Last Gasp by Howard Levine

Release date: September 22, 2018

Subgenre: Political thriller, Terrorism

About Last Gasp:

 

Frank Tedeschi’s niece is dead, one of thousands of victims of a terrorist attack, which has been laid at the feet of “Islamic radicals” by a right-wing US government. Frank—based on a chance encounter—is one of the very few people who question the government’s explanation. He’s a Vietnam veteran who wants nothing more than to live without further controversy or conflict. Can he and his grieving brother Rob, a detective with the NYPD, obtain the necessary evidence to uncover the truth in the face of scorn and incredulity? Can they overcome their long-term estrangement to work together, given that they are putting their lives in danger?

In Last Gasp—a novel that resonates with today’s politics—the answers to these questions unfold in a way that mingles personal and societal issues and intertwines the past and present while moving relentlessly forward.

 

Excerpt:

 

Chapter 4

            Bobby. Rob. Frank’s biological brother, pick the name, a lot of what they’d called each other over the years would’ve been unprintable, back in the day. Back when they had a relatively good relationship, big brother Frank not having been inclined toward bullying, getting his combat fix as a high school wrestler who took it to the mats, or so they joked, residents of Pelham Bay, Little Italy in Da Bronx. Back before Frank, bored with life in the neighborhood, capable but not especially interested in going to college, had enlisted in the army. He’d shipped out to Vietnam. 

Amazed to eventually find himself home again in one piece, if a mite skittish mentally, he’d dedicated himself to protesting the war, wearing his camouflage fatigues and long hair.  While Frank was still overseas, Rob had been admitted to the police academy. He became a rookie cop—piglet, in the vernacular of the counter culture—whose brother was demonstrating in the streets, and clashing with New York’s finest. The rift that developed between them only widened over time.

            As he drove down to meet Rob, jazz up loud, a hedge against drowsiness, Frank tried to distill all of that time, traverse in reverse, summon the brotherly affection that he dimly remembered feeling, back in the day. How was he going to console Rob? That was what it would amount to. Laureen was gone, he knew that in his guts, news reports aside. Maybe consoling Rob, somehow, might help him to console himself. As he moved left to pass a tank-like SUV--no easy feat, the guy was well above the speed limit—its taillights shimmered and blurred. Fortunately traffic was sparse on the Sprain Brook in the wee hours.                                                       

            Rob was prowling in front of his parked car on 233^rd Street, above the Bronx River Parkway, jacket-less with short sleeves in the autumn chill. He waved one thick arm above his head. Frank couldn’t possibly miss him, even without the roof of his car flashing red. The way Rob squinted in the direction of Frank’s windshield, furrowing his forehead with its receding hairline, that square-shouldered torso, his stomp-walk, all of this was caught in the ultraviolet gleam of a streetlamp. Frank pulled to the curb behind Rob and jumped out.

            “You better park on Webster,” said Rob by way of greeting, already moving toward his own car. “Some of these assholes who work night shift at my precinct, it’s like quota time for parking tickets, proof that they weren’t cooping.”

 His voice was gruffly matter-of-fact, just another day, or very early morning. A couple of minutes later, Frank slid into the front seat next to him, offering a quick pat on the shoulder.  Rob pulled out before the passenger door was completely closed.

            “Long time no see,” said Frank, as the car sped up 233^rd Street, toward the elevated subway station on White Plains Road.

            “Right.” As Rob ran the red light on White Plains, his horn honking and top light flashing, he swerved around a car that had braked for him, halfway into the intersection. The gas masks, two small masses of straps, wide plastic windows and protruding metal snouts, rattled on the back seat. “I don’t know how I’m gonna handle this, Frank,” he rasped. “If she’s…”

            “We don’t know anything for sure.” Frank shook his head, dismayed at the hollow sound of his own bullshit. He sneaked a swipe at his eyes with the sleeve of his windbreaker. “And you’re a tough son of a bitch...with apologies to Mom. Remember? If you have to, you’ll handle it.” 

As they got closer to Co-op City, the sound of sirens came from every direction, non-stop, as if myriad car alarms had gotten stuck all at once. Fire engines, ambulances, the night was alive with red, white and blue flashing lights. Rob’s car with its one winking top light, dwarfed among the speeding emergency vehicles, was like the Little Engine that Could, Except that it couldn’t. As Frank had predicted, First Union Arena was sealed off, radius at least a mile. Rob parked on a side street off of Dyre Avenue and Thayer. He charged Frank with the responsibility of remembering the name, and they started walking past darkened private houses of rectangular brick, metal awnings, car ports, tiny front yards demarcated by chain link fences, my land. The streets, never featuring all that many pedestrians even in daylight, became more crowded as the brothers went on, their footsteps audible in the grim silence, as if the distraught parents were automatons, drawn by some otherworldly entity, a spaceship.

 

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About Howard Levine:

Howad Levine is the author of one previously published novel, Leaving This Life Behind. A former public school teacher of special education and English as a second language, he lives in suburban Washington DC, where he hikes, bikes and volunteers at a soup kitchen.

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