NYPD Red

Chapter 55



GABRIEL WAS BACK on the number 7 train. His backpack was empty except for the Glock, which was loaded. Maybe he should have taken a cab, but the odds of a cop stopping a blue-eyed, sandy-haired white boy to search his backpack were slim.

Plus, he liked the rattle and the rhythm of New York’s underground. He lowered his eyes to half-mast, but did not completely shut them.

I’d like to thank the members of the Academy. Best screenplay, best actor, best director—and now best picture. I’d also like to thank my amazing girlfriend, who believed in me when nobody else did. I’d tell you her name, but then I’d have to kill you.

Gabriel laughed out loud and peered through narrow slits at his fellow passengers. None of them cared or dared to look at the laughing weirdo. New Yorkers know better.





“Man, you look like shit,” he said when Mickey opened the door. The old man’s long, lanky body was stooped, his face wan, and a few wispy hairs hung from his protruding chin. “Kind of like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, only about eighty years from now.”

“Thanks. I’ve been up all night putting your stuff together,” Mickey said.

“You got the goods?”

“Mickey Peltz never disappoints.”

Mickey led Gabriel to his workbench, where the blocks of C4 were neatly stacked. There were also spools of wire, two boxes of blasting caps, four digital timers, and four remotes.

“This is all you need and more,” Mickey said.

“I’m going to need a crash course in demolition,” Gabe said.

“Easy peasy.” Mickey picked up a block of C4 and smashed it down hard on the workbench. Gabriel jumped.

“First rule. Don’t be afraid of this stuff,” he said, handing Gabriel the block of plastic. “It won’t go off by accident. You can mold it, cut it, even fire a bullet into it, and it won’t detonate. It takes a combination of extreme heat and a shock wave, which is what your blasting caps are for. You with me?”

Gabriel slammed the C4 against the top of the workbench. “With you.”

Peltz was a good teacher, and for the next forty minutes he gave Gabriel a tutorial in the art of blowing things up.

“Not as easy peasy as you think,” Gabriel said. “There’s a lot to keep track of.”

“I have a solution,” Mickey said. “Take me along with you. I’ll work dirt cheap.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just playing it safe, Mick. You’re on parole. Your PO can walk in here anytime and turn this place inside out without a warrant. You get seen carrying a duffel bag, and any cop can do a stop and search. I don’t want my go-to pyrotechnician to spend the next twenty years in prison.”

“I don’t have twenty years,” Mickey said. “I might not even have twenty months. I’ll bite down on a blasting cap before I ever go back.”

“Then why risk it?”

“Because this is what I do, and I lost my license to do it legally. I swear to God in heaven, Gabriel, these past two days have been the most fun I’ve had in years. I’m back doing what I love, and I just want to keep on doing it.”

“I can’t,” Gabriel said. “I’m sorry.”

Mickey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yeah, me too.” He opened a drawer and took out a three-ring binder.

“What’s that?”

“I was afraid you’d turn me down, but I figured even if I couldn’t be there with you, at least I could do something. So I put this together for you—no extra charge.”

He handed Gabriel the binder. The cover page said The Art of Blowing Shit Up.

Inside it was filled with hand-drawn diagrams on graph paper. Alongside each illustration, Mickey had neatly hand-lettered simple instructions. “What to Do” was in black. “What Not to Do” was in red. It was a step-by-step recap of his tutorial. At the end was an appendix—more than a hundred pages of detailed information on explosives pulled together from scientific journals, The Special Forces Demolition Training Handbook, how-to websites, blogs, and of course that must-read for every wannabe revolutionary, The Anarchist Cookbook.

“This is incredible,” Gabe said. “You did this for me?”

“No, I bought it at Bombs and Noble.” Mickey hawked up a laugh. “That’s funny, right? You can use that line in your movie. Of course I did it for you, a*shole. I told you Mickey Peltz never disappoints.”

“Thanks. Let’s pack this stuff up.”

“You got about a hundred pounds here,” Mickey said. “Can you carry it?”

Gabriel pulled a retractable handle from his backpack, then rolled the bag on its in-line skate wheels. “I can pull it.”

Five minutes later, he stepped out of the lobby, leaned the bag against the side of the building, and took out his cell phone.

And then he saw it.

It turned the corner onto Skillman. Cop car.

Gabe held his cell phone to his ear and pretended to talk while he watched the car.

It’s just cruising. Looking for bad guys.

Sure enough, it drove past him, and he took a deep breath. If you only knew what’s in this bag.

Ten yards past the building, the driver hit the brake. Gabriel watched as the reverse lights came on and the cops backed up. The driver rolled down the window.

“Hey, buddy!” the cop yelled. “Stay right there.”

Gabriel froze.