Among Thieves (42 page)

Walter watched the sergeant think it over. He seemed a bit young to have the job. Pearce watched him check his credentials one more time, thinking over what Pearce had said. Walter knew better than to say anything more to convince him. After about thirty seconds, the young sergeant picked up the phone.

It took a full fifteen minutes for Jeffrey Esposito to appear. His opening comment was, “Who are you, and how do you know about my warrants for these guys in Red Hook?”

Walter began by apologizing for the intrusion.

“Sorry to get into the middle of this thing, but I think I can help you. I know what's going on because I'm the one who went to the brass at One PP and got this whole thing going.”

“What thing?”

“Serving arrest warrants on James Beck and Ciro Baldassare.”

The fact that Walter knew their names told Esposito he should listen to what this man had to say.

“Go ahead.”

“It was my boss that those two assaulted. Fellow named Milstein. His law firm has connections with somebody who had enough juice to put pressure on One PP.”

“I'm listening.”

“You should know that Beck and Baldassare are not going to go quietly. They are part of a bigger crew. I've been looking into them. It's almost certain a good number of that crew will be at that location tonight.”

“Why didn't you tell that to the brass?”

“I did. Spoke to a chief called Waldron, but he wasn't in the mood to take advice from me, if you know what I mean. I started worrying that information might not filter down to you. All I'm sayin' is, if you have to serve those warrants tonight, and it seems like you do, go out there with your heads up and ready.”

“For what, exactly?”

“I don't know exactly. I just know you could be facing more than two men and a lot of them armed. Go with as many men as you can get.”

“Great, and how the fuck am I going to get that kind of backup at one o'clock in the morning?”

Walter knew this was the crucial part. He couldn't tell Esposito what to do. But he had to give him enough direction to cover what Beck had asked.

“Well, I was you, I'd grab what you can. Don't go charging into anything. Call a ten-thirteen as soon as you get there. Call it hard and loud. Wait until every cop in the area shows up before you go in.”

“Christ.”

“If you go in with enough manpower, it'll be worth it. You'll get more than just the two assholes on your warrants. If you go in aware, this could be very good for you.”

“Good for me? How?”

“You'll take down more than just those two. A lot more. And the brass will be glad you did. These are bad people.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Trust me, I know,” said Walter. “I don't have time to explain everything, but I'm trying to help you.”

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Because I don't want to be the reason a bunch of cops get hurt out there tonight. I'm off the force, but I'm working in private security. I brought this thing to that bureau chief, so my name's all over this. Somebody gets hurt out there tonight, it won't go good for me. You can see that.”

“So who are you trying to help here? You, or me?”

“Both.”

Esposito nodded. It made sense, but it didn't make him happy,

“And I'm supposed to trust you, some guy I don't know from Adam.”

“If you had more time, you could check me out. I'd come up good.”

Walter watched Esposito struggling with what he had been told. Walter made his final pitch. “It's too late to call it off. The brass will murder you. All I'm saying is, call for backup before you go in. What's the downside?”

“Me looking like an asshole.”

Walter was about to tell Esposito how bad he'd look if he didn't listen to him, but he held back. Instead, he said, “Do what you think is best.”

It would have to do. He turned and walked out of the precinct. The last thing he had to do was give Beck the word when the cops headed out, but he knew he couldn't do much more than that. He had no idea if the precinct detective was going to take his advice.

 

67

Beck checked his watch. Five minutes to two. He'd received Ricky's last call twenty minutes ago. He figured with no traffic it would take about a half hour to drive from Brighton Beach to Red Hook. He called Willie Reese and told him to be on the lookout for two SUVs, as well as cops coming into the neighborhood. He'd told Willie all he needed was a heads-up, nothing more.

Beck told him again, “Let me know what you see, but stay out of sight, man. Seriously. Don't put yourself anywhere around this.”

“I'm up in the fuckin' projects, dude. Nobody gonna see me, but I'll tell you right now, I see them.”

“Who? What?”

“Two black SUVs comin' down Lorraine, heading your way.”

“Can you spot any cops anywhere?”

“Nah. No five-oh anywhere I can see. Got some boys over by all the Hamilton Street crossings and ain't heard any word from them about cops.”

“Okay, thanks. Stay where you are.”

“I hear you, boss, but I got one request.”

“What's that?”

“Don't let any dumb-ass motherfuckers bust up my window.”

Beck smiled. “I'll do what I can.”

And then Beck heard the far-off sound of a car engine breaking the silence of the dead winter night. The sound seemed to be coming his way, slowly.

“I think I hear 'em.”

Beck's phone signaled another incoming call. Shit.

“Take care, Willie.”

He tried to drop the call to Reese and catch the second one. He ended up with only a dial tone. “Goddammit.”

Had to be Pearce. But what was the message? He'd made the pitch? They bought it? Didn't buy it? Were coming? Weren't coming? Fucking cell phones.

Suddenly, Beck saw the glare of headlights behind him on Van Brunt.

It was going down. A black SUV turned onto Reed.

Too late to try to call Pearce. Had to go with the assumption that even if the cops were coming, they'd be too late. Useless pieces of shit. I must have been crazy to count on them.

The SUV rolled past Beck, headed in the direction of Conover.

Beck let the SUV get about twenty feet ahead of him, then edged out into the street. He crouched down low near the front of the car he had been hiding next to so that he could have a better view in front of him.

He glanced across the street at Olivia's Porsche. No sign of Ciro and Joey B. Good, stay out of sight, boys.

Now they all had to wait. Stick with the plan until they couldn't. If the cops came in time, it might work. If not … Beck didn't want to think about “if not.”

Beck watched the SUV slow to a halt a few feet before the gate. Shit. It would be better if they had stopped parallel to the gate. Fuck it. Beck eased a few feet forward, still keeping low. In the dim light Beck could make out the Chevy emblem on the back of the SUV. It was a Suburban. Big enough for a lot of men.

The passenger door of the SUV opened. One man stepped out of the vehicle. He had a two-foot-long bolt cutter. So far so good. The interior lights dimmed as he shut the door behind him, but it was on long enough to light up the inside of the Suburban. Time enough for Beck to catch sight of Stepanovich's bald head rising above the others, but not enough time to get a body count. Didn't matter. At least he knew where Stepanovich was.

The man with the bolt cutter went straight to the chain on the gate and set to work. Beck hoped he'd be smart enough to cut the hasp of the lock. The chain would be too hard for a bolt cutter. Even one that big.

The guy kept working it, grinding away, opening and closing the long handles. Finally the chain fell. He grabbed the end of the gate and tried to pull it open. Nothing. He pushed on it, leaning his weight against it. It went nowhere.

Jeezus Christ, thought Beck, you dumb son of a bitch. Slide it. Slide the damn thing. It's on wheels.

Finally, the man with the bolt cutter figured it out and started to push the gate to his right. The wheels were frozen or rusted. They wouldn't turn. Another of Stepanovich's men stepped out of the Suburban and helped him. They kept lifting and shoving the long gate over the patches of frozen snow, opening it wider and wider.

What are they doing? Beck wondered.

And then he saw what they were up to. They intended to drive the SUV into the lot. Why? What were they thinking?

Beck began worrying that Ciro and Joey B might start shooting as soon as they saw the SUV pull in, but there was nothing he could do about it. They were across the street in the parking lot behind a tall wrought-iron fence. Too far away to signal them.

*   *   *

Out in front of the bar, Manny Guzman watched a second SUV, a black Chevy Tahoe, turn onto Conover. He remained back in the doorway, hidden by a small slice of shadow. Waiting. Watching.

He agreed with Beck that killing any of these men would bring way too much heat down on them. But if it came down to it, he would kill as many of these bastards as he could, and die doing it before he let anybody hurt Beck, or the bar, or any of his brothers.

The Tahoe stopped on the other side of the street, right across from the bar. Manny nodded. So far so good. If Demarco could do what he had to.

Well, thought Manny, if anybody can, it's Demarco Jones. If not, fuck it. What happens, happens.

*   *   *

Back by the empty lot, Beck realized it wasn't quite as bad as he first thought. He saw what they were doing. It was actually pretty smart. Once they got the gate open wide enough for the SUV, the driver made a slow Y-turn and backed it into the lot so it ended up facing out toward Reed Street.

The driver rolled the big Chevy into the open space where the gate had been, halfway in the lot, halfway out on the sidewalk, effectively blocking most of the only way in or out of the empty lot.

*   *   *

Out on Conover, Manny watched the passenger door behind the driver ease open. One of the men in the SUV stepped out onto the street, leaned back in the SUV, and brought out a five-gallon polyethylene gas can which he placed on the cobblestone street. Then he leaned in and brought out another five-gallon poly can.

Once the gasoline cans were on the street, the man crouched down next to them. He was short, stocky, wearing dark clothes.

Manny watched as he looked at the bar for a moment, and then unscrewed the lids on both cans. He turned the lids over, revealing the spigots, and screwed them back on the cans. The rest of the crew got out of the Chevy and took cover behind the length of the big SUV.

They moved quietly. No slamming doors. No talking. Two positioned themselves behind the hood. Two behind the roof. One crouched at the back end of the SUV. The driver stayed in the vehicle.

So far, Beck had called it right.

They all looked at Beck's building. It was dark and quiet. Either it was empty, or everyone inside was asleep with the lights off.

There was no movement anywhere on the desolate street. No sounds except a distant foghorn way out in New York Bay.

The arsonist stayed crouched down low, waiting, listening. And then he was ready. He slid one of the five-gallon containers around and grabbed it with his right hand, leaving the other for his left. He turned to say something to the men on the other side of the SUV.

Just before the attacker with the gasoline turned back to face the bar, Manny slipped out of his doorway and moved quickly for the cover of an old wooden utility pole. He reached the pole and stayed behind it, leaning his back against the rough wood. He took a deep breath, leaned out, and aimed his long-barrel thirty-eight at the red can on the arsonist's left side.

His first shot missed the poly can by a quarter of an inch, and plowed into the side of the arsonist's leg, just above the ankle. He went down. Manny fired again. This time his shot hit the polyethylene can on the left. The hot bullet didn't ignite the gasoline, but the container exploded, and five gallons of gas, probably mixed with some sort of accelerant, splattered everywhere.

By the second shot, the men behind the SUV had seen Manny and began firing back.

They were Kolenka's men. Seasoned. Calm. Shooting rapidly, but without panicking. Two were leaning flat on the hood of the Chevy, bracing their shooting arms, firing semiautomatic handguns slowly. A third held fire and watched, while the fourth fired a rifle somewhat blindly over the roof of the tall SUV. The fifth man crouched behind the back of the vehicle, fired two-shot bursts in Manny's direction from another handgun.

Manny had twisted back behind the telephone pole, standing sideways. The pole just about covered him completely, but bullets zinged past him, wood chips from the pole flying around him. He couldn't move. He was trapped. But he had just one more thing to do, and with the hail of bullets, it would be impossible not to get hit.

Shit, thought Manny. Come on, D. Get to work, man.

*   *   *

The gunfire over on Conover Street couldn't have been timed better. The sound forced Stepanovich and his men to get moving.

Now Beck saw how many attackers had come. Six more men, including Stepanovich, piled out of the SUV, joining the two already outside the vehicle. They all started running into the empty lot, fanning out to get in position behind Beck's building. Beck saw three with some sort of rifles. The rest seemed to be holding handguns.

Across the street Ciro had maintained iron discipline, following Beck's orders even though the SUV had ended up in a place different from what they'd planned. Exactly one minute after the last man had exited the Suburban, Ciro stepped out from behind Olivia's Porsche, walked to the wrought iron fence bordering the parking lot, and started methodically shooting rounds from his M-16 into the SUV. Joey B followed next to him and began pumping blasts of 12 gauge into the vehicle, aiming for the tires first, and then the windshield.