“Milstein loses the only investor that might have kept that bust-out brokerage of his afloat. Sanchez loses any chance she’ll ever have of working in finance. As well she fucking should. Forget Milstein’s bullshit about paying her off. The place probably won’t be in business six months from now. Me, I’m the only one out of all of them who can make money out of money, and trust me, there will always be a place for me to land.
“So Mr. Beck, or whatever the fuck your name is, I don’t need you, I don’t need Milstein, Markov—any of you. So fuck off and good-bye.”
Beck glanced over at Demarco, sitting at the bar. He saw Demarco on his phone. Demarco shook his head slightly, indicating that Alex Liebowitz wasn’t done.
Just then Crane’s phone, which had been sitting on the table, buzzed. He checked the number and answered it.
He listened for just a moment, then said, “I’m leaving now. No, you don’t have to.”
Crane hung up, dropped his phone back on the table, and muttered, “Asshole.”
The waiter brought the check and turned away without a word. Crane stuffed cash into the check folder, stood, and leaned in close to Beck.
“And one more thing, tough guy. Markov is going to squash you like a bug. Trust me. If they’d wanted to kill you, Stepanovich would have had orders to shoot you the minute you stepped off my elevator. They wanted to find out who you are and what you were up to, until you went all commando on them. So now they won’t hesitate, and I for one don’t want to be around you when they pull the trigger. So do me a favor and stay the fuck away from me.”
32
Beck watched Crane leave. He stood up and pantomimed steering a car to Demarco, indicating he should get the Mercury. He walked out after Crane.
Beck checked his watch. Nearly 10:40 p.m. Crane was about twenty feet ahead of him.
It was cold, damp, windy. There were still people in the bars and restaurants along Greenwich Street, but there was no one on the street within view.
Beck closed the distance between him and Crane. When he was within six feet, he called out. “Hey, Crane.”
Crane had just wrapped a long red scarf made of fine Peruvian alpaca around his neck and was still buttoning up his expensive cashmere overcoat. He turned at Beck’s call, exasperated. He stood there watching him approach, shaking his head.
Beck closed the distance between them in two strides and buried his right fist into Crane’s solar plexus without any extra motion or warning. He held back on the punch, because he didn’t want to knock Crane out completely. Crane crumpled and would have gone down on his knees if Beck hadn’t grabbed his arm and eased him into a sitting position on a raised platform outside a restaurant where they were standing.
“Have a seat. Just for future reference, you ever talk to me like that, I’ll beat you so bad you’ll spend six months in a hospital and never be the same.”
Crane remained doubled over, barely able to suck in a breath. He wavered between throwing up and passing out.
Beck took a quick look around and spotted Stepanovich coming into view on Greenwich. He crossed the sidewalk and slipped between two parked cars out into the street.
A more reckless man might have been tempted to play the hero and face Stepanovich straight on. Not Beck. He wasn’t taking any chances. He had no idea what weapons Stepanovich might have on him.
Beck walked north on Greenwich, bent over so the parked cars would block Stepanovich’s view of him. He kept sight of the Bosnian through the car windows by raising his head just high enough to see him pass by.
The moment Stepanovich passed him, Beck slid in between cars, walking lightly, slipping into position behind Stepanovich, ready to take the tall man down.
But Beck had underestimated Stepanovich. Either he had seen Beck moving around behind him, or heard him, or perhaps Crane had signaled him, but without any hint of stopping or turning, Stepanovich spun and whipped a closed fist at Beck’s head.
Beck’s reaction time saved him from a knockout blow to his temple. He just managed to duck under the blow, which clearly demonstrated Stepanovich’s reach advantage.
Stepanovich didn’t hesitate; he continued his spin and launched his left knee into Beck, who barely managed to block it with his forearms. The blow didn’t hit anything vital, but it knocked Beck into the side of a building. Gregor closed in on him. Beck fired a hurried, off-balance front kick at Stepanovich, ramming his right heel into the taller man’s left kneecap.
Stepanovich flinched backward, lifting his left foot off the ground, skipping back a step to keep his balance.
Beck surged forward, slapped aside Stepanovich’s raised hands, rammed his left elbow into Stepanovich’s head, banged his right fist into Stepanovich’s left temple, followed by a rapid set of six punches to the Bosnian’s face, throat, and chest.
Stepanovich blocked most of them and tried to head butt Beck in the face. Beck dodged it but felt the bristles on the Bosnian’s head scrape across his left check.
Beck hadn’t planned on being in a fight like this. It had only lasted about ten seconds, but two people had already stepped out of the restaurant where he had put Crane. Beck was sure someone was already dialing 911.
Stepanovich made a grab with his long arms for Beck’s head, getting two huge hands around the back of his neck, pulling Beck toward him, his mouth open trying to take a bite out of Beck’s face. Beck jammed his hands against Stepanovich’s chest to hold him off.
Stepanovich, snarling and grunting, tried to pull Beck to him.
Beck kept his hands on Stepanovich’s chest, holding him at bay, but not so far away that he didn’t smell the sour stink of his breath. The thought of Stepanovich biting him made Beck furious. He suddenly brought two fists up hard into the underside of the Bosnian’s mouth, slamming his jaws shut and snapping his head back. But Stepanovich still held onto the back of Beck’s neck, launching three fast knee kicks to Beck’s ribs and hip.