by Todd Merer
Fortunately, his attention was focused on Mulberry Street, where a flower-bedecked hearse and half a dozen Town Cars and a pair of NYPD cruisers were double-parked in front of Wah Wing Sang. Unfortunately, Richard’s pocket was bulged with a gun’s long outline . . . too long. A silencer, which meant . . .
Richard intended to kill me.
I understood his reasoning. Shots fired. The crowd panics. Cops all over looking for what, who? Richard, his badge hanging from his neck, calmly leaving the scene.
Just as I surmised, an unmarked car with a whip antenna was at the curb, a few steps from where Richard stood. Its engine was idling, and it had a wheelman. His getaway car.
Now that L-Day—whatever it was—was nearing, he no longer had any use for me. I knew too much about him . . . And then there was Stella. Duke had said Richard had his eye on her. Jesus, I couldn’t leave her to his untender mercies—
Stop! First things first.
Number one on my non–hit parade was getting my ass elsewhere. I considered turning back toward the Bowery but realized Ianucci’s men could be stationed there. Best to keep heading toward the side entrance and try to get inside without Richard seeing me. Providence came along in the form of an NYC Transit bus. It stopped at the light, blocking me from Richard, and I entered through the rear door.
It led to a dim corridor that smelled of formaldehyde. I went down the corridor and through another door that opened to the funerary services.
An urn sat on a pedestal that was the hub of a circle of shuffling mourners wearing white duncelike hats, chanting their respect for the deceased. Irreverent asshole that I am, I flashed on a KKK sing-along.
I put a hat on and joined them.
I’d been to Wah Wing Sang often but always kept my visits brief. I have a deep respect for Chinese culture, but their traditional funerals are too spooky for my taste. After a few shuffling circles, I wanted out of there—
“Right behind you,” said Derek.
“All respect, I’d like to get out of here.”
“You can’t. Richard spotted you. They’ve got both exits blocked now. Maybe I could slip you into the hearse?”
“I’ve got a better idea.” I explained what it was.
Derek grinned. “I like how you think.”
I stepped from the circle, went back down the corridor, and called Val. I knew he had a morning customer he ferried to downtown Manhattan and hoped he was still in the area. He was.
I told him where to meet me.
Then I returned to the mourning circle and waited. The room grew crowded. Uncle had known a lot of people, and it seemed every fishmonger and banker in Chinatown had come to pay their respects. As the chanting grew louder, I checked my watch:
Twelve minutes had passed. What was taking Derek so long?
Then it happened: a series of explosions from outside. The mourners paused. Another ripple of explosions, and en masse they made for the door. I inserted myself into the thick of the crowd, and moments later emerged on Mulberry Street.
The NYPD cruiser doors were ajar, the cops inside them now flat-footing toward the federal courthouse, across from which a pall of smoke rose from the shrubbery lining Columbus Park. I caught a glimpse of two of Derek’s boys, casually walking away from the scene, ignoring the SWAT team that emerged from the courthouse, heavy weapons drawn. Then I saw Richard with gun in hand—the silencer now removed—racing toward the explosions, no doubt fearing another 9-11-style attack in downtown Manhattan.
Only it wasn’t.
I’d just orchestrated one of my all-time great irresponsible, not to mention illegal, acts. At my direction, Derek’s boys had walked along the shrubs, casually dropping time-fused cherry bombs—there are always firecrackers available in Chinatown. True, there was always the possibility of an innocent pedestrian getting hurt, or dropping dead of a heart attack, but come to self-preservation, it’s every man for himself.
I hurried back to the Bowery, took a final look at the chaos behind, then crossed the Bowery and walked north on East Broadway, where sidewalks crowded with people jabbering about what had occurred.
Five minutes later, I spotted Val’s Rover parked beneath the Williamsburg Bridge overpass. I got in and told him to drive uptown fast. We made it as far as Delancey Street, where more NYPD cruisers blocked the roadway, a rapid response unit making sure suspects weren’t fleeing the scene of the explosions.
“Make a U,” I said.
Val didn’t ask why. Without hesitation he jammed the brakes and turned the wheel, and we skidded full circle and headed back downtown—
Ahead, an ESU team blocked the street.
Devil or deep-blue-jumpsuit time.
Neither. I said, “Stop here.”
I got out and started walking, skirting the main streets, staying on the tenement blocks where Chinatown blended into the Lower East Side. My objective was the Delancey Street subway entrance, but then I spotted Ianucci standing there.
I needed another way out of Dodge.
I walked vaguely north and east toward Union Square and its supersize subway terminus. I was nearly there, but when I glanced around to make sure the coast was clear, I spotted Ianucci a block behind, fast-walking after me.
Son of a bitch was crazy glue.
I ducked into a Best Buy and beelined down aisles lined with laptops, slipped into a men’s room, went into a stall, and locked its door, then crouched atop a seat.
None too soon.
A moment later, the entrance door slammed open. I sensed a man there, heard him breathing heavily. Then the door closed, and it was quiet. I waited five minutes before cautiously venturing back into the store.
No Ianucci.
I headed down an aisle lined with game consoles, turned into another offering TVs, and exited the store via an exit to Fifteenth Street—
Ianucci and another agent were at the corner, looking around.
I crossed Park Avenue South, entering Union Square Park.
“Stop,” a voice cried from behind.
I entered the big old Barnes & Noble, one of the few bookshops that hadn’t succumbed to the online-reading onslaught. I navigated the aisles, plucked a book from the shelves, and hunkered in a corner. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ianucci and buried my face in the book.
I turned pages for ten minutes—primer or not, there were things I didn’t know, not that I cared to—then checked around again. Ianucci was gone, at least for now. I called Val and told him where I was. Five minutes later, I was in his Rover.
It wasn’t until we were uptown that I felt home free.
Trouble was, where to? Richard knew where I lived—the defaced Jag proof of that—so my apartment was a no-go.
“Not to worry,” said Val. “I know a safe place.”
CHAPTER 41
Val took side streets into the financial district, then exited at the Battery and entered the tunnel to Brooklyn. The tunnel had two lanes, and when it doglegged, I could see the traffic behind us. Not an unmarked in sight. I finally relaxed.
Not Val, though.
His usual taciturn but easygoing demeanor was replaced by an exaggerated hyperawareness. He kept glancing in the rearview and reaching beneath his seat, as if reassuring himself that something was there. When we exited the tunnel, he turned in to Red Hook, where we rumbled over the old cobblestones, occasionally squaring a block to ensure that we weren’t being followed.
“It’s okay,” I said. “They’re gone.”
“Them,” Val growled. “They’re never gone.”
We left Red Hook. Still keeping to side streets, we drove through neighborhoods—Sunset Park, Park Slope, Carroll Gardens, and the rest of brownstone Brooklyn—before entering Greenpoint. The old Polish neighborhood was unchanged from last I’d been there: old men playing cards on stoops, women wearing babushkas. A smoked fish grocery that sold Bison Grass vodka. I was a particular drinking man then. Eventually, I discovered a liquor shop on Columbus Avenue that stocked and delivered the vodka, minimum
one case at a time. I’m still a drinking man—although, come to think of it, I hadn’t touched a drop since the day of the meeting with Uncle. Hadn’t the craving. Maybe because my guardian angel was whispering to me to stay sober and be cool because I was nearing the beginning of something big.
Yes, it was. Maybe the beginning of the end of something, or maybe the end of its beginning. The space between whichever was purely action. Aka Bluestone’s addiction. I felt good because I knew what was coming up would be bad.
Val turned into a side street lined with well-kept bungalows, then pulled to the curb just short of a commercial avenue. He turned the ignition off. Started to light a Gauloises, then paused.
“Okay if I smoke, Mr. Benn?”
“Give me one. Where’re we going?”
“I already say where. To safe place.”
I’d never seen Val wear a hat, but now he took a wool cap from his glove compartment and pulled it low over his ears. I’d never seen him wearing glasses, either, but now he put on a pair of shades.
“Wait here,” he said and got out. He pointed a remote, and the Rover’s locks snapped shut. I sat there waiting and smoking his killer tobacco, feeling its toxicity metastasizing in my body. I could smell myself—an odor like that in a Port Authority Bus Terminal restroom—and liked the smell. I was thinking Val really seemed different. He was angry as hell and wasn’t going to take it anymore, but he didn’t want to yell it out a window; no, he wanted to kill.
Trust me, I know this. I’ve seen men in that state before and witnessed the things they do. Another memory I wanted to erase; another reason for me to get out of the game. Not just criminal law. Law. I’d gone from being an extraditionist to being a trustee, and in the end, it was the same. Slimy characters and side-street deals. No. I wanted out. I was done with people’s problems. I—
The rear door of the Rover opened. Val. I hadn’t seen him approaching because he came from behind, having gone around the block. He carried a shopping bag he deposited on the front seat. A bottle of Bison Grass vodka protruded from the bag, and I remembered it was Val who’d first turned me on to the green magic. I smelled smoked fish and fresh bread.
“For enjoy later,” he said with a gap-toothed smile that made me realize that, despite the ever-present twinkle in his eye, I’d never seen him grin. He was enjoying the action. “For now we keep on waiting.”
“For what?”
“Ah, Mr. Benn, a man who lives like you do, I am surprised sometimes you don’t understand the, how you say, basics? These men who hunt you, they are professionals. You think this is the first time they follow you?”
“They’ve been on and off my ass for days.”
“Exactly. They see my license and look up my registration, presto, they know the address my car is registered.”
“Your home?”
Val grinned again. “I am not a stupid man. I learned early never trust authority. I grew up where there were many men like the ones following you. Nazis. I know their ways. When Sonia and me come to this country, she thanks God we free. I thank God, too, but I know here, too, are plenty men like those we run away from. So I take precautions. My mail goes to post-office box. My apartment is under another name. My automobile is registered to brother-in-law who lives above grocery.”
“They—the men—they’re there now?”
“Two of them. By the door, next to the mailboxes. The one who looks like he needs to shave and one who looks like a Hitler Youth.”
“What are we staying here for?”
“Soon it is dark. Stores close, people go home, streets are empty. Then I gonna talk to these men.”
“You? Val, stay out of this.”
“Trust me, Benn.”
That was the first time Val called me by just my first name. For some reason, he now radiated determination. Besides, he was right. I had to trust someone, and no way would Val hurt me.
We ate and drank a little vodka and smoked a lot of cigarettes. I got a nice buzz on, though my mouth tasted like cat shit. When it was full dark, Val put his cap and glasses back on, this time adding a pair of thin surgical gloves. He reached beneath his seat and took out something I couldn’t see. Then he handed me a cap and glasses and gloves and told me to put them on.
“What the hell for?”
“Time now. Come.”
We got out, and I followed him around the corner. The shops were closed, the streets empty. When we reached the door to the stairs leading to the apartment above the grocery, he quietly gripped the knob, then paused and looked at me.
“Stay,” he said, and yanked the door open.
It slammed against the wall with a crash that startled Ianucci and the young fed. Before they could react, Val was beating them with a tire iron. I supposed it was the item he’d been feeling for beneath his seat, but I hadn’t realized his intentions.
Holy crap!
Ianucci’s fed took a blow to the ear and dropped. Then Val worked Ianucci, who went to his knees, blood spurting.
“Jesus, don’t,” I said, trying to pull Val off.
He shrugged loose from me and hit Ianucci some more, grunting with the effort, repeating a phrase I didn’t understand:
“Zoll zelmer shyner menschen . . . zoll zelmer shyner menschen . . .”
Spittle flew from Val’s mouth, his normally pallid face bright red. Finally, when they both lay still, he stopped. Val was breathing heavily, whether from exertion or emotion I wasn’t sure. I grabbed his arm, and we left the vestibule.
The street was empty. The whole episode had taken less than a minute. We went back to the Rover and drove off.
My heart was pounding. No matter their bad characters, the beaten men were feds. If we were busted, at best we’d both die in federal prison.
“Val, they were federal—”
“Federal, schmederal,” he said bitterly. “They were bad men no different from Nazis. My family were Jews who fought back. All my life since I was a boy in Berlin, I wanted to be the hunter, never again the hunted. Never again.”
“Zoll zelner shyner menschen. What’s that mean?”
For a long moment he didn’t reply. Then, in a quavering voice, he said, “It’s Yiddish. It means . . . they were good people.”
I didn’t ask who they were, knowing Val meant family and friends lost in the Holocaust. His postwar life in a nearly Judenfrei Germany must have been a living hell.
Insanely, I, too, had no regrets. I’d spent my professional life being careful not to cross the line, but now I’d deliberately stepped on and over it. It was almost a relief. I’d turned a corner in my life. I’d broken the law but had administered justice, for I agreed with Val that dirty cops were no different from SS storm troopers. Ianucci was a Nazi, and I was a Jew.
And now I’d joined the Resistance.
As we cruised over the Pulaski Bridge, he stuffed the tire iron and glasses and gloves and caps and gloves into a paper bag. He lowered his window, edged the Rover closer to the bridge wall, then hurled the bag into the black waters of the Gowanus Canal below.
He nodded grimly. “End of problem.”
As we crested the bridge, the Manhattan skyline appeared: a fantastical jumble of towers, diamond-bright in the night. Saddened me. Would it ever be safe for me to return to New York? Probably not.
Crazy.
For Chrissake, I was a lawyer. Not a Waco fanatic or white-trash Aryan. Yet I’d participated in an act that only crazies like them aspire to. Then again, I was no longer a lawyer.
To borrow a phrase from Val:
Never again.
CHAPTER 42
Val lived in a walk-up in Bushwick. The exterior of the building was sooty and graffiti-scarred, but Val’s railroad flat was freshly painted and spotless. It was dimly lit by a single night light.
Val put a finger to his lips, whispered, “Sonia sleeping. She get up early for work.”
Something brushed my leg, and I jumped.
“Arthur,” Val said happily, picking u
p a white cat that purred in his arms. “Arthur gonna guard us, yes, Arthur?”
Arthur purred again.
Val led me to a small bedroom mostly taken up by a neatly made bed. “Sleep now. Gonna need rest before.”
“Before what?”
“It starts.”
Before it starts . . . Derek’s words when we parted. But how did Val know I was about to embark on . . . it? Had my so-called allies reached out to Val?
Val picked up on my thoughts. “I only know you must leave because you are in danger. Miss Dolores tell me, but I ignorant of details.”
I’d seen Dolores briefly at Duke’s estate. Now she’d been here and talked with Val as well?
Why was she avoiding me?
“Miss Dolores, she remind me of the good German lady who hid my parents. I think maybe we need another vodka. For sleep, yes?”
“Yes.”
We had more than one vodka. Between the pale-green booze and my adrenaline come-down, I was beat. I staggered to my little bed. The glowing minute hand on my watch touched twelve, then ticked to 12:01 a.m.
L-Day minus four.
That night I dreamed. I saw myself back-to-back with Val and Derek, a gladiator triad bracing against a host of aggressors . . . gray-uniformed Sturmführers, led by Oberleutnant Richard. The three of us—no, the seven of us, for Dolores and her Logui brothers and Duke had magically appeared, standing against the advancing forces of the Third and Fourth Reichs.
CHAPTER 43
I was deep asleep when something disturbed me. Not a sound, a movement. As I came awake, a hand muffled my mouth, lips moved against my ear. A woman shushed me.
Dolores?
A red-capped flashlight dimly illuminated the room. In its cherry glow, I saw Dolores crouched alongside me. From combat boots to watch cap to cargo-pocketed bodysuit, she wore all black.
“Don’t speak,” she whispered. “Get up. Pass by the window on your way to the bathroom. Stay in there a minute, then pass the window again, and lie back down.”
Was Dolores only being super careful? Or, despite Val’s precautions, had Richard found us? A midnight shuffle to piss would explain the small sounds we were making . . . if indeed Richard’s vigilantes were listening via window-vibration sensitive receiving devices.