New York Minute

by Bob Mayer

  He took out detonating cord, fuse and four blasting caps. He knit together what was needed for the bars. Partly buttoned up his denim shirt and carefully put the explosive rig inside.

  Kane pulled a thirty-foot length of rope out of the backpack. Checked the exhaust pipes, found one that was solid and directly above a window. He secured the rope to it. Took another twelve-foot length of rope and quickly fashioned a Swiss seat between his legs and around his waist, squatted to tighten it, and locked a snap link to the front. All those days in the rope corrals in Ranger and Special Forces school had ingrained a number of various knots into his muscle memory. He wound the longer rope through the snap link. Slung the K over his back.

  He climbed over the railing. Feet against the building, using his right hand as a brake, he walked down the outside of the building to the window. When he reached it, he saw what he hadn’t been able to observe before: plywood inside the bars closing off the window.

  Kane re-evaluated. He had no idea who or what was on the other side of the plywood. He pressed against the building, trying to hear, but the ambient New York noise was too loud and he couldn’t get his ear next to the wood because of the bars. A positive was that the plywood was on the inside of the frame. Unless of course it was reinforced on the interior with something bulkier.

  The plan always lasts until one crosses the line of departure. A mantra of the Infantry and combat.

  Kane could hear Beckwith screaming ‘Do it, Ranger!’

  Kane took Ted’s advice. “Fuck you, Beckwith.” He reached up. Climbed, pulling with his arms and locking the rope between his feet. He made it to the roof. Retrieved the rope and untied it, coiled, and put it back in the pack. Took apart the explosive rig for cutting the iron bars, storing the blasting caps in their padded case.

  He shouldered the ruck and went to the twelve-foot high square housing the overhead machinery for the elevator. A service hatch opened with some effort. Kane peered inside but couldn’t see much. He activated the night vision goggles and pulled them on. Cables looped over a large wheel above and descended to the roof of the freight elevator, which was still at the ground floor.

  Kane attached the rope to the exterior, re-rigged, and rappelled the elevator shaft to the top floor doors. He stood on the narrow lip. Found the manual release and tripped it. As the doors opened, he brought the K up with his left hand, while he had his right on the goggles.

  The space beyond was dimly lit, but it was enough to blind out the goggles so he shoved them up, blinking, aiming.

  Kane held position as he got oriented. Naked low wattage lights bulbs dangled from wires looped through trusses bracing up the ten-foot high ceiling. They revealed a large open space with supporting columns evenly spaced. Internal and external brick walls. Wood floor composed of wide, worn planks. The window route would have been a problem as the plywood sheets were solidly crisscrossed with two by fours on the interior. There were also small white blocks on each window, attached to the center two by four. Explosive, wired to go off if the plywood was breached. Enough to take out anyone coming through. Someone was being appropriately paranoid.

  The aura was worse than a hospital. No one came here for succor. The heat was overwhelming given this was the top floor and there wasn’t any circulation. It was over one hundred and ten degrees and stifling. Whatever baking smell had once permeated the place had been overtaken by something else so strong it wiped out forty-five years of cookies.

  Lions and tigers and bears oh my.

  The open area held a scattering of wood crates, some old machinery. Along the wall to the left were rows of large, industrial ovens. They had wide doors on blackened iron bellies, exhaust pipes extending to the ceiling. This baking space took up two-thirds of the top floor. To the right were stacks of long wood boxes with rope handles on either end that Kane recognized: weapons containers. There were two doors in a brick wall thirty feet ahead.

  Kane looked up, checking the ceiling. Metal trusses crisscrossed, wiring and exhaust pipes exposed. Nothing untoward.

  Kane looked down. A fishing line stretched across the exit from the elevator. Six inches off the ground. He checked left and right and visually tracked it to a piece of rebar stuck in the wood floor, where the almost invisible line turned ninety degrees to the right, going out of sight around the exterior of the elevator shaft.

  Kane stepped over the wire. It was attached to a homemade pipe bomb screwed into the wall. Filled with nails and screws it was a field expedient Claymore and would kill people getting off the elevator just as efficiently.

  Kane moved forward slowly, feet sliding lightly, submachinegun stock tight to his shoulder, nerves on fire. Where his eyes went, the muzzle of the K tracked. Fifteen feet from the wall, Kane halted. Something was off. He scanned up, left, right, down, but couldn’t pinpoint the cause of his disturbance, but he trusted it as he always had on patrol.

  Sweat was trickling down his face and his t-shirt and shirt were soaked. He was breathing harder than normal, not just from stress, but the hot air seemed inadequate.

  Kane reversed his thinking, putting himself in the position of Damon. If someone infiltrated this far, they’d gotten past the tripwire, which meant they were aware of the possibility of more wires and doing exactly what Kane was doing: sliding their feet.

  The floor consisted of well-worn eight-inch wide wood planks, perpendicular to Kane’s approach. He knelt down and while keeping the K in one hand, ran his fingers over the floor. The next board was slightly off, something one wouldn’t notice unless they were searching carefully and close to the floor. Barely an eighth of an inch higher. That could be warping from age.

  Or.

  Kane drew his knife. Put the tip in between boards and leveraged. The plank moved easily. He put his fingers under it and gently lifted. A pressure activated anti-tank mine, large enough to obliterate everything in this space, was in a cavity below the wood. Kane put the board to the side. Stepped over the mine and continued toward the doors.

  The booby traps were good news on two fronts. First, it meant there was something of value. But more importantly, something of so much value that only Damon and the Trinity knew of the location because there were no guards. Damon was counting on the static defenses for protection because he couldn’t trust anyone else with the secrets inside.

  If that were so . . .

  Kane looked about once more. Spaced along the base of the exterior wall were pipes painted black. They were connected with fuse. He checked one. Thermal, designed to burn, not explode. This floor was primed to incinerate everything inside to ashes.

  Kane went to the weapons cases. Twenty-four. The stenciling on the side was US Army. M-16s. Ten per. A lot of firepower destined for Ireland. Kane took pictures of the stenciling and lot numbers.

  Kane went to the door on the left side of the interior brick wall. Several sheets of three-quarter inch four-by-eight-foot plywood were stacked to the side of the door. Eyebolts were screwed into the four corners of each.

  Kane picked the lock. Checked for tells. Eased it open an inch. Used a finger to probe for trip wires. Nothing. Opened the door a foot. Checked. Opened it enough to get inside. Darkness beckoned. He pulled the NVG’s down. A square room, fifteen feet to a side. Kane slid his foot forward. His heart surged for a moment as his foot hit something. He knelt, reaching out. Some soft material covered the wood floor. He felt as far as his arm could reach.

  Kane edged inside. A set of work lights were to his right, unplugged. Kane took a chance and plugged them in as he pulled up the NVG’s.

  The brick walls, ceiling and floor were layered with old, stained soundproofing, much like a recording studio. It looked like it had been emplaced when Damon had purchased the place seventeen years ago. Kane doubted any noise in this room could be heard outside the building, but there had been other businesses initially established on lower floors after Nabisco left before the building eventually emptied.

  A wide roll of thick plastic sheeting lay
along one wall. Several rubber bags were stacked in a corner—body bags. Two trestles four feet apart were bolted to the floor in the center of the room. Kane walked up to them. A large plastic bucket to the side held assorted chains and manacles. Another contained various tools: saws, pliers, rasps, and more. A power drill and jigsaw were on the floor next to it. Along with a chainsaw. Several jugs of bleach and a large plastic tub.

  Kane stood there for a moment and processed the implications. Added in the sheets of plywood.

  How many people had this room taken?

  He removed the ruck, took pictures, put the ruck back on, unplugged the light and backed out of the room.

  He paused and looked over at the ovens. “Fuck,” he muttered. Murder incorporated.

  Went to the next door. He repeated the tedious opening process.

  This room was the same size, also with work lights. He plugged them in.

  A 16mm movie projector rested on a metal cart, pointed at a screen on the wall. Next to it were sixteen long wooden boxes, each three feet in length and the correct width and height to hold film canisters. Five folding chairs faced the screen. Against the far wall was a film-processing machine. The required chemicals were stored on shelves above it.

  A reel was loaded on the projector’s arm. Kane checked the name on the empty canister. His.

  Kane shrugged off the ruck. He flipped open the top of the nearest box. The canisters were packed vertically, a label facing up. Name, date.

  He photographed the content of all the boxes. The dates stretched back three decades. Kane recognized some names but didn’t loiter. He could read more carefully once he developed the pictures. However, it was obvious that Damon owned a good portion of the upper layer of New York City. There was no going to the authorities with this evidence because enough of the authorities were in these boxes to stop any investigation cold.

  Bulletproof.

  Kane appreciated Damon’s organizational skills. The films were in strict date order, but also cross-referenced in smaller writing on the labels to the other films by date, depending on the subject.

  There was one film for Thomas Marcelle. Dated 1966.

  Kane shook his head as he saw three with Robert Jenkins, dated from 1970 through 1972. Toni’s ex. That meant the operation was working even while Damon was in prison. The Unholy Trinity keeping the home fires lit.

  The one he focused on, though, was for Antonia Marcelle. Dated 1973.

  He turned the projector on. The motor whirled and his loaded film began to play. Blank. That confirmed the cause of Farrah’s beating. It had nothing to do with the drugs, which Kane had suspected; after all, Damon would have preferred her on them as it made her more pliable. Farrah was lucky Damon hadn’t killed her immediately. Malcolm had heard her screams and been coming to her rescue when he was gunned down.

  Kane rewound his film. Removed it. Put Toni’s reel on the camera. Threaded the film. Turned the camera on and the lights off.

  Farrah’s—rather Damon’s—working bedroom. A few things were different but the bed was the same. The mirrors. Bad taste never went out of style. There were no sex toys in view or tie-downs on the posts.

  The film continued with no one in the frame for over a minute, indicating the camera and mikes had been turned on early. Then there were voices. Toni and a man.

  They were indistinct until Toni entered the room. She stopped and turned. “This is a business meeting.” She indicated the bed. “This is ridiculous.”

  “Oh, it’s not what you think, lass,” Damon said, off-camera. “This is indeed business. Of a most serious nature.”

  Toni folded her arms. “Leave my father and husband alone. They’ve done enough for you.”

  “It’s never enough.” Damon’s voice was gravelly. The old man was keeping out of the field of the camera. “I had to do time, so he has to pay for that.”

  “He’s already paid.” Toni was wearing a conservative gray business suit. “We’ve done all you wanted. Father took care of your legal business while you were away so—“

  “Away?” Damon laughed. “Is that what you call it?”

  “Father got you the best possible deal he could manage,” Toni said. “The evidence was overwhelming. You should have gone away for life.”

  “You’d have liked that, wouldn’t you?”

  Toni’s eyes shifted, looking past Damon as the sound of voices echoed into the room. “Who’s that?”

  “Some business associates of mine,” Damon said. “As you said. This is a business meeting. Did you watch the films I sent you? Your father? Your husband?”

  Toni nodded.

  “Do you want me to release them? Destroy your firm? Think how your mother will react? Or do you want business as usual? Money pouring in. Everyone happy.”

  “I’m not happy,” Toni said. “Father isn’t either.”

  “I don’t give a damn, you fucking cunt,” Damon replied in a harsh, even voice. A single, out of focus finger appeared at the edge of the frame, pointing at Toni. “You called me. Threatened me. You should have let well enough alone. Now I don’t trust you. That forces my hand. But I’m in a benevolent mood, lass. You’ve got a choice. You can depart this place one of two ways. Alive or dead. The latter, you’ll just disappear and not in an easy way. Your father and husband and mother will never know what happened to you. No one will. Or you can walk out alive, but only if I trust you.”

  Kane had his hand on the switch for the projector. He wanted to turn it off, but he had to confirm. As Pope had pointed out: know as much of the reality of the past.

  “Fuck you,” Toni said. “You wouldn’t dare hurt me.”

  Damon laughed. “Why not? Your father or husband can’t protect you. Who can? You think your father and husband’s films were it? I’ve got something else for you to see so you have a precise understanding of the nature of the decision you’re facing.”

  A man walked into the frame wearing a ski mask and carrying a projector. He was dressed in black slacks and long-sleeved turtleneck. Based on his size, Kane estimated it was Haggerty, the ex-boxer, one of the Trinity. He put it on the night table next to the bed, and pointed it at the wall to the left. Plugged it in. A film was already loaded.

  Haggerty flipped the on switch and left. Whatever was being projected was off frame. Toni was staring. The sound was faint, but it was a woman begging, screaming. Toni took a step back, her legs hitting the edge of the bed. She sat down in slow motion, mesmerized by the images playing on the wall.

  The volume was turned down, but the screams rose, something Kane hadn’t heard in a long time. The begging for mercy, then for death.

  This went on for long, echoing minutes. The sound of power tools. More screaming, begging, animal-like whimpering.

  Then the sound abruptly ceased.

  Toni, face pale, slid off the bed to her knees and vomited.

  “Strip,” Damon ordered. “Or you end up like her. The only way I can trust you is to have the same on you as your father and husband. Or to have you dead. And if I have to finish you, you’ll go in the same manner as the girl on the film. Then I’ll release the films of your husband and father and destroy your family.”

  Male voices intruded on the sound track, low, rumbling, anticipating. Toni was on her knees, head drooping.

  “Do it, you fucking cunt!” Damon snapped.

  Toni was blocked for a moment as several figures moved into the frame. Three men in black.

  She looked up.

  Kane focused on were the tears streaming down her face.

  “Fuck you!” Toni screamed as she sprung to her feet and lashed out, punching, scratching, fighting with all her might.

  Her fingernails ripped the mask on the left side of the face of the largest man, Haggerty, leaving deep, bloody furrows.

  In the background of the struggle was Damon’s voice. “Me boyos love a woman with a bit of fight in her.”

  Haggerty sucker punched Toni. The sound of her nose breaking was clearly
audible. Blood splattered and she slammed back against the bedpost, the rear of her head hitting the wood with a solid thump. She fell to the floor, dazed. She struggled to get to her feet, blood pouring from her face, as the three men closed in.

  Kane turned the projector off. Rewound the film. Put it in the canister.

  Looked at his watch. Noticed that his hand was shaking and ceased.

  Kane sat down for several moments. Then he searched for two years ago. 1975. He found it. Tammy.

  The machine whirred. The image was the room next door with the soundproofing. The plastic sheeting was stapled over the floor, walls and ceiling. A piece of plywood with the eyebolts was on the trestles.

  A young woman wearing an evening gown was dragged in by two men dressed the same as in Toni’s video. Haggerty and Dunne from their profiles. A brown sack covered her head. She was small, similar in build to Farrah. The men easily lifted her and put her on the plywood, face up. They chained her spread eagle, ankles and wrists.

  The efficient way the two men worked in concert indicated it wasn’t the first time they’d done the task.

  She was begging, crying.

  Once she was secured, the two men stepped out of frame. For over a minute the camera recorded her pleas and her desperate, futile, writhing attempts to free herself.

  Kane forced himself to watch.

  A masked figure entered the frame, a knife in hand. Short and portly it could have been Damon or more likely Dunne. He began to cut away her dress, very slowly. Then her bra and panties as she screamed and begged. He ran the knife over her body, pausing at certain places. He wasn’t cutting. Yet. He was playing to an audience.

  When the first blood was drawn, Kane turned it off.