few months ago, but has already earned a reputation as a neighborhood eccentric. Carson did not want to antagonize him by knocking him down the staircase.
Carson grabbed Ibrihim by the shoulders to steady him as he danced around him. “Sorry, Ibrihim.”
“Slow down, infidel.” Ibrihim shrugged Carson’s hands away. “What is the hurry?”
“I have to move my car before I get a parking ticket, or two.” Carson frowned.
Ibrihim grunted.
Carson pointed his chin at the thin young man standing next to Ibrihim. “Who is your friend?”
“Abdul. He has arrived from Egypt. He will be staying with me.”
Carson put out his hand. “Welcome to the building… and New York”.
Abdul shook Carson’s hand, smiled and said something incomprehensible.
“Okay, then.” Carson continued down the staircase. “See ya later.”
He opened the front door and when he saw the empty garbage cans, he remembered the electronic appliance casings that were discarded last night.
“Hey, Ibrihim,” he called up the stairs. “Do you know who threw out an old television, VCR, and stereo last night?”
“Yes, my housemate, Khali. Why do you ask?”
“Because it’s weird that the insides were missing.”
“Oh, well. Khali, he tinkers with electronics all the time. Why the interest?”
“I jammed a video tape in my VCR.” Carson lied. “Do you think he could fix it for me?”
“Yes, he could. That is nothing for him. Knock on my door when you return with your car. Khali will soon be awake.”
“Great. Thanks.” Carson stepped out the door.
He walked past the Car Service located in a storefront of his building. He weighed the price of two parking tickets against car service fare and decided against taking a chance with the train. Six dollars was a lot lighter than fifty bucks. He walked inside the Car Service.
Chapter 5
A Pegasus was walking on the ceiling. When it flapped its full white wings, Carmella felt a delightful breeze. The click-click of its delicate hooves stopped suddenly and Carmella opened her eyes to see what alarmed the mystical creature. There was no creature, just the white twirling blades of her ceiling fan. And her upstairs neighbor’s high-heeled footsteps on the hardwood floors. She yawned.
If Eva was dressed for work, it must be past seven. And if she already had her heels on, she was expecting a ride into the city with Carmella. When Carmella worked day tours, she drove Eva to the City Hall Subway Station. From there, Eva jumped onto the IRT to 59th Street. It was a two minute walk from the subway station to her building, so she did not bother with commuter sneakers on the days she rode in with Carmella. Eva was expected to look professional at all times for the stuffy men that she worked for at the Harold Pratt House.
Eva’s apartment door would open and close any minute now. Carmella was way behind schedule.
As a habit, Carmella doesn’t even think about going out on the turn around. The sudden change from the evening shift to the day shift in the middle of the work week was a hard enough. Although she was paying for it now, she did not regret last night’s stop at Shawnee’s Place. It was worth it to see Carson hanging out with friends. Good to know that he was okay.
Carmella heard Eva’s footsteps hesitate and then pass her door. No doubt Eva decided against hitching a ride today. At least, Eva would get to work on time. With sore feet though. She frowned.
Carmella jumped out of bed and headed for the shower. She was ready in record time. She drove out of the garage in her black sports coupe, glancing on the sidewalk every couple of seconds. No Eva sighting. She must have reached to the train station already. How did she move so fast in those heels? Carmella cannot wear anything over two inches without teetering.
A few minutes later, she merged the sports coupe onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway.
“Darn.” Carmella tapped the brakes to avoid being trapped in the long line of vehicles waiting to cross the Brooklyn Bridge and veered onto the Gawunus Expressway instead. Sailing through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, she parked her car outside of 26 Federal Plaza. Her dashboard clock read 7:55. She had five minutes to spare.
Just enough time for a coffee run.
Carrying two large Styrofoam cups, she managed to flash the security guard with her shield and Identification Card. Carmella walked by him every day and every day she showed him identification.
Since the bombing attempt on this building in 1993, security was ramped. This building was one of four New York landmarks targeted in the plot nicknamed, The Day of Terror.
On the elevator ride, Carmella thought of how she and Matt helped foil the terrorist plot to blow up this building, the United Nations and the Lincoln and Holland Tunnels. Carson could not reach his only contact in the NYPD to warn that the terrorists moved the attacks up to the next day. Detective Tom Malone was supposed to answer his cell phone 24/7, but he had a heart attack. He was unconscious when Carson called.
Carson reached out to Mel, knowing she was the only other cop that knew he was deep undercover. If he had not found a way to warn Mel, God knows what would have happened.
Mel and Matt were transferred from patrol to the Regional Intelligence Center, the RIC for short, to be Carson’s contacts. They could not stop in the middle of a 911 radio run to take a call from Carson. They had to be available for him any time of the day or night.
The elevator car opened onto an empty hallway. Carmella wanted to get to her desk unnoticed by her supervisors. It was a quarter after eight and she was late. The trip into Duncan Donuts took longer than she expected, but she needed the coffee this morning.
Carmella entered the lobby and waved at the receptionist as she walked by the service desk. She ducked into the RIC’S main work area.
The cavernous room was divided into three long rows of cubicles. Computer terminals connected to federal and state databases were stationed at the head of each row. Investigators working in the field request workups from the RIC to locate or identify the perpetrators of crimes. The outer perimeter of the room is surrounded by supervisors’ offices.
Carmella treaded softly past two rows of cubicles and signed in the Attendance Log that was outside the Lieutenant’s office. She snuck down the carpeted aisle and slid into her chair. Phew! Sh
e made it.
“Detective Russo, the Lieutenant wants to see you.” A deep voice bellowed from above her head.
Chapter 6
Carson followed the car service driver to a green sedan parked in front of Nelley’s Grocery. His hand was on the door handle when shouting from Nelley’s Bodega caught his attention.
“Ricky,” Carson called out to the car service driver. “Let’s see if Nelson needs a hand.”
“You bet. I’m right behind you.”
Carson peeked inside the side window before entering, just to make sure Nelley was not being robbed again. Ibrihim and Bernie, who owned the light fixture store across the avenue, were face to face, chest to chest. Bernie was beat red and the veins on his forehead popped out. His white sleeved shirt was rolled up, revealing pasty white forearms and his hands were fisted.
By the time Carson made it inside, Nelley had jumped over the counter and stood between Ibrihim and Bernie. His arms were taught under his blue tee shirt, biceps bulged against the cotton fabric, as he held one arm against Bernie’s chest and the other against Ibrihim’s chest.
“What is going on here?” Carson asked and he grabbed Ibrihim. Nelley immediately re-positioned Bernie into a bear hug.
“I said what needed to be said. The martyr that killed the Jews in Israel is a hero.” Ibrihim muttered. ”That is all.”
Bernie lunged at Ibrihim. “He is no martyr, he is a mass murderer.”
Nelley tightened his grip on Bernie. Bernie had no chance. He was slight of frame with a soft belly while Nelley was fit and strong.
Ricky pointed to a television on a shelf in the corner. The television was tuned to a local Spanish channel and was blaring the international news.
“They had a serious difference of opinion over the news. A tragedy in Israel. A Palestinian man blew himself up in a Jerusalem market killing many and Ibrihim applauded him.” Nelley shook his head. “Can you believe it? He is happy that innocent people were killed.”
The Impoverished: Boxed Set Page 10