Among Thieves Page 16

  Beck thanked Kolenka back, politely refused the offer of food and drink, remained deferential, mindful not to offend the man. But he felt out of his realm and wanted to be done with the stiff, back-room, Russian ritual.

  Kolenka hadn’t gotten to where he was by missing the signs and signals around him. He sensed Beck’s discomfort. He didn’t seem to take offense or require that Beck put it aside. He allowed Beck a graceful exit. Beck nodded once more in Kolenka’s direction, turned and walked out to the bar area in front, followed by the dark-suited emissary who had taken him out to Brighton Beach in his limo.

  He climbed into the Town Car limousine and rode back in silence to the midtown hotel in Manhattan where he was staying. Back then Red Hook had been in the planning stages, and Beck moved around quite a bit, enjoying his freedom as much as possible after eight long years in prison.

  The trip back out to Brighton Beach, this time with Demarco driving, seemed longer. They were caught in the rush hour flow of traffic out to the Island, moving slowly along the BQE to the Belt Parkway. Traffic finally opened up a bit when they made it past the Verrazano Bridge.

  Kolenka had no phone, no means of contacting him except via a personal connection. Beck knew this trip might be fruitless, but he was fairly sure that an attempt on his part to contact Kolenka would get a fast response.

  The first stop was the well-known Ukrainian Café Glechik.

  Coney Island Avenue seemed foreboding. Dark and dingy as the winter night set in. It was nearly six o’clock when they pulled up in front of the café. On the commercial block with most of the storefronts closed for the night, the brightly lit and bustling café seemed like a welcome oasis.

  Beck walked into the restaurant, while Demarco sat double-parked in the black Mercury.

  The heat, the steamy air filled with the pungent smells of traditional Ukrainian spices and food filled Beck’s head the moment he walked in the door. He seemed to remember that this place had gone down in reputation from its heyday, but he couldn’t have cared less. Nothing on the menu appealed to him, and wouldn’t have when it was more authentic.

  He found the manager after questioning a disinterested waiter. When Beck told him his name and leaned in closer to say he needed to see Kolenka, the man’s eyes actually opened wide.

  “Tell him I’ll be parked outside for the next half hour. If he can see me, I’ll assume he’ll get back to me by then. If he can’t, ask him to call me at this number.”

  Beck had written his cell phone number on the inside of a matchbook with a plain, white cardboard cover.

  Beck didn’t wait for any denials or refusals. He stuck the matchbook in the manager’s shirt pocket and walked back out to the Mercury.

  Eleven minutes later, a black GMC Yukon pulled up close behind them, and a battered Lincoln Town Car veered in front of them and backed up, trapping the Mercury Marauder between the two vehicles.

  Demarco Jones already had his Glock resting in his lap. He calmly pointed it toward the driver’s side door, keeping it low and out of sight.

  “Easy,” said Beck. “Let me talk to them.”

  Beck stepped out of the Mercury at the same time a large man in dark clothes came out the front passenger door of the Yukon.

  Beck tried to remember the last time he’d seen a normal-size Russian doing crime in the New York area.

  He kept his hands where they could be seen and took a couple of slow steps toward Kolenka’s man, who held up a hand indicating Beck should stop.

  “I’m Beck.”

  “Vassily. Okay, you come with me. Tell your friend you be back soon.”

  Beck thought about that for a second and said, “No. Let him follow you. He’ll stay in the car.”

  “I don’t want a fucking parade.”

  Beck said, “Then let one of your men ride with him and leave his car here. I’ll ride with you. Two cars. Your man goes with you, I go with my guy. I don’t want to waste time coming back here after I talk to Mr. Kolenka.”

  Vassily screwed up his face. He wasn’t pleased.

  “You want to explain to Mr. Kolenka why I never showed up?”

  Beck waited.

  Vassily took time to think it through.

  “Okay. But can’t have anybody but you around the boss. One of mine goes with your driver. They park a couple of blocks away. We go see Mr. Kolenka. Takes one minute to get you back to your driver. That’s fair.”

  Beck thought about it. There shouldn’t be any reason he would need Demarco. Mostly, he just didn’t want to be bossed around by Kolenka’s man.

  “Fine.”

  Vassily nodded toward Beck’s car. “Go tell your man.”

  Beck stepped back, leaned into the open window on the passenger side and said to Demarco. “Hey driver, you heard?”

  “Yes, sir, boss, I hear you.” Then Demarco said quietly, “You need me, hit your speed dial. I’ll get rid of their guy and get to you as fast as I can.”

  “Good enough.”

  Everybody took their seats. Beck in the Yukon next to the driver. Vassily sitting behind him. The gangster from the Town Car next to Demarco in the Mercury.

  Demarco pulled in behind the Yukon and the two cars headed down Coney Island Avenue toward the boardwalk. Vassily’s driver drove nearly fifty miles an hour until Vassily told him to pull over. Demarco, following behind, slid the Mercury to the curb behind the SUV. Vassily turned and saw Demarco stopped where he wanted him, and told his driver to go ahead.

  They continued four blocks straight down Coney Island until they came to a five-story apartment building about two hundred yards from the boardwalk.

  The driver double-parked the Yukon in front of the building, which surrounded a small courtyard set in about twenty feet from the curb. Beck saw Kolenka in the courtyard, hunched over on a bench, in the bitter winter air, smoking. Kolenka wore no hat or gloves or coat, only a well-worn white cable-knit sweater about two sizes too big for him. The old man seemed impervious to the freezing night air made more penetrating by the damp coming in off the ocean.

  Beck turned around and noted that Demarco was still in sight back on Coney Island Avenue.

  As he was about to get out of the Yukon, Vassily’s heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. He asked Beck, “You have weapons?”

  Beck’s survival instincts kicked in. The dark night. The out-of-the-way location. Strangers all round. There was no way he wanted to be completely defenseless, but he also needed to make the meeting happen.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Can’t have them around the boss.”

  “Okay.”

  Beck opened his coat and reached around to pull the Browning from under his belt near his right hip. He made sure to pull out the gun very slowly. He leaned forward and placed the Browning on the dashboard.

  “That everything?” asked Vassily.

  “I have this.” Beck made a show of pulling out a Kershaw folding combat knife and setting it next to the Browning.

  But what Beck didn’t show was the gun in a holster strapped to his right ankle: a Smith & Wesson 637 Airweight five-shot revolver with a light aluminum alloy frame and a two-and-a-half-inch barrel. Beck had taken it out of the glovebox of the Mercury and strapped it on his ankle on the way out to Brighten Beach.

  “Let’s go,” said Vassily.

  Beck slid out the passenger door. Vassily came out from the backseat and gave Beck a perfunctory pat down.

  “Okay. Go talk.”

  Beck walked into the courtyard, noting that Kolenka had one bodyguard standing in the shadows of the courtyard about six feet left of Kolenka. He never took his eyes off Beck.

  Kolenka looked even more wizened and thin than the last time Beck had seen him. He seemed completely disinterested in everything around him, his men, the twenty-degree cold, even Beck.

  Beck sat down on the bench next to the old-school Vory. Kolenka nodded, not bothering to turn in Beck’s direction, and said, “Beck,” as if to confirm Beck’s identity to himself.<
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  Beck said, “Good to see you again.”

  Kolenka nodded, but said nothing.

  “I came to ask for your help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “I need information. On two men. Leonid Markov and Gregor Stepanovich. Markov is Russian. Originally from Perm. Stepanovich is Bosnian.” Beck pulled out pictures of them from the inside pocket of his coat that Alex had printed.

  Kolenka barely glanced at the pictures. He took a long drag off his cigarette. It had burned down to a nub. He reached into the pockets of his well-worn pants and pulled out a battered pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes. He lit a fresh cigarette from the burning tip of the smoked-out butt.

  Beck waited while Kolenka mulled over the request, feeling the cold air, smelling the stale, pungent cigarette smoke. Kolenka stank of it, even in the open air.

  Kolenka’s silence worried Beck. If Markov had established himself in Kolenka’s backyard, one way or another whatever Markov did passed through or around Kolenka. It might not be in Kolenka’s interests to help Beck.

  Kolenka swallowed, smoked, looked left at his bodyguard, and then out to Vassily standing near the Yukon. Was this a signal of some sort?

  Finally, the old gangster spoke. “I have conflict here.”

  “All I’m asking for is information.”

  Kolenka raised an eyebrow and tipped his head.

  Beck waited for Kolenka to decide.

  Another puff. More acrid cigarette smoke.

  Kolenka stared straight ahead as he talked.

  “The man doesn’t use the name Stepanovich. Although you are right. That is his real name. He is scum. A pervert. The other one, Markov, different story.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s more businessman than criminal.” Kolenka shrugged. “But he is criminal, too. You have to understand that.”

  Beck cut right to it. “I know he deals arms. I know he is based in the U.S. now. I assume here, in Brighton Beach.”

  Kolenka interrupted. “And other places. In Virginia.”

  Beck thought about that for a moment. “Near Washington?”

  “Yes.”

  Beck realized Kolenka had just confirmed that Markov was dealing arms for the U.S.

  Kolenka pursed his lips, frowning. He took a deep drag from the Lucky, inhaling it so deeply that the smoke seemed as if it would be absorbed into his bones. Beck weighed his next question.

  He decided he might as well come right out and ask. “Do you have business dealings with him?”

  Kolenka moved the hand holding his cigarette in a gesture that seemed to indicate his surroundings.

  “He pays his respects.”

  Beck nodded at Kolenka’s euphemism.

  Kolenka asked, “What is your business with him?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Kolenka frowned at the evasion. “You have a problem with him?”

  “Indirectly.”

  Kolenka nodded. “Problems with one usually cause problems with others.” Beck realized Kolenka was giving him a warning. But about what, exactly? “You are a smart man, Mr. Beck. There are people he does business with who will protect him.”

  Shit, thought Beck. Now what? Does that include Kolenka protecting him? And what branch of government?

  Beck said, “I appreciate the information. I don’t want to trouble you anymore. But I’m going to ask a favor.”

  “You mean more than just information?”

  “Yes. Are you willing to deliver a message to Markov for me? For his own good. And, of course, mine.”

  Kolenka turned to Beck, for the first time looking directly at him. “What message?”

  “Tell him he should talk to me. Tell him, he has a problem that I can fix. Can you do that? Can you get that message to him without any risk to yourself?”

  “Is this the truth or a lie to get advantage?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  Beck shrugged. “I solve one problem, maybe I’ll prevent other problems.”

  “Ah.”

  Beck watched Kolenka’s skeletal face with its map of lines and wrinkles etched by the light and shadows as the old gangster thought through how to play the situation.

  Beck’s request was mostly an attempt to defuse any alarm he’d caused with Kolenka. Kolenka would certainly contact Markov to let him know about Beck’s inquiries.

  After about ten seconds, Kolenka nodded. “If Markov wants to talk, how can he reach you?”

  Beck pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket and wrote down a phone number that his lawyer Phineas P. Dunleavy had set up for him. The number went to an answering service. Any message would be relayed to the lawyer. And only then to Beck.

  “Someone will answer this number 24/7.”

  Kolenka took the dollar bill from Beck without looking at it and stuffed it into the same pocket where he kept his cigarettes.

  He looked away from Beck and said, “Good-bye, Beck.”

  Beck nodded, stood, and headed for the Yukon parked out on the street.

  As he walked out of the courtyard, Beck pictured the ruthless Vory giving Vassily a signal behind his back. Would it be a classic thumb across the throat? No, thought Beck. He won’t take the risk. But the isolated location, the cold, the aura of decay and lassitude that surrounded Kolenka all combined to create a sense of ugly foreboding.

  By the time he reached the double-parked Yukon, Vassily was on his cell phone, presumably calling his man sitting with Demarco. Or was he giving him instructions to take out Demarco. If so, thought Beck, fine. He’d never get the drop on Demarco Jones. And if gunfire erupted down the street, Beck knew he could get to the Smith and Wesson on his ankle and take out Vassily. But what about Kolenka’s bodyguard? And the driver?

  As Beck approached, Vassily opened the passenger-side door with his right hand. Beck noted that the big Russian held his Browning and knife in his left hand.

  For a moment, Beck hesitated. It would be easier for them to shoot him in the SUV. But then he saw that the lights of the Mercury had come on and Demarco was making a U-turn back on Coney Island, positioning the car in the right direction.

  “Let’s go,” said Vassily.

  Beck climbed into the Yukon.

  The Yukon pulled up behind Demarco, Beck slid out of the passenger seat, Vassily following, still holding Beck’s gun and knife.

  Vassily motioned for Beck to get into the Mercury. Beck passed Kolenka’s third man heading toward the Yukon, Vassily following behind. Before Beck climbed into his car, Vassily handed him the Browning and his knife. Then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the magazine and the bullet he’d taken out of the chamber.

  Beck didn’t say thanks. Vassily didn’t say good-bye.

  26

  Demarco made his way toward the Belt Parkway.

  “Shit,” said Beck.

  “What?”

  Beck grimaced. “Good news, bad news.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I got information on Markov I didn’t know, but it’s not good news.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s greasing Kolenka to let him operate in his backyard, and he’s running arms for some U.S. agency, which means he probably has connections I didn’t count on.”

  “Well, better you found out now,” said Demarco.

  “True, but now we have to do something about it.”

  “Why? Your beef isn’t with Markov.”

  “That’s before I shot one of his guys, maimed another, and pissed off some freak who seems to be in charge of his security.”

  Demarco shrugged. “So then we do what we have to. You worried about Kolenka?”

  Beck thought it over. “He won’t get involved unless he has to, but if he does…” Beck’s voice trailed off. He grimaced. “It could get very bad.”

  “I wouldn’t mind putting a bullet in that fat boy of his who took you in the Yukon.”

  “Why? What did he do?”


  “He was yelling on his cell phone to the guy sitting with me while you were talking to the head Russkie.”

  “Saying?”

  “Something about glupo chertovski negr.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Stupid fucking nigger.”

  “That’s not nice.”

  Demarco turned to Beck. “Moron. I gotta take that from some fat Russian slob?”

  Beck nodded. “What’s worse? That he called you the N-word, or stupid?”

  Demarco considered the question seriously. “Stupid.”

  “Hey, next time I see him I’ll tell him you’re smart enough to know Russian.”

  “Tell him after I give him a beating.”

  “Where’d you learn Russian?”

  “Playing chess with the Russians in Dannemora. Believe me, they had a very limited vocabulary.”

  Beck lapsed into silence. Demarco slid onto the Belt Parkway heading for Brooklyn. After a minute, Beck looked at his watch and pulled out his cell phone, starting a series of calls.

  The first call was to Ricky Bolo.

  “Ricky, Beck—how’s it going on that surveillance I asked you to set up?”

  “Peachy.”

  “Have any trouble finding Milstein?”‘

  “Nope. I’m parked on Seventy-ninth in the warm, comfortable Bolo-mobile, and Jonas is outside watching the back exit on Eightieth, freezing and bitching like a whiny little girl.”

  “Good. Drive around and pick up your brother and head over to Hubert Street in Tribeca between Greenwich and Washington. Check out the neighborhood and call me back.”

  “On it.”

  The next call was to Manny.

  “Manny, did you get Olivia set up in that hotel?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Okay, we need her locked-down tight. Markov may have resources that can find her. So call and tell her to shut off her cell phone. No calls, no e-mails, no Internet, no texts, nothing. She didn’t use her credit card when she checked in, did she?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Get a woman you trust to go sit with her and make sure she doesn’t leave her hotel room. For sure. No slippage. She stays put until I get there. I have to talk to her.”