by Hack, Henry
Harry prepared to slip the gear selector into drive when something, a flicker of movement, caught his eye. He froze. Was it the changing time of the bank clock reflected in the rear-view mirror? He glanced up. The reversed digits translated to read “3:53.” He stared at the Nest. Richie had left about two minutes ago heading for the alley that led to the parking lot behind the bar. Just when he had convinced himself his overtired senses had played a trick on him, he saw a movement across the street – and this time it was definitely not his imagination. He shut the ignition off and slouched down behind the steering wheel. There it was again – a darting shadow.
The figure stopped, in full view now, and looked up and down 18th Street. It then scurried back onto Park Boulevard from where it had obviously just appeared. It re-emerged 30 seconds later accompanied by two more figures. They huddled in a group against the wind, gesturing and pointing, first toward the Bird’s Nest, then toward the alley. Were they kid burglars looking for an easy score through the bar door? He smiled to himself and thought how nice it would be to sit here and watch those punks rip off Richie’s joint. But he knew he could not let that happen. Nobody was going to violate his beat. This turf was his corner of the world and Harry considered an attack on any part of it an attack on him personally. He clutched his gun once more and placed his left hand on the door handle waiting to spring into action. For the third time in four hours the adrenalin coursed swiftly through his body.
But something was not quite right. While Harry planned his move, the trio had crept stealthily across the street and the yellow sodium lights had illuminated their faces. They weren’t kids – young, but not kids, and one of them looked familiar. It was the boy who had come through the glass door. As they disappeared down the alley, the realization of what was going on hit him squarely between the eyes. This was no burglary in the making. This was revenge.
He started out the door, but then stopped with it halfway open. Why should he be in such a hurry to help Richie out? He had a beating coming to him tonight three times over. Screw him. He hoped they’d do a number on him, the bastard. And after all, he was not even there. He had gone off duty four hours ago. He shut the door and lit another cigarette. You work in mysterious ways, Lord. What I couldn’t do, you are doing for me by sending three avenging angels down on Christmas Day.
He was giddy with laughter now and the alcohol from all the beer he had consumed since he went off duty was just peaking in his brain. He choked on the next drag of the cigarette and had to roll the window down to suck in a few breaths of cold air. As his head and lungs cleared a little, he listened intently for sounds of a struggle. He peered back toward the avenue. The clock flashed “4:06.” Seven minutes was a long time. Maybe they were doing a bad number on Richie. Maybe they were slicing him up. So what if they were? It would be good riddance to a piece of crap, a rotten chunk of garbage swept from his beat.
The minutes continued to creep by. The click, click, whirr, buzz sounds emanating from the control box as the traffic light changed seemed abnormally loud in the icy stillness. A sudden chill went through his body as the cold penetrated to his bones. He had to do something soon.
Just then a figure emerged from the alley followed by two others. Was that a knife glinting in the hand of the first one? They ran across the street and disappeared down Park Boulevard. Thirty seconds later a car engine coughed and sputtered to life. Doors slammed shut. Tires squealed, then the chirp of second gear, the whine of third gear, then….nothing.
Harry debated what to do. An inner voice, cautious from ten years of self-protection on the beat, urged him home. “Don’t get involved, stupid. Forget it. Split.” A second voice, commanding, macho in tone, ordered him out of the car. “Investigate, Harry. It’s your beat they’re screwing with.” Indecision was not in Harry’s make up. He leaped from the car and ran toward the alley.
A jagged path had been shoveled along the left side of the alley where the least drifting had occurred and Harry trotted through it and out into the dimly lit parking field. He slowed to a walk as he spotted Richie’s old car in the north end of the lot. A knot began to form in his stomach in anticipation of whatever grisly sight awaited him. Although the faded blue Ford was familiar to him – he had searched it seven or eight times in the last three years – its cold, still presence was now menacing. He took the last step and cautiously, almost fearfully, peered in the driver’s window.
Richie lay sprawled on his back along the front seat, both hands clutched tightly to his stomach, his head under the steering wheel. His eyes stared blankly at the roof and a thick trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. Harry opened the door for a closer look, sure Richie was dead. But as his face passed directly over Richie’s, he heard a sound unlike any he heard before. It began as a low, mewing whine, like an alley cat in heat, and then it rose in pitch to a steady shrill scream – and ended abruptly in a thick choking gargle of fluid. Harry shuddered and felt as if his body temperature had just plummeted to zero. He forced himself to examine Richie more closely in the dim interior dome light. The trio had done a thorough job. He was sliced from his groin to his collar bone, and his clenched hands unsuccessfully attempted to prevent his insides from spilling out of his body. A dark red, gooey stain spread through his fingers and shiny coils of intestine were visible above and below his hands.
Harry knew Richie would be a goner soon unless he did something fast. It was bitterly cold now, and Richie was sinking deeper and deeper into shock. He looked for the car keys. They weren’t in the ignition. Frantically he began searching Richie’s pockets all the time thinking the callbox was a five minute sprint away, and how many ambulance crews worked on Christmas, and they wouldn’t get here in time, and if they did they’d never make it to the hospital in time and….and just why the hell should he care anything about Richie who only got what he deserved anyway?
As Harry backed out of the car, his eyes momentarily locked on Richie’s. A flash of recognition and pleading, and hope, seemed to brighten Richie’s face.
“Ca…Cas…Cassidy…help,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“Why? Why should I help you Richie? You got what you damned-well deserved. A little while ago you threatened to sic Internal Affairs on me, you dirtbag.”
Harry’s voice rose now, his anger and repressed frustration breaking to the surface. “No way, pal. I should save your miserable life? For what? As far as I’m concerned those guys did me, and everyone else on my beat, a big favor. What I couldn’t do to you in ten years, what the system couldn’t do to you in twenty years, they did in one minute. This is justice, my friend – street justice – the only kind that works for crumbs like you.”
He continued to scream at Richie, venting all his pent up rage on the dying man in front of him. As he began to calm down, his fury spent, he noticed tears streaming down Richie’s cheeks and Richie’s lips moved slightly, but no sound came from them. The pitiful sight stirred something deep within Harry’s soul. Confused, jumbled pictures flooded his mind. Distant memories of his father lying in a coma, the priest intoning the last rites, tears dripping from his half-open eyes…Harry swearing to the oath of office, promising to protect and serve, to preserve human life…broken, shot, stabbed bodies, all those he had helped, whose lives he had saved…all flashed through his confused brain in an intermixing, conflicting pattern. He suddenly became light-headed and grabbed the backrest for support. He looked down at the wretched soul dying beneath him and said, “Hold on, Richie. Just hold on.”
He ran back through the alley and slowed as he approached the callbox to gain his breath, glancing nervously up and down the cold, silent streets. He opened the green metal door and grabbed the receiver, but hesitated before lifting it from its cradle.
What was he going to say? How would he explain why he was here on his post four hours after he had gone off duty? He was half-drunk and probably allowed a murder to be committed on his beat without attempting to stop it. But he had to call it in. The
poor guy was dying a horrible death back there. But what if they think he stabbed Richie? How’re they going to find the three guys who actually did it? What about all the guys in the bar who heard him threaten Richie?
He released his grip on the phone and clutched his head tightly between his hands attempting to squeeze a decision from his tortured brain. A minute passed. Then two. He lowered his hands from his head. He was suddenly freezing on this silent Christmas morning, and he couldn’t control the trembling that shook every muscle in his body. He lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Sergeant Miller, Nine-Five Precinct” a voice said. “Sergeant Miller here. May I help you? Is there trouble there?”
Harry lowered the phone to its cradle; softly, he closed the callbox door.
Chapter Two
The pounding in Ziad Sugami’s head began to diminish and his body pains lessened. He kept his eyes closed while testing his limbs, carefully flexing his toes and fingers, hoping he wasn’t hurt too badly. As his confidence began to return, he felt his head being lifted and terror flooded his body. Opening his eyes slightly he attempted to focus them on the looming presence above. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t fight, and he couldn’t run. Waiting for the further beating that was sure to come, the voice he faintly heard, surprisingly, did not sound menacing. He forced his eyes to bring the fuzzy image into clarity. They fastened on the silver cap device, then on the blue cap that sat on the head of Police Officer Harold Cassidy.
The big cop mumbled something and gently laid Ziad’s head back on the snow. He watched him through one squinted eye as he entered the bar. Maybe this cop was a decent guy and would arrest the bastards who threw him through the door, but he knew he couldn’t stay – he had to get out of there fast. If he got caught by the cops and didn’t make it back to Ahmed’s pad, he would be in serious trouble. And the two Berettas, one hidden in each boot, would mean jail for sure if this cop came out and checked further.
He cautiously rose and peered into the bar. The cop had the bartender by the throat. He had to make his move now. He rolled over the mounded snow into the gutter and scurried diagonally across the street to the first doorway, fighting the aches and pains that stabbed at almost every part of his slight body. He rose as straight as he dared and dashed up to Hempstead Avenue. Gasping for breath he slithered down the subway entrance to the welcoming rush of warm air from an incoming westbound C train. A minute later he was on board speeding to safety.
●
As the train roared into the Belmont Park City station, Ziad’s breathing had just about returned to normal and he casually surveyed his surroundings. Only a half dozen people occupied the car with him, last minute shoppers, clutching gaily wrapped Christmas packages. No one paid him the slightest bit of attention despite the fact he appeared cut, wet, bruised and disheveled from his recent encounter. Smug jerks probably think I’m just another dirty Arab, but they’ll notice me soon, very soon.
Ten minutes later he changed at Jamaica Center to the E train and, fifteen minutes after that, he got off at the Roosevelt Avenue station in Jackson Heights. A five minute walk got him to Ahmed’s apartment house on 77th Street. Ziad rapped out the secret code, three knocks repeated three times, on the chipped door of apartment 3C. A voice said, “Praise Allah.” Ziad rapped again, this time just two knocks. The nine knocks followed by the two knocks were, of course, to commemorate September 11, 2001, the greatest day thus far in the jihad for the ultimate destruction of the American infidels. Abu opened the door, his wide smile disappearing as he saw Ziad’s battered face.
“Ziad! Quick, come in. By the name of Allah what happened to you? Did those blacks…?”
“Calm down, my friend. It is okay. I am all right. Just got into a little trouble, that’s all.”
Ahmed, hearing the urgency in Abu’s voice, hurried into the room from the kitchen where he, Mohammed, Abdul and Satam had been discussing future plans in furtherance of their great cause. When he also saw Ziad’s beaten face he was convinced the mission he sent him on had turned into a disaster.
“The blacks ripped you off. Wait till I get my hands on Joey Velez. He said we could trust those guys. I’ll…”
“Wait a minute, Ahmed. I wasn’t ripped off. Here, look.”
Ziad withdrew the two Berettas from his boots and the silencer from his back pocket. Ahmed and Abu stared at the weapons in amazement.
“Then what happened to you? You’re a mess,” Abu said.
“Just some trouble with a lousy Mick bartender, that’s all.”
“Bartender?” Ahmed said. “Why were you in a bar? You know alcohol is forbidden. You were supposed to get these guns and get right back here.”
Ziad smiled, hoping to ease Ahmed’s anger at his lapse. “I was nervous. I needed a little something to settle me down. Let me tell you what happened.”
“Okay,” Ahmed said, realizing Ziad had, after all, returned with the guns.
“I’ll tell you this, when I first saw the black guys, I was very scared. This one dude was about nine feet tall and blacker than the night. The other dude had so many scars on his face it looked like a wrinkled road map. But I stood tough and they dealt fair and square charging me $475 apiece for the two guns and $100 for the silencer, just like you set it up.”
“Can they get heavier stuff?” Abu asked.
“No problem. I told the dude I would be interested in bigger and better things and he said when I was ready to just give him a call.”
“Great,” Ahmed said. “But do they know how big we mean?”
“I told them I meant Uzi’s, AK-47’s and M-16’s and they didn’t blink an eye. When I said maybe we could use some grenades and plastic explosives, they nodded and said that would take some up-front money, but no problems.”
“It looks like we hit the jackpot,” Ahmed said. Then his face darkened and he looked menacingly at Ziad. “Well?”
“Huh?”
“What happened with the bartender?”
“I was getting to that.”
“Sure you were…”
“I had just gotten the guns and wondered if I was about to get ripped off, or worse. I left the dude’s pad and started walking in the wrong direction. I couldn’t find the subway station and I was all hyped up when I spotted this joint, so I decided to go in and have a drink to calm myself down, and to find out directions to the subway line.”
“And what about our new ways that we promised to live by?” Ahmed asked. “No alcohol, no drugs, no profanity as required by Islam?”
“I know, but all this strict fundamental stuff is still new to me. I haven’t smoked pot or had a drink for three months now, but I was so nervous I needed something.”
“Go on.”
“I ordered a shot and a beer and the bartender gave it to me with no trouble. Didn’t proof me or nothing; only shot me a dirty look. When I asked for another beer, he told me he thought my kind wasn’t supposed to drink any alcohol. I asked what he meant by that – my kind.”
“And what did he say?” Abu asked.
“He said, ‘You know – sand niggers, camel jockeys.’”
“I can see now where this was heading,” Ahmed said.
“I looked around and I saw all these mean white faces staring at me, so I didn’t say anything more. I figured I better get outta there, so I asked for one more beer and directions to the subway station. The rat told me the subway was just around the corner and to drink up fast. I did, and reached for my change, when I saw he had beaten me out of a ten spot. I knew I had put a twenty down. When I told him he beat me out of ten, he laughed at me and said, ‘Fuck you, Sandy. You only put a ten on the bar. A-rabs like you never even saw a twenty.’ I got so pissed off I threw the rest of the change right square into that ugly Mick’s face. The bastard grabbed for me, and missed, and I headed for the door. Two or three guys grabbed me from behind and the bartender started pounding me while these guys were holding me. I started to pass out and I felt myself being lifted and swung. They th
rew me right through the glass door.”
“Miserable infidels,” Abu said, anger flashing in his eyes.
“I came to after awhile, finally found the subway and made it back here.”
Ziad did not feel it was necessary, or wise, to tell them about the cop. No sense letting them know how close he had come to blowing everything.
“How’re you feeling now?” Ahmed asked.
“Okay. Better, I guess.”
“Good. Go wash up. Abu, put a pot of tea on. I have an idea for a taste of action. We’ll show that bartender who he’s dealing with. Nobody messes with OBL-911.”
Ahmed decided to take the car back to the Nest. Satam had been using it to shop for food and drinks for the six of them to last for the next few days. He had dropped it back to Ahmed just before Ziad returned, and assured him the twelve-year old Chevy ran fine. Ahmed took one of the Berettas and attached the silencer. He hid the other one under the mattress of his bed.
“Abu, Abdul, Mohammed – you remain here. Ziad, Satam, get your knives. Satam, you drive. Let’s go.”
The engine, still warm, caught at the first turn of the ignition key and they headed for Queens Boulevard. Twenty-five minutes later they arrived at the Nest. A quick drive-by showed it was still open, but no customers were visible. They turned left onto Park Boulevard and coasted to a stop.
“I’ll keep a lookout at the corner until he closes up,” Ahmed said.
As he opened the car door he heard the sharp reports of the bartender nailing slats over the door. He waited, not wanting to chance being spotted. When the hammering finally stopped, Ahmed carefully crept up to the corner just in time to see the bartender turning into the alleyway to the parking lot. He ran back to the car.
“Ziad. Satam. Let’s do it.”
They approached 18th Street, checked in all directions and sprinted across to the alleyway. As they emerged into the parking lot they heard a car’s engine laboring to turn over in the bitter cold. They were on him in an instant. Satam ripped open the car door and Ahmed shoved the silencer into Richie’s face. Richie froze with terror. Ziad sauntered up to him and pressed the button on the six-inch switchblade releasing the blade from the handle. Richie struggled and tried to scream, but Satam had worked his way into the backseat and grabbed Richie by the throat and pulled his head back. Ahmed still had the gun aimed squarely between his eyes.
