Among Thieves (21 page)

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.

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.”

“Okay. When you figure?”

“Couple of hours. Did you line up your guys?”

“Four of them. Dudes we can trust. You want them on board now?”

“Not yet. But tell them they should be somewhere we can reach them if we need them. Are you back at the place?”

“Yeah.”

“Did Ciro get his cousin Joey?”

“Supposed to be on the way.”

“Good. Get the shotguns out and keep watch. I don't think anything is coming our way tonight, but be ready.”

“What happened with Kolenka?”

“He may have a dog in this fight.”

“How?”

“Markov is paying him to operate in his backyard.”

Manny made an unintelligible noise, but didn't comment beyond saying, “Anything else?”

“Stand by.”

Next, Beck called Alex Liebowitz and told him to gather what he needed for a black bag job and to be ready to go within the hour.

Beck checked his watch. Seven-thirty.

Demarco asked, “Now what?”

“Now we go on the offensive. Fast.”

 

27

Alan Crane spent nearly two hours cleaning up after the bloody fight in his loft, followed by an hour at his computer identifying positions that he could close out without taking significant losses.

But he couldn't really concentrate. He kept imagining a ball peen hammer smashing into his hand with the same force that Markov pounded it into his dining room table.

Crane paced back and forth, barefoot, on the Calamander hardwood floors of his Tribeca loft trying to convince himself that Markov wouldn't make good on his threats of violence if he succeeded in keeping the losses to a minimum.

Unfortunately, there were too many of his positions underwater. He was going to have to monitor every holding closely, take advantage of every uptick, and close out anything immediately that turned south. It would mean constant attention over as many days and hours as he could get from Markov.

Crane kept pacing, trying to figure out his alternatives. He needed to know how this thing had suddenly blown up. What had Milstein told Markov?

He picked up his cordless phone and pulled on his headset so he could keep pacing. He punched a speed-dial number. Milstein answered on the second ring.

“Alan.”

“Yes. So Frederick, do you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?”

“Don't shout at me.”

Crane shouted even louder. “I'll fucking shout at you all I want. Markov almost took a hammer to me, and his goons tried to kill that guy you sent up here. Who the hell was he? He shot one of Markov's men and crippled another before he got away. They practically destroyed my place. It took me two hours to clean up the blood.”

“What!?”

“You fucking heard me, Frederick, goddammit, or have you gone deaf?”

“All right. Calm down, Alan. Calm down. This is crazy. He was just supposed to go up there and hear your side of the story. Markov was supposed to explain to you the deal I made to pay off the woman, get you to agree to back off, and convince that thug to go away. What the hell happened?”

Crane took a deep breath.

“Christ. Tell me exactly what happened to you and what you told Markov. Then I'll explain what happened here.”

It took five minutes for each man to fill in the other. Finally, Milstein said, “Alan, this is completely out of hand. We've got to contain this. We have to shut this down.”

“Forget it. You're not shutting down Leonard Markov. Not after what happened up here.”

“What's he going to do?”

“He wants to kill Olivia and Beck. And if I don't close out millions in positions without incurring big losses, he's going to kill me, too.”

“I can't believe this is happening. Is Markov really threatening to kill you?”