Among Thieves: A Novel

Beck scanned the street for Stepanovich. The tall man’s head appeared from the south bobbing above the few people on the street. Beck rolled his shoulders, feeling the stiffness and pain from the blows Stepanovich inflicted with his steel baton. He pictured walking up to Stepanovich in the middle of the block and shooting him in the face. It might save him a lot of trouble later, but murdering someone in the middle of Tribeca wasn’t part of the plan.

Stepanovich crossed Greenwich in the middle of the block, angling toward his SUV, talking on his cell.





31

Demarco Jones’s seat at the crowded bar gave him a sidelong view of Crane. Demarco was sure Crane had no idea he was watching him, mostly with his peripheral vision.

Jones sat quietly sipping Grand Marnier and coffee, attracting attention from a few of the restaurant patrons who decided he was probably some sort of pro athlete. Crane was too involved in his dinner and his own thoughts to notice anything around him.

*

At ten-twenty, Beck’s phone rang. It took two seconds for Demarco to give Beck the message. It took Beck about three minutes to arrive at the restaurant and slip into the empty chair opposite Crane.

Crane had just been served coffee and one of the house-made éclairs for dessert. He stopped the coffee cup midway between the saucer and his mouth.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered.

“Nice to see you, too. How’re you doing, Mr. Crane? Last time I saw you, you were taped to a table. This looks a little more pleasant. Mind if I join you?”

“You just did.”

“Yes. I did.”

“What do you want?”

“Well,” said Beck, “I guess I want to help you. Or, you know, I want you to help me help you. Like the line from that Tom Cruise movie. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds stupid. What the hell are you talking about?”

Beck leaned across the table, ignoring Crane’s question. “What was the deal with that hammer? Were they going to use that on you?”

“What do you want?”

“Let me ask you something. Those guys with the hammer and tape, those were the same ones who tried to kill me. I got a goddamn knife wound in my leg and about a thousand welts on my back where that bald fucker hit me with a steel baton, not to mention that fat guy trying to shoot me.”

“I don’t hear a question.”

“Yeah, so I intend to do something about that. I would imagine you’d be in favor of that, wouldn’t you?”

Crane gave Beck an appraising look. He had to admit, the man had impressed him with how he’d handled Stepanovich and his men.

“I might be.”

“That being the case, how about giving me a little information where I might find your buddies. Let ’em know it’s not something they can get away with.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

Crane sipped his coffee, took a bite from his éclair, and continued to study Beck.

“Let me get this straight. You’re the one who goes to Milstein about that fucking whore Olivia Sanchez, and threatens to kill him so he’ll pay her off. Then you come to my place, intending to do what? The same thing, right?”

“Not necessarily. Milstein just said I should get your reaction on the severance package he agreed to with me. And something about getting your side of the story.”

“Severance package?”

“That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? And, oh yes, he wanted me to convince you to lay off with the threats and the lawsuits and blackballing her.”

“What world are you living in?”

“Yours, my friend. That’s the way things are done in your world, aren’t they? Everybody gets a golden parachute, or whatever.”

“Uh-huh. Meanwhile, Milstein calls Markov and gets him all riled up, knowing Markov would probably show up with his Bosnian army to threaten me and do whatever they intended to do to you.”

“So you’re saying Milstein purposely killed the deal? Okay, so Milstein goes on the list, too. But I know where to find him. I don’t know where to find the fat guy and the others.”

“And what makes you think I want to have anything to do with you? You’re working for that crazy bitch who started all this shit. I have nothing to say to you.”

“Hey, let’s not get bogged down on who started what,” said Beck.

“Yeah, let’s not. How about you just get the fuck away from me and leave me alone?”

“Alone to do what? Have Markov and his buddies torture you? Why not let me get between you and them? Tell me who they are, and where I can find them.”

“Who they are? They’re bad fucking news, that’s who they are. They’re crazy. That moron Olivia sets everything off. You start making trouble. Freddy Milstein the idiot panics. He calls the client. A man you do not want to call about any trouble, because Leonard Markov is someone who lives in a paranoid drug-addled world of craziness. Milstein sets Markov off like a bomb, and now everything has gone to shit.”

Crane leaned across the table toward Beck.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. There’s nothing you can do but make my life worse. So stay the fuck away from me. You’re part of the reason I’m in this mess.”

“You’re telling me they’re going to leave you alone.”

“Are you deaf or stupid, or both?”

Crane motioned for the check. “Listen to me, and then never talk to me again. Olivia stuck her nose into something she had no business getting involved with. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Milstein encouraged her to do it. I set her straight. She kept pushing it. She got you involved, whoever the fuck you are. You obviously scared the shit out of Milstein. He goes to the client, Markov. Markov loses whatever little sense he had to begin with. His only response is … shut it down and give me my money.

“Okay. Fine. He’s going to lose a shitload. Not my problem. I do what he says. I’ll try to minimize the damage. I’ll try to do it in such a way that maybe Markov won’t break every bone in my body and have his insane enforcer Stepanovich put a bullet in my head. But the bottom line is, it’s all gone to shit. And there’s not a fucking thing you can do about that!

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