As soon as Beck got out, Jonas Bolo took Beck’s place in the passenger seat, leaving Olivia to herself in the rear of the van.
Olivia laid her head back and closed her eyes. They were nearing the end. Crane was going to be moving fast now, and she didn’t need to watch his trades. She knew what was left to do. Tonight he would be trading on the twenty-four-hour futures market. Some of his biggest positions were options on the S&P index. He’d be taking them down throughout the night. He also had big hedges in the currency markets which he could also trade overnight. In the morning, he’d start closing out whatever was left on the U.S. exchanges. It would easily be wrapped up by end of trading on Friday, if not before. Alan couldn’t keep going much longer. And Markov wouldn’t wait any longer.
Once she got out of this horrible van, she would call him. They had to make final arrangements. She was sure it would be no problem. Nydia would probably be sleeping or staring at a television screen.
She wondered what Nydia’s apartment would be like. Probably reeking of garlic and diapers, overheated, with a bunch of beat-up toys littering the place. Olivia pursed her lips at the thought. Much like the one she had grown up in. Her mother’s place in the Mott Haven projects felt like eons ago, and she would die before she ever returned to that life.
This was going to work, she told herself for the hundredth time. Alan and I can pull this off. We’ve been through every step of it over and over again.
Beck had come to the right conclusion. He had to go after the money. And she and Crane were going to let him do just that. Crane would leave enough bread crumbs for them to follow. When Markov tried to retrieve his money, it would be gone. Gone with Beck’s fingerprints all over it.
While Markov was blaming Beck, she and Alan would steal the money from Beck, and disappear.
It could work. It had to work. Olivia Sanchez wasn’t going back to the projects.
62
By the time Beck returned to his bar after talking to Walter Pearce, it was 12:35 a.m. He’d finally convinced Walter Pearce to get on board.
Of course, having Walter agree to Beck’s plan didn’t mean he could convince the cops to play it the way Beck wanted. But that was what the extra twenty-thousand was for. To motivate the lumbering ex–NYPD detective.
Pearce would succeed, or he wouldn’t. Beck would know that answer in the next few hours. If he succeeded their odds of survival increased dramatically. Either way, Beck had no choice but to go forward.
When he walked into the second-floor space, Manny, Ciro, Joey B, Demarco, and Alex Liebowitz had all taken seats at the dining table.
Beck pulled out his cell phone, rested it on the table. He looked around. Joey B seemed to have arrived at a strange state of suspended animation, finally settled in his seat, attentive, staring at nothing.
Manny and Ciro as usual displayed little emotion. Demarco, who might have raised an eyebrow or shot a look that spoke volumes, was expressionless. Alex sipped a cup of coffee, for once all his attention on one thing, Beck.
Everyone knew this was it.
Beck looked around at everyone.
He started to speak, stopped, and looked around again. And then he said, “Well, it’s pretty simple. Men are coming to kill us tonight. Why?” He shrugged. “We tried to help one of ours.”
Beck felt his anger swell, ignored it, and continued.
“All right. We didn’t ask for it, but it’s coming. What do we do? We defend ourselves. But we can’t defend ourselves like others can. We can’t kill them before they hurt us because that would mean there’d be a reason for the law to come at us, and that can’t happen.”
Beck paused to look at the men around the table. They were waiting. Waiting for him to give them the answer. The way out.
“So we have to do this a different way. Here. On our turf, our home, we have to do it a different way. A way that can work. So, let me explain.”
He looked around the table one more time. And then Beck started talking. He talked for eighteen uninterrupted minutes. Then he listened to questions. And then he went through everything again. And then one more time.
Even after all that, he knew that maybe only Demarco had grasped the whole thing. But no matter. All Beck needed was for each man to do what was required of him. None of them had to know it all.
Beck finished by saying, “So that’s it. Obviously, I’m guessing at a lot of this. But I think I’m pretty close. So just concentrate on getting done what you have to do.”
Beck looked again at Manny and Ciro. He knew what they were thinking.
“Yes. If you can. If not…” Beck made a face. “If it all goes to shit, do whatever you have to do, and we’ll face the consequences.”
He got a nod from each man.
Beck said, “Okay.”
As if on cue Beck’s cell phone rang. This time Ricky Bolo didn’t wait for Beck to even say hello.
“They’re getting ready to move.”
“How many?”
“It’s hard to tell. There’s a lot of bodies moving around in front of that building. Two SUVs. They’re packing men and guns into both vehicles. Figure about fifteen of ’em. About half of them with semiautomatic rifles.”
Beck grimaced at the number. “Okay. Thanks.”
“What next?” asked Ricky.
“Call me when those SUVs leave that location, and then stay right where you are. Don’t be seen. They spot you, you won’t survive. If I don’t call you by daybreak, disappear.”
“James.”
“What?”
“Jeezus, James, all these fuckers coming for you? Clear out, man. Just get the fuck away, now.”
“Call me when they move.”
63
Jeffrey Esposito had spent six hours pulling together the men he wanted to serve the warrants on James Beck and Ciro Baldassare.