Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

59

When she entered his room, he was on his back, fully clothed except for his shoes, completely motionless, having fallen into a deep exhausted sleep.

Olivia sat on the bed next to him and laid her left hand on his chest, the one with the cast. The weight of it made Beck open his eyes.

She didn’t say a word. She waited, hovering over him until he focused on her face. Then she slowly leaned down and kissed him, taking her time, exploring his lips, her soft, full breasts just barely touching his chest.

She sat up and stared down at Beck.

The only light in the room came from a small lamp on Beck’s night table, turned half on. He checked the clock next to the lamp. 9:30.

Beck looked back at her.

Perhaps she’d come in to wake him before ten o’clock, when she was supposed to leave.

But this was not just a wake up. They both knew what this was.

What Beck didn’t know, was what he wanted to do about it. Reject her? Why? Just to show her that he was one man she couldn’t control?

Still, neither one of them spoke.

Beck could have reached up and gently pushed her aside so he could sit up. Or he could have reached up and touched her face, but he did neither.

Doing nothing ensured that something would happen.

She began to unbutton Beck’s shirt with her good right hand. Her encased left hand resting on his shoulder.

Before she reached the third button, Beck got up and started undressing himself.

Olivia stood up with him. She had changed from the white shirt into a black, long-sleeved knit top. She lifted it up and over her head, taking it off and letting it fall to the floor. She slid down her jeans and stepped out of them.

As he watched her, Beck unbuckled his belt and slipped off his black jeans.

Olivia waited, letting him see her in the flimsy underwear he’d seen hanging on the shower curtain rod at the Four Seasons. She looked even better than he’d imagined she would.

Beck stood wearing only his briefs. They looked at each other’s bodies, taking in the sight, both of them now seeing what they had pictured in their minds’ eyes.

He knew she was going to stand there until he moved for her. It would be the first time he reached for her. And she was going to wait, standing tall, unmoving, unflinching in her sheer black bra and black lace thong.

Beck smiled. The fucking bra and panties had to be black, didn’t they? He could see her nipples, dark areoles and a strip of pubic hair through the sheer material. There was no goddamn way this wasn’t going to happen.

Beck stepped forward, slowly put his arm around Olivia, and pulled her to him. Her skin, unimaginably soft and smooth, felt like a balm to him. Her lush body glowed with an inner heat. She put her long arms around him, held him, and kissed him again.

Beck didn’t want even the thin lacy fabric of her bra and panties between them. He unclipped her bra. It fell to the floor. He let go of her and sat back on the bed, reaching up to slide the thin straps of her thong down over her hips.

Olivia let the panties fall. She stepped out of her last bit of clothing and knelt in front of Beck to take off his shorts.

Beck lay back on the bed and lifted his hips so Olivia could strip him.

She spread his legs, and hands on his thighs, bent forward taking him in her mouth. Her thick dark hair fell over his lap as she moved. He could have let her do that for a long time, but he took her arms and pulled her up so he could see her face. Her skin glowed in the faint light from the lamp next to his bed.

For a fleeting moment, he thought about the fact that depending on what happened in the next hours, this very well might be the last woman he would ever make love to. And then he realized, no, there’s no love here. This is just sex. Just excruciating lust and sex. Without apologies.

He stopped thinking about what might happen to him. He refused to think about what might happen to Olivia.

Beck moved back onto his bed, Olivia following, swinging her long leg over him, gently coming to rest on top of him, straddling his hips, her soft backside against the rigidity of his almost painfully hard erection.

There was no pretense, no guile, no preening. Just the clear naked fact of it happening, now. Finally.

She placed both hands on his chest to steady herself as she rose up.

The cast on her left hand felt rough on Beck’s skin, reminding him of how unlike any other situation this was.

She maneuvered Beck inside her with her right hand, and he heard Olivia hiss with pleasure, a sound unlike any he had ever heard from any other woman.

She straightened up, then settled down even farther on him, pressing down and moving him all the way inside her as deep as possible. She pivoted her hips gently so as to completely engulf him. Beck felt her squeeze his cock, almost grabbing it, almost as if to say “this is mine. I have you now.”

Beck watched her. He put his hands on her thighs, feeling the taut muscles of her legs, sliding his hands up to her hips, seeing the muscles in her stomach flex, watching the sway of her amazing breasts. He smiled at how absurdly perfect she was. Elegantly long and thin, and at the same time so full and feminine and sensuous. Her saw her eyes, her face, her thick gleaming hair.

She kept working him now. Pleasuring herself, pleased at knowing whatever she did, Beck would be swept up in it.

Beck let himself give in to her rhythm, timing soft thrusts into her, just to communicate that he was with her. She was clearly fucking him, clearly in charge, intent on gleaning every ounce of pleasure she could.

Olivia’s taking charge, being in control, made something deep in Beck give way. After the constant tension, maneuvering, calculating, he found himself immersed in mindless moments that left him with nothing to do but go along with her. Enjoy her.

She began to grunt softly. Her eyes closed, allowing Beck to watch her in his own private way. Beck felt captured. He had never felt that with a woman, ever. The freedom of it, the pleasure of it, the erotic force made his jaws clench. She was taking him away with her.

Suddenly, Olivia reached up with her right hand and caressed her breast, squeezing the nipple. And then she grabbed Beck’s right hand and forced him to do the same to her other breast and nipple.

Now she maneuvered herself so that she could stimulate her clitoris more. She held herself in position by placing both hands on his shoulders, one rough and chafing in the cast, the other soft and insistent, gripping his shoulder.

A light sheen of perspiration appeared on her chest. She was breathing harder now, giving out louder grunting sounds of pleasure. Beck squeezed her nipple, grabbed her ass.

“Harder,” she hissed. “Harder.”

He did. Doing whatever she told him. She slowed down, somehow grinding down even more on him, burying Beck as deep and as far as she could inside her.

And now she started to climax. In waves. Suddenly sitting up straight, grabbing her vagina with Beck inside. Forming a V around his cock between her middle and ring finger, stimulating herself and him, rocking now, finishing her orgasm, pulling every ounce of erotic pleasure out of her orgasm and pushing him to come. Beck thrust up into her and released. She reached around behind her and cupped his balls, helping him with quick caresses, draining him, finishing him.

Beck muttered a curse.

Olivia smiled. Accepting it as a sound of admiration.

She had captured him. Truly. Rightfully. Inevitably.

Beck knew that she knew it, and he didn’t care. Judgment and worry had already passed.

She slowly lifted off him, and lay down alongside him, rolling sideways to lie against him, now erotic in another way, giving off a palpable heat. Beck felt the fullness and length of her alongside him, felt her gently rise and fall as her breathing subsided.

Her left hand was back on his chest where it had started. The feel of the rough cast against his skin bringing him back to reality.

Beck tried to capture all the sensations, tried to inventory the whole experience, to store it away somewhere it wouldn’t be sullied or destroyed by what was to come next. But he only tried for a moment. What would happen this night, would happen.

60

Beck made it down to the ground floor bar at 10:30 p.m. Ricky and Jonas Bolo were sitting at the table nearest the front door.

Beck had showered, dressed his knife wound, taken more ibuprofen, drunk more coffee, and changed into fresh clothes. He entered the bar stuffing weapons and ammunition into various pockets. His Browning Hi-Power was fully loaded with thirteen rounds in the double-column magazine and in its usual place, shoved under his belt just over his right hip.

He had two more magazines in his right back pocket. He had a Gerber guardian boot knife strapped around his right ankle and a compact Glock 26 in a holster strapped to his left ankle, so he could draw it with his right hand. The Glock 26 held ten rounds of 9-mm ammunition in the magazine, plus one in the chamber. Finally, he’d replaced the Bucheimer sap with a midget sap nestled in his front left pocket.

He went behind the bar and took out ten thousand dollars from the safe under the cash register and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his shearling coat.

“Jeezus Christ,” said Ricky Bolo, “looks like this is going to be some night.”

Just then, Olivia Sanchez appeared in the bar. She stood with her coat open, holding her small overnight bag and purse, looking exactly like what she was—a beautiful woman who’d just had an intense orgasm, every pore of her pulsing with sexual energy.

For the first time since Beck had known Ricky Bolo, Ricky had nothing to say.

“Olivia, this is Ricky and Jonas. They’re going to give us a ride.”

“Us? You’re coming with me?”

“Partway. Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”

The four of them left and settled into the Bolo brothers’ nondescript white van.

Beck sat next to Ricky in the front passenger seat. Jonas sat quietly all the way in the back of the van on a bench seat next to Olivia. The middle of the van was filled with racks and shelves and storage area, holding cases, cords, tools, and miscellaneous electronic equipment.

Nobody said much of anything on the ride into Manhattan and up the west side.

Ricky pulled off the West Side Highway at Fiftieth Street and drove to a five-story tenement building between Tenth and Eleventh avenues. He pulled over opposite the building.

“This is where he ended up,” he told Beck. “Matches the address you gave us. His name is on one of the outside doorbells.”

Beck turned to Olivia and said, “I’m getting out here. Ricky and Jonas will take you up to Nydia’s. She has a room ready for you.”

Olivia answered, “Okay. I’ll be fine. I have one more set of clean clothes.”

“Good. That should get you through what’s left. Grab some sleep. I’ll be in touch in the morning. If we’re right about things, and if Alex has it figured out, tomorrow shouldn’t be too hard. Keep your cell phone on.”

“I will. I have my charger.”

Beck turned to Ricky and spoke quietly.

“After you drop her off, get out to Coney Island Avenue. Watch that building Demarco told you about. It’s important. We have to know when those guys are moving.”

“We’re on it.”

“Thanks. You two are the best.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Beck nodded once and slipped out of the van.

He stood in front of a rundown building that had obviously endured while the neighborhood around it had changed. It was part of a set of old Hell’s Kitchen tenements squeezed in next to one another, five stories high, four windows across. They were depressing rent-controlled or rent-stabilized buildings that housed residents who had occupied the neighborhood for decades.

Beck pictured what Walter Pearce’s apartment looked like.

A guy on a cop’s pension, hanging on to a second-career job that wasn’t much more than a glorified driver, living in that building in this neighborhood—Beck decided the ten thousand in his pocket might look pretty good to Walter Pearce.

He crossed the street and peered at the names listed next to the outside buzzers. Pearce’s name was next to 3A.

There wasn’t any intercom. Beck rang again. And waited. He rang again. Insistently, and waited. Finally, the buzzer sounded him in.

Beck trudged up the stairs to the third floor. The overheated air in the stairway redolent with cooking smells, Lysol, and the faint odor of cat spray reminded Beck of his youth. He’d grown up in a building like this not too many blocks away. The old round fluorescent ceiling fixtures, the glossy paint, and the smells were all familiar.

As Beck stepped around to the third-floor landing, Walter Pearce stood outside his apartment in slippers, a white T-shirt hanging over his pants, holding a Glock aimed at Beck.

Beck stopped.

“You.”

“Yeah. Me. Sorry if I woke you. It’s important.”

Walter said, “Keep your hands where I can see them. What do you want?”

“To talk to you. It will be worth your while. Guaranteed.”

Pearce stood watching Beck. For a moment, Beck thought he might try to arrest him, but instead Pearce asked, “You armed?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t bother taking anything out. Just move slow and keep your hands where I can see them. The second I see your hands move, I’ll shoot you.”

“Fair enough.”

Walter motioned for Beck to come into his apartment.

The place was like Beck had pictured it. He stepped into a dark living room straight out of the fifties, filled with old, large furniture. A big couch with a coffee table in front of it. End tables. Two high-backed upholstered chairs with a standing ashtray in between. Dark green carpet covering most of the wood floor. Gray walls that needed a paint job to cover the decades of grime that had accumulated.

The two windows facing Fiftieth Street were covered by pull-down shades, flanked by heavy curtains with a floral pattern. Beck would have bet all the money in his pocket this was the apartment Pearce had grown up in.

Walter pointed to the couch. Beck sat, sinking into the worn-out cushions. Walter sat facing him in one of the upholstered chairs resting the Glock on his knee, pointed at Beck. The only light in the room was from a floor lamp next to Walter’s chair.

“Talk,” said Walter.

Beck said, “I have ten thousand dollars I want to give you.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain.” Beck started to take out the money.

Walter barked, “Slowly.”

Beck picked out the wad of hundred-dollar bills with this thumb and forefinger and put it on the coffee table in front of him.

Beck said, “I had men tail you. I know you were at police headquarters. So apparently now you’ve got the cops on me.”

Walter didn’t answer.

“Can I put my hands down?”

“Keep ’em where I can see ’em.”

“I presume Milstein used some of his leverage to get somebody high up to pull together the orders.”

Walter still said nothing.

Beck cocked his head as if to say, understandable. “Okay. Milstein is doing whatever the fuck he’s doing. My guess is he wants to make sure he never sees me again, and I suppose he thinks it will endear him to his client. But I don’t think he has any idea what Mr. Markov is capable of. The fact is, I’m his best chance to get this thing resolved in a way where he’s not going to get hurt. Hurt badly. Or you for that matter.”

Still nothing from Pearce.

“But I can’t do what I have to do if I’m locked up. Or if some cop gets nervous and shoots me. So I have an offer to make you.”

Finally, Walter spoke. “Go ahead.”

“Whatever you got going with Milstein, I figure you more than earned your keep. You found out who we are. You used your status as an NYPD detective to talk to the bosses at One PP about us. But what has he done for you? Has he really compensated you for something very few people could have done for him? I doubt it.”

“Go on.”

“And for what? So Milstein can go to Markov and say he’s taken care of me? He’s a moron. Even if the cops did manage to arrest me, I’d be out on bail right after they arraigned me. So what’s that buy him? Eight, ten hours?”

“What about your partner with that thirteen tattooed on his neck? He’ll be violated back to jail.”

“So what. It just means he’ll get out a little later. You think anybody at Rikers is going to fuck with him while he’s waiting for a grand jury to indict him? And trust me, they won’t because let me make something clear, Mr. Pearce—nobody, and I mean nobody is going to make a case that will stick against Ciro Baldassare, or me. Not you. Not Milstein. Not anybody. You understand what I’m saying?”

Beck saw that Pearce was not taking the implied threat very well. Beck waved a hand to change Pearce’s focus.

“Anyhow, who gives a shit about Ciro? Not Markov. Not Milstein. I’m the one they’re interested in. And I’m clean. I have no criminal record. Trust me, Milstein won’t ever make it to court.”

“What about me?”

“What about you? What’s in it for you to back Milstein? He’s not paying you enough. And you’re out there getting the NYPD brass at One PP all worked up for what? For that little fuck Milstein? How’s that gonna help you?”

Walter said nothing, but he shifted in his chair. “Hey, I was just the messenger.”

“Come on, Walter, if this thing blows up the fucking NYPD isn’t going to make life miserable for Milstein. But you, you they can fuck with. Close every door there is on you. And if they really want to get shitty they can mess with your PI license and maybe even your pension.”

“For what reason?”

Beck leaned forward, “Since when do they need a reason? But getting the higher-ups to mount a big operation against me for nothing might be reason enough.”

“Hey, you’re a fucking cop killer for chrissake. They’re going to love having an excuse to come back at you.”

“Bullshit. Think it through. They fucked up before. Everything was dropped. Plus, the City and State had to pay me a shitload in the end. I’m fucking Kryptonite, man. You think they want to take me on for some asshole Wall Street prick? They’re risking a lot of trouble, for what?”

Beck leaned forward again.

“Walter, I got the same crazy crusading lawyer ready to go back for round two, anytime, for any reason. Ten minutes after they arrest me, my lawyer will be suing everybody that had anything to do with this. He lives for that kind of an arrest. He’ll find out all the brass that were involved. He’ll turn over every fucking stone and trace back every meeting, every phone call. He’ll connect every dot and name every one of those sons of bitches in an avalanche of complaints and lawsuits. And your name is going to be right in the middle of it.

“And guess what, when the shit goes down, the first fucking thing Milstein is going to do is fire you and forget your name. You’ll be out on your ass, the department will blackball you, but he’ll still have his business and his Park Avenue apartment and sit in Central Park smoking his fat cigar while his dog shits on the lawn. And you, you’ll have nothing. No job and One PP telling everybody Walter Pearce is an asshole that caused them a ton of trouble.”

Walter snapped back, “All right, all right. I get your fucking point. But it’s already done. What the hell can you do about it?’

Beck leaned back. “I can make everybody a hero, including you, except for Milstein. I can make all the shit fall on him. I can make you somebody the department will remember helped them.”

Walter screwed up his face in disbelief.

“Bullshit.”

“Try me.”

“How? How the hell you gonna make everybody a hero?”

Beck held his open hands in front of him. “All I need is for you to find out who they’re sending after me. Find out who’s in charge. Find out now. Tonight. And then tell that guy what I’m about to tell you.”

“Which is what?”

“Can you find who’s in charge? Can you find that out? If you can, this will work. If not, you’re right. There’s probably nothing I can do.”

Walter wiped his face with his big hand. For the first time in the conversation, he let the Glock point away from Beck.

“Can you find out who’s coming after me, Walter?”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

“And one last thing, Walter.”

“What?”

“I don’t like Milstein. He’s a supercilious little fuck who let this whole stinking mess unroll. I don’t like the fact that he thinks he can come after me. And I don’t particularly like that he’s going to use you and spit you out. If this works like I hope it will, I’ll put another twenty thousand in cash on top of that ten. So, you’ll not only be squared away with the department, you’ll have a little cushion to tide you over until you get your next job.”

“So now you’re my friend? Fuck you. I’m no charity case.”

“I’m not your friend. And it isn’t charity. Trust me, you’ll earn it.”

Walter pointed his gun at Beck again, this time with the butt resting on the arm of the chair to steady his aim. They were less than six-feet apart. He couldn’t miss. Beck watched the anger well up in Pearce. He realized he might have gone too far. Demeaned Walter too much.

“What if I just shoot you now? You’re armed. I put your gun in your hand, say I got the drop on you. Then I’m a hero for sure. Call the brass and tell them they don’t have to go arrest you. Nobody gets tangled up with your lawyer. Milstein will kiss my ass. I pick up the ten thousand on the table. And I don’t have to worry about your bullshit coming back at me.”

Beck nodded. “You could do that. Yeah. Definitely. Shoot me. Take my gun and put it in my hand. Fire it off in your direction. You might make it work.”

“That’s what I figure.”

“But let me ask you something.”

“What?”

“What do you think the guy with that thirteen tattooed on his neck is going to do if you shoot me? Or the other guys you never saw and don’t know about? Shoot me, Walter, and you might as well put the next bullet in your head and get it over quick, because you’re a dead man.”

“Oh right—your gang. Let me tell you the biggest gang in New York. The fucking NYPD.”

Beck tipped his head, conceding the point. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one. Trouble is, Walter, you’re not in that gang anymore. You’re retired. Nobody is going to avenge Walter Pearce.”

Beck leaned forward a bit more, his hands now hanging down between his knees, his right hand inches away from the Glock 26 strapped to his left ankle. He watched Walter Pearce very carefully, spoke softly. “Think it through, Walter. You got no chance of this working out if you shoot me.”

Beck knew it would be a very tough move to get his gun out from under the cuff of his jeans. If he moved fast, right now, he had a chance to win the shoot-out. But it would be a Pyrrhic victory. He needed Walter Pearce. He moved his hand away from his ankle and sat back.

“What the hell, Walter, why not just hear me out? You can still take your chances and shoot me. And pick up the ten grand.”

Walter Pearce stared at Beck, his Glock pointed at the center of Beck’s chest.

Beck crossed his left ankle over his right knee. He rested his right hand on his left ankle, inches from the Glock, sitting back on the couch, trying to appear totally relaxed. His hand was as close to his gun as he was going to get it. He figured if it came down to it, he might win a shoot-out. It would be a mess, but as much as he needed Walter Pearce, he wasn’t going to let the big, morose, angry man shoot him.

“Come on, detective. Listen to the rest of it. Then decide.”

Finally, Walter nodded, laid his gun flat on his knee, and said, “Say what you have to say.”

Beck looked at his watch. He didn’t have a lot of time. He started talking. Fast.