Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

19

By the time Beck had reached the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel exit onto Hamilton Avenue, he had called everybody he needed to come to the Red Hook headquarters.

By the time he pulled up in front of the bar, he still hadn’t figured out exactly what to say to Olivia.

He double-parked the Mercury next to Ciro Baldassare’s Cadillac Escalade.

He limped into the bar. Only Demarco was downstairs, leaning against the back bar, in his usual spot.

Beck tossed the car keys to Demarco and said, “Put it in the garage, will you D? Sorry, but there’s some blood on the front seat and the floor mat. I don’t think there’s any on the carpet.”

Demarco’s eyes widened. He came out from behind the bar, heading for the front door, checking Beck for obvious wounds as he passed him.

“Who’s here?” asked Beck.

Demarco paused at the front door. “Manny and the lady, Ciro and Alex. All upstairs.”

“Okay.”

“And the doctor called. Said he’d be here soon. Said to clean out anything that’s bleeding before he gets here.”

“Right.”

Beck’s left leg hurt with every step up the back stairs.

He didn’t bother to stop on the second floor. He kept going to the third floor, the drying blood on his left shoe sticking to the wooden stairs with every other step. He didn’t stop in his bedroom for clean clothes. He went right into the bathroom to strip off everything, get in the shower, and go to work on himself.

Beck’s shower had a tiled ledge big enough to sit on. He sat for ten minutes, letting the hot water wash over him and his knife wound and bruises. He’d taken 800 mgs. of ibuprofen and much of the pain and stiffness had begun to ebb.

The first five minutes, he’d just let the shower wash off all the blood. Then he’d turned his left thigh into the spray, letting the water stream into the wound, gritting against the pain.

He’d brought a squeeze bottle of Betadine scrub into the shower. He turned away from the water and covered the wound with the sterilizing scrub, then worked it into the torn skin and muscle. After a minute, he let the shower rinse it away. He did this three times. Then he turned away from the shower water again, picked up another bottle and poured hydrogen peroxide into the wound, watching the liquid bubble and foam.

Beck knew there was no way he could tend to this wound.

By the time he stepped out of the shower, Brandon Wright sat waiting for him in Beck’s bedroom. Without a word, he stood up when Beck entered, waited for him to put on fresh shorts and a T-shirt, then led Beck to the large room at the west end of the third floor that served as Beck’s workout studio.

Beck lay down on a massage table in a corner of the large room. Wright said nothing. He just started working. Beck closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of surgical supplies being torn open. A needle being threaded. The quiet hiss of Lidocaine being sprayed on his wound.

He felt the coolness of the numbing spray. He ignored the insistent pricks and pushes and pulls as the doctor began stitching. Beck figured the wound would need at least thirty stitches to close it.

Wright continued to work without comment. Beck endured the silent reproach.

For a moment, Beck thought about saying something to his doctor friend. But instead he continued to think about what he was going to do once he was stitched up.

Wright worked quickly, deftly, but the procedure took nearly twenty minutes. As he finished up bandaging the wound, he finally broke the silence. “Do you know why I do this for you, James?”

“Because you’re a good man.”

“No, because you’re a man who helps people nobody else will.”

Beck didn’t respond.

“How many men have you and Walter Ferguson and this network of yours helped once they are out of prison?”

Beck didn’t answer.

Wright slipped off his latex gloves, dropped them on the floor with the used surgical supplies, and packed his bag. He grimaced a bit in frustration. Started to leave. Stopped. Turned to Beck and said, “Would telling you to be careful have any effect?”

Again, Beck didn’t answer.

20

Gregor Stepanovich stood waiting for the elevator to return to Crane’s floor holding up the bleeding, dying Igor, while Markov held the other man. And waited. And waited.

Finally, he had to lay Igor onto the floor and walk down six flights of stairs to find out what was wrong with the elevator.

When he saw the knit cap Beck had wedged into the elevator door, Stepanovich cursed and pulled it out.

On the ride back up to Crane’s apartment, Stepanovich held the knit cap in his hand and pictured punching Beck’s face again and again and again until bones broke under the skin and teeth cracked, until skin split and blood flowed.

He kept control of his rage until he and Markov got their wounded men into the car and sent them off, knowing he would most likely never see them again.

As he walked back to Crane’s building, Stepanovich vowed to himself that he was going to kill that bastard who had done this to him and his men. Slowly, if he could. Quickly, if he had to. But he would find out who he was and kill him. That was it. Markov’s orders no longer mattered.

When they came out of the elevator, the rank metallic odor of putrefying blood and acrid gun smoke filled Crane’s loft. The stench did nothing to improve their moods.

Stepanovich looked over at Crane who sat on his couch, his shirt torn from removing the duct tape, massaging his left shoulder, staring at his ruined fifteen-thousand-dollar dining table.

Markov walked to the couch, pulled out his cell phone, and began dialing.

When Markov finished the call, Gregor asked him, “Tell me, Leo, who was that fucking balija?”

“Criminal.” Markov answered. He turned to Crane. “Tell us. What do you know about that son of a bitch?”

“Me? Absolutely nothing. No idea. Ask fucking Olivia Sanchez. Or Milstein. Milstein told him to come here, right? Go ask him.”

Markov held up his cell phone. “I already ask him. He tells me he finds out this morning that he’s a bad guy. Convict. His name is James Beck. He tried to extort money from Milstein for the bitch. I told Milstein to send him up here. Milstein told him he should talk to you. What do you think he does to you, we’re not here?”

Crane looked at Markov like he was speaking a foreign language. “How do I fucking know what he would have done? What did he do to Milstein? Obviously not much. Maybe if your attack dog hadn’t stuck a gun in his face he wouldn’t have done anything. How much do you want to blame me for, Leonard? All I’m trying to do is protect your investments. And make you money. I haven’t done a fucking thing wrong, and you come in here…”

Markov snarled, “Stop being ridiculous, Alan.”

Crane changed the subject.

“Leonard, why are we arguing? I’m on your side. What’s going on? Are you really serious about cashing out? You’re going to lose a good deal of money.”

“What? You ask me this after a fucking criminal shoots my man? Comes up here to do who knows what? Are you fucking crazy? You think I leave my money with Milstein’s business, with this bitch causing trouble? Talking to police? Bringing in convicts? Thugs? You ask me this?”

“All right, all right. Forget it. Whatever you want. You want your money, fine. But if I’m going to do this, I have to start as soon as I can. I have dozens of positions I’ve got to start moving on. I have index hedges, options that aren’t close to being where I expect, currency contracts.”

Markov pointed a thick finger at Crane. “You don’t have time. You get it done. Now. Fast.”

Crane mustered his courage. “I’ll get it done as quickly as I can. But I’m not going to let you get reamed, Leonard. I’ll need a few days. You should trust me when I tell you this. How long have we worked together?”

Markov waived a hand and stood up, walking away from the dining area. “Aaach. What does it matter how long we work together? Three years and two months, and now the jackals come after everything, so what good does it do me?”

“Nobody is going to take your money. And I’ve made you plenty. Well over forty percent year over year. You know anybody who’s even come close to that?”

“Fine.” Markov turned and faced Crane. “But what about now? Now you bring this shit down on me. Stop talking. Get it done. I have work to do. I have two fucking shipments going out of Albania tonight. I still don’t have the right certificates. And now I have this mess. So, do we understand each other?”

Crane had been distracted. He said, “What?”

Markov pushed himself off the couch and stepped toward Crane. “Are you not listening to me? Did you say ‘what’? What? You fucking motherfucker. You answer me like that? Maybe I should have Gregor take his anger out on you for an hour or so, you worthless piece of shit.”

Crane raised a hand. “Jeezus Christ, Leonard, take it easy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m trying to figure out … Christ, I don’t even know what the fuck is going on.”

Stepanovich had moved closer to Crane, drawn to the possibility of violence, hoping Markov would unleash him.

Crane dropped his head and said to Markov, “I’m sorry this happened. I’ll start closing down your positions. What else do you want me to do, Leonard?”

“I need to find the woman. Milstein gave me her home address. You think she might be there?”

“I don’t know. Why not?”

“Why not? Because that guy who got away from us will be warning her, that’s why. You know anywhere else she might be?”

“I have no idea.”

“Get an idea.”

“Well, I think she has a mother in the Bronx somewhere. I can try to find out.”

“Good. And I need to know the connection between the criminal and the woman. I need to know that by end of day today.”

Crane answered without knowing at all how he could find that information for Markov. “I’ll get everything I can for you. By end of day.”

What was Markov going to do with Olivia Sanchez? If they hurt, or worse, killed her, that could be a problem. The police had already talked to him about her. About her accusations. As did an assistant district attorney. If something happened to her, he would be a suspect. Not good, he thought. And he wasn’t going anywhere until he had unwound Markov’s complex portfolio and delivered the proceeds, so he wouldn’t be around anyone who could give him an alibi.

Worst of all, the last three months of trading had been bad. Not crazy bad, but his ratio of losers to winners had shifted against him. And he’d chased after his losses. A stupid move. He wasn’t out of the game by any means. One, two big hits could bring him within reach. But he needed time to unwind his positions, which he didn’t have. He’d already warned Markov he would lose money, but how much of a loss could he incur before his body would be in the pile with everyone else Markov was going after?

Crane realized that Markov and Gregor were still staring at him. He lifted his head and asked, “Is there anything else, Leonard?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Get me my money.”

And with that Markov turned and Gregor Stepanovich followed him out of the loft, leaving the blood and the stench and the mess behind for Alan Crane to clean up.

21

The new stitches in his left leg pulled as Beck walked down the back stairs of his building.

The blows from the steel baton were making his upper back and left shoulder stiffen with pain. The knuckles on both hands throbbed.

But surprisingly, the worst pain was in his right wrist. Whenever he pushed against something that bent back his wrist, like using the handrail as he walked down the stairs, a searing pain shot through his hand, making it nearly impossible to use that hand for five or six seconds. He wondered how long that was going to last. He hadn’t bothered to ask the doctor about it.

At Beck’s large desk sat a tall man, thin to the point of looking nearly gaunt. He was in his early forties, with unruly black hair, three days’ worth of dark beard, wearing glasses in thick black frames that dominated his face. He wore a wrinkled red-and-white-checked shirt that didn’t reach his wrists. He sat bent over Beck’s keyboard, checking two twenty-four-inch computer monitors, intent on a task Beck didn’t bother to guess at.

Beck checked his watch. Two-twenty in the afternoon. The foreign exchange markets were winding down in New York, opening in Europe. Alex Liebowitz was probably checking the price action. He had taken over the management of Beck’s portfolio, which meant the management of the finances for all of them.

“Alex.”

Alex Liebowitz looked at Beck over the two monitors and asked, “What’s up?”

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to trade currency pairs.”

“Intervals?”

“Fairly long. Between two and fifteen minutes. Although I doubt I’ll get confirmation any sooner than two minutes. So let’s say five to fifteen.”

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

In the middle of the second floor, Manny and Olivia sat opposite each other at the long rectangular dining table that occupied a good deal of the space opposite the open kitchen.

Past the dining room, at the far end of the floor, Ciro Baldassare sat on one of the couches reading the New York Post, his feet up on the coffee table, moving only occasionally to turn a page.

Beck looked at Olivia. Her lustrous dark hair was loosely piled on top of her head, making her look younger than when he’d last seen her. She wore blue jeans, leather sneakers, and a crisp white shirt, everything quite simple.

As he stepped toward Olivia, Beck imagined her walking into a party looking the way she did at that moment, and effortlessly attracting the attention of everyone in the room.

Beck nodded in their direction, pulled out his cell phone, and walked into the kitchen area where he began loading the coffeemaker with one hand while talking on his phone with the other.

He finished his call. Shoved the cell phone in his pocket. Pulled open the double doors on his refrigerator. He was hungry. Actually, he was hungry to the point of feeling deeply depleted. He had expended an immense amount of energy fighting for his life. And he was still burning energy.

From the refrigerator, he pulled out sliced turkey, Jarlsberg cheese, bread, mustard, romaine lettuce, tomatoes. He didn’t bother to make a sandwich. He just assembled food on a plate and poured himself a mug of coffee, not bothering with milk or sugar or anything that would soften its taste.

He stood at the counter, his back to everybody, and ate. More refueling than eating. He washed the protein and carbohydrates down with swigs of hot coffee. Nobody in the loft said anything, the silence broken only by the occasional mouse click or keystrokes from Alex, sitting in his own world, staring at computer screens.

Finally, Beck left his food, refilled his coffee mug, and came over to sit with Manny and Olivia.

Manny sat in his infinitely patient way, saying nothing. Olivia took his cue and remained silent.

Without preamble, Beck said to Olivia, “Do you know a tall guy, bald, looks Eastern European? Name is Gregor.”

She answered, “No,” without hesitation.

“How about a heavyset man? Maybe five six. Dresses well. Gray hair. Cut to a stubble. He strikes me as Russian, but who knows, could be Ukrainian, Turkish, probably been in America for a while?”

“No. Why?”

Beck stared at her for a moment. It felt like she had answered too fast. And he didn’t like that she’d answered his question with a question.

“Okay, let’s go a little slower here. Listen to me carefully. The people I just described were in Crane’s loft waiting to kill me when I arrived.”

The word kill startled Olivia. It certainly caught the attention of Manny and Ciro. There was no perceptible reaction, but their focus intensified.

Beck continued. “It would be very reckless and very stupid if you didn’t understand that you are next on their list.”

Beck waited for a response from Olivia. She stammered, “I, I don’t know what you mean. What do you mean? What happened?”

Beck paused. Concentrated on being precise. “When I arrived, there were the men I described, plus two others. The heavyset man was in charge. I’m assuming that was Markov. The other three were fighters. Probably ex-military. Lean. In shape. My impression is they were Eastern European. Slavic. The tall, bald guy was their leader. He was very fast, without any fear, and able to take an enormous amount of punishment. The other two also took a great deal of damage, and none of them quit. Men like that are very dangerous and very rare.”

Beck paused, watching Olivia, carefully gauging her reaction.

“They were, what? You say they were waiting for you?”

“Yes.”

“What about Crane, was he there?”

“Yes, but forget about him for now. What I’m trying to tell you is that if they tried to kill me, we have to assume they’ll try to kill you, too. Two of the three are too damaged to come after you. But don’t think for a minute that there aren’t more ready to take their places. Are you listening?”

Olivia seemed frozen in her seat, her brow furrowed in concentration. Beck and Manny were on the same side of the table, so Beck couldn’t see him, but he knew that Manny would be watching Olivia as carefully as he was, and at the same time watching him to make sure he didn’t go too hard at his cousin.

Olivia answered, “Yes. Of course.”

“Good. So, I’ll ask this a different way. What is Markov’s connection to men like that? Does Crane know? What’s going on?”

Beck continued to carefully watch Olivia. She sat quietly, pursing her lips slightly, looking down.

Beck saw that Ciro had put down the paper and was also waiting, listening. Ciro was like Manny. Generally extremely calm and contained. But unlike Manny, when Ciro Baldassare moved, there was no going back. There was nothing between static and full blast. If Ciro suddenly went after Olivia, nothing was going to stop him. Not Manny, not Beck, not anything or anybody within ten miles of Red Hook.

Beck also caught the motion of Manny crossing his arms. He could feel the tensions rising.

Finally, Olivia spoke. “I told you before that the kind of people who have money invested with Crane were … were not legitimate.”

Beck interrupted her. He did not want her to go off somewhere she could hide out. He wanted the truth. He spoke slowly and quietly.

“Let me repeat back what you told me when we first met. Or, at least my impression. You described the people who would invest with Crane as unscrupulous, as people who wouldn’t give a shit about Crane manipulating the market in order to bring down investments he’s shorted. You didn’t say they were killers.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Beck leaned forward. “But you told me that Crane threatened to kill you. You described it word for word. I couldn’t see how some hedge fund asshole would be capable of actually following through on a threat like that. So when I pressed you on it, you told me about Markov and about him being an arms dealer. I got the feeling Crane knew Markov had men who would be capable of killing. Do you know anything about these people? We need to know, because now we have a much bigger problem than Crane and Milstein and your job. These people with Markov, they will kill you in a fucking heartbeat, Olivia. Who are they?”

“All right.” She said the words abruptly. In a way so that Beck would stop talking about men who wanted to kill her. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know who they are exactly.

“I told you yesterday, I’ve only heard vague references about Markov. I’ve heard that he is some sort of arms dealer. And yes, he’s Russian. And yes, a connection to Eastern Europeans seems possible. But I’m just speculating. Wall Street money managers don’t give out information about their clients. I don’t know where Markov made his money. Could he have connections to ex-military types? I would think that’s possible. Do I know who they are? No. I don’t. I know he’s not wanted for any felonies. I know there aren’t any outstanding IRS cases against him.”

Beck sat back, looked away from Olivia. He exhaled. She sounded like a fucking lawyer. Maybe that had to do with her corporate background. Or her job as someone who made sure people followed regulations.

Manny shook his head slowly, repeating her name in quiet admonition. “Ah, Olivia, Olivia.” As if to say, what have you done to us?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.” She turned to Manny. “I never wanted to come to you, Manny, but you always told me, if I needed you…” Her voice trailed off. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“All right,” Beck said. “What’s done is done. Right now we need to find out everything we can about these people.”

Olivia leaned forward across the dining table. “I can help. I can find out.”

“How?”

“I still know everybody at Summit. I’ll call people I know and keep asking around. Maybe someone knows more. If I have to, I’ll confront Milstein. He might know, even if he keeps Crane’s operation at arm’s length.”

Beck said, “Don’t call Milstein. You can’t have any connection to him whatsoever. None. If we need to get information from him, we’ll get it.”

Manny broke in.

“Olivia, listen to James. You don’t call anybody, carina. We take this from here.” He turned to Beck, “Time to go after this Crane asshole. Straight up. He knows who these fuckers are. We work on him until we get every last fucking thing we need. Or Milstein.”

Beck answered, “We will if we have to. Trouble is, it’s not going to be all that easy to scoop Crane up. I don’t see him being alone now, or maybe even alive much longer. Last I saw him, his arm was taped to a table with the biggest fucking ball peen hammer I’ve ever seen next to him.”

Olivia looked up at that. She started to ask Beck a question, but stopped.

“What?” asked Beck.

“Why would Markov want to hurt Crane?”

“I assume he blames Crane for setting you off.”

“But he can’t…”

“Can’t what?”

“He can’t hurt Crane. Crane runs his investments. He needs him too much.”

“For now.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“How long do you think somebody who has as much money as Markov is going to leave it at risk with a brokerage company that let this situation get so out of hand?”

“I don’t know. But I know one thing for sure,” she said.

“What?”

“If he wants his money out of Summit there’s only one person who can unwind all those trades. Especially if he wants it done quickly.”

“Crane?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay,” said Beck. “So Crane is the key right now.” Beck turned to face Manny. “As for Milstein, I just got off the phone with the Bolo brothers. I told Ricky and Jonas to keep an eye on him. I assume he’s at his office. If not, they’ll know how to find him. He won’t be anywhere we can’t get to him if we need to.”

“Okay,” said Manny.

Beck gave Manny a look and said, “Hey, I know you’ve been thinking about what guys you might need to do what you were thinking about. You know, before.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe now is the time to reach out. Just to have a little manpower if we need it. No need to bring them in now. Just to have things in place.”

Manny nodded. He stood up without a word and headed for his kitchen downstairs, leaving Olivia and Beck at the dining table.

When Manny was out of earshot, Beck leaned forward, arms on the table.

“Okay, listen to me. You and I are going to sort this out. I don’t have time to explain the whys or whatevers behind the things I need to do. Okay?”

Olivia nodded.

“You understand why we said you can’t have any contact with Milstein or Crane now, right?”

“I think so.”

“Something happens to either of them, you don’t want to be near it. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Considering what they tried to do to me, keep in mind—without me and Manny and our crew you’d might very well already be dead.” Beck paused, giving what he said time to sink in. “When I ask you a question, I need careful answers.”

“Okay.”

Before Beck continued, he looked past Olivia at Ciro. The big man had settled back on the couch, leaving it up to Beck for the moment. Manny was gone, which enabled Beck to talk freely.

Beck looked at Olivia, making sure to put aside enjoying her exquisite face. Or looking at the spaces between the buttons of her white shirt. Or anything that had to do with her being desirable in any way. He looked only at her eyes, looking past the flecks of gold in the deep browns and shades of ocher that gave her eyes their nearly mesmerizing color, hoping to see fear in them.

He began his questions carefully.

“How do Milstein and Crane know each other?”

“As far as I know, just from being in the business. Crane has always had a reputation as a moneymaker, but someone who takes risk. A lot of risk. But risk is what creates reward. Like I said, Milstein needed revenue. Somewhere along the line, I assume Milstein reached out to him. Could have been the other way around, but I’d say Milstein made the deal.”

“So they have no past history together?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Christ, thought Beck, she’s back to hedging her answers. He decided he’d better get to the heart of it.

“Is Crane making money now? Is he underwater, or in the green?”

“I don’t know. He did well last year, but now, honestly, I don’t know. The fund managers don’t report numbers until they absolutely have to.”

“What happens to Summit if they lose Markov?”

“My opinion, if they lose Markov, the firm might go under. Milstein needs the income Crane’s bringing in. He might muddle through. I can’t be sure.”

“How long has Crane been running Markov’s money?”

“I don’t know about before Summit. A little over a year at Summit.”

“So he has to have made money for him in the past. Nobody is going to stick around with somebody who’s losing.”

“Absolutely. But like I said, his risk profile is very high.”

“Even if he’s pulling all kinds of shit to bring down the value of stocks he’s shorting?”

“The market is way bigger than one guy and one hedge fund. A few wrong moves can really hurt.”

“Where’s Milstein on this?”

“Hoping the money keeps coming in and Crane doesn’t blow up.”

“What about Markov? Does he think Crane can keep this going?”

“My experience is, unscrupulous people like being with someone who is stealing for them. Doing it straight is for suckers. But guys like Markov, they can sense when it’s time to pick up their chips and leave.”

Beck nodded.

“You said, you estimated Markov’s holdings are over a hundred million.”

“Yes. Although, like I said, I don’t see the day-to-day numbers.”

“How’s one guy amassed that much?”

Olivia gave Beck a confused look. “Do you know how many people out there have amassed that much and more?”

“No.”

“Thousands. Tens of thousands. It takes a lot of people to make up the one percent, Mr. Beck. From what I hear, Markov has been at this for a long time.”

Beck changed the subject. “How much time would Crane need to liquidate everything?”

Olivia frowned and shook her head. “It all depends. If Markov pressures him to do it fast, it could be within a couple of days. I’m sure Crane is in a bunch of different markets. But I don’t know his positions. A lot of his trades are options. He might be underwater, waiting for stocks to gap up, or more likely down. If so, he’ll push for more time. It depends on how much Markov pushes to get out. And how much it will cost him.”

“Give me an outside time. Your best guess.”

Olivia looked up, thinking it through, talking out loud. “I don’t know, what’s today, Wednesday? Markov doesn’t seem like a very patient man. Probably end of the week, Friday latest.”

Beck nodded. Lost in thought for a moment. “I don’t suppose you have any extra clothes with you.”

“No.”

“Did you drive here?”

“Yes. Manny said parking wouldn’t be a problem, so I drove.”

“What kind of car do you have?”

“A Porsche SUV.”

“The Cayenne?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t go back to your apartment. It’s too dangerous. And this place could be as much a target as your apartment. It know it’s an expense, but you should check into a hotel for a few days.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Okay. I know a place where I can get a good rate.”

“Where?”

“The Four Seasons on Fifty-seventh.”

“Little close to Summit, don’t you think?”

“What difference does it make? It doesn’t sound like I’ll be going out much. I like the hotel and I have a connection there.”

“You’re not using some corporate rate are you? Something that could get back to Milstein.”

Olivia smiled. It was the first time Beck had seen her smile. It was a beautiful smile.

“No, nothing will get back to Milstein. Summit has no connection to that hotel. Out-of-town clients stay wherever they want. I just know one of the managers from going there for lunch a lot. If the hotel isn’t full, I’ll get a better rate and a better room than I could get anywhere else.”

“Okay, so do you mind if we borrow your car while you’re there?”

“Of course not.”

“I would prefer you get out of here sooner rather than later. I’m going to ask Manny to take you to that hotel. Maybe stop somewhere you can buy some clothes. Enough for a few days.”

“All right.”

“And try to be fast about the shopping. Manny doesn’t like hanging around anywhere.”

“I understand.”

Beck stood up abruptly and said, “Okay. I’m sure there’s more that I’ll need your help on. This is going to go where it goes. I can rely on you to help us, right?”

“Anything. I got you all into this.”

“Good.”

Beck walked over to the front of the loft where Ciro sat. Olivia headed downstairs to meet with Manny.

“Ciro, we might need some firepower on the home front.”

“Yeah, sounds like it. You want a few of my guys to bunk in?”

“I prefer to keep the psychopaths to a minimum. Manny is talking to some of his people if we need them. So, for now, you should plan to be around here, and how about your cousin Joey? Is he available?”

Ciro pulled out his cell phone.

“I’ll find out. How long should we plan on?”

“For now let’s say two, three days.”

“So, James…”

“What?”

“We’re still following the usual playbook, right?”

“Always. The game might be a little different on this one, but yeah.”

Ciro nodded. “Understood.”

Suddenly, without warning, a voice sounded from out on the street, yelling Beck’s name.

One second Ciro was on the couch. The next he was at the second-floor window, his .45 in his hand.

Beck yelled out, “Easy, Ciro. I know who it is.”