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As Demarco began his search in the crowded neighborhood, Beck pulled out his cell phone and punched a speed-dial number. When the phone answered, he said, “Ciro. It’s me.”
Demarco listened to Beck’s side of the conversation, which ended with Beck giving Ciro Baldassare instructions on where to meet them.
“Ciro?”
Beck turned to Demarco. “Hey, man, I don’t want to wrestle with that big son of a bitch again.”
Demarco pursed his lips. “Pulling out the heavy artillery already?”
“He’s actually in the city. One of his customers is in over his head on his football bets.”
“God help him.”
“I don’t think it’ll be too bad. It’s a young guy. His father owns a restaurant downtown. Ciro just had a talk with Daddy about his boy’s gambling debt.”
“Does Daddy still have a restaurant?”
Beck smiled. “You know what Ciro once told me is the hardest part of ru
“What?”
“Moving all the money around. All that cash. Picking up the cash from the losers and bringing it to the wi
“With Ciro behind it all so nobody gets any ideas about who that cash belongs to.”
“Exactly.”
Just then Demarco spotted a space in front of a Park Avenue apartment building as a cab pulled away. Demarco deftly parallel parked the Mercury in one move, despite the fact that there was a brass plaque atop a stanchion set in front of the building entrance a
Beck reached out his window and moved the stanchion out of the way so he could open his door. A doorman was already rushing out to tell Demarco Jones and James Beck they couldn’t park there. Every spot on the block was filled except for the space in front of the white-glove Park Avenue building.
Beck stood waiting for the doorman. Demarco walked around the front of the Mercury and leaned back on its shiny front fender. The doorman started to say something, saw who he was talking to, stopped, then said, “There’s elderly people in this building. In wheelchairs. You’re blocking the entrance.”
Beck reached out and lifted the lapel of the man’s uniform coat so he could see the name sewn onto the pocket.
“Is that right, Peter?”
“Yes.”
“Who made that nice sign for you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is that real brass?”
“Yes. I think so. Listen, you can’t…”
“You think having a brass sign makes it true?”
“You can’t park there.”
“Yes I can. Peter.”
“You’re blocking the entrance.”
Beck raised a hand. “Take your bullshit and your little sign and go back in your building. You get an old rich person in a wheelchair wants to come in, you hustle your ass out here and roll ’em to the corner, where there’s no curb; roll ’em up nice and easy, and haul them in. And make goddamn sure nobody bumps into my car getting in or out of a cab. Or a fucking limo. Or a delivery truck. Or anything. You got it? Peter.”
The doorman didn’t say anything.
“When’s your shift over?”
“Midnight.”
“Good. I’ll be back before then. Keep an eye on things.”
As they walked away Beck said to Demarco, “More assholes.”
6
Instead of letting Walter Pearce drop him off at the front entrance to his building, Frederick Milstein rode with him into the underground garage where they kept the car.
Even though he couldn’t have cared less, Milstein asked, “You sure you’re okay, Walter?”
“I’m all right. My arm and shoulder will be sore in the morning, but only because that guy held back. He knew what he was doing. Never been hit like that on the back of my arm. Still stings. What’s somebody like that doing around you Mr. Milstein? Who the hell was he?”
Milstein lied without hesitation. “I have no idea, but I intend to find out.”
They stepped out of the car. Walter handed the key to the parking attendant and they walked through the garage to the building’s service entrance.
“You need to know who he is. And we need to be prepared.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means at least me and another man, both of us armed. I wouldn’t take any chances, Mr. Milstein. I heard him say he was intending to talk to you.”
“All right, all right, I’ll look into it. Are you okay for the walk tonight?”
“Yes, sir. I’m going to get some di
Walter turned and headed back out to the long driveway that opened onto Eightieth Street. Milstein walked through the storage and laundry areas to the building’s lobby and waited for the elevator, his mouth moving involuntarily, propelled by anger and confusion and a fear he didn’t want to admit feeling. Whoever that man was, Milstein was shocked at how easily he’d handled Walter.
The elevator door opened. One of the amiable doormen greeted Milstein with a respectful “Good evening, sir.”
Milstein stepped onto the elevator, grimacing, shoving his gloves into his pockets. When the elevator man saw Milstein’s face he pressed fourteen, looked forward, and didn’t say another word.
Milstein’s wife had gone out to di
She already had her coat on. Her way of telling Milstein he was later than usual and she wasn’t going to spend one more second on the job.
“Your di
Milstein hated that “Mr. M” title. Where the fuck did she get the idea she could call him that? He didn’t bother to look at her or answer her as he dropped his coat on the chair in the foyer and walked into the living room.
He headed straight for the phone on the ornate, leather-covered desk that occupied the corner of the room. The only light in the room was from the streetlights outside, another a
He snapped on the desk lamp, revealing overstuffed couches in a gold brocade fabric, oil paintings of Hudson Valley landscapes, plush carpeting, and porcelain figurines resting on every end table, on bookshelves, as well as on the fireplace mantel.
It was his wife’s idea of sophisticated Upper East Side decorating. Milstein never really noticed it much one way or the other, but tonight the room felt stifling, almost claustrophobic. He had to stop and catch his breath. He realized how much being roughed up had shaken him. No one had ever done anything like that to him. And that useless goddamn Walter. A big fucking waste of money, and now he wanted to bring in another bodyguard. Perfect. Can’t do the job I’m paying you for so now I have to pay for another asshole, while I’m still paying you.
He picked up his home phone and dialed Alan Crane’s number. Crane hadn’t appeared in the office for two days. Not surprising with all the mess he’d created. The phone rang until the outgoing voice mail message came on.
“Call me,” said Milstein as he hung up with a curse. Goddamn Crane never answered his phone.
He stood for a moment in his opulent Park Avenue living room, trying to decide something. Finally, he reached into his desk and fished around for a cheap cell phone he kept there for just an occasion like this. There were three like it in the drawer. His instructions were to use the phones once and throw them away.
He checked the battery. Half full. That would be enough. He pushed the speed dial for a preprogrammed number and waited until the call co
“Fuck.”
7
Leonid Markov heard his phone vibrating on the side table.