Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

31

Demarco Jones’s seat at the crowded bar gave him a sidelong view of Crane. Demarco was sure Crane had no idea he was watching him, mostly with his peripheral vision.

Jones sat quietly sipping Grand Marnier and coffee, attracting attention from a few of the restaurant patrons who decided he was probably some sort of pro athlete. Crane was too involved in his dinner and his own thoughts to notice anything around him.

*   *   *

At ten-twenty, Beck’s phone rang. It took two seconds for Demarco to give Beck the message. It took Beck about three minutes to arrive at the restaurant and slip into the empty chair opposite Crane.

Crane had just been served coffee and one of the house-made éclairs for dessert. He stopped the coffee cup midway between the saucer and his mouth.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered.

“Nice to see you, too. How’re you doing, Mr. Crane? Last time I saw you, you were taped to a table. This looks a little more pleasant. Mind if I join you?”

“You just did.”

“Yes. I did.”

“What do you want?”

“Well,” said Beck, “I guess I want to help you. Or, you know, I want you to help me help you. Like the line from that Tom Cruise movie. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds stupid. What the hell are you talking about?”

Beck leaned across the table, ignoring Crane’s question. “What was the deal with that hammer? Were they going to use that on you?”

“What do you want?”

“Let me ask you something. Those guys with the hammer and tape, those were the same ones who tried to kill me. I got a goddamn knife wound in my leg and about a thousand welts on my back where that bald fucker hit me with a steel baton, not to mention that fat guy trying to shoot me.”

“I don’t hear a question.”

“Yeah, so I intend to do something about that. I would imagine you’d be in favor of that, wouldn’t you?”

Crane gave Beck an appraising look. He had to admit, the man had impressed him with how he’d handled Stepanovich and his men.

“I might be.”

“That being the case, how about giving me a little information where I might find your buddies. Let ’em know it’s not something they can get away with.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

Crane sipped his coffee, took a bite from his éclair, and continued to study Beck.

“Let me get this straight. You’re the one who goes to Milstein about that fucking whore Olivia Sanchez, and threatens to kill him so he’ll pay her off. Then you come to my place, intending to do what? The same thing, right?”

“Not necessarily. Milstein just said I should get your reaction on the severance package he agreed to with me. And something about getting your side of the story.”

“Severance package?”

“That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? And, oh yes, he wanted me to convince you to lay off with the threats and the lawsuits and blackballing her.”

“What world are you living in?”

“Yours, my friend. That’s the way things are done in your world, aren’t they? Everybody gets a golden parachute, or whatever.”

“Uh-huh. Meanwhile, Milstein calls Markov and gets him all riled up, knowing Markov would probably show up with his Bosnian army to threaten me and do whatever they intended to do to you.”

“So you’re saying Milstein purposely killed the deal? Okay, so Milstein goes on the list, too. But I know where to find him. I don’t know where to find the fat guy and the others.”

“And what makes you think I want to have anything to do with you? You’re working for that crazy bitch who started all this shit. I have nothing to say to you.”

“Hey, let’s not get bogged down on who started what,” said Beck.

“Yeah, let’s not. How about you just get the fuck away from me and leave me alone?”

“Alone to do what? Have Markov and his buddies torture you? Why not let me get between you and them? Tell me who they are, and where I can find them.”

“Who they are? They’re bad fucking news, that’s who they are. They’re crazy. That moron Olivia sets everything off. You start making trouble. Freddy Milstein the idiot panics. He calls the client. A man you do not want to call about any trouble, because Leonard Markov is someone who lives in a paranoid drug-addled world of craziness. Milstein sets Markov off like a bomb, and now everything has gone to shit.”

Crane leaned across the table toward Beck.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. There’s nothing you can do but make my life worse. So stay the fuck away from me. You’re part of the reason I’m in this mess.”

“You’re telling me they’re going to leave you alone.”

“Are you deaf or stupid, or both?”

Crane motioned for the check. “Listen to me, and then never talk to me again. Olivia stuck her nose into something she had no business getting involved with. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Milstein encouraged her to do it. I set her straight. She kept pushing it. She got you involved, whoever the fuck you are. You obviously scared the shit out of Milstein. He goes to the client, Markov. Markov loses whatever little sense he had to begin with. His only response is … shut it down and give me my money.

“Okay. Fine. He’s going to lose a shitload. Not my problem. I do what he says. I’ll try to minimize the damage. I’ll try to do it in such a way that maybe Markov won’t break every bone in my body and have his insane enforcer Stepanovich put a bullet in my head. But the bottom line is, it’s all gone to shit. And there’s not a fucking thing you can do about that!

“Milstein loses the only investor that might have kept that bust-out brokerage of his afloat. Sanchez loses any chance she’ll ever have of working in finance. As well she fucking should. Forget Milstein’s bullshit about paying her off. The place probably won’t be in business six months from now. Me, I’m the only one out of all of them who can make money out of money, and trust me, there will always be a place for me to land.

“So Mr. Beck, or whatever the fuck your name is, I don’t need you, I don’t need Milstein, Markov—any of you. So fuck off and good-bye.”

Beck glanced over at Demarco, sitting at the bar. He saw Demarco on his phone. Demarco shook his head slightly, indicating that Alex Liebowitz wasn’t done.

Just then Crane’s phone, which had been sitting on the table, buzzed. He checked the number and answered it.

He listened for just a moment, then said, “I’m leaving now. No, you don’t have to.”

Crane hung up, dropped his phone back on the table, and muttered, “Asshole.”

The waiter brought the check and turned away without a word. Crane stuffed cash into the check folder, stood, and leaned in close to Beck.

“And one more thing, tough guy. Markov is going to squash you like a bug. Trust me. If they’d wanted to kill you, Stepanovich would have had orders to shoot you the minute you stepped off my elevator. They wanted to find out who you are and what you were up to, until you went all commando on them. So now they won’t hesitate, and I for one don’t want to be around you when they pull the trigger. So do me a favor and stay the fuck away from me.”

32

Beck watched Crane leave. He stood up and pantomimed steering a car to Demarco, indicating he should get the Mercury. He walked out after Crane.

Beck checked his watch. Nearly 10:40 p.m. Crane was about twenty feet ahead of him.

It was cold, damp, windy. There were still people in the bars and restaurants along Greenwich Street, but there was no one on the street within view.

Beck closed the distance between him and Crane. When he was within six feet, he called out. “Hey, Crane.”

Crane had just wrapped a long red scarf made of fine Peruvian alpaca around his neck and was still buttoning up his expensive cashmere overcoat. He turned at Beck’s call, exasperated. He stood there watching him approach, shaking his head.

Beck closed the distance between them in two strides and buried his right fist into Crane’s solar plexus without any extra motion or warning. He held back on the punch, because he didn’t want to knock Crane out completely. Crane crumpled and would have gone down on his knees if Beck hadn’t grabbed his arm and eased him into a sitting position on a raised platform outside a restaurant where they were standing.

“Have a seat. Just for future reference, you ever talk to me like that, I’ll beat you so bad you’ll spend six months in a hospital and never be the same.”

Crane remained doubled over, barely able to suck in a breath. He wavered between throwing up and passing out.

Beck took a quick look around and spotted Stepanovich coming into view on Greenwich. He crossed the sidewalk and slipped between two parked cars out into the street.

A more reckless man might have been tempted to play the hero and face Stepanovich straight on. Not Beck. He wasn’t taking any chances. He had no idea what weapons Stepanovich might have on him.

Beck walked north on Greenwich, bent over so the parked cars would block Stepanovich’s view of him. He kept sight of the Bosnian through the car windows by raising his head just high enough to see him pass by.

The moment Stepanovich passed him, Beck slid in between cars, walking lightly, slipping into position behind Stepanovich, ready to take the tall man down.

But Beck had underestimated Stepanovich. Either he had seen Beck moving around behind him, or heard him, or perhaps Crane had signaled him, but without any hint of stopping or turning, Stepanovich spun and whipped a closed fist at Beck’s head.

Beck’s reaction time saved him from a knockout blow to his temple. He just managed to duck under the blow, which clearly demonstrated Stepanovich’s reach advantage.

Stepanovich didn’t hesitate; he continued his spin and launched his left knee into Beck, who barely managed to block it with his forearms. The blow didn’t hit anything vital, but it knocked Beck into the side of a building. Gregor closed in on him. Beck fired a hurried, off-balance front kick at Stepanovich, ramming his right heel into the taller man’s left kneecap.

Stepanovich flinched backward, lifting his left foot off the ground, skipping back a step to keep his balance.

Beck surged forward, slapped aside Stepanovich’s raised hands, rammed his left elbow into Stepanovich’s head, banged his right fist into Stepanovich’s left temple, followed by a rapid set of six punches to the Bosnian’s face, throat, and chest.

Stepanovich blocked most of them and tried to head butt Beck in the face. Beck dodged it but felt the bristles on the Bosnian’s head scrape across his left check.

Beck hadn’t planned on being in a fight like this. It had only lasted about ten seconds, but two people had already stepped out of the restaurant where he had put Crane. Beck was sure someone was already dialing 911.

Stepanovich made a grab with his long arms for Beck’s head, getting two huge hands around the back of his neck, pulling Beck toward him, his mouth open trying to take a bite out of Beck’s face. Beck jammed his hands against Stepanovich’s chest to hold him off.

Stepanovich, snarling and grunting, tried to pull Beck to him.

Beck kept his hands on Stepanovich’s chest, holding him at bay, but not so far away that he didn’t smell the sour stink of his breath. The thought of Stepanovich biting him made Beck furious. He suddenly brought two fists up hard into the underside of the Bosnian’s mouth, slamming his jaws shut and snapping his head back. But Stepanovich still held onto the back of Beck’s neck, launching three fast knee kicks to Beck’s ribs and hip.

Beck tried to twist away from the strikes, to block them with his elbows, but the Bosnian’s arms and legs were too long and the blows landed causing sharp, nearly paralyzing pain.

Beck cursed to himself, intent on ending this now. He focused, shifted away from another kick, timed his move, reared back slightly, not giving the Bosnian any warning, just enough to seem like he was trying to avoid the knee kicks, and then he snapped his head forward with enormous force into the center of the Bosnian’s face. He caught him perfectly, and heard the muffled crunch as Stepanovich’s nose cartilage split like shattering bamboo.

Beck felt the Bosnian sag. He let Gregor’s grip around his neck stay, so that the Bosnian remained close to him and twisted fast, hard right and left hooks into his chest and ribs with as much force as his hands could stand. The blows lifted Stepanovich off his feet. He was half conscious, immobilized by the body shots. Beck punched hard into both of Stepanovich’s arms, broke the grip around his neck, and shoved Stepanovich away from him.

Stepanovich staggered back and would have gone down, but he fell against the wall behind him. His broken nose streamed blood. He was doubled over in pain, and yet in a perverse way he seemed to relish the feeling. He spat a mouthful of blood and saliva at Beck, grinning at him, daring Beck to come finish him off.

But police sirens were sounding in the distance.

Beck couldn’t afford to get arrested for brawling. Clearly, he wasn’t going to finish off Stepanovich quickly. He turned away just as Demarco pulled up in the black Mercury. He slid into the passenger seat, and they accelerated away from the scene, heading downtown, away from Crane, his apartment, and Gregor Stepanovich.

Demarco said, “Can’t leave you alone for a minute without you getting into a fight.”

“Next time I’ll let you do it.”

“No thanks. Alex is done. He’s waiting around the corner on Washington.”

“That’s good. The next move would have been to just go and shoot those two pricks, which would have defeated the whole purpose.” Beck pointed down Greenwich and said, “Make your way around all these fucking one-way streets and come in from the highway side.”

Beck pulled out his cell phone and called Manny.

*   *   *

Manny listened carefully to Beck, said, “Okay,” and hung up.

Manny turned to the others in the Porsche and said, “Okay, maricóns, listen up.”

Manny turned the Porsche onto Hubert Street, heading west. He passed the first SUV parked near Greenwich, giving instructions as he drove slowly up the street.

Suddenly, he pulled up next to the SUV at the far end of Hubert near Washington Street.

Ciro and Joey got out first, moving very quickly.

Ciro went to the driver’s side and smashed the butt of his shotgun into the window, immediately flipped the shotgun around and placed the barrel against the driver’s head.

Joey B smashed the passenger window behind the driver, reached in, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. Holding the shotgun in his right hand, he grabbed the closest body with his left, pulled one of the men out of the SUV, and shoved him down to the street with enough force to ensure he didn’t get up.

In the meantime, Manny slipped out onto the street, a large knife in his hand, and punched holes into the two rear tires of the SUV.

Ciro stepped back, keeping his shotgun aimed at the remaining men inside the SUV.

Joey did the same as he dragged the man he had pulled out of the SUV with one hand and tossed him into the back of the Porsche. He shoved in after him, pinned him against the far door, and jammed the muzzle of his shotgun into the underside of the hostage’s chin.

At the other end of the street, the other SUV started to head toward Washington, but Manny and Ciro were back in the Porsche turning onto the West Side Highway and heading for the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and Red Hook before any of the leaderless Bosnians processed what had happened, or figured out what to do about it.

The only Bosnian who knew what to do, Ahmet, did so because Joey B told him. Keeping his shotgun firmly under Ahmet’s chin, Joey said, “Don’t move.”

33

Alex Liebowitz slid into the backseat of the Mercury. Demarco drove north along the dark side street to Laight Street, then headed east, figuring he’d catch Varick Street and head for the bridge.

Alex said, “That wasn’t too bad. I was right to check the basement first. That dude’s apartment is like a satellite trading office. There’s a ton of security wiring going up to that apartment. He even has motion detectors up there.”

“So?”

“I worked around it. Got into the place, but there wasn’t too much I could do. At first, I thought I was going to get lucky. His computer was on. But he’s got a RAZ token password that prevents logging on. Thing changes every sixty seconds. I looked around for it, but couldn’t find it. I blind downloaded the hard drive and put a keystroke program on his computer. It’ll activate the next time he types in his pass code. Then I linked his Wi-Fi into a transponder in the basement that will send everything he does to a secure Web site I’ve set up. When he starts working, I’ll just shadow him and work it from there.”

“How long until you figure he finds out he’s been compromised?”

“I don’t know. Depends on his firm’s security protocols. I would imagine they run checks once a week. If not, I doubt he’ll notice anything if we just shadow him. If we start making moves in his accounts or anything, he’ll catch on at some point. ’Course if he has a regular security company that shows up in person and does a physical check, they’ll find out.”

“Nobody is going up there. What if he decides to work from his office?”

“Anything he does there will eventually show up when he logs in from his apartment.”

“But he has to log in from his apartment.”

“Yeah. But all he has to do is log in once, and we’re in.”

Based on the way Crane had talked about Milstein, Beck didn’t think he’d be working at the office any time soon. But he needed more information. He needed Olivia’s help so he could find out everything possible about Crane’s portfolio and anticipate his moves.

Beck said, “Okay you guys, head home. But first take me over to Church Street. I’m going to head uptown.”

Demarco said nothing. Just kept driving east.

“Alex, when you get home, see if anything shakes out.”

Beck hit his cell phone while Demarco maneuvered toward the uptown street.

“Manny?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the Battery Tunnel.”

“You pick up that package?”

“Yeah. We got what you asked for.”

“Good. When you get home, just put him in the basement. Don’t say anything to him. Put a bag or something on his head from now until then. Check him for weapons and all. Leave a jug of water with him. Nothing else. No lights. No talking.”

“Okay.”

“Demarco and Alex are heading back, too. I have to go check on Olivia. This thing has got to blow apart at some point. They have to organize and come at us, so hunker down and make sure Willie Reese has his boys out watching the streets.”

“I’ll call him.”

“And call Olivia. Tell her I’m coming. What room is she in?”

“Forty-oh-one.”

*   *   *

Beck had the cab drop him off on the Fifty-eighth Street side of the Four Seasons Hotel so he could get to the hotel’s elevators without walking across the huge open lobby that faced the main entrance.

As he walked toward the double bank of elevators in the center of the hotel’s mezzanine level, he could feel the pressure of time, fatigue, and the growing burdens of pain plaguing him.

The knife wound on his leg throbbed, made worse by Stepanovich’s knee kicks. He could barely close his hands, and by tomorrow he’d be feeling another set of bruises and strains.

He decided that his move against Markov’s men in Tribeca had probably delayed any attack on them, but for how long? And how many men could Markov send against him? And what if he called on Kolenka for help?

Beck stood in front of the elevators that would lead to the fortieth floor. He thought about hotel security. The doormen on Fifty-eighth Street had greeted him and held open the door, but barely glanced at him. It was after eleven, but the bar and restaurant on that side of the hotel were still open. He could be a guest, a diner, someone stopping in for a drink, or a hired assassin.

There was a single corridor in the middle of the hotel which occupied a section of the block between Fifty-eighth and Fifty-ninth streets where the elevators were located. There were six elevators. Three on the south side of the corridor that went from the fifth floor to the twenty-ninth floor. Then three on the north side that went from the thirty-first floor to the fifty-second floor.

Beck waited in front of the north-side bank of elevators. An elevator opened and he stepped in. The car was empty.

The elevator rushed him to Olivia’s floor without stopping. He stepped out into a surprisingly small foyer, lit with discreet overhead accent lighting. Small brass plaques to the right and left indicated which rooms occupied each corridor. There was a small Léger print above each plaque.

Beck called Manny once more.

“Okay, I’m at the hotel. Call your woman who’s watching Olivia and tell her I’m heading toward the room now. Tell her what I look like and to open the door for me.”

“How soon you gonna be there?”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Okay. Give me a minute before you knock.”

“Sure. Demarco back yet? You get that guy squared away?”

“D’s not back yet. Yeah, we got the guy set the way you asked.”

“One last thing, after you talk to your gal, call Ricky and Jonas and tell ’em to get some sleep, then get back on Milstein in the morning.”

“Got it. What are you gonna do with the one we snatched?”

“Pump him for information. Maybe trade him for something. I don’t know. Just leave him alone to wonder what’s next.”

Beck broke the connection. He relaxed for a few moments, standing motionless in the quiet opulence of the fortieth floor, giving Manny time to call the woman guarding Olivia.

He wondered how much a room went for at the Four Seasons.

He inhaled slowly and held his breath for a moment, listening, feeling for a sense of the city just outside. He felt nothing, heard nothing, but it seemed as if he could still sense something out there. A hum? A pulse of the city? He wondered if he was imagining it.

He thought for a few more moments how hotels were able to create such a cocoon of peace and security like the one that surrounded him. How the careful lighting highlighted certain areas while leaving other sections in soothing shadows. How the plush carpets absorbed sound and the tasteful decorations gave an impression of opulence.

Beck looked at the calm subtle colors surrounding him. He considered how important it was for guests to feel like they had escaped from the discomfort and tension of a sometimes frantic, often inhospitable city into a refuge where they could feel warm and safe and protected. Was it true?

No, thought Beck, it was an illusion.