The Impoverished: Boxed Set Page 2

  Should I shoot the Glock semi-automatic instead of the Smith & Wesson revolver? I can hide the Smith & Wesson anywhere on my body, but I could sneak the Glock through a magnetometer. He scratched his head. I’ll shoot both weapons. Versatility is an asset. Just like him.

  Chapter 7

  Carmella squeezed into Shawnee’s Place at half past eleven. She did not recognize any of the faces crowed around the bar. Her throat tightened. It was strange to be in the bar without her friends. She had never walked into a bar alone before. She had never been shot before either. This year was full of firsts for her. God. Please don’t let there be any seconds.

  She slid a ten dollar bill on the bar and ordered a Coors Light. The bartender brought the beer right away.

  She lifted the cold bottle neck to her lips. The beer went down smoothly. Here is to no more seconds.

  She placed the beer bottle on the bar, next to a dirty ashtray. She pushed the filthy ashtray away, no longer tempted to smoke. After all the trouble she got into for smoking that night, she quit. Cold turkey.

  She took another gulp of beer. Her muscles relaxed. She scanned the crowd until she spotted Carson leaning against the jukebox. He gave her a curt wave. She swallowed, her throat had tightened again. She grabbed her beer and walked to the rear of the bar, towards Carson.

  Carson tapped the neck of his Budweiser against her Coor’s Light. “Thanks for coming.”

  She got right to the point. “What’s going on? What kind of trouble are you in and what makes you think I can help?”

  His voice shook. “There’s a scary guy in the neighborhood. He wants me dead because I deal drugs.”

  “So what’s the problem with that?” Carmella smirked.

  His jaw dropped. He stared at Carmella with sad eyes and an open mouth.

  “Jeez, I was just kidding.” Carmella laughed. “Drug dealers are supposed to be tough guys.”

  She leaned against the jukebox. “If I am going to hear your story you have to be ready to give up dealing, doing burglaries, and whatever else. I do not drink with perps.”

  Carson exhaled a long puff of breath. “Officer, I am already there. I don’t want this life. Anymore. Hell, I never wanted it to begin with.”

  He waited for a response. When none came he added, “Really.”

  She took a sip of her beer. “Okay, Carson, talk to me.”

  He spoke and she listened.

  Two Coors Lights and four bottles of Bud later, Carmella agreed to help Carson. He convinced her that he was on the level. The guy that threatened him was worthy of police interest. She would talk to the Precinct Detective Squad the next day if Carson swore to tell them everything he knew about Rashid.

  Carson surprised her with a condition of his own. “Leave my name out of it until we make a deal.”

  “Okay.” She pinched her eyebrows. “If - we make a deal. Call me tomorrow at the precinct.”

  Carson nodded and slumped his shoulders. “Tomorrow.”

  He half-smiled, nodded again and disappeared into the crowd.

  Carmella inhaled deeply, shook her head and headed for the bar. She placed her empty beer bottle on the bar top and turned to leave. A guy at the front end of the bar snuck a peek at her. His face was partially hidden under a Yankees baseball cap.

  She passed him on the way to the front door. She recognized him. She leaned in and snatched the cap from his head.

  “Rosen, are ya kidding me?” She waved the baseball cap in the air. “The freaking Yankees?”

  “Uh, uh, oh- Russo. Don’t tell me you like the Mets.” He looked at her with a sheepish grin and grabbed his cap from her hand.

  She nudged his arm. “Thanks for showing up.”

  “Hey, it is nothing. Nobody should work without back up.”

  Hot blood flooded her face. If she had backup the night of the shootout she may never have gotten shot or -. Her stomach rolled. She grabbed the brass rail under the wooden top of the bar to steady herself. Oh God, I still cannot believe it - I took a life. She looked at Matt. Tried to speak. No sound came out.

  He handed her a fresh beer. “Hey, I am sorry I upset you. You had no choice, you know. You did what you had to do.”

  “Yeah, but it is hard to live with,” she whispered.

  Carmella put the still full beer bottle on the bar, thanked Matt for staying discreetly in the background during her meeting with Carson and went home.

  Chapter 8

  Rashid took a deep breath, pointed the revolver down range and slowly squeezed the trigger. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! After he shot six rounds in quick succession he cracked open the revolver and dumped empty shell casings at his feet. He quickly retrieved fresh cartridges from his front right pants pocket and reloaded the cylinder. He glanced downrange at the paper target as he slid each round into its chamber, prepared to slam the cylinder shut at any second and fire at an adversary, if necessary.

  Target shooting was not merely practice to him. Every time he was at the range he imagined he was in a live gun fight. Now that he was back in the States, that gunfight was with a freaking revolver. He missed the AK47 automatic rifle that he used in Afghanistan, but he could not walk around Brooklyn with it, not without attracting a lot of unwanted attention. So he stuck with the more easily concealed, but less effective, revolver.

  After letting off three more rounds he saw they landed high and to the right, missing the silhouette by a hair. He adjusted his aim and emptied the remaining three rounds into the center of the target. He squatted and dug in his pocket for more ammunition. He felt a strong tap on his left shoulder. He turned. It was Mohamed, He gripped his hand in a hearty handshake.

  Mohamed tilted his head towards the target. “Nice grouping.”

  Rashid shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Mohamed embraced Rashid and released him. “Let’s sit.”

  They walked off range and sat on a wooden bench.

  Mohamed congratulated him on his work in Afghanistan and inquired about his war injuries.

  “My leg is stiff but it will not stop me from participating in the Jihad, not in any way.”

  “Good,” Mohamed said. “We need you in the Jihad. We have so much against us. Have you heard about Rashdie’s blasphemous book?”

  “Yes. I attended a demonstration against the book. I scouted recruits while I was there. One young man in particular, Gilbert, seems anxious to become a martyr.”

  “That is good news, Rashid. Sheikh Gilani will be pleased.” Mohamed grinned. “He is counting on you to fill his encampment in Hancock, New York with unattached males to be groomed for future martyrdom operations. This Gilbert you met, does he have a family?”

  “No. He knows people from the mosque and the Islamic Book Store. But has no friends or family. He is perfect. Do not worry. I will not disappoint the Sheikh.” Rashid looked around. No one was in earshot. “Tell me, brother. Is there a plan to bring down the US Government, yet? We were so successful with the Soviet Government. It is crumbling as we speak. I cannot wait to see America suffer the same fate.”

  “Yes, of course, there is a plan.” Mohamed straightened his shoulders. “There is always a plan. Be patient, Rashid. We will prevail. Both superpowers will be destroyed.” He spat at the ground. “It is a matter of time. Do not worry. The seeds are planted and are growing into big trees, with many strong branches. It is our destiny to dominate the west and live in a worldwide Islamic State – our Caliphate!”

  Rashid shifted back and worth and licked his lips. “What can I do to help?”

  Mohamed waited for Rashid to settle down. “An important Egyptian sheikh is arriving in Brooklyn next week. You must know him from the Afghan Jihad, the great Sheikh Rahman-”

  “Sheikh Rahman!” Rashid jumped from the bench. “The leader of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad is coming to America?”

  “Yes, Rashid. Sheikh Rahman is coming to Brooklyn. It is exciting, is it not?”

  “Yes, yes. So it is true then.” He sat back down and faced Mohamed
. “The Jihad is coming to America. It is just a matter of time, just like you said.”

  “Of course. Just like I said. Calm down. Listen carefully.” Mohamed pumped his hands. “Sheikh Rahman will be the guest lecturer at the Atlantic Ave Mosque this Friday. Listen to his sermon. The lecture is open to the most trusted brothers. Come alone.”

  Rashid sat rapt.

  Mohamed continued, “Meet with the Sheikh, at his nephew’s apartment, right after the evening prayers and lecture are finished. Be discreet, Rashid. Make sure you are not followed from the mosque to the apartment building.”

  “I know when the Feds are following me. The fools are so obvious. Where is the apartment?”

  “In Bay Ridge, two miles south of the mosque, on Seventy-Fourth Street, just off of Third Avenue. Once you are on the block, look for the Sheikh’s bodyguard.”

  Rashid smiled. “I cannot wait until Friday.”

  “You will find the lecture enlightening. You will be satisfied, to be sure!”

  Chapter 9

  Carmella arrived at the station house an hour early. It was her first day back to work. Instead of taking the down staircase to the female locker room, she trotted up the stairs to see the detectives.

  As soon as she pushed open the squad room door, detectives swarmed her with well wishes.

  “Wow! Thanks everyone. I appreciate your concern,” Carmella stammered. She spotted the detective that investigated her shooting incident standing in the middle of the group.

  “Detective Hines, can I talk to you?”

  “Sure,” he responded “but the name is John.”

  “Okay, John. Call me Mel.”

  He led her to his desk.

  “Your case is open and shut,” he said. “There is nothing to worry about. McShitty signed off on the shooting incident. He concluded that you were justified in firing your weapon. You know what a pric- .”

  Mel put her hand up. “That’s good to hear, but I need to talk about something else.”

  She told John everything she knew about Richard Carson’s circumstances and predicament, except for his name. When she mentioned Rashid, he straightened up and listened closely.

  After she finished speaking, John made a phone call. Carmella flicked the folders on the desk. She glanced at her wrist watch and her eyes widened. Roll call would start in ten minutes and she was not dressed in uniform yet. She glared at John and tapped her wrist watch.

  He nodded and wrapped up his telephone conversation.

  “Okay.” He looked at her. “Here it is, in a nutshell. I know your source is Richard Carson.”

  Her mouth flew open.

  “I interviewed him last week, remember? Right after you arrested him for the coat factory burglary.” He squeezed his eyebrows together and pursed his lips. “Anyway, my gut tells me the same as yours. Carson is a decent guy caught up in a bad life. We stand a good chance of flipping him.”

  “Flipping him?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, getting him to work for us.” John explained.

  “Oh, interesting idea. I didn’t know Carson was a candidate for something like that. He has a long rap sheet.”

  “We can work around that,” John said. “If Carson can lead us to Rashid, any deal we make will be well worth it.” He pointed at his desk phone. “A buddy from the Joint Terrorist Task Force knows all about this Rashid character. He is under investigation for terrorist acts. If we can place a mole into his terrorist group, it could be extremely effective for the safety of our city, and maybe even the whole country.”

  “Whoa.” Carmella threw her head back. The Joint Terrorist Task Force was an elite unit made up of top NYPD detectives and FBI agents. If they were interested in Rashid, he must be dangerous.

  John went on, “My buddy, Detective Malone, wants to talk with tonight. He wants to bring Carson in, can you arrange that?”

  “Yes, that won’t be a problem. Carson is calling me at the switchboard tonight.” She glanced at her watch. “John, roll call is about to start. I have got to go.”

  “Wait! One more thing.” He narrowed his eyes. “Mel, this is confidential. You cannot talk about it with anyone.”

  “Of course. What do you think I am? …a rookie or something?” She chuckled on her way out the door.

  John smiled. Shook his head. Rookie, indeed. She stumbles onto the case of the decade and she is worried about being late for roll call. How long would that last?

  Chapter 10

  Richard Carson sauntered down Tompkins Avenue. The Chief firmly tucked under one arm and a brown paper bag, filled with Chinese food, in the other. The rumble of a powerful car engine startled him. He glanced behind him.

  The white truck was there again. The same Ford Bronco double-parked outside the Newsstand and the Chinese Restaurant. Could it be a coincidence? He looked back again. Shit! The Bronco was keeping pace with him. He darted into Tompkins Park.

  Sandwiched between the basketball and handball courts were empty green wooden benches. Carson eyed the bench that was shielded by the high concrete wall of the handball court. He checked the bushes behind him before he slunk onto the bench. Sanctuary.

  He tore open the brown paper bag and spooned down the Won Ton soup in no time. Just as he dug into the pint of Chicken Chow Fun, the white carton was knocked from his hand.

  “What the fu-!” He looked up. “Oh, Shit!”

  Rashid hovered over him. Glared at him. “What are you doing here? I told you to get lost!”

  “Please, listen to me.” Carson stood up slowly, hands hanging loose at his sides. “I do not deal drugs anymore. I swear. On my grandmother’s grave!”

  “You make me sick! Because of punks like you, more and more of our kids are becoming crack heads every day.” Rashid pushed Carson so hard he fell on the bench.

  “I never sold drugs to kids – never! I sold to the crack heads that already wanted it. I never pushed. I swear!”

  Rashid stared at Carson for a long time. Carson did not dare say a word or move a finger. He waited for Rashid to make the next move. Rashid took a loud rattling breath and released it with a deep grunt. He dragged Carson from the bench, patted him down and threw him back onto the bench. Carson was not carrying any drugs or weapons.

  Rashid sat on the bench next to him. “Listen, Carson. I am not averse to giving a brother a break, but if you are lying to me I will find out... and I will make you sorry.”

  Carson looked Rashid straight in the face and said, “It is the truth.”

  Rashid nodded slowly, stared at Carson and turned away. He strode towards Tompkins Avenue, to his haphazardly parked Bronco.

  Carson sat rock still, afraid to move, until the Bronco drove away. He caught his breath and sighed. What am I going to do?

  He retrieved The Chief from the bench and opened the classified section. The city agencies were hiring: the Transit Authority, Sanitation Department, Board of Education and the Parks Department. After twenty minutes of studying the job opening announcements and test dates, Carson balled up the paper and tossed it into the garbage pail.

  The city job applications require a high school Diploma and a clean criminal record. Carson dropped out of high school when he was sixteen. He is not qualified to do anything. How the heck am I going to make a living?

  Maybe Russo will have some ideas. Now was as good a time as any to call, but he did not want to be in Rashid’s radar when he called.

  He walked south along Tompkins Avenue. Ten blocks later, he still could not find a public phone he felt comfortable enough to use. Every time he picked up the receiver to make the call, he sensed Rashid or a neighborhood crack head looking over his shoulder. Crazy paranoia.

  But if he was overheard, the whole neighborhood would be after him for talking to the cops. He had to get further away to make the call.

  He was just a few blocks from the train station. He hopped on the Franklin Avenue Shuttle and got off at Eastern Parkway.

  He found a bank of public phones at stree
t level. He chose the phone at the end of the row. He looked around, nonchalantly. Seeing no one nearby, he lifted the receiver. He bit his lip. Wiped the grime off the mouthpiece. Took a deep breath. Do or die in Bed-Sty.

  Chapter 11

  Rashid walked through the doors of the Atlantic Avenue Mosque just before sunset. He climbed the stairs to the large prayer room. He faced an easterly direction, knelt and prayed. Then, he waited.

  He waited for Sheikh Rahman to enter the room. Trembling with excitement, he barely managed to stay still. He was going to meet Sheikh Rahman – in person. A black American Muslim convert was going to meet the spiritual leader of the most extreme Islamic Terrorist Groups. Unbelievable.

  He glanced around the room and nodded at familiar faces. A few men from Afghanistan, men from the Bedford Avenue mosque, and some men from Deposit, New York were here. All their faces radiated anticipation.

  The hair on Rashid’s arms tingled, as if the room was electrified. Suddenly, soft murmurs rolled through the crowd. “He is here.” Heads softly turned to the left entrance of the room, like a gentle wave gliding to shore.

  Two white-robed men, each holding an AK47 rifle, entered the room and scanned the crowd. One of them motioned towards the doorway and Sheikh Rahman strolled into the room.

  The Sheikh looked the same as he did in Afghanistan, regal and confident. He wore dark glasses over his blind eyes. The dark glasses, sandwiched between his white and red fez and long white beard, stood out and added strength to his appearance. Blindness did not hinder him in any way.

  He stepped to the front of the room and began his sermon. After boasting about the Mujahideen’s victory in Afghanistan, he announced that Bosnia was the next place for Jihad and encouraged the young men present to join the Jihad there.