The Impoverished: Boxed Set Read online

  BOOK I

  DAY OF TERROR

  April, 1989

  Springtime in Bedford Stuyvesant

  Chapter 1

  Mel Russo walked up and down Flushing Avenue a zillion times. Clothing factories and carpet warehouses were locked tight for the night. Not one person passed on the sidewalk, the street was deserted. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

  No disorderly groups to disperse, drug dealers to chase or neighborhood residents to protect. Officer Russo counted each sluggish minute second by second, waiting for the shift to end.

  Russo’s only company was the cackle of the police radio. Excited rookie voices reported final dispositions and received new 9-1-1 assignments. The other rookies handled family disputes and robberies while Russo listened to the clank-clank of the traffic light as it changed from WALK to DON’T WALK.

  The 79th Precinct was hopping tonight; except, for this stretch of Flushing Avenue. Russo frowned. Not even a burglar alarm sounded.

  Russo should have been working with the other rookies tonight, running from radio run to radio run, but was assigned Post Eleven as a punishment.

  The punishment was well-deserved, but knowing that did not make the night go any faster. Thinking about reporting to the Lieutenant’s Desk with a lit cigarette made Russo cringe. Eager to get on post, Russo forgot all about the cigarette when the Desk Lieutenant called the squad to the desk.

  Russo was surprised when the Desk Officer roared, “Officer, put out that cigarette!” Russo turned crimson, dropped the cigarette and crushed it under a shiny black shoe. The damage was done.

  The Lieutenant looked down at the mortified rookie, a blue vein pulsed on his neck. “Russo, you got Burglary Post Eleven.” He waved his hands. “Rodriquez, Robbery Post Nine. Dalton, take Robbery Post Ten-”

  Russo was stuck on the warehouse strip. At night. It could be worse. She could have been posted on the waterfront. She glanced at the brand new Timex for the trillionth time. It was almost eleven. Five minutes to kill before walking back to the Station House. Screw it. I’m lighting up.

  This time, Russo was not going to get caught smoking in uniform. She peered up and down Flushing Avenue. Not a car in sight. She ducked into a dark doorway and lit a cigarette. She palmed the Marlboro Light so the amber glow could not be seen from the street.

  If the shoofly drove by, she would ditch the cigarette before the car pulled up. A blue and white came by earlier to warn her that Captain McConroy had the shoofly duty.

  “He dreams about burning rookies over stupid shit, so watch out for him,” the veteran cop said.

  He’s not going to burn me. Carmella Russo took a last drag and smashed the cigarette against the wall. She straightened her uniform cap and checked that her necktie was neatly fastened. Once she was squared away, she stepped from the dark doorway.

  A beam of light passed over her cap. She stopped dead in her tracks. What the heck was that? The light emanated from a window in the factory across the street.

  Carmella grabbed her radio and keyed the microphone. She grimaced when she imagined the guys teasing her for panicking over nothing. She was already on the hot seat for smoking at the Desk. Another stupid mistake would just add to the jokes. Better to be certain that something was going on before calling for backup.

  Carmella smacked the radio onto to her gun belt without calling it in.

  The beam of light wavered and changed direction. Yep, someone is definitely up there.

  Carmella studied the alleyway to make sure no one lurked. She darted across the street. She blended into the shadow of the building, tucking her shoulder close to the wall, as she crept down the alleyway.

  When she poked her head around the corner of the brick wall, a tall dark figure emerged from the rear doorway.

  Damn! Why didn’t I call for backup when I had the chance? Her stomach clenched.

  Did he spot me? She stood still, her back hugging the brick wall. Nah.

  She poked her head around the corner. The perpetrator wore a dark hooded sweatshirt and black jeans. A handle of a large caliber handgun stuck out of his waistband. Her breath quickened.

  She could run back down the alley, but he would hear her footsteps. She had to confront the burglar. She swallowed and wiped her sweaty palms on her uniform trousers.

  She took a deep breath, cracked her firearm from its holster and sprung around the corner.

  “NYPD! Halt! Hands on the wall - now!”

  He did not halt. Or put his hands on the wall. The blued steel barrel of Russo’s Smith & Wesson revolver pointed at an empty doorway. Footsteps pounded from the opening. Carmella followed the footfalls into the building.

  She faced an empty staircase. Looking upwards, back to the wall, Carmella crept up the stairs. Step by step.

  As soon as she reached the second floor landing, she was blinded by a bright flash. She did not hear the gunshot boom until she tumbled to the bottom of the staircase. Her back slammed against the concrete floor. Russo’s chest tightened as if her torso was slammed with a sledgehammer.

  She struggled to catch her breath. She couldn’t move. Carmella watched helplessly as the man in the dark hooded sweatshirt jumped over her. He turned and faced her when he reached the doorway. He pointed his forty-five caliber handgun at her head. Carmella reached for her revolver. Her fingers gnawed at stiff leather.

  Crap! Her holster was empty. She must have dropped the gun when she was shot.

  Chapter 2

  Carmella searched the stairs for her revolver. She spotted it on the top step. She tried to stand. Couldn’t. She pulled herself onto her knees and palms.

  A voice from above yelled to the man in the dark sweatshirt, “Yo, yo, more cops are coming. There is no time to do her. We gotta go!”

  Dark sweatshirt lowered the forty-five. Carmella inhaled and chewed her lower lip. He tucked the gun into his waistband and fled into the night. She closed her eyes and gulped.

  She crawled to the top of the staircase and snatched her gun from the stair. She pulled herself up and collided with a man wearing a black ski mask and cradling a heap of leather coats.

  “Oh Shit,” he mumbled. Here was the owner of the voice that shouted a warning a moment earlier. He pushed past her and ran down the stairs.

  Russo stumbled after him. Her body reeled with the aftermath of being shot square in the chest. She could take only shallow breaths and her chest ached when she moved.

  She thanked God she was wearing a bullet-proof vest with a shock plate. Thanks to you too, Mom and Dad. They had purchased an upgraded bullet-proof vest as a graduation present. Thinking of her parents knocked some sense into Carmella. She reached for her radio.

  “Seven-Nine Post Eleven to Central.” Her voice quivered. “Shots fired… Flushing Avenue… in the rear alley.”

  Carmella spoke into the radio as she followed the burglars. “Foot pursuit of two males- one with a gun - Perp one is wearing a dark sweatshirt and has a .45 in his waistband- Perp two is wearing a black ski mask and is carrying stolen merchandise- a bundle of coats”.

  She took a deep breath. Back up was on the way.

  Little by little, Carmella regained her strength. The more she moved, the better she felt. Adrenaline was kicking in. She was standing upright now.

  She reached the end of the alley and spotted the man with the ski mask climbing a chain link fence.

  Carmella pointed her revolver at his torso. “Police, Stop!”

  The pop of a gunshot caught her by surprise. Whish! A bullet whizzed past her ear.

  She spun around and faced the man in the dark sweatshirt. He was pointing his forty-five caliber handgun at her. Again.

  Time slowed. The faint sounds of poli
ce sirens wailed. Backup was blocks away. It was time to do or die in Bed-Sty. Her backup would arrive too late.

  Carmella dropped to the ground on one knee. She was enveloped in silence and darkness. The silver automatic loomed large in front of her. She pointed her thirty-eight at the man in the sweatshirt. Squeezed the trigger. Again. And Again.

  Clank! His firearm hit the ground. His body slumped beside it.

  She darted towards him and snatched the forty-five off the floor, tucked it into her waistband and radioed for an ambulance. She put trembling fingers on the man’s neck. No pulse.

  Carmella’s stomach lurched, her throat made a gurgling sound as she struggled not to vomit.

  She jumped. A crashing noise came from the other side of the chain link fence. The man in the ski mask rolled in a pile of garbage. Carmella scaled the fence. When her weary body reached the other side, he was nowhere in sight.

  Revolver in hand. She pivoted towards the sounds of footfalls. She holstered the Smith and Wesson. Tears filled her eyes. Backup had arrived.

  Carmella and the backup officers followed a trail of discarded leather coats to a residential backyard. The man in the ski mask cowered behind a row of hedges.

  Chapter 3

  Rashid grabbed a forty ounce Colt from the refrigerated cooler. He fingered the cap, slid his palm down the frosted bottle. Can’t wait to pop open this baby. He wet his lips. No way could he find a corner store, or a cold drink in Afghanistan. He shook his head. Sighed.

  The bell above the glass door jingled. The crack dealer that worked Marcy Avenue wandered into the bodega. He thinks he could walk around like he is doing nothing wrong. Rashid’s neck and face heated. Screw him. He grabbed another forty ounce bottle. Smashed it over the dealer’s head.

  “Take your drugs and get out of the neighborhood.” He spat in his face. “Next time, I won’t smack a beer bottle upside your head. If I catch you selling to our kids, I’ll kill you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay.” Richard Carson shook off the broken bottle fragments. He tossed a crumpled five dollar bill on the counter.

  Rashid threw out his chest. “That’s right. Shithead. Pay for both beers.” He fisted his club-sized hand. “Now, get lost.”

  “I’m out of here.” Keeping his eye on Rashid, heartbeat racing, Carson backed out of the bodega.

  When did he get back? I’m totally screwed now. Beer dripped down his neck. A beer shampoo was the least of his worries. Back in the day, Rashid offered drug dealers only one chance to reform. If one refused, he was killed. On the corner one day. Boom, gone the next.

  Carson would never have started dealing if Rashid hadn’t gone to Afghanistan. But Carson needed money after grandfather died. Too young for a real job, Carson dealt drugs. He made just enough money to run the apartment and pay for Gram’s heart medication. And he never sold to kids. He didn’t push drugs on anyone. His costumers came to him.

  He tried to hide his business from Grams, but she figured it out. Soon after she found out, she had her first heart attack. He tucked his chin into his chest. Two years later, she died from a massive attack. He wiped his eyes.

  He could hear Grams now, “Richard, honey, when life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” It was time to give up dealing and stealing. He should never have started. She might still be alive. His chest tightened.

  Before he could squeeze lemons, he needed something to pour the lemonade in. He needed protection from Rashid or he would get crushed, like the lemons. Should I go to the cops? The girl cop said she would ask the Assistant District Attorney to go light on me, if I went legit.

  The coat factory burglary had to rattle her too. They both nearly died. For what? A couple of hundred dollars’ worth of leather jackets! She was shot, Jared was dead and four loaded guns were pointed at Carson’s head.

  Time to crush some lemons. He opened his wallet and unfolded the prisoner’s property receipt he was given during his arrest. The arresting officer’s name was typed on the bottom of the form. Police Officer Carmella Russo, Seventy Ninth Precinct.

  He walked to the public pay phone. On his corner. The phone he used as a connection to his costumers. He took a deep breath and picked up the receiver. Punched in four-one-one. The robotic voice recited the Seventy Ninth Precinct’s telephone number.

  Time to do or die in Bed-Sty.

  Chapter 4

  Rashid strode out of the bodega and climbed into his Ford Bronco. He turned the ignition and pounded the gas pedal, wishing it was Carson’s head. He sped south on Flatbush Avenue.

  The neighborhood punk was lucky that Rashid was being watched by the Federal Bureau of Investigation or he would be a dead drug dealer. It would be foolish to get arrested over a skel like Carson. He could not waste any time in jail. He could not be diverted from his mission – not now. Nothing was going to stand in his way. Not Carson. And not the FBI.

  The FBI became interested in Rashid when his name was one amongst many attendees at a Brooklyn Mosque. The Feds spied on the mosque the night Sheikh Gilani spoke in the United States for the first time.

  The Feds suspected something, but could not get inside the mosque to hear the speech. Sheikh Gilani stuck to his planned lecture. Rashid answered the Sheik’s energetic call to Jihad. All the way to Afghanistan, where he became a Mujahedeen.

  A few months ago he stopped fighting and came home. After all the fire fights he was in, he stepped on a landmine. The explosion nearly killed him. He returned to Brooklyn to recuperate. By the time he was well enough to continue fighting, the Afghani Jihad was over. The Mujahedeen pushed Soviet Troops back to Russia, their tails limp between their legs. The Soviets agreed to the United Nations demands to pull out of Afghanistan.

  Rashid could not rejoin the jihad in Afghanistan, but he could start the Jihad right here - in New York City.

  Chapter 5

  Trapped in her apartment on sick leave, Carmella watched movie after movie. Dustin Hoffman had just announced to Tom Cruise that he needed to watch Wheel of Fortune when the telephone rang. Carmella pressed the pause button on the remote control. Where would Tom find a television set in the middle of nowhere?

  She held her breath as she rose from the couch. The placed her palm over her rib cage and winced. If she hadn’t been wearing the bullet proof vest on the night she was shot, she would not be feeling anything. A little discomfort, she could deal with. She was glad to be alive.

  She answered the telephone on the third ring. “Hello”.

  “Can I speak to Officer Russo?” A male voice cleared his throat. “This is Officer Rosen from the Seventy Ninth Precinct.”

  “This is Russo.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s up?”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, thanks. The police surgeon gave me the okay to return to work. On desk duty.”

  “Good. I could use a break from the Switchboard.” He huffed. “That’s why I called.”

  “To tell me that I have the switchboard?”

  “No. About the switchboard. I have a message for you from Richard Carson. He said you locked him up last week. He needs to talk to you right away. Said he was in trouble. I am sorry to bother you at home with this, but he sounded scared.”

  “It’s fine. I appreciate the call. That guy saved my life.” She ran her hand over her sore ribcage. “Did he leave a number?”

  “He wouldn’t leave a number. He said he is at Shawnee’s Place on Flatbush Avenue. Said he would wait all night for you.”

  “Shit, that’s weird. Well, thanks for the message.”

  “Russo, you’re not thinking of showing up there. Are you?”

  “See you tomorrow, Rosen.” She hung up without answering.

  She eased down on the couch. When she reached for the remote control she saw the forty-five caliber handgun pointing at her head. She remembered a voice yell, “Yo, man, we gotta go. There are more cops on the way!” There were no more cops on the way because she never called for backup.

>   If that voice hadn’t convinced the man in the black sweatshirt to flee, he would have pumped a round into her head. She would be dead. That voice belonged to Richard Carson. Why did he save me? He must be a decent guy.

  Carmella shook her head. Cleared it of the gun’s image in her face. She clicked off the television. Rain Man would wait.

  Chapter 6

  Rashid drove along the Belt Parkway. The hum of the Bronco’s powerful engine and the swish of the oversized tires lulled him backward in time and place. To a ride into Pakistan in a similar vehicle.

  Rashid took a road trip from Afghanistan to Pakistan to join Sheikh Gilani’s army. Sheikh Gilani transformed Rashid into a Mujihideen and made him a founding member of the American branch of al-Fuqra.

  Now that Rashid is back in the United States, his job is to find and nourish recruits from his Brooklyn neighborhood for the Sheikh’s organization. “The Impoverished” is a front for the American branch of al-Fuqra.

  Rashid smiled. The translation of al Fuqra from Arabic into English means the impoverished. The poor will prevail. The great American superpower will be taken over by humble Muslims.

  His smile faded. Rashid pounded the steering wheel when he remembered his confrontation with Richard Carson. Relax. Get it together. He punched the steering wheel. Calm down. You are not in Afghanistan anymore.

  He craved the action in Afghanistan. What good is living if he could not fight? Combat calmed him, kept him grounded. Gave him focus. He must find a way to settle down before he landed in jail.

  Rashid smiled. Bopped his forehead. The answer was simple. Since combat was out of the question, target practice will do. He’ll blow off steam at the shooting range in the Pocono Mountains.

  He popped a cassette into the radio console and took the ramp onto the Verazzano Bridge. By the time the Bronco reached the entrance to the New Jersey Turnpike, Rashid was tapping the steering wheel to the music. He’ll be letting off rounds in less than two hours. His heart pounded.