Among Thieves (18 page)

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe now is the time to reach out. Just to have a little manpower if we need it. No need to bring them in now. Just to have things in place.”

Manny nodded. He stood up without a word and headed for his kitchen downstairs, leaving Olivia and Beck at the dining table.

When Manny was out of earshot, Beck leaned forward, arms on the table.

“Okay, listen to me. You and I are going to sort this out. I don't have time to explain the whys or whatevers behind the things I need to do. Okay?”

Olivia nodded.

“You understand why we said you can't have any contact with Milstein or Crane now, right?”

“I think so.”

“Something happens to either of them, you don't want to be near it. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Considering what they tried to do to me, keep in mind—without me and Manny and our crew you'd might very well already be dead.” Beck paused, giving what he said time to sink in. “When I ask you a question, I need careful answers.”

“Okay.”

Before Beck continued, he looked past Olivia at Ciro. The big man had settled back on the couch, leaving it up to Beck for the moment. Manny was gone, which enabled Beck to talk freely.

Beck looked at Olivia, making sure to put aside enjoying her exquisite face. Or looking at the spaces between the buttons of her white shirt. Or anything that had to do with her being desirable in any way. He looked only at her eyes, looking past the flecks of gold in the deep browns and shades of ocher that gave her eyes their nearly mesmerizing color, hoping to see fear in them.

He began his questions carefully.

“How do Milstein and Crane know each other?”

“As far as I know, just from being in the business. Crane has always had a reputation as a moneymaker, but someone who takes risk. A lot of risk. But risk is what creates reward. Like I said, Milstein needed revenue. Somewhere along the line, I assume Milstein reached out to him. Could have been the other way around, but I'd say Milstein made the deal.”

“So they have no past history together?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

Christ, thought Beck, she's back to hedging her answers. He decided he'd better get to the heart of it.

“Is Crane making money now? Is he underwater, or in the green?”

“I don't know. He did well last year, but now, honestly, I don't know. The fund managers don't report numbers until they absolutely have to.”

“What happens to Summit if they lose Markov?”

“My opinion, if they lose Markov, the firm might go under. Milstein needs the income Crane's bringing in. He might muddle through. I can't be sure.”

“How long has Crane been running Markov's money?”

“I don't know about before Summit. A little over a year at Summit.”

“So he has to have made money for him in the past. Nobody is going to stick around with somebody who's losing.”

“Absolutely. But like I said, his risk profile is very high.”

“Even if he's pulling all kinds of shit to bring down the value of stocks he's shorting?”

“The market is way bigger than one guy and one hedge fund. A few wrong moves can really hurt.”

“Where's Milstein on this?”

“Hoping the money keeps coming in and Crane doesn't blow up.”

“What about Markov? Does he think Crane can keep this going?”

“My experience is, unscrupulous people like being with someone who is stealing for them. Doing it straight is for suckers. But guys like Markov, they can sense when it's time to pick up their chips and leave.”

Beck nodded.

“You said, you estimated Markov's holdings are over a hundred million.”

“Yes. Although, like I said, I don't see the day-to-day numbers.”

“How's one guy amassed that much?”

Olivia gave Beck a confused look. “Do you know how many people out there have amassed that much and more?”

“No.”

“Thousands. Tens of thousands. It takes a lot of people to make up the one percent, Mr. Beck. From what I hear, Markov has been at this for a long time.”

Beck changed the subject. “How much time would Crane need to liquidate everything?”

Olivia frowned and shook her head. “It all depends. If Markov pressures him to do it fast, it could be within a couple of days. I'm sure Crane is in a bunch of different markets. But I don't know his positions. A lot of his trades are options. He might be underwater, waiting for stocks to gap up, or more likely down. If so, he'll push for more time. It depends on how much Markov pushes to get out. And how much it will cost him.”

“Give me an outside time. Your best guess.”

Olivia looked up, thinking it through, talking out loud. “I don't know, what's today, Wednesday? Markov doesn't seem like a very patient man. Probably end of the week, Friday latest.”

Beck nodded. Lost in thought for a moment. “I don't suppose you have any extra clothes with you.”

“No.”

“Did you drive here?”

“Yes. Manny said parking wouldn't be a problem, so I drove.”

“What kind of car do you have?”

“A Porsche SUV.”

“The Cayenne?”

“Yes.”

“You can't go back to your apartment. It's too dangerous. And this place could be as much a target as your apartment. It know it's an expense, but you should check into a hotel for a few days.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Okay. I know a place where I can get a good rate.”

“Where?”

“The Four Seasons on Fifty-seventh.”

“Little close to Summit, don't you think?”

“What difference does it make? It doesn't sound like I'll be going out much. I like the hotel and I have a connection there.”

“You're not using some corporate rate are you? Something that could get back to Milstein.”

Olivia smiled. It was the first time Beck had seen her smile. It was a beautiful smile.

“No, nothing will get back to Milstein. Summit has no connection to that hotel. Out-of-town clients stay wherever they want. I just know one of the managers from going there for lunch a lot. If the hotel isn't full, I'll get a better rate and a better room than I could get anywhere else.”

“Okay, so do you mind if we borrow your car while you're there?”

“Of course not.”

“I would prefer you get out of here sooner rather than later. I'm going to ask Manny to take you to that hotel. Maybe stop somewhere you can buy some clothes. Enough for a few days.”

“All right.”

“And try to be fast about the shopping. Manny doesn't like hanging around anywhere.”

“I understand.”

Beck stood up abruptly and said, “Okay. I'm sure there's more that I'll need your help on. This is going to go where it goes. I can rely on you to help us, right?”

“Anything. I got you all into this.”

“Good.”

Beck walked over to the front of the loft where Ciro sat. Olivia headed downstairs to meet with Manny.

“Ciro, we might need some firepower on the home front.”

“Yeah, sounds like it. You want a few of my guys to bunk in?”

“I prefer to keep the psychopaths to a minimum. Manny is talking to some of his people if we need them. So, for now, you should plan to be around here, and how about your cousin Joey? Is he available?”

Ciro pulled out his cell phone.

“I'll find out. How long should we plan on?”

“For now let's say two, three days.”

“So, James…”

“What?”

“We're still following the usual playbook, right?”

“Always. The game might be a little different on this one, but yeah.”

Ciro nodded. “Understood.”

Suddenly, without warning, a voice sounded from out on the street, yelling Beck's name.

One second Ciro was on the couch. The next he was at the second-floor window, his .45 in his hand.

Beck yelled out, “Easy, Ciro. I know who it is.”

 

22

Beck parted the heavy curtain just enough to see outside.

He stepped back and told Ciro, “Take it easy, I got this.”

Willie Reese stood across the street next to a plate glass installer's truck.

Beck parted the curtains and cranked open his casement window.

“Quiet down, Willie. I'm coming. Don't move.”

*   *   *

Willie Reese turned to the man behind the wheel of the van. “Don't move.”

Beck went downstairs. Manny and Olivia were in the downstairs kitchen. Demarco stood at his usual spot behind the bar. Beck pulled open the front door and motioned Reese inside.

“You got something against knocking?”

“Not on this fuckin' door. Too many damn shotguns on the other side.”

Reese stepped into the bar and stood near the cracked front window. He looked even more frightening than before. His nose was grotesquely swollen, splinted with adhesive tape across his forehead and cheekbones. Both nostrils were filled with gauze. There was an eye patch that Reese had flipped up for the moment, showing the white of his left eye still filled with blood. He wore his usual bad guy clothes, huge arms folded across his chest.

“You're on the case,” said Beck. “That's good.”

“Yeah, so look here, this guy talkin' mad money for this shit. For a fucking window. But he's sayin' I should ask you if you got insurance.”

“I do.”

“I didn't know nuthin' about that.”

Reese had anticipated some kind of reproach, but instead Beck responded, “No reason you should know.”

“Yeah, okay. So, how's that work? I mean, can I use it?”

“Yes. Don't worry. You got this far. The rest is easy.”

Beck walked behind the bar and opened a drawer under the old National Cash Register that dominated the back shelf. He pulled out a folder and shuffled through papers until he found the insurance policy issued to the real estate partnership that owned the property. He handed the policy to Reese.

“Take this out to the window man. Have him take the information he needs. It's on the front page there. Then gently persuade him to file the claim, or have his office do it so you don't have to bother with it, and then suggest that he go ahead and replace the window, or wait here for the authorization from his office if he has to, and then replace it. There's a two-hundred-fifty-dollar deductible. That's out of your pocket.”

“What's a deductible?”

Beck liked the fact that Reese wasn't embarrassed to ask about something he didn't know.

“It's the part the insurance doesn't pay. They pay everything after two-fifty.”

“Well, he's sayin' it's a lot more than two-fifty.

“Thus the need for insurance.”

Reese nodded, while he looked at the form. “Yeah, but hold on. How much you payin' for the insurance?”

Beck turned to Reese, pleased by the question. “That's the next logical question. But for someone like me, I'm ahead. Stay with your guy until the job is done.”

“Okay.”

“Part of that is so you get it done today and don't have to bother with it, and part is because I want you around.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means you're hired.”

Beck bent back down and pulled open another cabinet under the cash register. He opened a safe built into the wall. He pulled out a stack of hundred dollar bills and counted out ten of them, stood up and turned to Reese.

“Here's a thousand. Normally, that would be pocket money for a month to keep an eye on things. You hit it lucky. That's money for a week, not a month. We might have trouble coming our way. I want you and your boys to be on the lookout. All eyes open.”

As Beck talked, he wrote down cell phone numbers on a bar napkin.

“You see anybody coming through the projects headed this way, you or your guys start calling those three numbers until you get someone. If you get voice mail, hang up and call all three numbers again. If you get nobody, double back and leave messages. You don't stop anybody; you don't jump in unless we talk that over. Just call and give us a heads-up. After this week, the fee goes back to normal.”

“What's normal?”

“Like I said before, a thousand a month. How's your nose feel?”

“Like shit. Can't breathe through all this packing.”

“Yeah, you're going to be a mouth breather for a week or so. But make sure you leave it in. That gauze in there holds the shape of what's healing around it. You take it out, it'll collapse. Keep it in and you'll be breathing better than you have in years once it all heals.”

“So you did me a big favor busting it up.”

“Funny how it works out that way sometimes.” Beck came out from behind the bar, pulling out his cell phone again. “So I'll leave you to get the window done. Who's going to paint the bottom?”

“Probably me.”

Beck headed back toward the kitchen. “Flat black. Same height. Straight line. Call me when you get your crew organized.”

Reese called out to stop Beck. “Hey, what we lookin' for?”

Beck stopped and turned back.

“White guys. Eastern Europeans. Military types. You know, like short hair. In shape. Dressed in clothes that won't slow them down. I don't know what they'd be driving. It may be other types, I don't know. But people who don't look like they belong in the neighborhood. Probably moving in pairs. Maybe three at a time. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Beck continued to the back of the bar, listening for his call to go through.

Brandon Wright answered without any preamble, “I see you're still alive.”

“So far. Thanks. I think of you every time I take a step.”

“Leave those stitches alone.”

“I will. I need another favor.”

“What a surprise.”