Beck nodded. “What’s worse? That he called you the N-word, or stupid?”
Demarco considered the question seriously. “Stupid.”
“Hey, next time I see him I’ll tell him you’re smart enough to know Russian.”
“Tell him after I give him a beating.”
“Where’d you learn Russian?”
“Playing chess with the Russians in Dannemora. Believe me, they had a very limited vocabulary.”
Beck lapsed into silence. Demarco slid onto the Belt Parkway heading for Brooklyn. After a minute, Beck looked at his watch and pulled out his cell phone, starting a series of calls.
The first call was to Ricky Bolo.
“Ricky, Beck—how’s it going on that surveillance I asked you to set up?”
“Peachy.”
“Have any trouble finding Milstein?”‘
“Nope. I’m parked on Seventy-ninth in the warm, comfortable Bolo-mobile, and Jonas is outside watching the back exit on Eightieth, freezing and bitching like a whiny little girl.”
“Good. Drive around and pick up your brother and head over to Hubert Street in Tribeca between Greenwich and Washington. Check out the neighborhood and call me back.”
“On it.”
The next call was to Manny.
“Manny, did you get Olivia set up in that hotel?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Okay, we need her locked-down tight. Markov may have resources that can find her. So call and tell her to shut off her cell phone. No calls, no e-mails, no Internet, no texts, nothing. She didn’t use her credit card when she checked in, did she?”
“No.”
“Good. Get a woman you trust to go sit with her and make sure she doesn’t leave her hotel room. For sure. No slippage. She stays put until I get there. I have to talk to her.”
“Okay. When you figure?”
“Couple of hours. Did you line up your guys?”
“Four of them. Dudes we can trust. You want them on board now?”
“Not yet. But tell them they should be somewhere we can reach them if we need them. Are you back at the place?”
“Yeah.”
“Did Ciro get his cousin Joey?”
“Supposed to be on the way.”
“Good. Get the shotguns out and keep watch. I don’t think anything is coming our way tonight, but be ready.”
“What happened with Kolenka?”
“He may have a dog in this fight.”
“How?”
“Markov is paying him to operate in his backyard.”
Manny made an unintelligible noise, but didn’t comment beyond saying, “Anything else?”
“Stand by.”
Next, Beck called Alex Liebowitz and told him to gather what he needed for a black bag job and to be ready to go within the hour.
Beck checked his watch. Seven-thirty.
Demarco asked, “Now what?”
“Now we go on the offensive. Fast.”
27
Alan Crane spent nearly two hours cleaning up after the bloody fight in his loft, followed by an hour at his computer identifying positions that he could close out without taking significant losses.
But he couldn’t really concentrate. He kept imagining a ball peen hammer smashing into his hand with the same force that Markov pounded it into his dining room table.
Crane paced back and forth, barefoot, on the Calamander hardwood floors of his Tribeca loft trying to convince himself that Markov wouldn’t make good on his threats of violence if he succeeded in keeping the losses to a minimum.
Unfortunately, there were too many of his positions underwater. He was going to have to monitor every holding closely, take advantage of every uptick, and close out anything immediately that turned south. It would mean constant attention over as many days and hours as he could get from Markov.
Crane kept pacing, trying to figure out his alternatives. He needed to know how this thing had suddenly blown up. What had Milstein told Markov?
He picked up his cordless phone and pulled on his headset so he could keep pacing. He punched a speed-dial number. Milstein answered on the second ring.
“Alan.”
“Yes. So Frederick, do you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?”
“Don’t shout at me.”
Crane shouted even louder. “I’ll fucking shout at you all I want. Markov almost took a hammer to me, and his goons tried to kill that guy you sent up here. Who the hell was he? He shot one of Markov’s men and crippled another before he got away. They practically destroyed my place. It took me two hours to clean up the blood.”
“What!?”
“You fucking heard me, Frederick, goddammit, or have you gone deaf?”
“All right. Calm down, Alan. Calm down. This is crazy. He was just supposed to go up there and hear your side of the story. Markov was supposed to explain to you the deal I made to pay off the woman, get you to agree to back off, and convince that thug to go away. What the hell happened?”
Crane took a deep breath.
“Christ. Tell me exactly what happened to you and what you told Markov. Then I’ll explain what happened here.”
It took five minutes for each man to fill in the other. Finally, Milstein said, “Alan, this is completely out of hand. We’ve got to contain this. We have to shut this down.”
“Forget it. You’re not shutting down Leonard Markov. Not after what happened up here.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“He wants to kill Olivia and Beck. And if I don’t close out millions in positions without incurring big losses, he’s going to kill me, too.”
“I can’t believe this is happening. Is Markov really threatening to kill you?”
“Yes. No. Not exactly. But he’s doing a good job of terrifying me into thinking anything is possible.”
“What do you want me to do, Alan?”
“Has Leonard called you?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to locate Olivia Sanchez for him.”
“So do it. What about Beck?”
“He wants me to find him, too.”
“Good. Find them and let Leonard take care of them.”
Milstein’s voice dropped into a tense whisper, “I’m not in the business of getting people killed, Alan. I didn’t even start this.”
“Neither did I. That bitch started it. And made it worse by sending in her tough guy threatening to kill you. And I’m sure he came up here thinking he could do the same to me. And now they’re both going to get what’s coming to them. It’s out of our hands.”