“I asked you nicely, now I’m telling you. I’m going to talk to you about Olivia Sanchez. It won’t take much time. I suggest you answer my questions. It’ll be much easier than the alternative.”
Milstein ignored Beck, looking past him. Beck guessed that Milstein’s bodyguard was heading his way, because the smaller man threatened him, “Take your goddamn hands off me or I’ll have you arrested. My driver is an ex-cop and he’s…”
Beck cut him off, “If you’re smart, you’ll tell him to get back in the car.”
Instead, Milstein yelled over Beck’s shoulder, “Walter. Walter, get over here and get this son of a bitch off me.”
Beck turned, let go of Milstein and stepped forward a few paces to meet the bodyguard, a big man, pear-shaped, wide-hipped, with long arms and plenty of bulk. Beck figured him to be close to six foot six, at least two hundred fifty pounds. He came straight at Beck.
Beck pointed at him and said, “If you touch me I’ll put you down. If you pull your gun, I’ll kill you.”
For a moment the threats confused the big man, but quickly angered him enough so that he came at Beck with surprising speed, rearing back his right fist aimed at Beck’s face.
Beck didn’t duck or even blink. He leaned to his right and let the punch move past his cheek, then pivoted, grabbed the big man’s right wrist with his right hand, and punched him hard on the back of his arm just above the elbow, hitting a bundle of nerves that paralyzed the bodyguard’s arm and caused sharp, intense pain.
Beck turned the paralyzed arm at the wrist, shoved at the back of the man’s shoulder and swept the bodyguard’s right leg out from under him. The ex-cop went down hard onto his left knee.
Beck kept his grip on the arm and could have twisted the man’s shoulder out of the socket, but instead he kept the arm levered high, leaned close, and spoke into the bodyguard’s ear.
“You’re lucky you still have an arm you can use. I should have you arrested for assault and end your fucking career, but you’re just doing your job for this asshole, so we’ll let this one go. Don’t make this mistake again. Don’t ever come at me again, you understand?”
Walter nodded, wincing against the pain.
“I’m going to let you stand up now. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Beck dropped the arm. Walter grabbed his shoulder, remaining down on one knee, not moving, waiting for the pain to subside.
Beck straightened up and turned to Milstein, who hadn’t moved from the wall. “Take care of your man here. Next time I see you, I suggest you talk to me.”
Beck had kept his voice down. A small crowd had gathered around Beck and Walter, but nobody seemed to know what to do, if anything. Whatever happened seemed to be over. The big man was slowly rising to his feet, holding his shoulder.
Beck drifted away to his right, stepping to the ramp that slanted down onto Lexington Avenue.
He blended in with the sidewalk pedestrians and disappeared, heading uptown, out of sight to anyone in front of the building.
Demarco had watched carefully from his parking spot across the street, never for a moment worried that Beck would need his help with the bodyguard. As soon as Beck headed uptown on foot, he pulled out onto Fifty-seventh, immediately turning right, heading downtown with the one-way traffic on Lexington. He took the first right going west and accelerated toward Park Avenue. By the time he had gone one block on Park, he spotted Beck coming his way. Beck slipped into the Mercury.
“That was fun.”
“Big bastard, wasn’t he?” said Demarco.
“Yeah. It helps when you surprise them. Of course, I knew if it went wrong you’d be right there to jump in.”
“’Cept I don’t like leaving the car in a no-standing spot, so, you know.”
“In other words, the car is more important.”
Demarco tipped his head, shrugged, and asked, “Now what?”
“Now we escalate. That little cocksucker Milstein is an asshole.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“What? That he’s an asshole, or that we have to take this to the next step?”
“Just a figure of speech.”
“Uh-huh. You hungry?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. We seem to have skipped lunch.”
“Let’s see, where’s a decent place to eat in this shit neighborhood? Hey, there’s a burger place over on Sixtieth or somewhere. You want a burger?”
Demarco made a face.
“Come on.”
“If you insist, James.”
“See if you can find a parking spot somewhere.”
As Demarco began his search in the crowded neighborhood, Beck pulled out his cell phone and punched a speed-dial number. When the phone answered, he said, “Ciro. It’s me.”
Demarco listened to Beck’s side of the conversation, which ended with Beck giving Ciro Baldassare instructions on where to meet them.
“Ciro?”
Beck turned to Demarco. “Hey, man, I don’t want to wrestle with that big son of a bitch again.”
Demarco pursed his lips. “Pulling out the heavy artillery already?”
“He’s actually in the city. One of his customers is in over his head on his football bets.”
“God help him.”
“I don’t think it’ll be too bad. It’s a young guy. His father owns a restaurant downtown. Ciro just had a talk with Daddy about his boy’s gambling debt.”
“Does Daddy still have a restaurant?”
Beck smiled. “You know what Ciro once told me is the hardest part of running his gambling operation?”
“What?”
“Moving all the money around. All that cash. Picking up the cash from the losers and bringing it to the winners. It’s mostly a messenger service with guys tough enough to walk around with thousands and thousands in green.”
“With Ciro behind it all so nobody gets any ideas about who that cash belongs to.”
“Exactly.”