It was nearly two in the morning. The moon had already set. The temperature had dropped to eighteen degrees with intermittent gusts of cold air coming in off the bay.
Ciro held the M-16 down low, standing motionless, wearing a dark wool overcoat that made him nearly invisible except for the wisps of condensing exhalations floating up and disappearing in the cold night air. Joey B stood next to Ciro, his broad back leaning against the rear of the small Porsche SUV. He held the Mossberg by the barrel, the butt resting on the ground in front of him. He wore a black wool coat much like Ciro’s, and a black knit watch cap. He looked up at the dark night sky, trying to see stars between the scudding clouds, finally relaxed, free of any need to pace. A sense of calm came over Joey B, like a hunter waiting in the blind. He kept picturing it. Practicing in his mind what Beck had told him to do.
He would wait for Ciro. Move when he moved. Stand and shoot until he emptied the shotgun, or Ciro told him to stop.
*
Beck had concealed himself about a half block west of the empty lot, between a car and a wall near the corner of Reed and Van Brunt.
From there, he could spot any vehicle turning toward Conover, heading for the entrance to the empty lot. He had a Benelli M3 shotgun resting on the roof of a station wagon parked next to him, plus all the weapons he’d started the night with: his Browning, knife, sap, and extra ammunition.
*
Out on Conover Street, Manny Guzman stood alone, deep in the shadows of a warehouse doorway about twenty-five-feet north of the bar’s entrance. An overhead high-pressure sodium light mounted above the doorway shone down brightly, illuminating the area, but creating deep shadows where Manny stood.
Manny had only one weapon. He’d substituted his Charter Arms Bulldog for a long-barrel .38 revolver. He had one shot to make. The target would be about twenty-five, thirty feet away, which was why he needed the range of the long-barrel revolver.
Once he made the shot, he could do the real damage he intended, with an item sitting ten feet from where he stood, carefully placed on the sidewalk.
*
Demarco Jones was also out front on Conover, but nobody quite knew where. Beck had left it up to him to pick his spot.
*
Beck stood motionless, hunched against the cold, waiting. Waiting for the call from Walter Pearce. If Walter failed to come through with the NYPD, Beck didn’t see much chance of avoiding a bloodbath. He hated depending on a disgruntled retired cop. He hated even more depending on cops intent on arresting him. But he had little choice. They were five against how many? Fifteen? Twenty? Maybe more. He checked his watch in the dim ambient light of the dead winter night.
One way or another, it would be over soon.
66
Two things convinced Walter Pearce to follow Beck’s plan.
The additional twenty-thousand dollars Beck promised him. And the absolute certainty that Frederick Milstein was going to screw him.
He figured the fastest way to make things work would be to go directly to the 76th Precinct in Brooklyn. He was certain that any police action against Beck would launch from there. It was a little after one in the morning when he walked through the double doors that led into the familiar sights and sounds of an NYPD neighborhood precinct. He presented his credentials to the desk sergeant, and did his best to convince him that he needed to see whoever was in charge of the detail heading out to serve warrants in Red Hook.
Naturally, the sergeant wanted to know more about it. Pearce told him, “Sarge, I’ll be happy for you to hear the details, but I’ve only got time to tell it once. So please get whoever is in charge of this thing down here as soon as you can. Bottom line, I’ve got information that could prevent some good cops from getting hurt tonight.”
Walter watched the sergeant think it over. He seemed a bit young to have the job. Pearce watched him check his credentials one more time, thinking over what Pearce had said. Walter knew better than to say anything more to convince him. After about thirty seconds, the young sergeant picked up the phone.
It took a full fifteen minutes for Jeffrey Esposito to appear. His opening comment was, “Who are you, and how do you know about my warrants for these guys in Red Hook?”
Walter began by apologizing for the intrusion.
“Sorry to get into the middle of this thing, but I think I can help you. I know what’s going on because I’m the one who went to the brass at One PP and got this whole thing going.”
“What thing?”
“Serving arrest warrants on James Beck and Ciro Baldassare.”
The fact that Walter knew their names told Esposito he should listen to what this man had to say.
“Go ahead.”
“It was my boss that those two assaulted. Fellow named Milstein. His law firm has connections with somebody who had enough juice to put pressure on One PP.”
“I’m listening.”
“You should know that Beck and Baldassare are not going to go quietly. They are part of a bigger crew. I’ve been looking into them. It’s almost certain a good number of that crew will be at that location tonight.”
“Why didn’t you tell that to the brass?”
“I did. Spoke to a chief called Waldron, but he wasn’t in the mood to take advice from me, if you know what I mean. I started worrying that information might not filter down to you. All I’m sayin’ is, if you have to serve those warrants tonight, and it seems like you do, go out there with your heads up and ready.”
“For what, exactly?”
“I don’t know exactly. I just know you could be facing more than two men and a lot of them armed. Go with as many men as you can get.”
“Great, and how the fuck am I going to get that kind of backup at one o’clock in the morning?”
Walter knew this was the crucial part. He couldn’t tell Esposito what to do. But he had to give him enough direction to cover what Beck had asked.
“Well, I was you, I’d grab what you can. Don’t go charging into anything. Call a ten-thirteen as soon as you get there. Call it hard and loud. Wait until every cop in the area shows up before you go in.”