Trap (9781476793177) (10 page)

Goldie was looking at him with one eyebrow raised. “What do you think you're doing?” she signed.

“Nothing.”

“You old liar. You were trying to steal a
holishke
.”

Moishe pretended to be chagrined. “I was just trying to ensure that the quality was up to your usual standards.”

“I can assure you it is,” Goldie replied with a laugh. “But dinner's not quite ready. There will be no
holishkes
for you until you go downstairs and make sure everything is ready for the book signing. It starts at eight, which gives us less than two hours.”

“Fine,” Moishe pouted. “Slave driver.”

Moishe returned to the bedroom and got dressed. He then walked down the stairs and through the door leading to the bakery, where he navigated in the soft illumination of the street lights coming in through the newly replaced windows.

When he first purchased Il Buon Pane from its original owner, the man who'd given him his start in the business, the bakery was comprised of the building on the corner. However, due to its growing popularity, when the store next door became available he purchased it and opened a large sitting area for his customers to relax, enjoy their coffees and baked goods, catch up on the latest news, and meet with friends. That afternoon the sitting area had been transformed into a small auditorium, with rows of folding chairs provided by the charter schools association and set up by the Karp boys after they got out of school, facing toward a podium where the guest of honor would speak.

Moishe went back into the bakery kitchen, turned on the light, and looked with satisfaction at the trays of strudel, cinnamon rolls, and cherry and blueberry cheese coffeecake he would be serving at the book signing. He then turned on the industrial-sized coffee urns before wandering back out into the front of the store.

Walking over to the door, he was about to turn on the lights when he looked across the street and froze. Lurking in the shadows, he could see four or five figures of men with bald heads talking together in a group. But that wasn't what sent a chill up his spine. It was the red armbands with the white circle on which the black swastika was imprinted.

Moishe left the lights off and hurried upstairs. He told Goldie about the men across the street.

Goldie thought about it for a moment. “If they're trying to intimidate us into canceling the book signing, it's not going to happen,” she signed. “But we have to be mindful of our guests' safety. Call Butch; he'll know what to do. Then call Rose and Simon and warn them. After that we'll have our dinner.”

So it was that an hour later as people began arriving for the book signing, the guests found a strong police presence standing in front of a small group of neo-Nazis protesting using bullhorns and signs with slogans like The Holocaust Is a Jew Lie! and Don't Believe the Zionist Lies of Lubinsky. The police set up barriers across the street from the bakery and told the men, mostly young, to remain behind them or face arrest. Meanwhile, a group of counterprotesters, many of them minorities and charter school supporters, had formed kitty-corner from the bakery and across from the Nazis, so the police had stationed several more officers between the two groups.

When Butch Karp arrived with his wife and sons, he sought out Moishe and Goldie in the crowd. “Sorry you have to put up with those idiots,” he said, indicating the skinheads.

“All part of living in America,” Moishe said with a shrug. “Even Nazis have the right of free speech. I'm good with it, but thank you for arranging the police help, and it looks like Rose has a few supporters in the other crowd.”

“Thank Detective Clay Fulton,” Karp replied. “I told him about it and he got right on it. He's outside now making sure no one does anything stupid. Ah, it looks like your guest of honor is arriving.”

Moishe turned to see Rose Lubinsky enter the bakery. Simon was already there, having come from his job while his wife had been attending a political rally for the charter school bill. She hesitated at the door and glanced over her shoulder at the Nazis across the street. Her face was ashen when she turned back and walked swiftly over to the Sobelmans.

“I am so sorry,” she cried. “I've brought this upon you.”

Hugging his friend, Moishe stepped back and patted her shoulders. “Nonsense. I wouldn't have it any other way,” he said. “We have to stand up to the darkness and vanquish it.”

“Well, you are very brave and gracious,” Lubinsky said.

Moishe looked over at Goldie and winked. “Think nothing of it; it's just how a fine Jewish warrior rolls.”

L
IKE EVERYONE ELSE AT
I
L
Buon Pane, Karp stood and applauded when Rose Lubinsky finished her talk and concluded with a question and answer format that could have gone on for another hour. Then he and Marlene got in line, waiting to approach the table where the author had taken a seat to sign books.

When they reached the front, Rose was trying to peer around them with a perplexed look on her face. Karp turned to see what she was looking at, but all he saw was a room full of chatting people, most with
The Lost Children of the Holocaust
clutched in one hand while the other held a cup of coffee or a pastry.

“You looking for someone?” he asked.

As though startled from a dream, Lubinsky looked up at him but then smiled. “I thought for a moment I saw an old friend, but I guess I was mistaken,” she replied. “I wouldn't have expected him to show up—just wishful thinking, I guess.”

“Maybe the next signing,” Karp said. “I don't think Moishe could have squeezed one more body in here.”

“I know. I'm a little embarrassed about that,” Lubinsky admitted. “Apparently, the publisher told the
Times
book reviewer that I'd be here, but I'd intended this to be a small gathering for friends and the people I work with at the charter school association.”

“Speaking of which,” Marlene chimed in, “how's that going?”

“I'm scheduled to speak to the assembly's Education Committee next week,” Lubinsky said. “If the bill comes out of committee with bipartisan support, I think it will pass the state assembly. So I'm going to nudge them along.”

“What's the opposition like?” Karp asked.

“Running scared,” Lubinsky replied. “A lot of hand-wringing and union, partisan attempts to persuade the public—i.e., the politicians umbilically tied to the union and those who watch the polls—that it will be the end of public school education as we know it.”

“Maybe that's a good thing,” Marlene said.

“Well, we're not trying to destroy the public school system,” Lubinsky said. “We're trying to improve it and offer students who truly want an exceptional public education a choice. We are public after all.”

“I take it the teachers union doesn't see it the same way?”

Lubinsky thought about it for a moment before she spoke. “I don't know about the teachers, particularly the young ones—I think there's some unrest. But the union leadership isn't happy; we're a threat to their power, finances, and perks. They want to protect their golden goose.”

“What are they doing about it?”

The old woman shrugged. “You mean besides the usual ‘lobbying'—and by that I mean bribing—politicians and the media? There's been some attempts to intimidate me and my colleagues—the usual anonymous phone calls at three a.m., nasty notes left on the windshields of cars . . . that sort of thing. A few weeks ago, the union president Tommy Monroe asked me to meet with him so he could propose a ‘compromise' if I'd get the bill pulled.”

“You turned him down?” Karp asked.

“Yes, the time for compromise is over,” Lubinsky replied. “We would have been happy to work something out years ago, but they've fought us every step of the way—bought politicians, lied about the purpose of charter schools and the makeup of the student body, and then painted us as racists and elitists. But the worst thing was they did it knowing they were hurting children.”

Karp looked over Marlene's shoulder at the line of people still waiting, some of them with “hurry up and get on with it” looks on their faces. “Well, good luck,” he said. “I think you're on the right track. I'd like to hear more about it, but we don't want to hold everybody up.”

AN HOUR LATER,
Karp and his family were talking to Moishe and Goldie Sobelman when he spotted another familiar face approaching. “Well, Alejandro Garcia,” he said with genuine affection. “I heard from the boys that you were working with the charter school association.”

The young Latino flashed a toothy smile. Alejandro “Boom” Garcia had once been a notorious gang member in Spanish Harlem by the time he was fourteen. He'd earned his nickname for his willingness to use a gun to protect his home turf and friends from larger gangs. But after a short stint in juvie, he'd turned his life around with the intercession of one of Marlene's friends, a Jesuit priest named Mike Dugan, as well as discovering a latent talent as a rapper.

Although mistrustful of police and even Karp as the New York district attorney, Garcia had several times saved the day—as well as members of the Karp-Ciampi family—against myriad bad guys. He was smart, tough, loyal, and fearless.

Karp and Marlene had been surprised when the twins told them a few months earlier that Garcia had gone to school to get his teaching certificate. After all, he'd been signed to a lucrative recording contract. “He's still recording,” Giancarlo had assured them. “But he wants to give something back, especially to kids in Spanish Harlem. He got a job right out of school with the Nuevo Día Charter School and uses some of his music money to sponsor scholarships. He's also real involved with the bill to change charter school legislation with Mrs. Lubinsky.”

“
Buenas noches
, Mr. Karp,” Garcia said, and turned to Marlene, “and you, too, Ms. Ciampi. I see you're still hangin' with The Man.”

“Someone's got to keep him real,” Marlene replied with a laugh while Karp grinned.

“Yeah, I 'spose.” Garcia smiled. “But you ever get tired of him, give me a call.”

“Well, Alejandro,” Marlene giggled. “I'm old enough to be . . . to be . . . your older sister.”

“Yeah, but you still fine,
bella dama
.”

“So what brings you to Il Buon Pane, other than to flirt with my wife?” Karp asked. “Just to support Rose?”

“That and somebody to watch her back,” Garcia said. “Things are getting pretty hot with this legislation.” He nodded toward the front door of the shop. “And you never know what sort of
pendejos
will show up.”

Karp nodded. “You're right there. But I think Detective Clay Fulton and his men have things under control. Speak of the devil . . .”

The others turned to look where Karp indicated in time to see Fulton open the door and walk into the shop. He walked over stomping his feet and waving his arms to get warm. “Man, it's cold out there,” he said.

“Come, my friend,” Moishe exclaimed. “Let me get you something warm to eat and drink. I'll send one of the waitresses outside with coffee and something to eat for your officers; most of our guests have left, and there's no sense letting it go to waste.”

“Thanks, Mr. Sobelman,” Fulton replied. “I'm sure they'll appreciate that.”

“What about our ‘friends' across the street?” Karp asked.

“Mostly dispersed, though there's a few die-hards hanging in. This isn't their neighborhood and they got what they wanted—face time on the ten o'clock news. Meanwhile, the neighborhood turned out in force. The Sobelmans have a lot of friends.”

“Any arrests?” Karp asked.

“Yeah, a thug named Lars Forsling,” Fulton responded.

Karp frowned. “The name sounds familiar.”

“He's got a mouth on him and gets in the paper a lot,” Fulton said. “He was arrested last summer for spray painting Nazi crap on the wall of the Third Avenue synagogue. We also suspect he was involved in the rampage in November but haven't been able to prove anything. A real piece of work.”

“Oh yeah, now I remember,” Karp said. “What did he do this time to get arrested?”

“Well, I hate to say it, but he slipped away from the area where we had them barricaded. Next thing we know, he's over on the side of this building where some of the guests, including Mrs. Lubinsky, were parked. An officer spotted him and told him to move along, but he gave him some lip about the sidewalks being a public place and having a right to be there. So we tossed him in a squad car for disobeying a lawful order. We still got him in a car until I can spare someone to take him downtown. I'm sure he'll enjoy spending the night in The Tombs, though it won't be his first time.”

Fulton gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from Goldie, which he drank hurriedly. “Well, I want to get back out there. Maybe I can take a few of those to-go cups, Moishe, and help your girl out.”

When the big detective left with the waitress, Karp walked over with Marlene and Garcia to where Rose was being helped into her long wool coat by her husband, Simon. “Are you two ready to leave?” he asked.

“I am,” Rose Lubinsky replied. “My ride needs to get going; she lives in Queens and we have an important strategy meeting tomorrow regarding the charter school bill. But my Simon is staying behind to help the Sobelmans clean up. Actually, I think he just wants to shoot the breeze with his friend; those two are like glue and paper—once you put them together, it's impossible to tear them apart.”

“I assure you, my love,” Simon Lubinsky objected, “I will be along by taxi as soon as I have helped our friends. I wasn't planning on going to the office until noon tomorrow and can sleep in. But you are the one who needs to sleep.”