Old Flame

by Ira Berkowitz

  “How did you meet Barak?” Kenny asked.

  “Actually, he found me.”

  “How?”

  “I get a call one day. Guy says he’s seen the website. Thinks the concept is pure genius. Says he’s been ordering lots of merchandise. I do a quick check, and he’s right. Fifty grand an order. Says we can make even more money. Wants to talk.”

  “So you meet,” I said. “Without the owners.”

  “Yep. See, by this time I realize that there’s just so much merchandise my guys can heist before it all blows up in shit, so I’m pursuing the China angle. If it works for Wal-Mart, why shouldn’t it work for me? You got factories there that are churning out really great products and slapping brand names on them. And, since they pay their workers dick, cheap as hell. Why can’t they slap my brand name on?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “And it would have worked if I had enough time.”

  “Let’s get back to Barak,” Kenny said.

  “So we meet. And so far, he’s been getting his rebates, every penny, like clockwork. But he’s concerned.”

  “It’s too good to be true,” I said.

  “Yeah. Wants to double his orders. Wants assurance that everything is going to be OK.”

  “And even though you know the business model is broken, you give it to him.”

  “Right.”

  “Why?”

  “The assurance came with a price. He wants guarantees, he’s going to have to pay for them.”

  “You’re kidding me! You’re hosing your employers, hosing your hijackers, and now you’re sticking it to Barak.”

  “What can I tell you? It was the brass ring. Doesn’t come around too often. And, as for Barak, I didn’t know who the fuck I was dealing with. Who knew the guy’s a psycho killer?”

  “And now the greed has come home to roost,” Kenny said.

  “Hey, it was a shot,” Danny said.

  “More importantly, Barak wants his money,” I said.

  “It’s beyond that,” Kenny said. “He wants Danny Reno.”

  “Where are the techies?” I said.

  “Beats me! Maybe the feds got them locked away somewhere, or maybe they cashed it all in and went where no one could find them. Or—”

  “Maybe Barak has them,” I said.

  That possibility had apparently not occurred to him. His shoulders slumped and the color drained from his face.

  “Now what?” he finally said.

  Kenny and I looked at each other. I didn’t have an answer. Neither did Kenny.

  Out on the beach, the guy in the windbreaker knelt down, picked something up, studied it, and tossed it into the ocean with a cry of disgust.

  CHAPTER

  15

  During the subway ride back to Manhattan, Ginny called.

  The urgency in her voice was palpable. She was in town and wanted to meet at Feeney’s. She wouldn’t talk about it on the phone.

  Ginny and her brother Liam were in a side booth when I arrived. Three empty beer bottles sat on the table. The fourth was clenched in Liam’s hand. Ginny’s hands were wrapped around a mug of coffee.

  Liam Doyle always wore an annoying little smile that said he knew something you didn’t. But this time Liam’s stupid smile had company: a leather vest garlanded with chains, and thick-soled Grinders on his feet.

  Fancy that!

  It had been about eight years since I had seen him. It had been at his arraignment. The charge was lifting a couple of six-packs from a bodega. The trouble was, Liam was a regular customer who knew the owner, a cop named Figueroa, who happened to be working the register when Liam strolled out with his booty. The security cameras caught him, and so did Figueroa, who leaped the counter and beat the living shit out of him.

  I worked it out by convincing Figueroa that kicking the crap out of Liam was all the satisfaction he needed, and convincing the DA that someone as stupid as Liam would last about twenty minutes at Rikers. He got off with a conditional discharge, which meant he had to keep his nose clean for a year, and all charges would be dismissed. That lasted exactly two weeks. Lifting hubcaps was the charge. Interesting crime. Liam didn’t own a car and had no interest in selling hubcaps. He just liked the way they looked on his bedroom wall. Little did I know Liam was an aficionado of hubcap art.

  Ginny didn’t bother asking me to intervene that time.

  “Hey, Steeg. Long time no see,” Liam said.

  “Liam,” I said, with a nod. “Keeping out of trouble?”

  He took a swig of beer and leaned back. His stupid smile was on overdrive. “I got no troubles,” he said.

  “Glad to hear it. What have you been up to?”

  “A little of this, a little of that.”

  Liam was one of those people who spilled his guts when ignored. I turned my attention to his sister.

  “Ginny, you called.”

  Before she could answer, Liam jumped back into the conversation.

  “There’s a couple of things I’m working on,” he said.

  “I hope they work out.”

  “Yeah. No more sucking hind tit for me. Them days are over.”

  “Good. Everyone needs to catch a break.”

  “The way I see it, you make your own breaks. I mean, you see an opportunity and you jump on it.”

  “The soul of capitalism. It’s what makes this country great.”

  His brow furrowed trying to make the connection. Finally, he gave up.

  “Whatever,” he said. “I got me a business.”

  “Good for you, Liam.”

  “Yeah, I’m a middleman.”

  “Really!” I said. “And what do you middle?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do. When you’re in business, you can’t be too careful. Trade secrets. Corporate piracy. The threat is everywhere.”

  “You got that right,” he agreed.

  We sat quietly for a while. He took another swig of beer and wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “But seein’ as you’re family and all, and you know my partner, what harm could it do?” he said.

  “I know your partner?”

  “Your old buddy Danny Reno. We’re into electronic equipment. Entertainment systems. Expensive stuff. I could fix you up with a plasma TV, if you’re in the market. Insider price.”

  Danny Reno? Talk about six degrees of separation!

  Liam heists the merchandise; Danny Reno fences it to his own company for a big payday, and then sells it to Barak for an even bigger payday, and promising a hundred percent refund. Liam, the brainiac, takes all the risks for pennies on the dollar. The guy was living proof of the axiom “Stupid is as stupid does.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t have a spare wall,” I said.

  “Well, the offer stands. Anyway, for the first time, I’m making real dough.”

  “I’m glad things are turning around for you.”

  “It’s like Jeanmarie says, ‘If at first you don’t succeed . . .’ ”

  “Words to live by.”

  “I haven’t seen Danny around lately, though.”

  “Probably out prospecting for more opportunities,” I said.

  “Yeah. I gotta hand it to Danny. The guy’s always thinking.”

  “So it seems,” I said.

  “Well,” he said, sliding out of the booth, “I gotta boogie. See ya, Steeg. And you,” he said to Ginny, “stop worrying, OK? Steeg’ll take it from here.”

  Ginny said nothing.

  After he had left, I asked Ginny the burning question. “Take what from here?”

  “I moved in with my parents, and Liam appointed himself my bodyguard.”

  “Now, that sounds like a plan. Protect you against what?”

  She reached into her pocketbook, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “Read it.”

  I did. Another death threat, but this time it was directed at Ginny.

&n
bsp; CHAPTER

  16

  Dave’s house sat atop the New Jersey Palisades, a few miles north of the George Washington Bridge. It was raining, but when it was clear, the view was spectacular. From his living room window you could follow the line of Manhattan just about to the Battery. Dave had invited me for dinner and refused to take no for an answer.

  Franny went all out. Candles on the table, a standing rib roast that could easily feed twelve, and molten chocolate cake for dessert. For the most part, the conversation was light and easy, but all through dinner Franny seemed distracted. So did Dave. At bedtime, my nieces wanted me to tuck them in and show them my scar. I did. They thought it was cool.

  When I returned to the table, Franny was pouring coffee. “You showed them, didn’t you?” she said.

  “That’s what uncles are for.”

  She shook her head in mock dismay.

  “I understand you’ve been in touch with Ginny. Terrible what happened to her husband.”

  “It certainly was.”

  She sat down next to me. “I always liked Ginny. When you two split, it was as if I had lost a best friend.” She threw me a sly look. “I always thought you two would get back together.”

  “It didn’t work out that way.”

  “But now, you know, she’s single again, and she’s . . .”

  “Into her own life, and I’m with Allie now, Franny.”

  “Yeah, I know. But Allie’s not really our kind.”

  I didn’t like where this conversation was heading. “Our kind?”

  “You know what I mean. Allie is really sweet, but she’s . . . I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. Allie is Jewish, and your father was Puerto Rican. Now what?”

  A blush tinted her cheeks.

  “That’s not what I meant! You know me better than that.”

  “I thought I did.”

  “What I’m saying is that Ginny is part of our world, with the same values. You know, a Hell’s Kitchen girl.”

  “And Allie is?”

  “Different. She’s . . .”

  “What’s going on, Franny?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “She’s going to take you away.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “From us.”

  “Keep this crap up and I’ll walk off by myself. Allie is Jewish, and we’re together. Deal with it. How come you don’t have the same problem with Anthony? He’s at Dartmouth carving ice castles with his WASP buddies. And you sent him there. Oh, I forgot. They’re not Jews.”

  She glared at Dave and her voice rose to a shriek. “He dropped out. I wanted a doctor, and what I’m going to get is another killer in the family.” She rushed from the table.

  Dave stared at the tablecloth. The muscles in his face were slack. “Another killer in the family,” he mumbled. “Sweet Jesus!”

  “Did you have any inkling . . . ?”

  “No.”

  “He never mentioned anything?” I said.

  He clenched his fists. “Not a fucking word.”

  “Don’t you ever talk?”

  “All the time.”

  “Then how in hell did this happen?”

  “Who the hell knows? Raging hormones, a search for his inner self, boredom. Pick one.” He got up from the table and walked to the window.

  “But you think it’s something else,” I said.

  “Fucking kid. I think it’s me. Who I am . . . what I do, embarrasses him. Dropping out of college is his way of telling me.” He paused and looked around. “Franny’s afraid he’ll turn out like me. But she doesn’t get it. He didn’t grow up like we did. Didn’t have a father like Dominic. Anthony’s not like us. He’s soft, like his mother.”

  “So, you’re getting it from both sides.”

  “It’s fucking relentless. Franny’s tired of the life, Jake, and worried about the kids. She has a point. In this fucked-up family, ancestry is destiny.”

  I got up from the table and walked over to him. The rain streaking the windows cast the city in a muted, gauzy shimmer. “That’s crap, Dave.”

  We stood quietly for several minutes, staring out the window.

  “And then there’s you. For a guy with one serviceable lung, don’t you think you’re taking on too much? You were supposed to be the smart one. Where’re your brains?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out for years.”

  “Save your bullshit for someone else. You’re my blood. All I got. If it’s money you need, I can handle it. I got enough to set you up for three lifetimes.”

  “It’s not money.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

  “We’re a helluva pair, aren’t we?”

  “A helluva pair,” I agreed.

  He pulled a cigar from a humidor sitting on a nearby table and went through the ritual of lighting it.

  “How’s the Danny Reno situation going?” he asked.

  I filled him in on the scam and Liam’s connection.

  “Reno hired that fucking imbecile to pull his heists? Now, that’s a really sharp criminal mind.”

  “That’s not the only thing. I think Liam is involved with a skinhead group that I ran into at Neon. Skinheads equal racists, equal death threats, equal Tony Ferris. Not such a major leap.”

  “I heard about what happened at Neon.” There was pride in his smile. “Even gimpy you really fucked them up.”

  “They pissed me off.”

  “A mistake they’ll not soon repeat,” he said.

  “Do you know anything about these guys, Dave?”

  “Like where do they hang out? There’s a motorcycle repair shop on Eleventh and Thirty-fifth. You might find them there. Want some company?”

  “Do I look like I need it?”

  He patted my cheek. “I guess not. But that brings another thought to mind.”

  “Which is?”

  “If you follow the dots, faint though they may be, Liam is connected to Reno, and connected to Ginny, who was married to this Ferris character. It’s a stretch, but could Ferris’s death be related to Reno’s scam? Barak hasn’t gotten to Reno yet, so he takes out anyone even remotely related, including their houseplants and pets.”

  “The thought had occurred to me.”

  “Hell of a family, the Doyles,” Dave said. “Talk about the fruit of the poisoned tree.”

  “Except for Ginny. So far, she seems to have escaped the family curse.”

  “So far,” he agreed.

  “But when you come right down to it,” I said, “screwed-up families are screwed up in their own uniquely screwed-up ways.”

  He smiled. “Aren’t we special?” he said.

  When I returned home, there was a message on my answering machine. Kenny Apple had set up a meeting with Barak for the next morning at Café Birobidzhan in Brighton Beach.

  I looked out the window. The rain had stopped and the clouds had magically disappeared, revealing a climbing moon in an empty sky.

  Brighton Beach, or Little Odessa, as the locals refer to it, is just up the road from Coney Island, and just about as stylish. I suspect the folks who developed the area had the seaside resort of Brighton, England, in mind. Maybe that’s how the neighborhood looked early on, but not anymore. Now all the signs are in Cyrillic, and it’s packed with about a jillion immigrants from every SSR in the former Soviet Union. And preying on them was the Russian mafia, an organization that—according to Kenny—Barak was affiliated with when it suited his purposes.

  The Café Birobidzhan was the only bright spot on a street that brought new meaning to the term “urban decay.” The block hadn’t seen a sanitation truck in years, the stores were tired and ramshackle, and overhead, the El cut through the neighborhood like a ribbon of scar tissue.

  It occurred to me that Danny Reno was holed up just a few miles away.

  Although the café hadn’t yet opened for business, the large sign over the door was fresh and new, and it sp
arkled with gaudy chase lights.

  “Do you have a negotiating plan in mind?” Kenny asked.

  “Nope.”

  He rubbed his chin.

  “Have you given any thought to what you’ll give in return for Reno’s, shall we say, safety?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  The chin rubbing took on more urgency.

  “Why are we here?”

  “You set it up.”

  “I know that. But what do you hope to accomplish?”

  “Make a new friend.”

  Kenny nodded. “I see,” he said. “Should be an interesting meeting.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Kenny smacked the door with the flat of his hand. A very large gentleman with thick features and a bad haircut, wearing about a pound of gold around his neck, appeared behind the glass.

  “We’re here to see Barak,” Kenny said. “Kenny Apple.”

  The thug unlocked the door, and we stepped into the reception area. I heard the sharp click of the door locking behind us. The walls were covered in gold-flocked red velvet. Very tasteful. Autographed celebrity photographs dotted the walls. There wasn’t one I recognized.

  He motioned for us to turn around and patted us down. Neither Kenny nor I was carrying. It seemed to please him.

  “Come!” he said, crooking a finger and motioning for us to follow.

  We walked through the restaurant, past tables with upturned chairs sitting on top, past the restrooms, and stopped at a closed door with a sign that said Private.

  Bad Haircut opened it and ushered us in.

  Behind the desk stood a man with a shaved head and a narrow, hawkish face. His eyes were set deep under a slightly protruding brow ridge. He had no eyebrows. A silver-framed photograph of his wife and pudgy-cheeked son sat on his desk.

  “Thank you, Avner,” he said to Bad Haircut, who nodded and left. He turned to us. “Gentlemen. Please have a seat.”

  We sat on a sofa covered in buttery leather.

  “Now,” he said, “which of you is Kenny Apple?”

  Kenny raised his hand.

  “So,” he continued, “you must be Steeg.”

  His voice was soft, with just the barest trace of an accent.

  “I am.”

  “How can I help you?”

  I pointed at the photograph.

  “Nice family,” I said.