He turned back to the cell phone. “Can you see into the Tahoe?”
“No. Tinted windows.”
“Anybody getting out?”
“No. Looks like they’re waiting for somebody.”
“You’re not anyplace you’ll be spotted are you?”
“Nah. We’ve been in the same spot for hours. Engine’s off. It’s like we’re parked overnight. We got a little space heater running off the battery. We’re good.”
“Okay. Call me if something else happens.”
Beck hung up and turned to Demarco, “How long since we left Red Hook?”
“About a half hour. What are you thinking?”
“Kolenka knows by now something went wrong. He’s got to get somewhere safer. Somewhere we don’t know about.”
Demarco continued down Coney Island Avenue. He was three blocks from Kolenka’s building. Beck’s phone rang.
“Yeah.”
“Another car pulled up behind the SUV. Cadillac. XTS. Three hard types got out. One went into the building. Two are standing guard just outside the entrance, guns out. A big meatball got out of the passenger side of the SUV. He’s got a piece in his hand, too.”
Beck told Demarco, “Pull over, D.” Then he told Ricky, “Shit. Looks like they’re getting ready to take our guy out of there.”
“Yep.”
“All right. Can you tail them?”
“Traffic is dead. It’s not rush hour yet. We’ll have to lag way behind, but it shouldn’t be hard.”
“Okay, we’ll trail you and then probably switch back and forth so they won’t spot you. You in the white van?”
“Still in the Bolo-mobile.”
“Stay on the phone and tell me what’s happening.”
“It’s like they’re moving the fucking president.”
“They are.”
“All right. Here we go. There’s a small old guy coming out now. Raggedy-ass suit coat over a white sweater, baggy pants, smoking. Everybody’s looking around. The one who went in for him is on one side. Another guy on the other. The third one is leading them to the Cadillac. Everybody has guns out. They’re putting him in the back of the Cadillac.”
“Who’s in which car?”
“The big guy and I’m guessing just a driver in the SUV. Can’t see through the windows. The boss man and two bodyguards in back of the Cadillac. Another bodyguard and driver in front. Cadillac leading. SUV trailing.”
“Stay with ’em. Keep your phone on.”
Beck put his phone on speaker and placed it in the Mercury’s ashtray so Demarco could hear Ricky Bolo’s running narrative. Kolenka’s cars were on Neptune Avenue headed east.
“Now what?” asked Demarco.
“Pray we get lucky. I’ve got my Browning. You have your Glock, right?”
“Plus my AA-Twelve. It’s on the floor in the back. I put a thirty-two-round drum on it.”
“Loaded with what?”
“Mostly twelve-gauge shot. But every fifth or sixth shell is a single slug. Big ones.”
“Well, maybe we have a chance.”
Beck was stiff and sore all over, the long knife wound on his back was only oozing blood. He downed a five-hour energy drink from the pocket of his coat. Grimaced through the pain and reached over the backseat for the assault shotgun.
Ricky Bolo’s voice came over the cell phone speaker. “They’re gettin’ on the BQE.”
“Still heading east?”
“Yeah.”
“Fall back a little more. We’ll overtake you and follow them.”
Demarco asked, “What do you think?”
“If he stays on the BQE, my bet is he’s heading for JFK.”
Demarco nodded. “Makes sense. Fly out to somewhere we can’t find him. Maybe the homeland.”
“We aren’t chasing this fucker to Russia. Gimme your phone.”
Beck used Demarco’s phone to get online.
Demarco eased past the Bolo’s white van and spotted Kolenka’s caravan of two cars about a hundred yards ahead. The van fell back. Demarco took its place and followed from well behind. Both of Kolenka’s vehicles were in the far left lane, going about sixty.
Beck was bent over Demarco’s phone.
“There aren’t any flights leaving at four in the morning. Where are we?”
“Just past Floyd Bennett Field.”
Beck pulled up Google Maps and searched for motels near JFK.
“I’m saying he’s heading for Kennedy, but he’ll have to hole up somewhere until planes start flying. There’s a lot of motels around the airport, but there are five that are the closest. Three in one cluster, two a block away. I guess we’ll have to roll the dice and cover the cluster of three.”
Demarco thought it over. “Or we split up and cover all five.”
Beck thought it over. “No, that could mean one of us against six. There’s a better way.”
Beck picked up the cell phone and took it off speaker. “Ricky, there’s three streets just past the JFK Expressway. One Hundred Fifty-third Place, Hundred Fifty-third Lane, and Hundred Fifty-third Court.”
After a moment, Ricky responded, “I see ’em on my GPS. What genius came up with that?”
“There’s two motels on One Hundred Fifty-third Lane. Three on the corner of One Hundred Fifty-third Court and South Conduit.”
“I see ’em.”
“Demarco and I are going to find a spot midway between all five. Can you lay back and follow them until they turn off, then let us know which street they take?”
“Not without them spotting us. How bad do you need to get this guy?”
“We don’t get him now, we’ll never get him. He could send gunmen after us forever.”
“Shit. James, there’s hardly anybody on the road. They spot us, it’s over.”
“Fuck.”
Beck thought it through. He was almost positive Kolenka was going for a flight out of town. That meant JFK. Would he go straight to the airport? They’d never be able to take him there. And then Beck thought, no. He’s not going to sit for hours in the airport. He can’t smoke in the airport.
“Okay, here’s what we do.”
Beck laid out his plan.
“All right, man, we got to hustle. Right now.”
Demarco slid into the far right lane. Two minutes later, the white van pulled up in the middle lane blocking any view of the Mercury because Beck feared the big Russian in the SUV was Vassily, and he might remember it. Both vehicles gradually sped up and past the Kolenka two-car caravan. Once past, they continued accelerating. The van topped out at ninety miles an hour. It took Jonas Bolo’s full concentration to keep the van under control.
The van nearly spun out when they hit the exit.
Jonas braked hard and parked the van on South Conduit Avenue where they had a view of all three streets. Beck and Demarco continued on, found a spot in the middle of 153rd Court, and parked the Mercury, shutting it down.
Beck said, “There have to be security cameras around these motels.”
Demarco spun his Kangol hat around to cover any view of his face from above. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a NY Knicks ball cap for Beck.
“They’re mostly covering the entrances.”
“Let’s get into that lot connecting the two blocks. Try and angle away from any cameras we spot. Once they turn onto one of these two streets, we’ll have to run to get in place. We have to take them outside. Can’t let them get into the motel.”
Demarco popped open his door and headed into the dark night without a word, Beck following close behind. Within seconds, they were hunkered down between two parked cars in the lot of the motel facing South Conduit.
Beck handed Demarco his Browning. “Take my gun.” He held up the AA-12. “I’ll need two hands for this fucker.”
“Don’t worry. It doesn’t kick much at all. But be careful. It shoots fast and does a hell of a lot of damage.”
Beck worked the headphones for his cell phone int
o his ears. The phone had been on the whole time.
Beck asked over the phone, “Any sign of them?”
“Not yet. I didn’t think the old Bolo-mobile could go that fast, but they should be here pretty soon. If they’re coming here.”
Beck turned down the volume on his phone. Suddenly, everything seemed quiet. All he could hear was the whoosh of occasional traffic out on the BQE. A gust of cold wind blew through the parking lot.
They didn’t have long to wait.
Beck heard Ricky Bolo’s voice in his ear. “Here they come.”
Beck felt a spasm of emotion run through him. He’d won half his bet. He stood up, moving out from between the parked cars. He did two quick half-squats, trying to loosen his sore knees, getting ready to run.
And then Ricky’s voice. “They just turned on … on … what the fuck is the middle street called? Goddamn it, is it Court? Lane? Whatever, it’s the middle street.”
It took Beck a split second to figure he had to run left, Demarco drifting easily behind him, guns in both hands.
They came out onto 153rd Court just as the trailing SUV drove past. The Cadillac was heading for the motel near the end of the block.
Beck took in everything. Across the street was a long-term parking lot filled with cars dropped off by airline passengers. A six-foot chain-link fence surrounded the lot, covered by a green plastic mesh.
Beck started running as fast as he could toward the lot. Demarco could see Beck was taking the high ground. Beck rolled under a locked double-wide gate and ran toward the fence bordering the motel parking lot.
Demarco raced up 153rd Court, closing the distance between him and the slowing SUV.
The Cadillac turned into a narrow lane that led to the parking area behind the motel, the SUV following. Demarco dug in and ran full blast.
Beck slipped and stumbled across the parking lot, but hit full stride and made it to the last row of cars parked parallel along the chain-link fence. He scrambled onto the roof of the nearest car, leaned over the top of the fence, and found himself ten feet above the motel lot as the big Cadillac slowly eased between the concrete wall that supported the parking lot fence, and a car parked against the motel wall in a handicapped space.
Beck opened fire. Fully automatic bursts of 12-gauge shot. In five seconds, he took out the front passenger tire of the Cadillac, and both front tires of the Tahoe. He then shifted and blasted the back windows of the Cadillac. The driver floored the accelerator and the car leaped forward on the shredded front tire, sending up sparks as the rim spun against the asphalt.
Out on the street, Demarco stood behind the SUV shooting nonstop with both handguns through the back window. The driver tried to accelerate between the wall and the car parked on his right, but with two flat front tires, he veered into the wall.
Beck fired a blast into the Tahoe’s engine, stalling the SUV.
The driver was too close to the wall to open his door, but the big Russian, Vassily, fell out of the passenger side, landing hard on the asphalt, gun in hand, firing back at Demarco.
Demarco calmly shifted aim and fired both guns at the downed Russian. After six shots, the Russian stopped firing back,
The panicked driver of the Cadillac tried to turn left, but without a front tire, he smashed into a parked car.
Beck blasted five quick shots into the back of the Cadillac, obliterating the trunk and tires. Everything went silent.
Demarco calmly walked to Vassily, who had been hit four times: his left arm, chest, right shoulder, and a grazing shot that had taken off most of his right ear. He leaned down, put his gun against Vassily’s head, and said, “Who’s the glupo chertovski negr now, fat boy?”
Vassily’s mouth moved like a fish gasping for air. Demarco put him out of his misery with one shot.
Beck had no choice but to climb over the fence. It seemed to take him forever to lower himself to the ground and slide down off the four-foot concrete wall that bordered the parking lot while still holding the shotgun. He had never fired it before and could hardly believe the damage it did. He started limping toward the Cadillac.
Demarco looked inside the open door of the SUV. The driver had fallen over the steering wheel. He looked dead, but Demarco put one shot into him to make sure.
Beck had to be certain Kolenka was dead. He moved as quickly as he could toward the Cadillac. When he was ten feet away, the back door opened and one of Kolenka’s bodyguards leaned out and shot at him. Beck lurched right and fell to the ground, but could not get the AA-12 out from under him to fire back.
Demarco, still back at the SUV, fired off wild shots at the bodyguard over the open door of the Tahoe, until both handguns clicked empty, giving Beck enough cover to fire the AA-12 from a prone position, cutting down the bodyguard with two shots.
Demarco stepped over Vassily, slammed the Tahoe door in his way and ran to Beck, lifting him to his feet. They both walked to the Cadillac, Demarco reloading his Glock. The carnage inside the car was nearly complete. The driver and remaining bodyguards were dead. Kolenka was pitched forward against the passenger seat, blood across the top of his head.
Beck leaned into the car and pulled Kolenka back off the seat. He had a massive head wound, but he was still breathing. Beck placed the muzzle of the AA-12 into Kolenka’s side.
“You should have stayed out of it, Ivan.”
He pulled the trigger.
The entire gun battle had taken less than three minutes.
Demarco helped Beck limp back to the Mercury as quickly as he could. He wasn’t sure if Beck had been shot, but he couldn’t waste time on the street finding out.
The Bolo’s white van was long gone. By the time they crossed over to get onto the BQE heading west, they still hadn’t heard a police siren.
73
Phineas P. Dunleavy loved battling law enforcement. Good, bad, competent, indifferent, it didn’t matter. Cops. Judges. Assistant district attorneys. It didn’t matter. He would even badger a court clerk or a corrections officer if he felt he had to. He didn’t waste energy being mean or vindictive about it. He just took it as his mission in life.
For Phineas it came down to a visceral reaction against bullies. Maybe it was his too often drunk and angry father who demeaned Phineas as a kid, or the fearsome nuns that tried to terrify him in parochial school, or the tough older boys who took shots at him because they didn’t like his looks or his brogue. Or maybe it was just some deep dark Irish DNA that rebelled against oppressors. Whatever it was, Phineas P. Dunleavy was hardwired to fight against anybody who thought they had the right to push other people around, and Phineas never had to look far to find those people. The legal machine that ground out its merciless work 24/7 teemed with tin-pot tyrants who assumed they had a right to ruin the lives of thousands who had neither the education nor the resources to do much about it.
Which stoked Phineas’s ire sufficiently to keep him in battle mode perpetually.
When he knocked on the side kitchen door of Beck’s bar after coming in through the warehouse at the end of the street, and making his way between buildings as Beck had instructed, Phineas looked like a man ready for either a physical or an intellectual brawl, the sooner the better.
Alex Liebowitz opened the door for the heavyset Phineas, who stood five ten, dressed in brown corduroy pants, a green cashmere turtleneck sweater, and a long brown fine wool overcoat. Phineas just about filled the width of the doorway. He stepped in and embraced Alex in his usual bear hug.
“Laddie. Trouble afoot for the good guys, ey?”
“Apparently,” said Alex.
“When I drove up Reed to get into the warehouse lot there were a half-dozen coppers milling around back there.”
“Not nearly as many as before. We gotta stay closed down so they don’t come busting in here looking for James.”
Phineas took a peek out the front window. The hulk of the burned-out SUV, surrounded by scorched sidewalks and cobblestones was still out front, as well as a single p
atrol car staking out the entrance to Beck’s building.
“That’s what I’m here for. Nobody gets in without a proper warrant and plenty of time for us to get organized. God’s Christ, you look totally wrecked, boy. When was the last time you slept?”
“You mean like eight hours in a row slept?”
“I mean slept at all.”
Alex waived off the question. “Can’t remember. After today I’ll be able to sleep.”
“Good. Good. Where’s James?”
“Don’t know. But he’s due back soon. Certainly before nine-thirty.”
Phineas walked all the way around to the back of the bar. “Nine-thirty? Why nine-thirty?”
“Markets open at nine-thirty.”
That didn’t explain much, but Phineas responded as if it did. “Ah. I see. I might even get the warrants quashed by then. James says he’s already taken care of one witness, and doubts the second will ever show up.”
Phineas began assembling the makings for coffee. While it brewed, he set his mug on the battered old bar and poured in a dollop of Jameson.
“You want some coffee, lad?”
“No thanks.”
“Is it just you?”
“At the moment.”
As if on cue, a knock sounded at the side door. Alex went to answer it. A few moments later, Doctor Brandon Wright appeared in the barroom. Phineas topped off his coffee and waved him in. Behind him came a diminutive woman pulling a wheeled twenty-four-inch suitcase, filled with surgical supplies.
“Good morning, Doctor. I see you followed James’s instructions about avoiding the front door.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve taken that route.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
The tall, lanky doctor wore jeans, work boots, and a plaid shirt under a fleece-lined Carhartt canvas coat. He carried a large doctor’s black bag. Brandon introduced the woman with him.
“Gentlemen, this is Ruth Silverman, my nurse. Ruth, Mr. Dunleavy and Mr. Liebowitz.”
She nodded.
“How do you do,” said Phineas, politely shaking her hand. Alex raised a hand in her direction.
Phineas asked Brandon, “When did you speak to James?”
Among Thieves Page 36
