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?”