Among Thieves

by John Clarkson

  He reached over, picked up the phone. “Who?”

  “Milstein.”

  Markov grunted, “Call me in five hours.”

  Without waiting for a response, he pushed the END button and dropped the phone on the hotel room carpet, turning his attention back to the transsexual.

  Markov focused on the black she-male who called herself Natalie. She was beginning to look more masculine, but at the same time less human, more animatronic. Her abdominal muscles flexed and pulsed, looking like a set of dark, three-dimensional metallic plates. The shaved stubble of her pubic hair seemed to flex on the surface of her smooth abdominal skin, reminding Markov of tiny nail heads or rivets. The black wig she wore swayed as if it were made of plastic strands that had been covered in a resin that made each strand heavy and somehow dangerous. Markov suddenly felt that if she bent over and any part of the wig touched him, it would slice through him, cutting back and forth through layers of skin and yellow fat and making him bleed.

  Markov avoided looking at her face, which had twisted into something like a mask made of twitching, flat, shining pieces of dark stone. He wanted to focus on her breasts, to turn his attention to something erotic, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from blinking and suddenly watering. Everything began to turn blurry. Her breathing sounded like the hissing spurts that would come out of a steam radiator. Or maybe it was his breathing. Or was it really the hissing of the radiator in the hotel room he had rented in midtown Manhattan?

  * * *

  Milstein checked his watch. He knew calling Markov back and venting his anger in a voice mail would be stupid and dangerous. Five hours. That would mean at about eleven-thirty.

  He thought about trying Alan Crane again, but he already knew Crane would ignore him.

  No, the hell with Crane, he thought. I’m going straight to Markov. He’d call Markov after he walked the dog.

  What the hell was that goddamn Sanchez woman trying to pull? Who was that thug she’d sent?

  Milstein slipped the small cell phone into his pocket. He would take it apart and throw away the pieces as he walked the dog.

  Milstein took a few steps and sat down on the couch facing his marble fireplace. Now that he was home, now that there was nothing else he could do, Milstein suddenly felt weak and a bit shaky. A drink. He needed a drink.

  Milstein walked into his kitchen, turning lights on as he moved toward the back of the apartment. He pulled a bottle of Lagavulin from the kitchen cabinet where he kept his liquor. He pushed glassware around in the kitchen cabinet, looking for a rocks glass, settling for a water glass. Fuck it.

  He poured himself two fingers, tipped the glass back, letting the hot, medicinal whiskey fill his mouth and burn into his stomach. He took a deep breath. Returned to his living room.

  The dog had decided to join him. The fucking thing is always hanging out in the kitchen with the housekeeper, thought Milstein. She ought to take the damn thing home someday and keep him.

  The dog was a large, overfed Airedale named Tam. Another of his wife’s ideas. Not that she did anything to walk it or take care of it. She treated it like another piece of furniture. Cared for by somebody else.

  While Milstein had been in the kitchen, Tam had curled up in his oversized Tartan plaid dog bed. Milstein’s wife had picked out the fabric with her decorator at a ridiculously inflated price. After much discussion, the dog’s bed had been placed under the large window facing Seventy-ninth Street, as if the dog and his bed were a design feature.

  When Milstein entered the room, the dog lifted his head, stared at Milstein, waiting for an outburst that would send him scurrying out of the room.

  Milstein ignored the dog, took another swallow of the expensive Scotch.

  Take it easy, Milstein told himself. Again, his thoughts turned to Olivia Sanchez. Why am I surprised? A woman that good-looking could get plenty of men to help her. But that guy? Not her type. Way too rough. Too blue collar. But then again, maybe not. Maybe exactly her type. He wasn’t badly dressed. The coat looked expensive. He spoke well. Goddammit, who the fuck was he?

  Milstein took another swig of the Scotch. All right, don’t let it rattle you, he told himself. You’ve got plenty of resources if this gets out of hand. Plenty of people who can handle someone like that. Walter already seems to be figuring out how to deal with him. Too bad that thug didn’t go after Crane. He’s the one who started this mess.

  No, thought Milstein. Sanchez would have made it clear to whoever he was that he should go to the top. Although the guy did seem smart enough to figure that out for himself.

  Milstein drained his glass and headed back to the kitchen. He looked at an indecipherable lump of food under plastic wrap inside the microwave.

  “I’ll be goddamned if I eat that crap.”

  He went back to the front hallway, got his coat, and set out to have a sit-down dinner and another Scotch. And think about exactly what he was going to tell Leonard Markov.

  8

  Even though Ciro Baldassare filled a good portion of the Mercury Marauder’s backseat, a passing pedestrian would be unlikely to notice him because he never moved. If Ciro did catch someone’s attention, they tended to look away quickly. He was that kind of guy.

  Demarco Jones had parked the Mercury in the empty curbside space between the two ends of the half-circle driveway that led to and from the entrance of Milstein’s Park Avenue apartment building. Next to him in the passenger seat, Beck rummaged around in the glove box and pulled out a fake NYPD detective badge on a chain. He slipped the chain over his head and tucked the badge under his shirt.

  He told Demarco and Ciro, “Sit tight. Let me see if I can arrange a visit with Mr. Milstein.”

  The doorman stepped out to greet Beck before he had walked halfway along the driveway. He was a short, slight man, red-haired, boyish. A wide smile dominated his face. His doorman’s hat tilted back on his head, he seemed happy to see Beck even though he had never seen Beck in his life.

  “Hello,” said the doorman. “Can I help you?”

  Beck didn’t smile back. “Yeah, I want to ask you a few questions.” Beck pulled his detective badge out from under his shirt and held it up for a brief inspection, then let the badge remain on display hanging from his neck. “My name is Logan. I’m a detective with the nineteenth precinct.”

  “Oh, okay,” said the doorman, still smiling. He saluted Beck. “What can I do for you?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Owen.”

  “Owen. So Owen, we got a report earlier tonight, a complaint from uh…” Beck pulled a scrap of paper out of his back pocket. It was the receipt from their dinner. He checked it. “… somebody named Frederick Milstein. We were hoping to talk to him tonight.”

  “Oh, Mr. Milstein just went out.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “You know where?”

  Still smiling, Owen answered, “No. I think he went out to eat.”

  “Any idea when he’ll be back?”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure he’ll be back by around ten.”

  “Oh yeah, why’s that?”

  “That’s when he walks the dog,” said Owen, still smiling.

  “He walks his dog around ten?”

  “Yes, sir. Most of our people have dog walkers. But Simpson on twelve and Milstein on fourteen, they take their dogs out for the night walk. Milstein likes to have a cigar at night, so that’s why he does it.” Owen smiled and laughed. “I don’t think he likes the dog all that much. But his wife won’t let him smoke in the house, so the night walk works out for him.”

  “Where does he go?”

  “Straight from here into the park, then over to Dog Hill.”

  “Dog Hill? Where’s that?”

  “Just a little south of the Seventy-ninth Street entrance.”

  “He doesn’t mind walking around in the park at night?”

  Owen laughed and said, “Oh, it’s not a problem. The dog is huge, and he goes wit
h his driver. Big guy. Ex-cop.”

  “I see. That sounds pretty good.” Beck shoved his badge back under his shirt. “All right, don’t bother telling him I was here. Don’t make him wonder about it. We’ll follow up tomorrow. My shift is going off.”

  “Sure,” said Owen, still smiling, as if smiling were part of his job.

  Beck looked Owen in the eye and pointed back and forth with his index finger. “Just between us for now. Got it?”

  For once Owen’s smile vanished. “Got it.”

  Beck walked back along the driveway and climbed into the Mercury, checked his watch.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Ciro from the backseat.

  “Oh, something for everybody. D gets to be the big scary black man. You get to be the guy with the gun. But you have to promise not to shoot or hit anyone unless I say so.”

  “Promise.” said Ciro, “Unless someone deserves it. Who do you get to be?”

  “I haven’t quite decided yet. Let’s find a parking spot around here somewhere. We got a little time to kill while I figure this out.”

  9

  At ten-fifteen, Beck slipped into the passenger seat of the Mercury parked on Fifth Avenue just past Seventy-eighth Street, Demarco at the wheel, Ciro sitting motionless in the backseat.

  Beck used the palm of his hand like he was about to diagram a touch-football play.

  “So, the asshole is sitting on a bench, right about here, opposite an open field. He let his hound off the leash to go take a shit somewhere while he smokes a cigar. The bodyguard is sitting on a bench on the other side of the pathway facing him.”

  Beck quickly explained his plan.

  * * *

  Milstein sat hunched against the cold February night, puffing on a Montecristo Double Corona, watching the dark open space in front of him, completely uninterested in anything his dog might be doing.

  They weren’t far into the park, but other than the ambient light from Fifth Avenue, the only illumination came from decorative street lamps spaced along the park pathway that meandered from the Seventy-ninth Street entrance to where Milstein sat, just at the edge of a pool of light facing Dog Hill.

  He and Walter heard someone approaching from the north. Both men turned in the direction of the sound. Walter slipped his police-issue Glock 17 out of his hip holster, laying the semiautomatic pistol on top of his thigh, ready just in case.

  The figure came into view. A tall black man wearing a hooded sweatshirt that covered much of his face. He came toward them slowly, giving them the feeling that he was checking them out as much as they were him.

  Shit, thought Milstein, this is all I need. But the sight of Walter watching the black man every step of the way with his gun at the ready made Milstein almost giddy.

  The hooded man came nearly parallel to them. He seemed to be looking mostly at Milstein, who straightened up, ready to get up and break away if the man made any move toward him. But the menacing black man just kept walking, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweatshirt. Walter’s head swiveled to keep his eyes on the intruder as he passed them by.

  Milstein watched, too, as Demarco Jones continued walking slowly south. Neither of them saw where Ciro Baldassare came from. He’d been standing in the dark, out in the field behind Walter. All he had to do was step out and take a seat next to the big bodyguard while Walter had his head turned watching Demarco Jones walk off around the bend on the park pathway.

  Walter never even heard Ciro sit next to him, but when he turned from watching Demarco, Ciro’s Smith & Wesson .45 automatic was an inch from his face. The gun looked huge.

  “Don’t move, fella,” said Ciro. “Not even a twitch.”

  Ciro deftly slipped the Glock out of Walter’s hand, slid down the bench a bit, rested his right arm on the back of the bench, and pointed the muzzle of the Smith & Wesson at Walter’s face.

  Milstein hadn’t seen where Ciro had come from either, but he saw him now, pointing a very large gun at Walter, saying nothing, not moving, completely calm as if this was something he did all the time.

  And then the last piece of Beck’s plan fell into place as he stepped out from the darkness behind Milstein, and sat down next to the small man.

  Milstein reared back. “Jeezus Christ, you again.”

  “Yes, me again,” said Beck. “And trust me, Mr. Milstein, you do not want to see me a third time, so let’s finish our conversation. How about we take a little walk?”

  Milstein looked over at Walter and then back at Beck.

  “I know,” said Beck. “How the fuck did this just happen? Don’t worry about it. You’ll both be all right if neither of you does anything stupid. Come on.”

  Beck grabbed a handful of Milstein’s coat and lifted him to his feet. Any thought of resisting vanished when he realized whoever this was, he had enough strength to lift him with one arm.

  Beck pointed down the path toward the model boat basin, and released Milstein with a slight push in that direction. They arrived at a bench around a bend where the bodyguard couldn’t see them or hear them. Beck indicated that Milstein should sit. He settled in next to him, close enough to make Milstein uncomfortable.

  “So,” said Beck. “Olivia Sanchez.”

  Milstein puffed on his cigar, grimaced, annoyed, shot back, “What about her? What is it with you and Olivia Sanchez?”

  There was a pause before Beck reacted. Just about two seconds before he backhanded the cigar out of Milstein’s mouth and grabbed Milstein by the side of his neck. Beck pressed his right thumb into Milstein’s throat.

  He spoke very quietly, very intensely. “Are you fucking crazy? You think you can use that tone with me? You want to end up in that boat basin with your throat crushed?”

  Beck squeezed Milstein’s windpipe. He stood up off the bench and faced Milstein. Milstein grabbed Beck’s wrist and forearm with both hands, trying to pull Beck’s hand off his neck and throat. It only made Beck squeeze harder.

  Just as blackness was about to envelope Milstein, Beck released him. He stood in front of Milstein, waiting for him to come around.

  As Milstein’s head cleared, Beck leaned closer and said to him, “I don’t know what it is with assholes like you. You think because you have some money nobody will fuck with you? Or is it because you’re such a little shit you think somebody would be embarrassed to beat the hell out of you? Have you lost all sense of reality?”

  Milstein rasped air into his lungs.

  Beck slapped his cheek, gently, more to focus his attention. “Answer me.”

  “No. No, I haven’t lost sense of reality.”

  Beck spoke quietly now. “So you understand if you don’t answer my questions, you won’t leave this park alive. Nor will your pathetic bodyguard. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Beck sat down next to Milstein and asked quietly, “I hope you don’t have any doubts about what I just said?”

  Milstein paused. “No.” But as he answered he was thinking furiously about what to do.

  “Good,” said Beck. “Let’s start again. Olivia Sanchez.”

  Milstein cleared his throat, thinking before he said anything. “I’m listening.”

  “Tell me what you’re going to do about this idiot who works for you breaking her fingers, tossing her out of a job, and blackballing her from any other employment.”

  Milstein cleared his throat again, hesitating. Beck asked, “Well?”

  “That’s not…”

  Beck interrupted him. “You’re not going to tell me that’s not what happened are you?”

  “All I can tell you is that’s her side of it. There’s another side.”

  “Which is?”

  Milstein spoke very carefully. “She has made claims against one of my partners, Alan Crane. Crane has his own side of the story. He says he confronted her. She got hysterical. She attacked him. He grabbed her hand and twisted it away so she couldn’t hit him.

  “He says he can’t believe he broke her fingers. But the poin
t is, Crane says he was defending himself. She’s trying to bring charges against him. He’s already talked to the police. He says she’s lying. She says he’s lying. So now it’s with the lawyers. His lawyers. And the firm’s lawyers, who are very clear about this. They’ve told me to have no further contact with her.”

  “What about with Crane?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have your lawyers told you not to have any contact with him?”

  “No. But we’ve all been instructed not to discuss the case.”

  “That’s your answer?”

  Milstein looked quickly at Beck, who sat next to him staring straight ahead.

  He didn’t know what to say, so he continued to look at Beck. They sat far from one of the park lamp lights, but the sky was cloudless and the moon bright enough to cast shadows from the trees around them and illuminate Beck’s rough features.

  Beck breathed in the cold night air, calming himself, keeping his anger in check. He inhaled the rather pleasant scent of the cigar still burning on the ground near the bench where it had landed.

  Milstein finally said, “I don’t understand the question.”

  “You’ll talk to Crane, but you won’t talk to Olivia Sanchez.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? They both work for you. Why Crane and not her?”

  “Well…”

  “We both know why. Crane makes more money for you.”

  “That’s not the only reason. She’s the one making accusations.”

  “Crane is the one waging lawsuits.”

  “Look,” said Milstein, “I’ve known Alan Crane for years. He’s not the calmest person. He’s under a lot of pressure. He admits he confronted her. He admits he gave her hell; he admits it got out of hand. But he says she attacked him. Tried to slap him and hit him. I’ve never had any reason to believe Alan would do something like attack a woman. So what am I supposed to do? Olivia has her story. Crane has his.”

  “I see,” said Beck. “But she ends up in an emergency room with two broken fingers. And the asshole who did it gets her fired and blackballed. How’s that figure?”