Milstein sat hunched against the cold February night, puffing on a Montecristo Double Corona, watching the dark open space in front of him, completely uninterested in anything his dog might be doing.
They weren’t far into the park, but other than the ambient light from Fifth Avenue, the only illumination came from decorative street lamps spaced along the park pathway that meandered from the Seventy-ninth Street entrance to where Milstein sat, just at the edge of a pool of light facing Dog Hill.
He and Walter heard someone approaching from the north. Both men turned in the direction of the sound. Walter slipped his police-issue Glock 17 out of his hip holster, laying the semiautomatic pistol on top of his thigh, ready just in case.
The figure came into view. A tall black man wearing a hooded sweatshirt that covered much of his face. He came toward them slowly, giving them the feeling that he was checking them out as much as they were him.
Shit, thought Milstein, this is all I need. But the sight of Walter watching the black man every step of the way with his gun at the ready made Milstein almost giddy.
The hooded man came nearly parallel to them. He seemed to be looking mostly at Milstein, who straightened up, ready to get up and break away if the man made any move toward him. But the menacing black man just kept walking, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweatshirt. Walter’s head swiveled to keep his eyes on the intruder as he passed them by.
Milstein watched, too, as Demarco Jones continued walking slowly south. Neither of them saw where Ciro Baldassare came from. He’d been standing in the dark, out in the field behind Walter. All he had to do was step out and take a seat next to the big bodyguard while Walter had his head turned watching Demarco Jones walk off around the bend on the park pathway.
Walter never even heard Ciro sit next to him, but when he turned from watching Demarco, Ciro’s Smith & Wesson .45 automatic was an inch from his face. The gun looked huge.
“Don’t move, fella,” said Ciro. “Not even a twitch.”
Ciro deftly slipped the Glock out of Walter’s hand, slid down the bench a bit, rested his right arm on the back of the bench, and pointed the muzzle of the Smith & Wesson at Walter’s face.
Milstein hadn’t seen where Ciro had come from either, but he saw him now, pointing a very large gun at Walter, saying nothing, not moving, completely calm as if this was something he did all the time.
And then the last piece of Beck’s plan fell into place as he stepped out from the darkness behind Milstein, and sat down next to the small man.
Milstein reared back. “Jeezus Christ, you again.”
“Yes, me again,” said Beck. “And trust me, Mr. Milstein, you do not want to see me a third time, so let’s finish our conversation. How about we take a little walk?”
Milstein looked over at Walter and then back at Beck.
“I know,” said Beck. “How the fuck did this just happen? Don’t worry about it. You’ll both be all right if neither of you does anything stupid. Come on.”
Beck grabbed a handful of Milstein’s coat and lifted him to his feet. Any thought of resisting vanished when he realized whoever this was, he had enough strength to lift him with one arm.
Beck pointed down the path toward the model boat basin, and released Milstein with a slight push in that direction. They arrived at a bench around a bend where the bodyguard couldn’t see them or hear them. Beck indicated that Milstein should sit. He settled in next to him, close enough to make Milstein uncomfortable.
“So,” said Beck. “Olivia Sanchez.”
Milstein puffed on his cigar, grimaced, annoyed, shot back, “What about her? What is it with you and Olivia Sanchez?”
There was a pause before Beck reacted. Just about two seconds before he backhanded the cigar out of Milstein’s mouth and grabbed Milstein by the side of his neck. Beck pressed his right thumb into Milstein’s throat.
He spoke very quietly, very intensely. “Are you fucking crazy? You think you can use that tone with me? You want to end up in that boat basin with your throat crushed?”
Beck squeezed Milstein’s windpipe. He stood up off the bench and faced Milstein. Milstein grabbed Beck’s wrist and forearm with both hands, trying to pull Beck’s hand off his neck and throat. It only made Beck squeeze harder.
Just as blackness was about to envelope Milstein, Beck released him. He stood in front of Milstein, waiting for him to come around.
As Milstein’s head cleared, Beck leaned closer and said to him, “I don’t know what it is with assholes like you. You think because you have some money nobody will fuck with you? Or is it because you’re such a little shit you think somebody would be embarrassed to beat the hell out of you? Have you lost all sense of reality?”
Milstein rasped air into his lungs.
Beck slapped his cheek, gently, more to focus his attention. “Answer me.”
“No. No, I haven’t lost sense of reality.”
Beck spoke quietly now. “So you understand if you don’t answer my questions, you won’t leave this park alive. Nor will your pathetic bodyguard. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Beck sat down next to Milstein and asked quietly, “I hope you don’t have any doubts about what I just said?”
Milstein paused. “No.” But as he answered he was thinking furiously about what to do.
“Good,” said Beck. “Let’s start again. Olivia Sanchez.”
Milstein cleared his throat, thinking before he said anything. “I’m listening.”
“Tell me what you’re going to do about this idiot who works for you breaking her fingers, tossing her out of a job, and blackballing her from any other employment.”
Milstein cleared his throat again, hesitating. Beck asked, “Well?”
“That’s not…”
Beck interrupted him. “You’re not going to tell me that’s not what happened are you?”
“All I can tell you is that’s her side of it. There’s another side.”
“Which is?”