Beck’s voice hardened. “Nobody gets a pass. Not for what they did. But not now. Not until we figure this out.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Take care of your cousin.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you until I talk to her,” said Beck. “Let me hear from her what happened. Let me understand more about all this. Let me hear what she wants. Then we’ll take it from there.”
Manny shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t like this.”
“I know you don’t. But this has got to be done right. First, we help put her life back together.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got to figure it out.”
Manny took in what Beck said.
“Let me talk to her.”
Manny squinted, struggled with it, nodding his head imperceptibly over and over. Finally, he said, “Okay.”
That was it. He had deferred to Beck. At some level, they both knew that was going to happen. But now it was agreed.
Beck sat back. The wood chair creaked under his weight.
He changed the subject. “So, thanks for this morning. You got out there and around those guys fast.”
“Bullshit. Not nearly as fast as I used to be. I got downstairs and through the basement, but that fucking hatch door to the street had so much ice and shit on it I could hardly get it open. And the fucking snow and mess between the buildings, shit. Next time I just go out the front door.”
“Nah. You did the right thing. You never want them to see you coming, Manny. Even if it takes a little longer.”
Manny looked at Beck. The corner of his mouth lifted, conceding Beck’s point.
“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose.”
3
A tall, lanky man named Brandon Wright had just finished gently prying open Willie Reese’s nearly swollen-shut eye and examining it with a pen flashlight.
Wright looked more like a cowboy than a doctor. He wore blue jeans, a flannel shirt, tan leather ankle boots. He had thick brown hair flecked with gray he didn’t bother combing. And he had big, sturdy hands.
Wright worked with the calm, focused attention of a highly trained doctor who had spent seventeen years as an emergency room physician.
Wright was a man of many interests: Eastern religions, quantum physics, French cuisine, art history. Right now, Willie Reese and his injuries interested him, and he took his time tending to them.
James Beck sat at the bar, watching the doctor work on the large, muscular man who clearly had a very high tolerance for pain. Wright had already completed the excruciating maneuver required to position Reese’s broken septum. Watching it made Beck cringe. Reese barely uttered a sound.
The doctor stepped back and just looked at Reese for a moment, his lips pursed, running through a silent analysis. Once he confirmed to himself he had done everything he could, he turned to Beck and started checking out his complaints, which were mostly about his collar bone and sore hands.
Wright manipulated Beck’s left arm with a hand resting on his collarbone. He briefly looked at Beck’s hand and scuffed knuckles.
Beck started to speak, but Brandon cut him off. “I don’t need the details.”
He turned back to Willie Reese.
“You, sir, need to understand your injuries. Forgetting the contusions and all, I’m figuring probably two cracked ribs. That large elastic bandage I wrapped you with might help. I suspect you’ll take it off so you can breathe better, but…” Wright waggled a hand…” it’s probably not so bad if you do. Might mean less chance you end up with pneumonia.”
Reese looked at the doctor with an expression that said he might be either thinking about punching him, or simply didn’t understand him.
The doctor rephrased his comments.
“Keep the bandage on if you want, take it off if you want.”
Reese nodded once.
“Your nose is frankly a mess. How many times have you broken it?”
Reese shrugged.
“Well, now the septum is broken, and the cartilage split up all to hell. And you’ve got lacerations in both nostrils. I’ve set it somewhat straight, but you really need to see a surgeon who can open the hood and properly repair that mess. Reset the whole thing, pack your nose, and give it six weeks to heal in place.” Brandon began writing on a prescription pad. “See this doctor. He won’t charge you much. Ice the hell out of it. Take ibuprofen, but nothing else.”
Wright waited for any questions. Reese had none.
“Your eye is the worst problem. Potentially. I’m writing down the name of an ophthalmologist. He’ll take cash. Do not avoid seeing him. You already have a subconjunctival hemorrhage, which is normally not a big deal, but you also have a deep scratch, perhaps some corneal damage, which raises the chance of infection. So don’t tough this out. You could lose the eye. And don’t screw around in an emergency room. They don’t have the equipment. Okay?”
Reese didn’t answer, but again nodded.
Wright turned to Beck. “You, soak your hands in ice water. Take ibuprofen. Your collarbone isn’t broken. For once you’ve avoided stitches, concussion, open wounds, and so on.”
“Thanks, Brandon. Anything we can get you?”
“No, thank you. Emmanuel already offered me food. Demarco offered me coffee. You, of course, offered me a warm welcome, so I’m all set and I’ll be on my way.” He picked up his doctor bag, but before he turned to go he said, “All banter aside, is this the beginning of…?”
Beck interrupted. “No. It’s just a strange, unavoidable unpleasantness in a world where people act without thinking. On assumptions that are dangerous, but mostly just annoying. But who knows? It could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
The doctor looked back and forth between the two men, said nothing, and walked out the front door.
Beck turned to Reese. Flexed his hands, feeling the swelling and stiffness already setting in. He was already anticipating the morning pain. It would make his workout that much more difficult.
“So,” said Beck, “Want to answer a few questions?”
Reese shrugged.
“Yes or no. And a yes better goddamn well mean yes.”
“Okay. Yeah. Why not?”
Willie Reese filled the entire space on his side of the table. Sitting down with his leather hoodie off, his muscles bulging against his tight-fitting, bloody T-shirt, he looked even more formidable than he had out on the street. But he didn’t sound so tough, forcing his words through his swollen, broken nose.
“When did you get back in the neighborhood?”
“’Bout a week ago.”
“How long were you away for?”
“Five year bit. Did three.”
“Where?”
“Ossining.”
Beck nodded. “They didn’t bother transferring you out.”
“Nah. I’d already done almost a year at Rikers.”
“So, you grew up in this neighborhood?”
Reese nodded.
“Now you’re out, you have to get back to work.”
“Yeah.”
“What gave you the idea that I would be an easy place to start?”
Reese shrugged.
“Seriously, I want to know.”
“Shorty Wayne makin’ money off you, shit, I figure that’d be a easy place to start.”
“You didn’t think it through.”
Willie Reese answered with another shrug. He didn’t usually have to think about anything much past the end of his fist.
Beck leaned forward, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“I got some now.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“You smart. You not afraid to bang it with someone like me, but you sneaky. Didn’t put yourself in too much danger. Wore me down first. Got in some quick shots, and backed off. You got a crew with shotguns. You the kind of guy gets left alone. Or killed. Nuthin’ in between. That’s about all I need to know.”
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Beck shook his head. “No man, no, that’s not all you need to know. I mean, that’s part of it. You’re mostly right, but you shouldn’t stop there. You gotta face the fact that you got banged up, might even lose an eye over this. Plus, you risked your guys. One or all of them could have easily gotten splattered all over the street. So now you’re just going to walk away?”
“You said something about workin’ for you.”
“Okay. But first I have to clear up one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“If I say no, if I say get the fuck out of here, do I have to worry about you coming back at me?”
Reese looked at Beck. Then at Demarco watching him, the Benelli under his right hand.
“Shit. You think I’m a fool?”
“How so?”
“If I was comin’ back at you, I wouldn’t tell you. But I ain’t. You didn’t do anything to me I wouldn’t have done. “’Cept have that doctor look at me. I don’t know no doctors.”
Beck looked at Reese, deciding whether or not he was telling the truth. He decided he was.
“Okay.”
Reese focused his one good eye on Beck. “So what you wanna do? You wanna do business?”
“Maybe. Probably. Look, I don’t need your crew for protection. You can see that. I just need some eyes on my backside. Any cops heading this way, any people I might want to know about—they have to drive through the projects to get over here. I like to know if that’s happening. Not a big deal. Not worth a fortune, but worth something. You’re not going to get rich off me.”
“How much you pay Shorty and them guys?”
Beck shook his head. “You mean you actually don’t know?”
“I didn’t care. Was going to charge you my price.”
“Okay. It’s a thousand bucks a month. And before you tell me that’s chump change or some dumb-ass remark, add on the value of me deciding not to be your enemy.”
Willie Reese didn’t respond.
Beck looked at his watch.
“Okay. Take it or leave it. But if you take it, first you get my front window fixed. That doesn’t mean you give me money or the name of somebody. You get it fixed. Fast. Just the way it was. Painted black on the bottom third. Like it never happened. Do that, and you’re hired. And I won’t charge you the cost of having my personal physician make a house call and fix you up. Deal?”
“At a thousand bucks a month.”
“Yeah.”
“Deal.”
“All right,” said Beck. “And one other thing.”
“What?”
“I’m counting on you kicking the shit out of Shorty Wayne for letting you come in here without warning me.”
Willie Reese finally managed a half smile. He stood up. “You a interesting motherfucker, Beck.” Then he turned and walked out of the bar without another word.
As soon as Willie Reese left, Demarco picked up the shotgun and stood up from his table, walked around the bar, and stashed the Benelli in its usual place under the bar top.
Beck said to Demarco, “Nice work this morning.”
Demarco made a small sound of acknowledgment. He walked out from the other side of the bar, still watching the front door, just in case, sat on the stool next to Beck, and asked, “You think we’ll ever see him again?”
“Maybe,” said Beck, “There might be something in him that could get him out of the slide.” Beck paused. “That window is going to be very hard for him to take care of. He doesn’t have a lot of money. He doesn’t know how to go about getting it done. Doesn’t want to. It’s absolutely not in his nature to clean up after his shit. But I wouldn’t count him out yet. He took in everything that I said. That’s fairly unusual for a guy like that.”
“Taking a beating maybe got his attention.”
“Nah, not even half a beating. He could have gone on a lot longer. He’d have gotten me eventually. We’d have had to kill him to stop him.”
Demarco made a face that showed he wasn’t necessarily agreeing.
Beck said, “Guy like that, what do you think it took for him not to jump up and start warring all over again?”
“Not with me sitting there with a shotgun on the table.”
“I suppose. But it still seemed possible, didn’t it? The whole time he was sitting there. Right up until the end.”
Demarco considered it. “Maybe he thought I wouldn’t pull with the doctor in here.”
“Maybe. Anyhow, he’s not completely the usual. It’ll be interesting to see. Keep your eye on the front window.”
Beck stood up and headed behind the bar. “I gotta get some more ice on my hands, then we have to head out and see about this thing with Manny.”
“What’s it about?”
“Trouble. I just don’t know how much yet.”
4
Demarco went out the kitchen side door which led out to Imlay Street. They kept a customized 2003 Mercury Marauder in a converted stable about a half-block from Beck’s bar. It was a beast of a car with a 4.6-liter supercharged engine, but it was almost always mistaken for a Grand Marquis, or a Ford Crown Victoria. Or even a Lincoln Town Car, which was one reason Beck liked the car.
While Demarco headed for the garage, James pulled a gun storage box from a cabinet behind the bar. He opened the lid and picked up a Browning Hi-Power 9-mm automatic, dark metal with wood grips. A classic firearm. Solid. Crisp trigger action. Hefty, but beautifully balanced. He didn’t have to check the magazine or chamber, but he did it anyhow before he slipped the gun under his belt behind his right hip.
Beck heard the rumble of the Marauder outside the bar. He smiled at the sound of the modified exhaust, the low growl that went perfectly with a car that was black from the body to the bumpers. Even the grill and tire rims were black.
Beck turned and lifted his leather shearling coat off the hook next to the front door. He paused, holding the heavy coat in his hand, then pulled the Browning out from under his belt. He put the heavy pistol back into the gun box, and instead pulled out a six-inch leather Bucheimer sap which he slid into his back pocket. He figured visiting Manny’s cousin didn’t require much firepower.
Beck slipped into his coat, not bothering to button up. The Mercury sat right in front of the bar, its exhaust pluming against the cold February air.
“Where to?” asked Demarco.
“Head through the tunnel and up the West Side Highway. She lives up in Riverdale.”
Demarco slipped the Mercury into gear and drove like he moved … effortlessly.
They sat silently while the throaty engine accelerated them toward the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel.
After a few minutes, Beck broke the silence.
“So you didn’t stay upstate with Elliot?”
“No. We came in last night. He had to substitute for somebody’s class this morning.”
Beck nodded. “Good weekend?”
Demarco shrugged. “We went to a dinner party on Saturday.”
“I would imagine gay couples are in demand at dinner parties up there in the shire. Especially a mixed couple like you and Elliot.”
“You looking for an invite?”
“Why not? I got a car. I know how to buy a bottle of wine.”
Demarco smiled at the idea of Beck attending a dinner party in the country.
“I had to come in anyhow. Remember that woman, Maxine Barnes?”
“The one with the restaurant in the theater district?”
“Yeah. She’s opening a club midtown on the West side. Wants me to set up security for it.”
Beck nodded. “Good. You’ve done enough of it.”
They drove in silence for a while, and then Demarco asked, “You gonna check with Walter about that guy Reese?”
Beck shook his head. “Not yet. Walter has enough to do following about a thousand parolees. Let’s see how the window thing goes.”
“What do we have in the pipeline line now, two guys?”
“Yep. Packy Johnson up at Eastern,
and the Irish kid Dermott Ryan has a parole hearing in about six months at Coxsackie.” Beck changed the subject. “So did Manny tell you about his cousin?”
“No. Didn’t know he had any family. Closest thing I thought he had are those cronies he fishes with down on the piers. Did you know about her?”
“No. Nothing.”
“She knows you’re coming?”
“Yeah.”
“Manny is pretty riled up.”
“Yes.”
“What’s it going to take?”
“Don’t know yet.”
They lapsed back into silence, until Demarco guided the Mercury onto the Henry Hudson Parkway.
Beck asked. “How old you figure Manny is, closing in on sixty?”
“Nah, he’s what, fiftysomething, I think. He looks older because he’s been at the hard life longer. Takes its toll.”
“He says the cousin is a lot younger.”
Demarco didn’t comment.
When they drove over the Henry Hudson Bridge into Riverdale, Beck said, “Take the Palisade Avenue exit.”
Within a few minutes they pulled up parallel to a small complex of Tudor-style apartments that looked like a cluster of small Mediterranean villas overlooking the Hudson River. Beyond the buildings, the winter water of the Hudson River looked gray, and even a blue sky and bright sun couldn’t make the Palisades across the river anything but dull brown.
Beck popped open the door of the Mercury and stepped out. He made his way along connecting walkways, under stone arches, and up freestanding stairways until he found Olivia Sanchez’s apartment on the second-floor level.
He tapped the knocker against the sturdy wooden door and waited. He heard someone on the other side of the door and assumed Olivia Sanchez was checking him out through the peephole.
“Who is it?”
Beck answered loud enough to be heard through the thick door. “James Beck. Your cousin Manny called to say I’d be coming to see you.”
Beck heard a dead bolt lock turn and then a sucking swish as the heavy door sealed against the river winds pulled open.
Beck hadn’t bothered to picture Manny’s cousin, but if he’d tried he wouldn’t have come close to the woman who stood in front of him with a slight smile, her hand extended.
“Hello, I’m Olivia.”
Among Thieves Page 3
