Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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“Pretty much. But worse.”

“How?”

“The guy says she’s … what do you call it? Slandered him? Defamed him? He sues her for a bunch of shit. Everybody at the company goes on his side. They fire her. Now she’s got no job. No health insurance. No references. And she can’t get a new job. She’s got nothing but her two broken fingers and a little bit of savings that ain’t going to last long.”

Beck nodded. “So she comes to you.”

Manny sneered. “You think the cops and the higher-ups are going to help her?”

“When did she finally talk to you?”

“Two days ago.”

Beck noted how long Manny had sat with it.

“How long since this happened?”

“Couple of weeks.”

“Okay,” said Beck. “What should we do?”

“James, I appreciate the we, but ain’t no we here. This is my thing. I just wanted to let you know about it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to break every bone in the motherfucker’s hand. And then I’m going to break every bone in his other hand, and his arms and his face until I get tired of breaking bones. And then I’m going to kill him.”

Beck nodded. “Then what?”

“Then I send word to her boss that he better turn the fucking clock back.”

Beck pursed his lips like he was considering Manny’s plan.

“Don’t worry, James. This thing won’t be anywhere near us. Not a hundred miles anywhere near us.”

Beck nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But you think that plan’s going to work for Olivia?”

Manny didn’t respond.

Beck leaned across the table. “Let’s step back a second. This situation with your cousin, I get it. She’s family. But there’s another family.” Beck tapped the kitchen table with his index finger. “This one. You, me, Demarco, Ciro. It’s all connected.”

Beck raised a hand before Manny could protest.

“Hear me out. I’m not saying you can’t do something about this. I’m saying you can’t do it without me. Without us.”

“No, you guys can’t be involved. I have to take care of this on my own.”

Beck shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way. You’re involved, we’re involved.”

Manny didn’t want to agree. Wouldn’t agree. But he couldn’t disagree. Beck had trapped him. He couldn’t answer, so he didn’t.

“Just think it through with me for a second, Manny. What does your cousin want? Say we break all this guy’s fingers, and his toes and face and arms and legs. You cut off his head and drop it on the boss’s desk. But you can’t put any of that shit in your cousin’s life. You said it yourself, she’s a civilian.” Beck continued. “This guy disappears after she makes all these complaints? She’s going to be the first one they look at.”

Manny started to speak, but Beck kept talking.

“All right, so she stands up. Takes the heat, doubtful, but say she does. How long before they connect her to you? Then it all falls apart. They’ll arrest you. You’ll beat it. But they’ll never grant you bail. You’ll sit in jail for maybe two years waiting for trial. Her reputation is dead. She’ll never work in that industry.”

Manny finished his shot of rum. Glared. Asked quietly, “So what the fuck should I do?”

“What does she want?”

“She doesn’t say. She’s scared. She lost her job. She wants this asshole out of her life. She wants everything back the way it was, man. But she don’t know what that means. Or she don’t want to think about what that means.”

“I understand.”

“Yeah, so do I. But what do you want to do? What should we do?” For the first time in the conversation, Manny’s voice rose. “These fucking assholes don’t get a pass just because they work in a big office and have some fucking money.”

Beck’s voice hardened. “Nobody gets a pass. Not for what they did. But not now. Not until we figure this out.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Take care of your cousin.”

“How?”

“I can’t tell you until I talk to her,” said Beck. “Let me hear from her what happened. Let me understand more about all this. Let me hear what she wants. Then we’ll take it from there.”

Manny shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t like this.”

“I know you don’t. But this has got to be done right. First, we help put her life back together.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got to figure it out.”

Manny took in what Beck said.

“Let me talk to her.”

Manny squinted, struggled with it, nodding his head imperceptibly over and over. Finally, he said, “Okay.”

That was it. He had deferred to Beck. At some level, they both knew that was going to happen. But now it was agreed.

Beck sat back. The wood chair creaked under his weight.

He changed the subject. “So, thanks for this morning. You got out there and around those guys fast.”

“Bullshit. Not nearly as fast as I used to be. I got downstairs and through the basement, but that fucking hatch door to the street had so much ice and shit on it I could hardly get it open. And the fucking snow and mess between the buildings, shit. Next time I just go out the front door.”

“Nah. You did the right thing. You never want them to see you coming, Manny. Even if it takes a little longer.”

Manny looked at Beck. The corner of his mouth lifted, conceding Beck’s point.

“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose.”

3

A tall, lanky man named Brandon Wright had just finished gently prying open Willie Reese’s nearly swollen-shut eye and examining it with a pen flashlight.

Wright looked more like a cowboy than a doctor. He wore blue jeans, a flannel shirt, tan leather ankle boots. He had thick brown hair flecked with gray he didn’t bother combing. And he had big, sturdy hands.

Wright worked with the calm, focused attention of a highly trained doctor who had spent seventeen years as an emergency room physician.

Wright was a man of many interests: Eastern religions, quantum physics, French cuisine, art history. Right now, Willie Reese and his injuries interested him, and he took his time tending to them.

James Beck sat at the bar, watching the doctor work on the large, muscular man who clearly had a very high tolerance for pain. Wright had already completed the excruciating maneuver required to position Reese’s broken septum. Watching it made Beck cringe. Reese barely uttered a sound.

The doctor stepped back and just looked at Reese for a moment, his lips pursed, running through a silent analysis. Once he confirmed to himself he had done everything he could, he turned to Beck and started checking out his complaints, which were mostly about his collar bone and sore hands.

Wright manipulated Beck’s left arm with a hand resting on his collarbone. He briefly looked at Beck’s hand and scuffed knuckles.

Beck started to speak, but Brandon cut him off. “I don’t need the details.”

He turned back to Willie Reese.

“You, sir, need to understand your injuries. Forgetting the contusions and all, I’m figuring probably two cracked ribs. That large elastic bandage I wrapped you with might help. I suspect you’ll take it off so you can breathe better, but…” Wright waggled a hand…” it’s probably not so bad if you do. Might mean less chance you end up with pneumonia.”

Reese looked at the doctor with an expression that said he might be either thinking about punching him, or simply didn’t understand him.

The doctor rephrased his comments.

“Keep the bandage on if you want, take it off if you want.”

Reese nodded once.

“Your nose is frankly a mess. How many times have you broken it?”

Reese shrugged.

“Well, now the septum is broken, and the cartilage split up all to hell. And you’ve got lacerations in both nostrils. I’ve set it somewhat straight, but you really need to see a surgeon who can open the hood and properly repair that mess. Reset the whole thing, pack your nose, and give it six weeks to heal in place.” Brandon began writing on a prescription pad. “See this doctor. He won’t charge you much. Ice the hell out of it. Take ibuprofen, but nothing else.”

Wright waited for any questions. Reese had none.

“Your eye is the worst problem. Potentially. I’m writing down the name of an ophthalmologist. He’ll take cash. Do not avoid seeing him. You already have a subconjunctival hemorrhage, which is normally not a big deal, but you also have a deep scratch, perhaps some corneal damage, which raises the chance of infection. So don’t tough this out. You could lose the eye. And don’t screw around in an emergency room. They don’t have the equipment. Okay?”

Reese didn’t answer, but again nodded.

Wright turned to Beck. “You, soak your hands in ice water. Take ibuprofen. Your collarbone isn’t broken. For once you’ve avoided stitches, concussion, open wounds, and so on.”

“Thanks, Brandon. Anything we can get you?”

“No, thank you. Emmanuel already offered me food. Demarco offered me coffee. You, of course, offered me a warm welcome, so I’m all set and I’ll be on my way.” He picked up his doctor bag, but before he turned to go he said, “All banter aside, is this the beginning of…?”

Beck interrupted. “No. It’s just a strange, unavoidable unpleasantness in a world where people act without thinking. On assumptions that are dangerous, but mostly just annoying. But who knows? It could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

The doctor looked back and forth between the two men, said nothing, and walked out the front door.

Beck turned to Reese. Flexed his hands, feeling the swelling and stiffness already setting in. He was already anticipating the morning pain. It would make his workout that much more difficult.

“So,” said Beck, “Want to answer a few questions?”

Reese shrugged.

“Yes or no. And a yes better goddamn well mean yes.”

“Okay. Yeah. Why not?”

Willie Reese filled the entire space on his side of the table. Sitting down with his leather hoodie off, his muscles bulging against his tight-fitting, bloody T-shirt, he looked even more formidable than he had out on the street. But he didn’t sound so tough, forcing his words through his swollen, broken nose.

“When did you get back in the neighborhood?”

“’Bout a week ago.”

“How long were you away for?”

“Five year bit. Did three.”

“Where?”

“Ossining.”

Beck nodded. “They didn’t bother transferring you out.”

“Nah. I’d already done almost a year at Rikers.”

“So, you grew up in this neighborhood?”

Reese nodded.

“Now you’re out, you have to get back to work.”

“Yeah.”

“What gave you the idea that I would be an easy place to start?”

Reese shrugged.

“Seriously, I want to know.”

“Shorty Wayne makin’ money off you, shit, I figure that’d be a easy place to start.”

“You didn’t think it through.”

Willie Reese answered with another shrug. He didn’t usually have to think about anything much past the end of his fist.

Beck leaned forward, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“I got some now.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“You smart. You not afraid to bang it with someone like me, but you sneaky. Didn’t put yourself in too much danger. Wore me down first. Got in some quick shots, and backed off. You got a crew with shotguns. You the kind of guy gets left alone. Or killed. Nuthin’ in between. That’s about all I need to know.”

Beck shook his head. “No man, no, that’s not all you need to know. I mean, that’s part of it. You’re mostly right, but you shouldn’t stop there. You gotta face the fact that you got banged up, might even lose an eye over this. Plus, you risked your guys. One or all of them could have easily gotten splattered all over the street. So now you’re just going to walk away?”

“You said something about workin’ for you.”

“Okay. But first I have to clear up one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If I say no, if I say get the fuck out of here, do I have to worry about you coming back at me?”

Reese looked at Beck. Then at Demarco watching him, the Benelli under his right hand.

“Shit. You think I’m a fool?”

“How so?”

“If I was comin’ back at you, I wouldn’t tell you. But I ain’t. You didn’t do anything to me I wouldn’t have done. “’Cept have that doctor look at me. I don’t know no doctors.”

Beck looked at Reese, deciding whether or not he was telling the truth. He decided he was.

“Okay.”

Reese focused his one good eye on Beck. “So what you wanna do? You wanna do business?”

“Maybe. Probably. Look, I don’t need your crew for protection. You can see that. I just need some eyes on my backside. Any cops heading this way, any people I might want to know about—they have to drive through the projects to get over here. I like to know if that’s happening. Not a big deal. Not worth a fortune, but worth something. You’re not going to get rich off me.”

“How much you pay Shorty and them guys?”

Beck shook his head. “You mean you actually don’t know?”

“I didn’t care. Was going to charge you my price.”

“Okay. It’s a thousand bucks a month. And before you tell me that’s chump change or some dumb-ass remark, add on the value of me deciding not to be your enemy.”

Willie Reese didn’t respond.

Beck looked at his watch.

“Okay. Take it or leave it. But if you take it, first you get my front window fixed. That doesn’t mean you give me money or the name of somebody. You get it fixed. Fast. Just the way it was. Painted black on the bottom third. Like it never happened. Do that, and you’re hired. And I won’t charge you the cost of having my personal physician make a house call and fix you up. Deal?”

“At a thousand bucks a month.”

“Yeah.”

“Deal.”

“All right,” said Beck. “And one other thing.”

“What?”

“I’m counting on you kicking the shit out of Shorty Wayne for letting you come in here without warning me.”

Willie Reese finally managed a half smile. He stood up. “You a interesting motherfucker, Beck.” Then he turned and walked out of the bar without another word.

As soon as Willie Reese left, Demarco picked up the shotgun and stood up from his table, walked around the bar, and stashed the Benelli in its usual place under the bar top.

Beck said to Demarco, “Nice work this morning.”

Demarco made a small sound of acknowledgment. He walked out from the other side of the bar, still watching the front door, just in case, sat on the stool next to Beck, and asked, “You think we’ll ever see him again?”

“Maybe,” said Beck, “There might be something in him that could get him out of the slide.” Beck paused. “That window is going to be very hard for him to take care of. He doesn’t have a lot of money. He doesn’t know how to go about getting it done. Doesn’t want to. It’s absolutely not in his nature to clean up after his shit. But I wouldn’t count him out yet. He took in everything that I said. That’s fairly unusual for a guy like that.”

“Taking a beating maybe got his attention.”

“Nah, not even half a beating. He could have gone on a lot longer. He’d have gotten me eventually. We’d have had to kill him to stop him.”

Demarco made a face that showed he wasn’t necessarily agreeing.

Beck said, “Guy like that, what do you think it took for him not to jump up and start warring all over again?”

“Not with me sitting there with a shotgun on the table.”

“I suppose. But it still seemed possible, didn’t it? The whole time he was sitting there. Right up until the end.”

Demarco considered it. “Maybe he thought I wouldn’t pull with the doctor in here.”

“Maybe. Anyhow, he’s not completely the usual. It’ll be interesting to see. Keep your eye on the front window.”

Beck stood up and headed behind the bar. “I gotta get some more ice on my hands, then we have to head out and see about this thing with Manny.”

“What’s it about?”

“Trouble. I just don’t know how much yet.”

4

Demarco went out the kitchen side door which led out to Imlay Street. They kept a customized 2003 Mercury Marauder in a converted stable about a half-block from Beck’s bar. It was a beast of a car with a 4.6-liter supercharged engine, but it was almost always mistaken for a Grand Marquis, or a Ford Crown Victoria. Or even a Lincoln Town Car, which was one reason Beck liked the car.

While Demarco headed for the garage, James pulled a gun storage box from a cabinet behind the bar. He opened the lid and picked up a Browning Hi-Power 9-mm automatic, dark metal with wood grips. A classic firearm. Solid. Crisp trigger action. Hefty, but beautifully balanced. He didn’t have to check the magazine or chamber, but he did it anyhow before he slipped the gun under his belt behind his right hip.

Beck heard the rumble of the Marauder outside the bar. He smiled at the sound of the modified exhaust, the low growl that went perfectly with a car that was black from the body to the bumpers. Even the grill and tire rims were black.

Beck turned and lifted his leather shearling coat off the hook next to the front door. He paused, holding the heavy coat in his hand, then pulled the Browning out from under his belt. He put the heavy pistol back into the gun box, and instead pulled out a six-inch leather Bucheimer sap which he slid into his back pocket. He figured visiting Manny’s cousin didn’t require much firepower.

Beck slipped into his coat, not bothering to button up. The Mercury sat right in front of the bar, its exhaust pluming against the cold February air.

“Where to?” asked Demarco.

“Head through the tunnel and up the West Side Highway. She lives up in Riverdale.”

Demarco slipped the Mercury into gear and drove like he moved … effortlessly.

They sat silently while the throaty engine accelerated them toward the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel.

After a few minutes, Beck broke the silence.

“So you didn’t stay upstate with Elliot?”

“No. We came in last night. He had to substitute for somebody’s class this morning.”

Beck nodded. “Good weekend?”

Demarco shrugged. “We went to a dinner party on Saturday.”

“I would imagine gay couples are in demand at dinner parties up there in the shire. Especially a mixed couple like you and Elliot.”

“You looking for an invite?”

“Why not? I got a car. I know how to buy a bottle of wine.”

Demarco smiled at the idea of Beck attending a dinner party in the country.

“I had to come in anyhow. Remember that woman, Maxine Barnes?”

“The one with the restaurant in the theater district?”

“Yeah. She’s opening a club midtown on the West side. Wants me to set up security for it.”

Beck nodded. “Good. You’ve done enough of it.”

They drove in silence for a while, and then Demarco asked, “You gonna check with Walter about that guy Reese?”

Beck shook his head. “Not yet. Walter has enough to do following about a thousand parolees. Let’s see how the window thing goes.”

“What do we have in the pipeline line now, two guys?”

“Yep. Packy Johnson up at Eastern, and the Irish kid Dermott Ryan has a parole hearing in about six months at Coxsackie.” Beck changed the subject. “So did Manny tell you about his cousin?”

“No. Didn’t know he had any family. Closest thing I thought he had are those cronies he fishes with down on the piers. Did you know about her?”

“No. Nothing.”

“She knows you’re coming?”

“Yeah.”

“Manny is pretty riled up.”

“Yes.”

“What’s it going to take?”

“Don’t know yet.”

They lapsed back into silence, until Demarco guided the Mercury onto the Henry Hudson Parkway.

Beck asked. “How old you figure Manny is, closing in on sixty?”

“Nah, he’s what, fiftysomething, I think. He looks older because he’s been at the hard life longer. Takes its toll.”

“He says the cousin is a lot younger.”

Demarco didn’t comment.

When they drove over the Henry Hudson Bridge into Riverdale, Beck said, “Take the Palisade Avenue exit.”

Within a few minutes they pulled up parallel to a small complex of Tudor-style apartments that looked like a cluster of small Mediterranean villas overlooking the Hudson River. Beyond the buildings, the winter water of the Hudson River looked gray, and even a blue sky and bright sun couldn’t make the Palisades across the river anything but dull brown.

Beck popped open the door of the Mercury and stepped out. He made his way along connecting walkways, under stone arches, and up freestanding stairways until he found Olivia Sanchez’s apartment on the second-floor level.

He tapped the knocker against the sturdy wooden door and waited. He heard someone on the other side of the door and assumed Olivia Sanchez was checking him out through the peephole.

“Who is it?”

Beck answered loud enough to be heard through the thick door. “James Beck. Your cousin Manny called to say I’d be coming to see you.”

Beck heard a dead bolt lock turn and then a sucking swish as the heavy door sealed against the river winds pulled open.

Beck hadn’t bothered to picture Manny’s cousin, but if he’d tried he wouldn’t have come close to the woman who stood in front of him with a slight smile, her hand extended.

“Hello, I’m Olivia.”

Beck gripped her hand lightly and felt a firm grip in return.

She nodded. He stared. She waited, accustomed to the effect she had on men.

She was about five six. She had strong, but feminine features, an elegant nose, beautifully shaped full lips, large eyes, and a nearly fantasy figure: long-limbed and thin with a model’s wide shoulders, but with full breasts and shapely hips. She wore little if any makeup. She didn’t need it. Her smooth skin had a natural glow, the tone somewhere between olive and gold.

She took her hand from Beck’s and stepped aside to let him enter. He walked past her into a long, narrow, comfortably furnished living room, but Beck didn’t notice the room much. He turned back toward Olivia so he could look at her again. She wore jeans and a deep maroon turtleneck cashmere sweater.

“Can I take your coat?” she asked.

“Sure.”

He passed the heavy coat to Olivia. When she turned to put the coat in the closet, he saw that her thick shiny black hair was pulled back into a pony tail that reached just past her shoulders.

When she reached for a hanger a bit awkwardly, he noticed the cast on her left hand, encasing her little finger and ring finger. The plaster extended past her left wrist.

She closed the closet and turned to lead him into the living room. She moved easily, without any affectation, but it seemed like an extra life force animated her body.

Beck forced himself to stop staring at her and take in the room. Dark wood floors, crown molding, furniture in greens and beige, with prewar plaster walls painted in various delicate shades of green. It all served to make the room seem warm, comfortable, and inviting.

She led Beck to a couch flanking a wood-burning fireplace, where embers glowed and occasional flames licked the remains of a small log. She placed a piece of split hardwood onto the embers, and took a seat opposite him in a comfortable leather chair backlit by the late afternoon light coming through leaded windowpanes behind her.

A private, quiet retreat perched above the blustery Hudson River. Beck wondered how many men would have given how much to be alone in this apartment with a woman that looked like Olivia Sanchez. For Beck, however, it made things slightly uncomfortable and off-balance.

“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?”

Beck remembered he hadn’t finished his morning coffee. He checked his watch. Nearly four in the afternoon.

“No, thanks.”

She sat back in the chair, waiting for Beck to start the conversation.

“This is a very interesting apartment. Quite a location.”

“Yes. People love this place. They built these apartments in nineteen twenty six. It’s like nothing else. I love the river. I can walk to the train station in ten minutes. Twenty-two minutes to Grand Central.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Four years. I don’t own. I rent from the owner, but someday I’ll buy one of these places for myself. When the opportunity comes up. And if I can get the money.”

“It’s a co-op?”

“Condo. They don’t limit the amount of time an owner can rent out. Just the number of units.”

Beck nodded. “How’d you decide on this place?”

“Oh, kind of putting all my needs together. When I first moved here, my mother was living in Mott Haven, so I could just cut across the Bronx to visit. But she’s gone now. Mainly it’s the proximity to Manhattan. Like they say, location, location, location. And you, Mr. Beck, where did you grow up?”

“Manhattan. Hell’s Kitchen. They call it Clinton now. My father worked on printing presses. There were a lot of them on the west side in those days.” Okay, Beck thought that should do it for the polite part. “So, Manny tells me you’ve been having some trouble.”

“Some trouble?” She emphasized the word some. “It’s the worst trouble I’ve ever had in my life. How much did he tell you? I mean, he told me you’d be coming, and…”

“And what?”

“And he said I could trust you.”

Beck nodded.

“Manny never says much, but he did tell me you helped him with his parole. And after he got out. And that you do that for a lot of men coming out of prison.”

“No. Not a lot of men.”

“Well, Manny told me that you’re smart and you can help me. I’m glad you’re here.”

Beck nodded again, but didn’t comment. He noted that Olivia spoke slowly, precisely as if she wanted to make sure she’d banished her Spanish accent. Beck thought he could pick up a trace of it. Maybe it was just a Bronx accent.

“So, what’s going on? It’s better if I hear it directly from you.”

“Right. Manny wasn’t very interested in the details anyhow. I’m sort of worried I brought him into this.”

“Why?”

“Well, you know Manny. He’s pretty black and white.”

Beck thought that was a euphemistic way of putting it. “Yes. He is black or white.” For or against. Dead or alive. “You’re right to be worried about getting Manny involved.” Beck nodded toward her cast. “His first impulse is to kill the man who did that to you.”

Olivia’s brows furrowed. “That’s not at all what I want.”

“Good. But what do you want?”

Olivia looked at Beck for a few moments, maybe trying to decide if he was giving her a hard time or not. Or maybe thinking about her answer.

“Okay,” she said, repeating Beck’s question as if asking herself. “What do I want?” She paused, as if she needed a moment to think it through. “I got hurt and threatened by somebody who’s stronger and more powerful than me. So I reached out to somebody who I think is strong and powerful, too. In his own way. And now I’ve got you involved. And you don’t look like a pushover either. So what do I want? I want help. But now you’ve got me worried about what Manny might do. I mean, that would just make everything worse, right?”

“Yes. It would. What exactly happened to you?”

She paused. Gathering her thoughts. “I work for an investment firm. One of the top traders there, a partner who runs a hedge fund for the firm, heard something about me that he didn’t like.”

“Alan Crane?”

“Yes. Alan Crane. Manny told you his name?”

“Yes.”

“A couple of weeks ago, he walks into my cubicle about seven-thirty. There’s a lot of meetings during the day, and a lot of times I stay to get work done. Anyhow, he starts yelling and screaming at me, and carrying on.”

“About what?”

“About me interfering with his business. Sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong. Stuff like that.”

“Okay.”

“He was out of control. He just kept at it, getting more and more wound up.”

“Did you say anything to him?”

“No. I never had a chance. I thought he was going to hit me. And then, without warning, he slammed his fist down on my hand.” She grimaced at the memory of it. “It was completely shocking. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. He kept yelling at me. Threatened to kill me.”

“He threatened to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“How exactly did he threaten you?”

Olivia imitated Alan Crane. “You get in my fucking way, you fuck with my business I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll have you wiped off the earth. You won’t even be a shit stain on the ground when I’m done with you. You’ll be gone. Disappeared. Dead.” Screaming them. She returned to her normal voice. “A string of disgusting threats like that.”

Beck frowned.

“A hedge fund guy?”

“Yes.”

“Threatening to kill you.”

“Yes. I mean, I don’t know if he was serious. He was crazy. Out of control.”

“When he smashed his fist down on you, was that intentional? Did he mean to do it? Did he aim, or was he just banging his fist on your desk and your hand was in the way?”

Olivia shook her head slightly, thinking back. “It didn’t seem like an accident.” She looked away, recalling the moment. “I don’t know. I was typing on my computer, facing away from the opening to my cubicle. I turned toward him. One hand on my desk, the other on the arm of my chair. Then the yelling and screaming while he was leaning over me and wham. Maybe he wasn’t aiming. I don’t know. All I know is it hurt so much, I was so shocked—I just couldn’t believe it happened. But it did.”

“You were sitting.”

“Yes.”

“He was standing over you?”

“Yes. But more like leaning over me. His face down in front of mine. Well, yeah, I guess he wasn’t really looking at my hand. He was pounding on my desk, yelling at me, and…”—Olivia made a hammer fist motion with her right hand—“… he slammed his fist down. Does it matter if he was aiming?”

“Everything matters.”

She thought about it, then shook her head. “I don’t know. It all happened so fast.”

“All right. I understand. So, now—why did he do that? You said it was about you interfering with his business. What the hell could you have done that would make him do that to you—show up out of nowhere, smash your hand, threaten to kill you?”

Olivia leaned toward Beck, as if she had prepared for the question and was ready to give her answer. “Okay, how much do you know about small dealer brokers? About hedge funds?”

“Some. Not much.”

“Well, I’m sure more than Manny knows. Anyhow, Summit is a small company. Started by a man named Frederick Milstein. He opened the place with family money and investments from a few clients about twenty years ago.

“He kept Summit private from day one. Never got acquired, never merged. At his peak he had maybe fifty people working for the company. Financial advisors, traders, support staff. The place ran pretty clean for a long time. Maybe a little trading stuff back and forth inside the firm among the top guys for their better clients, fees and commissions not exactly transparent, but nothing really off the charts.”

Beck wasn’t exactly sure why she was telling him all this, but he nodded and said, “Go on.”

“Anyhow, over these last few years it’s been harder and harder for smaller companies to stay profitable. Regulatory costs are crushing them. Competition is insane. Everything’s tougher. Clients are less patient.”

“Uh huh.”

“So more and more small firms are setting up internal trading groups to try and generate profits. That’s where it gets sticky. They set up hedge funds to get the leeway they need. Black box backroom stuff.” Olivia waggled her hand. “Some are legit quants thinking they have a system to rule the markets. Some of it’s flash trading, but that’s way too expensive for an outfit like Summit to set up. Others, not so legit. I’m licensed as a broker and financial advisor, but I don’t really run money. I don’t trade. I mostly monitor other money managers. And administrate. Part of the risk and compliance group.”