Among Thieves Page 18

  And then, Beck’s plan evaporated.

  Up the block Alan Crane walked out of his building, heading their way. Gregor Stepanovich emerged from the SUV parked east of Crane’s building and intercepted him in the middle of the block.

  30

  Gregor asked him, “Where you going?”

  “To eat. What am I now, your prisoner?”

  “Mr. Markov thinks you might need someone to watch out for you. You should be grateful.”

  Crane rolled his left shoulder and said, “Yeah, I’m real grateful. I can hardly use my fucking arm thanks to you. Exactly what do you mean by ‘watch out’ for me? If you want to watch out for me, you can come watch me eat.”

  Crane stepped around Stepanovich and continued walking.

  Gregor fell in next to Crane.

  “I asked you once, now I ask again. Where you going?”

  Crane stopped and pointed south. “Jeezus fucking Christ, Gregor, a couple of blocks. Over to Harrison. It’s a restaurant over there.”

  “I walk with you. Make sure you get there safe.”

  Crane shook his head. “Unbelievable.” They started walking together. After a few steps he said to Stepanovich, “You’re not really planning to sit with me while I eat are you?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  * * *

  Beck watched them talk, and then continue walking together toward Greenwich Street. Crane didn’t look very happy about Markov’s man walking with him.

  As they approached, Beck said, “Guys, hunker down. Better they don’t see us.”

  Manny sauntered off away from the Porsche.

  Demarco said, “How the hell is Joey going to get out of sight?”

  Ciro started to laugh. Beck started to laugh. Joey B gamely tried to hunch down in the backseat, which made everyone laugh harder.

  Luckily, Stepanovich and Crane walked past them on the other side of Greenwich and never bothered to look at the Porsche.

  Still smiling, Beck said, “Okay, calm the fuck down. So much for that plan. Alex, take off now. Get into the building with your passkey. Get to work on that computer.”

  “I should go into the basement. Check his alarm system first.”

  “Okay, whatever. Just go now. Work as fast as you can. Demarco, go follow those two and call me when they end up wherever they’re headed.”

  Alex and Demarco left. Beck slid over to the passenger seat. He looked out onto the street to find Manny, who was leaning back in the shadows on Hubert Street. He motioned for Manny to get in the Porsche.

  As Manny slipped behind the wheel, Beck turned in the passenger seat so he could talk to everybody at once.

  “Okay, you guys, hang in here. The goal is the same. Give Alex enough time to do what he has to. Position yourselves near those SUVs. If those guys make a move, stop them.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Go wherever that fucker ends up and keep him there until Alex is done. Maybe we can pull this off without shooting up the neighborhood.”

  Manny asked, “You going to pick up Alex, or you want me to?”

  “We’ll see. You guys might be busy keeping those assholes in the SUV out of play.”

  Beck watched Alex slip into Crane’s lobby. With his long herringbone overcoat, Buddy Holly glasses, and backpack, he looked like he belonged in the trendy loft building.

  Beck’s cell phone rang. Demarco told him, “The guy from the building just settled in at a table near the front of a restaurant called Harrison. Place is small, but a shitload of people in here. He ordered a drink. He’s checking out the menu. Looks like he’s going to take his time with his meal. Baldy walked him to the door and left.”

  “Okay, good. See if you can get a seat at the bar where you can keep an eye on him. When it looks like Crane’s ready for dessert, call me. If Alex isn’t done, I’ll come to the restaurant and sit on him. I’ll tell Alex to call you when he’s finished. You stay at the bar and signal me when Alex calls you.”

  “Got it.”

  Beck scanned the street for Stepanovich. The tall man’s head appeared from the south bobbing above the few people on the street. Beck rolled his shoulders, feeling the stiffness and pain from the blows Stepanovich inflicted with his steel baton. He pictured walking up to Stepanovich in the middle of the block and shooting him in the face. It might save him a lot of trouble later, but murdering someone in the middle of Tribeca wasn’t part of the plan.

  Stepanovich crossed Greenwich in the middle of the block, angling toward his SUV, talking on his cell.

  31

  Demarco Jones’s seat at the crowded bar gave him a sidelong view of Crane. Demarco was sure Crane had no idea he was watching him, mostly with his peripheral vision.

  Jones sat quietly sipping Grand Marnier and coffee, attracting attention from a few of the restaurant patrons who decided he was probably some sort of pro athlete. Crane was too involved in his dinner and his own thoughts to notice anything around him.

  * * *

  At ten-twenty, Beck’s phone rang. It took two seconds for Demarco to give Beck the message. It took Beck about three minutes to arrive at the restaurant and slip into the empty chair opposite Crane.

  Crane had just been served coffee and one of the house-made éclairs for dessert. He stopped the coffee cup midway between the saucer and his mouth.

  “Oh, Christ,” he muttered.

  “Nice to see you, too. How’re you doing, Mr. Crane? Last time I saw you, you were taped to a table. This looks a little more pleasant. Mind if I join you?”

  “You just did.”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Well,” said Beck, “I guess I want to help you. Or, you know, I want you to help me help you. Like the line from that Tom Cruise movie. How’s that sound?”

  “It sounds stupid. What the hell are you talking about?”

  Beck leaned across the table, ignoring Crane’s question. “What was the deal with that hammer? Were they going to use that on you?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Let me ask you something. Those guys with the hammer and tape, those were the same ones who tried to kill me. I got a goddamn knife wound in my leg and about a thousand welts on my back where that bald fucker hit me with a steel baton, not to mention that fat guy trying to shoot me.”

  “I don’t hear a question.”

  “Yeah, so I intend to do something about that. I would imagine you’d be in favor of that, wouldn’t you?”

  Crane gave Beck an appraising look. He had to admit, the man had impressed him with how he’d handled Stepanovich and his men.

  “I might be.”

  “That being the case, how about giving me a little information where I might find your buddies. Let ’em know it’s not something they can get away with.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  Crane sipped his coffee, took a bite from his éclair, and continued to study Beck.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re the one who goes to Milstein about that fucking whore Olivia Sanchez, and threatens to kill him so he’ll pay her off. Then you come to my place, intending to do what? The same thing, right?”

  “Not necessarily. Milstein just said I should get your reaction on the severance package he agreed to with me. And something about getting your side of the story.”

  “Severance package?”

  “That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? And, oh yes, he wanted me to convince you to lay off with the threats and the lawsuits and blackballing her.”

  “What world are you living in?”

  “Yours, my friend. That’s the way things are done in your world, aren’t they? Everybody gets a golden parachute, or whatever.”

  “Uh-huh. Meanwhile, Milstein calls Markov and gets him all riled up, knowing Markov would probably show up with his Bosnian army to threaten me and do whatever they intended to do to you.”

  “So you’re saying Milstein purposely killed t
he deal? Okay, so Milstein goes on the list, too. But I know where to find him. I don’t know where to find the fat guy and the others.”

  “And what makes you think I want to have anything to do with you? You’re working for that crazy bitch who started all this shit. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Hey, let’s not get bogged down on who started what,” said Beck.

  “Yeah, let’s not. How about you just get the fuck away from me and leave me alone?”

  “Alone to do what? Have Markov and his buddies torture you? Why not let me get between you and them? Tell me who they are, and where I can find them.”

  “Who they are? They’re bad fucking news, that’s who they are. They’re crazy. That moron Olivia sets everything off. You start making trouble. Freddy Milstein the idiot panics. He calls the client. A man you do not want to call about any trouble, because Leonard Markov is someone who lives in a paranoid drug-addled world of craziness. Milstein sets Markov off like a bomb, and now everything has gone to shit.”

  Crane leaned across the table toward Beck.

  “I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. There’s nothing you can do but make my life worse. So stay the fuck away from me. You’re part of the reason I’m in this mess.”

  “You’re telling me they’re going to leave you alone.”

  “Are you deaf or stupid, or both?”

  Crane motioned for the check. “Listen to me, and then never talk to me again. Olivia stuck her nose into something she had no business getting involved with. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Milstein encouraged her to do it. I set her straight. She kept pushing it. She got you involved, whoever the fuck you are. You obviously scared the shit out of Milstein. He goes to the client, Markov. Markov loses whatever little sense he had to begin with. His only response is … shut it down and give me my money.

  “Okay. Fine. He’s going to lose a shitload. Not my problem. I do what he says. I’ll try to minimize the damage. I’ll try to do it in such a way that maybe Markov won’t break every bone in my body and have his insane enforcer Stepanovich put a bullet in my head. But the bottom line is, it’s all gone to shit. And there’s not a fucking thing you can do about that!

  “Milstein loses the only investor that might have kept that bust-out brokerage of his afloat. Sanchez loses any chance she’ll ever have of working in finance. As well she fucking should. Forget Milstein’s bullshit about paying her off. The place probably won’t be in business six months from now. Me, I’m the only one out of all of them who can make money out of money, and trust me, there will always be a place for me to land.

  “So Mr. Beck, or whatever the fuck your name is, I don’t need you, I don’t need Milstein, Markov—any of you. So fuck off and good-bye.”

  Beck glanced over at Demarco, sitting at the bar. He saw Demarco on his phone. Demarco shook his head slightly, indicating that Alex Liebowitz wasn’t done.

  Just then Crane’s phone, which had been sitting on the table, buzzed. He checked the number and answered it.

  He listened for just a moment, then said, “I’m leaving now. No, you don’t have to.”

  Crane hung up, dropped his phone back on the table, and muttered, “Asshole.”

  The waiter brought the check and turned away without a word. Crane stuffed cash into the check folder, stood, and leaned in close to Beck.

  “And one more thing, tough guy. Markov is going to squash you like a bug. Trust me. If they’d wanted to kill you, Stepanovich would have had orders to shoot you the minute you stepped off my elevator. They wanted to find out who you are and what you were up to, until you went all commando on them. So now they won’t hesitate, and I for one don’t want to be around you when they pull the trigger. So do me a favor and stay the fuck away from me.”

  32

  Beck watched Crane leave. He stood up and pantomimed steering a car to Demarco, indicating he should get the Mercury. He walked out after Crane.

  Beck checked his watch. Nearly 10:40 p.m. Crane was about twenty feet ahead of him.

  It was cold, damp, windy. There were still people in the bars and restaurants along Greenwich Street, but there was no one on the street within view.

  Beck closed the distance between him and Crane. When he was within six feet, he called out. “Hey, Crane.”

  Crane had just wrapped a long red scarf made of fine Peruvian alpaca around his neck and was still buttoning up his expensive cashmere overcoat. He turned at Beck’s call, exasperated. He stood there watching him approach, shaking his head.

  Beck closed the distance between them in two strides and buried his right fist into Crane’s solar plexus without any extra motion or warning. He held back on the punch, because he didn’t want to knock Crane out completely. Crane crumpled and would have gone down on his knees if Beck hadn’t grabbed his arm and eased him into a sitting position on a raised platform outside a restaurant where they were standing.

  “Have a seat. Just for future reference, you ever talk to me like that, I’ll beat you so bad you’ll spend six months in a hospital and never be the same.”

  Crane remained doubled over, barely able to suck in a breath. He wavered between throwing up and passing out.

  Beck took a quick look around and spotted Stepanovich coming into view on Greenwich. He crossed the sidewalk and slipped between two parked cars out into the street.

  A more reckless man might have been tempted to play the hero and face Stepanovich straight on. Not Beck. He wasn’t taking any chances. He had no idea what weapons Stepanovich might have on him.

  Beck walked north on Greenwich, bent over so the parked cars would block Stepanovich’s view of him. He kept sight of the Bosnian through the car windows by raising his head just high enough to see him pass by.

  The moment Stepanovich passed him, Beck slid in between cars, walking lightly, slipping into position behind Stepanovich, ready to take the tall man down.

  But Beck had underestimated Stepanovich. Either he had seen Beck moving around behind him, or heard him, or perhaps Crane had signaled him, but without any hint of stopping or turning, Stepanovich spun and whipped a closed fist at Beck’s head.

  Beck’s reaction time saved him from a knockout blow to his temple. He just managed to duck under the blow, which clearly demonstrated Stepanovich’s reach advantage.

  Stepanovich didn’t hesitate; he continued his spin and launched his left knee into Beck, who barely managed to block it with his forearms. The blow didn’t hit anything vital, but it knocked Beck into the side of a building. Gregor closed in on him. Beck fired a hurried, off-balance front kick at Stepanovich, ramming his right heel into the taller man’s left kneecap.

  Stepanovich flinched backward, lifting his left foot off the ground, skipping back a step to keep his balance.

  Beck surged forward, slapped aside Stepanovich’s raised hands, rammed his left elbow into Stepanovich’s head, banged his right fist into Stepanovich’s left temple, followed by a rapid set of six punches to the Bosnian’s face, throat, and chest.

  Stepanovich blocked most of them and tried to head butt Beck in the face. Beck dodged it but felt the bristles on the Bosnian’s head scrape across his left check.

  Beck hadn’t planned on being in a fight like this. It had only lasted about ten seconds, but two people had already stepped out of the restaurant where he had put Crane. Beck was sure someone was already dialing 911.

  Stepanovich made a grab with his long arms for Beck’s head, getting two huge hands around the back of his neck, pulling Beck toward him, his mouth open trying to take a bite out of Beck’s face. Beck jammed his hands against Stepanovich’s chest to hold him off.

  Stepanovich, snarling and grunting, tried to pull Beck to him.

  Beck kept his hands on Stepanovich’s chest, holding him at bay, but not so far away that he didn’t smell the sour stink of his breath. The thought of Stepanovich biting him made Beck furious. He suddenly brought two fists up hard into the underside of the Bosnian’s mouth, slamming h
is jaws shut and snapping his head back. But Stepanovich still held onto the back of Beck’s neck, launching three fast knee kicks to Beck’s ribs and hip.

  Beck tried to twist away from the strikes, to block them with his elbows, but the Bosnian’s arms and legs were too long and the blows landed causing sharp, nearly paralyzing pain.

  Beck cursed to himself, intent on ending this now. He focused, shifted away from another kick, timed his move, reared back slightly, not giving the Bosnian any warning, just enough to seem like he was trying to avoid the knee kicks, and then he snapped his head forward with enormous force into the center of the Bosnian’s face. He caught him perfectly, and heard the muffled crunch as Stepanovich’s nose cartilage split like shattering bamboo.

  Beck felt the Bosnian sag. He let Gregor’s grip around his neck stay, so that the Bosnian remained close to him and twisted fast, hard right and left hooks into his chest and ribs with as much force as his hands could stand. The blows lifted Stepanovich off his feet. He was half conscious, immobilized by the body shots. Beck punched hard into both of Stepanovich’s arms, broke the grip around his neck, and shoved Stepanovich away from him.

  Stepanovich staggered back and would have gone down, but he fell against the wall behind him. His broken nose streamed blood. He was doubled over in pain, and yet in a perverse way he seemed to relish the feeling. He spat a mouthful of blood and saliva at Beck, grinning at him, daring Beck to come finish him off.

  But police sirens were sounding in the distance.

  Beck couldn’t afford to get arrested for brawling. Clearly, he wasn’t going to finish off Stepanovich quickly. He turned away just as Demarco pulled up in the black Mercury. He slid into the passenger seat, and they accelerated away from the scene, heading downtown, away from Crane, his apartment, and Gregor Stepanovich.

  Demarco said, “Can’t leave you alone for a minute without you getting into a fight.”