LARS FORSLING WALKED THROUGH THE door leading into The Storm Trooper and paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior. The only windows looking out onto the sidewalk had been painted over to prevent the detractors and the curious from looking in and so the only light came from a few yellow bulbs set in the walls or behind the bar.
The dingy brick interior was decorated with photographs of famous Nazis and of the German Army, as well as the front pages of German newspapers heralding great victories from World War II. Nazi flags and decorative daggers were hung on the walls and from the ceiling, including a particularly large one behind the bar next to a life-sized portrait of Hitler. The whole place smelled of spilled beer, sweaty bodies, and cigarettes—despite New York’s ban on smoking in public establishments.
Sitting at the bar were the bouncer, Jimmy Gerlach, and Bob Mencke. Otherwise the dive was empty of patrons and anyone else except for an unshaven, middle-aged barkeep, wearing an old black SS uniform shirt too small for his beer belly, which he left open, exposing his wife-beater undershirt. He looked up and smiled. “Well, if it ain’t the man of the hour,” he said. “Good work, Lars. I’m surprised they let you out.”
“Right on, Lars,” Gerlach agreed. “I was there, man, ka-boom, one Jew and two Jew lovers toast.”
“I couldn’t make it to the rally,” Mencke said. “But I knew you were planning something big; I could see it in your eyes, Herr Forsling.”
“It wasn’t me,” Forsling replied.
“Yeah, yeah, sure, I understand,” said the bartender, whose name was Frankie LaFontaine. “Mum’s the word, but you’re among friends; let me buy you a beer, just because . . . wink, wink.”
Then LaFontaine saw the look on Forsling’s face, and his smile disappeared. “What’s up?”
“That fucking Jew district attorney and his nigger cop,” Forsling snarled, fighting not to break down. “They killed my mom when I was in lockup. They think I did the car bomb so they burned her out.”
“That’s fucked up,” Gerlach said.
“All part of the Zionist Occupation Government,” Mencke added. “They want to shut up anybody who’s on to their scheming.”
“Damn right. What can we do to help?” LaFontaine asked.
Forsling looked around wildly, shaking his head and breathing heavily. “You still have that Luger?” he asked.
The bartender’s eyes widened. “Yeah . . . what are you planning to do?”
“Better if you don’t know. That way they can’t say you helped me, but if I don’t make it, you’ll know the truth.”
“Where you going to go after you do it?” Gerlach asked.
“Idaho,” Forsling replied. “I’ll disappear. No one will ever find me. But keep that to yourselves.”
LaFontaine looked at the others, who nodded solemnly. He then reached under the bar and brought out something wrapped in cloth; he removed the rags to reveal a vintage German Luger pistol. “I don’t know if it even works,” he said. “It’s an old model. It’s loaded, though. . . . Just remember, you didn’t get it from me.”
“Don’t worry, Frankie, I ain’t no snitch,” Forsling said. “One more thing, I need the van.”
LaFontaine shook his head. “The cops can’t trace the gun back to me,” he said, “but the van is registered in my name. Besides, I need it to get back and forth from my place in Queens. I can’t let you have it.”
Forsling glared at LaFontaine. Then he picked up the gun and pointed it at the bartender. “I fucking need the van,” he said. “You can say I stole it from you.”
Several things happened at once. With a growl, Gerlach scooted his bar stool back and started to charge Forsling, who swung the gun in his direction and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gun firing and the sight of the top of Gerlach’s head disappearing in a spray of blood and bone seemed to stun everyone for a moment.
Then Gerlach’s heavy body collapsed to the floor as Mencke let out a high-pitched scream that seemed to wake the others up. It might have ended badly for Forsling otherwise, but he turned in time to notice LaFontaine make a sudden move for something he had under the bar. He was able to turn the gun toward the bartender just as the other man brought a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun up.
Forsling fired twice more, both bullets striking LaFontaine in the belly. The bartender fell back against the counter, bringing a dozen bottles crashing to the floor.
In the meantime, Mencke just kept screaming until Forsling pointed the gun at the Oberkommando of the New York City Nazi Party, who backed up against the wall. “No, don’t,” the man squeaked just before another bullet struck him in the chest. He slid down the wall with a look of surprise as he gazed down at the growing bloodstain on his shirt.
Forsling stood for a moment as if stunned by his own actions. He couldn’t seem to hear, but wasn’t sure if that was because of the gunshots or the pounding of his heart in his ears. His breath came in short pants as his mind raced through the past few minutes. They made me do it, he thought, the Jew Karp and the nigger cop. They killed my mom. They pushed me over the edge. It’s their fault my mom and my friends are dead.
All at once, Forsling’s mind cleared. He still had a mission to complete. He hurried over to the front door and locked it. He then walked back to the restroom and checked to make sure there was nobody in there. Then returned to the front and slipped behind the bar.
LaFontaine was still alive, holding his hands against his belly. “You son of a bitch,” he gasped weakly.
Forsling aimed at the man’s head and was going to finish him but then reconsidered. If you’re lucky, nobody heard the first shots, he thought. The bar was in a warehouse section of Hell’s Kitchen and there wasn’t a lot of foot traffic. But he didn’t want to risk someone hearing more shots.
“You should have given me the van,” Forsling said to the wounded man, who didn’t reply except to writhe and grunt in pain. He looked under the register and found a box of shells for the Luger. He thought about taking the shotgun but decided against lugging it around. Instead he opened the cash register and took the money before roughly rolling LaFontaine over on his belly and removing the man’s wallet and keys.
Someone knocked on the front door. Forsling quickly stepped over the pool of LaFontaine’s blood and walked toward the back of the bar. Opening the door and walking out into the alley, he spotted the beat-up, older model Ford Econoline van. It had once belonged to a welder and the faded sign for Eric Woodbury & Sons Metalworks could still be seen on the side. He’d thought about the van on his subway ride over from East Harlem to Hell’s Kitchen, and it had helped formulate his plan for revenge.
Forsling got in the van and saw a New York Yankees ball cap on the passenger seat, which he put on to hide his shaved head and tattooed forehead. Starting the van, he drove fast down the alley, nearly striking a white-haired man in a business suit at the entrance. He then pulled into traffic, headed for Third Avenue and 29th Street and Il Buon Pane.
Arriving at the bakery, he noticed workmen for a glass company packing up their truck. He waited and then pulled into the spot next to the side of the bakery, just behind an area of blackened snow where the car had burned the night before.
Pulling the ball cap down and sticking the Luger in the pocket of his black leather coat, he got out of the van and quickly walked to the front of the store. Opening the door, he walked inside and saw two teenaged boys at the counter saying something to the old woman on the other side.
The old woman smiled and made a welcoming sign with her hands though she didn’t speak. The boys looked at him curiously. “Sorry, but we’re closed,” one of them said.
“Oh, uh, I’m with Woodbury and Sons Metalworks. I was told to stop by and see if there was anything the owners needed,” Forsling replied, looking past the boys at the room beyond. He’d expected to find the old couple who fit into his plan to get even with Karp. But things had worked out better than he’d hoped.
Forsling had recognized the teens. He’d seen Karp talking to them the night before from the backseat in the police cruiser. But that wasn’t all. The district attorney had photos of his family on the wall of his office where he’d been brought. One of them showed Karp with the young men he was looking at.
“Metalworks?” the other, bigger teen asked. “I didn’t know someone called for a welder. Who are you?”
The teen’s attitude and question irritated Forsling. He pulled the pistol out of his coat pocket. “I’m the guy with the gun, jerk-off,” he said. “Now you’re all coming with me.”
“Like hell we are,” both boys said at the same time.
Forsling pointed the gun at the old woman. “Then you can watch her die first,” he said.
“All right,” the smaller teen replied, and grabbed his brother’s shoulder. “Just everybody stay cool.”
“That’s smart, Jewboy,” Forsling sneered. “Let’s go.”
Forsling made the boys go out the door first. “The old bitch is going to be in front of me,” he warned. “So if one of you says something or makes a run for it, I shoot her first.”
They got in the van without encountering anyone else. Forsling made the teens sit in the front two seats while he sat in back with the old woman.
“Where we going?” asked the bigger teen, who was driving.
“East Harlem. I’ll tell you where once we’re rolling.”
As the van pulled away from the curb and started to turn right onto Third Avenue, a black truck turned onto 29th Street. The teen hit the brakes and honked.
“What the hell are you doing?” Forsling yelled. “I’ll shoot the old bitch and your brother right now.”
“Take it easy, man,” the teen yelled back. “I’m not used to driving and that guy freaked me out.”
“Just drive,” Forsling demanded. “But any more crap and somebody’s going to die.”