‘No,’ said Lukanov. He took a rolled cigarette from behind his ear and lit it.

‘You ever think about going round to her house after she reported the four of you to the police?’

‘No, we never thought that.’

‘Don’t get smart, Leo, or I’ll put it about that you’re an informer.’

‘Sorry, Detective.’

‘You be very sorry, Leo, now answer the questions.’

‘Look, lady, we might do some shit, but we don’t do no serious shit.’

Denise looked at him. She sensed that he was capable of cruelty. ‘I’m just saying, Mr Lukanov, that one story going around my head is about the four of you, becoming angry that some little high-school girl gets you all a night in the cells. Must’ve been embarrassing. Two of you lost your jobs on account of it. What do you say about that?’

‘I’d say you should stop telling stories,’ said Lukanov.

‘You have a few drinks, decide to go see her. Maybe you follow her into the woods. Maybe things got out of hand and maybe you hurt her, maybe worse.’

‘Fuck you. Is she allowed to make these fucking allegations, Detective? Fuck you, bitch.’

Jack Carney moved in close and pushed Leo’s head against the door. He held it there tight. ‘Don’t you ever speak like that to anyone in my company, Leo, or you’ll be in serious trouble.’

‘You got a car,’ said Denise, ‘between you?’

‘Answer the question, deadbeat,’ said Carney.

‘Yeah, Paddy rolls.’

‘What is it?’

‘Red Ford.’

‘We’re going to check this car, we’re going to check your story, Leo. I want to know where you were at five-fifteen on Thursday, February 26.’

‘Don’t remember,’ said Lukanov.

‘Try,’ said Carney.

‘Do whatever, some kid runs away, that’s all and I get the fucking shakedown.’

‘What were you doing?’

Leo thought for a moment. ‘Nothing. Finished work, probably having a drink with Paddy.’

‘Where?’

‘We go to the pool hall.’

Denise nodded. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Lukanov.’

They left him at the door, returned to the car and drove off.

‘What did you think?’ said Carney.

‘Nice boys,’ said Denise. ‘Leo’s the one hiding something, though.’

‘You think?’

‘Yeah. The other two we found didn’t seem as cagey or as aggressive.’

‘He’s bad news all right. A little sadist. You should try to get a warrant to turn him over.’

‘I’ve got nothing at all to put him at the scene.’

‘Well, I hope it helped,’ said Carney. ‘You want to try Tommy Ocks? He’s not blessed with looks or brains. And his politics stink too.’

‘Let’s make it a full house,’ said Denise.

Crown Heights, Brooklyn

March 7, 9.03 p.m.

Brooklyn wasn’t Brooklyn any more. That’s what Martin Heming was fond of saying. He walked with his head high, an odd little twitch in his neck making its presence known every few paces. Heming was born and bred in Brooklyn, schooled and beaten and mugged in Brooklyn. His first kiss was a Brooklyn kiss, his first love was a Brooklyn high-school beauty queen whom he had won, married, beaten and lost. And now, the whole world was caving in, even in Brooklyn.

He paced up the sidewalk with Leo Lukanov at his side. ‘What did the bitch have on you?’

‘Nothing. Not a thing. Just went on about the time we put the frighteners on the girl.’

‘Her name?’

‘Denise Levene.’

‘Another Jew,’ said Heming. ‘Look at these people, Leo.’ They stared across the street. The black and whites were out and about in numbers. Alien faces, alien customs, alien dress. Heming felt the anger well up. It was happening all over and now they were hanging around in his street. In his own fucking street.

‘We should teach this Jew cop a lesson.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Leo. ‘She needs a slap.’

‘She needs to know she doesn’t fuck with us,’ said Heming.

Leo nodded and bristled, his shoulders moving back and forth, a kind of semi-conscious limbering up. ‘What are you looking at?’ he shouted across the street. He licked his upper lip that carried a line of hair, masquerading as a mustache.

Heming and Lukanov each had a fist of leaflets. They’d produced them themselves. It was important, as a cell, to become active and to keep active. Heming said it every damn day — they spent too long waiting around doing too little as these immigrant communities grew stronger. Action made sense. It was an imperative. Every moment of inaction tipped the balance against the future for real Americans.

As they walked, they dropped a leaflet every few yards, scattered them outside the Jewish schools, up the pathways to synagogues, in parks and along busy walkways. The type was in a gothic script, chosen on Lukanov’s computer in his dirty little room in a poor part of Brooklyn. A neat little Swastika had been cut and pasted in each corner and in the middle they’d typed three bold words:

The message had the desired impact on the local Jewish population. It created outrage and outrage was good. It made Section 88 feel strong and powerful.

Heming was twenty-eight. Lukanov was two years younger. They’d met at a neo-Nazi rally, when Heming and his Section 88 gang started to turn up the heat in Brooklyn with placards and signs declaring God Hates Jews and more. Heming had been involved in the neo-Nazi movement for over eight years before he set up his own group two years earlier.

Heming knew that attacking illegal immigrants would find sympathy in the jobless communities in Brooklyn; graffiti on synagogues seemed to capture people’s hidden internal hatreds.

Heming sent orders down the line, where he wanted more or less action. He followed political elections, trying to ramp up pressure on the liberal Left and secure greater popular appeal for his movement from the far Right. His gang organized small riots, attacks on immigrant communities, right-wing graffiti, harassment and — the pinnacle for any Section 88 member — violence against persons of Jewish or non-white origin. The 88s even had a tattoo, worn like a badge of honor, that members were entitled to if they spilled the blood of the undesirables. It was a blue eagle.

Heming and Lukanov threw the last few leaflets down on the sidewalk and continued to walk. Heming had been working closely with Lukanov for a few months, trying to get him more involved. Lukanov was strong, stupid and impressionable. He’d kill if you told him to, and that made Heming excited.

Across the street, a group of Hasidic Jews stared at them. One of them was showing a leaflet to the other men. Their mutterings in Hebrew started low and secretive, but they soon became louder. Their long curled strands of hair started to shake and they pointed across the street at the pair.

‘Get the fuck out of here!’ shouted Heming.

There was a switch in Heming’s head and he didn’t know much about how it got there, but once it was turned on, he felt anger welling up like water in a blocked drain. Over time, the little things had become the big things: a feeling of being an outsider turned into anger against the invader, a feeling of being judged became harsh judgment, a feeling of being spat on and disenfranchised by the American government became a need to express hatred. Now he hated the Jews, the Federal government and non-whites in that order.

‘I just want to hurt them,’ said Heming, staring hard at the group of angry men. His tattooed knuckles twisted into fists. His gun was tight in his waistband. He touched it with the heel of his hand for reassurance.

‘They’re so fucking in your face,’ said Leo. ‘What do you want me to do, Martin? Talking that shit. This is America! You want me to hurt them?’

The group of men continued to stare. It felt like a challenge to Lukanov and Heming.