Among Thieves

by John Clarkson

  Wright continued to work without comment. Beck endured the silent reproach.

  For a moment, Beck thought about saying something to his doctor friend. But instead he continued to think about what he was going to do once he was stitched up.

  Wright worked quickly, deftly, but the procedure took nearly twenty minutes. As he finished up bandaging the wound, he finally broke the silence. “Do you know why I do this for you, James?”

  “Because you’re a good man.”

  “No, because you’re a man who helps people nobody else will.”

  Beck didn’t respond.

  “How many men have you and Walter Ferguson and this network of yours helped once they are out of prison?”

  Beck didn’t answer.

  Wright slipped off his latex gloves, dropped them on the floor with the used surgical supplies, and packed his bag. He grimaced a bit in frustration. Started to leave. Stopped. Turned to Beck and said, “Would telling you to be careful have any effect?”

  Again, Beck didn’t answer.

  20

  Gregor Stepanovich stood waiting for the elevator to return to Crane’s floor holding up the bleeding, dying Igor, while Markov held the other man. And waited. And waited.

  Finally, he had to lay Igor onto the floor and walk down six flights of stairs to find out what was wrong with the elevator.

  When he saw the knit cap Beck had wedged into the elevator door, Stepanovich cursed and pulled it out.

  On the ride back up to Crane’s apartment, Stepanovich held the knit cap in his hand and pictured punching Beck’s face again and again and again until bones broke under the skin and teeth cracked, until skin split and blood flowed.

  He kept control of his rage until he and Markov got their wounded men into the car and sent them off, knowing he would most likely never see them again.

  As he walked back to Crane’s building, Stepanovich vowed to himself that he was going to kill that bastard who had done this to him and his men. Slowly, if he could. Quickly, if he had to. But he would find out who he was and kill him. That was it. Markov’s orders no longer mattered.

  When they came out of the elevator, the rank metallic odor of putrefying blood and acrid gun smoke filled Crane’s loft. The stench did nothing to improve their moods.

  Stepanovich looked over at Crane who sat on his couch, his shirt torn from removing the duct tape, massaging his left shoulder, staring at his ruined fifteen-thousand-dollar dining table.

  Markov walked to the couch, pulled out his cell phone, and began dialing.

  When Markov finished the call, Gregor asked him, “Tell me, Leo, who was that fucking balija?”

  “Criminal.” Markov answered. He turned to Crane. “Tell us. What do you know about that son of a bitch?”

  “Me? Absolutely nothing. No idea. Ask fucking Olivia Sanchez. Or Milstein. Milstein told him to come here, right? Go ask him.”

  Markov held up his cell phone. “I already ask him. He tells me he finds out this morning that he’s a bad guy. Convict. His name is James Beck. He tried to extort money from Milstein for the bitch. I told Milstein to send him up here. Milstein told him he should talk to you. What do you think he does to you, we’re not here?”

  Crane looked at Markov like he was speaking a foreign language. “How do I fucking know what he would have done? What did he do to Milstein? Obviously not much. Maybe if your attack dog hadn’t stuck a gun in his face he wouldn’t have done anything. How much do you want to blame me for, Leonard? All I’m trying to do is protect your investments. And make you money. I haven’t done a fucking thing wrong, and you come in here…”

  Markov snarled, “Stop being ridiculous, Alan.”

  Crane changed the subject.

  “Leonard, why are we arguing? I’m on your side. What’s going on? Are you really serious about cashing out? You’re going to lose a good deal of money.”

  “What? You ask me this after a fucking criminal shoots my man? Comes up here to do who knows what? Are you fucking crazy? You think I leave my money with Milstein’s business, with this bitch causing trouble? Talking to police? Bringing in convicts? Thugs? You ask me this?”

  “All right, all right. Forget it. Whatever you want. You want your money, fine. But if I’m going to do this, I have to start as soon as I can. I have dozens of positions I’ve got to start moving on. I have index hedges, options that aren’t close to being where I expect, currency contracts.”

  Markov pointed a thick finger at Crane. “You don’t have time. You get it done. Now. Fast.”

  Crane mustered his courage. “I’ll get it done as quickly as I can. But I’m not going to let you get reamed, Leonard. I’ll need a few days. You should trust me when I tell you this. How long have we worked together?”

  Markov waived a hand and stood up, walking away from the dining area. “Aaach. What does it matter how long we work together? Three years and two months, and now the jackals come after everything, so what good does it do me?”

  “Nobody is going to take your money. And I’ve made you plenty. Well over forty percent year over year. You know anybody who’s even come close to that?”

  “Fine.” Markov turned and faced Crane. “But what about now? Now you bring this shit down on me. Stop talking. Get it done. I have work to do. I have two fucking shipments going out of Albania tonight. I still don’t have the right certificates. And now I have this mess. So, do we understand each other?”

  Crane had been distracted. He said, “What?”

  Markov pushed himself off the couch and stepped toward Crane. “Are you not listening to me? Did you say ‘what’? What? You fucking motherfucker. You answer me like that? Maybe I should have Gregor take his anger out on you for an hour or so, you worthless piece of shit.”

  Crane raised a hand. “Jeezus Christ, Leonard, take it easy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m trying to figure out … Christ, I don’t even know what the fuck is going on.”

  Stepanovich had moved closer to Crane, drawn to the possibility of violence, hoping Markov would unleash him.

  Crane dropped his head and said to Markov, “I’m sorry this happened. I’ll start closing down your positions. What else do you want me to do, Leonard?”

  “I need to find the woman. Milstein gave me her home address. You think she might be there?”

  “I don’t know. Why not?”

  “Why not? Because that guy who got away from us will be warning her, that’s why. You know anywhere else she might be?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Get an idea.”

  “Well, I think she has a mother in the Bronx somewhere. I can try to find out.”

  “Good. And I need to know the connection between the criminal and the woman. I need to know that by end of day today.”

  Crane answered without knowing at all how he could find that information for Markov. “I’ll get everything I can for you. By end of day.”

  What was Markov going to do with Olivia Sanchez? If they hurt, or worse, killed her, that could be a problem. The police had already talked to him about her. About her accusations. As did an assistant district attorney. If something happened to her, he would be a suspect. Not good, he thought. And he wasn’t going anywhere until he had unwound Markov’s complex portfolio and delivered the proceeds, so he wouldn’t be around anyone who could give him an alibi.

  Worst of all, the last three months of trading had been bad. Not crazy bad, but his ratio of losers to winners had shifted against him. And he’d chased after his losses. A stupid move. He wasn’t out of the game by any means. One, two big hits could bring him within reach. But he needed time to unwind his positions, which he didn’t have. He’d already warned Markov he would lose money, but how much of a loss could he incur before his body would be in the pile with everyone else Markov was going after?

  Crane realized that Markov and Gregor were still staring at him. He lifted his head and asked, “Is there anything else, Leonard?”

  “Yes.”

  �
��What?”

  “Get me my money.”

  And with that Markov turned and Gregor Stepanovich followed him out of the loft, leaving the blood and the stench and the mess behind for Alan Crane to clean up.

  21

  The new stitches in his left leg pulled as Beck walked down the back stairs of his building.

  The blows from the steel baton were making his upper back and left shoulder stiffen with pain. The knuckles on both hands throbbed.

  But surprisingly, the worst pain was in his right wrist. Whenever he pushed against something that bent back his wrist, like using the handrail as he walked down the stairs, a searing pain shot through his hand, making it nearly impossible to use that hand for five or six seconds. He wondered how long that was going to last. He hadn’t bothered to ask the doctor about it.

  At Beck’s large desk sat a tall man, thin to the point of looking nearly gaunt. He was in his early forties, with unruly black hair, three days’ worth of dark beard, wearing glasses in thick black frames that dominated his face. He wore a wrinkled red-and-white-checked shirt that didn’t reach his wrists. He sat bent over Beck’s keyboard, checking two twenty-four-inch computer monitors, intent on a task Beck didn’t bother to guess at.

  Beck checked his watch. Two-twenty in the afternoon. The foreign exchange markets were winding down in New York, opening in Europe. Alex Liebowitz was probably checking the price action. He had taken over the management of Beck’s portfolio, which meant the management of the finances for all of them.

  “Alex.”

  Alex Liebowitz looked at Beck over the two monitors and asked, “What’s up?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready to trade currency pairs.”

  “Intervals?”

  “Fairly long. Between two and fifteen minutes. Although I doubt I’ll get confirmation any sooner than two minutes. So let’s say five to fifteen.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  In the middle of the second floor, Manny and Olivia sat opposite each other at the long rectangular dining table that occupied a good deal of the space opposite the open kitchen.

  Past the dining room, at the far end of the floor, Ciro Baldassare sat on one of the couches reading the New York Post, his feet up on the coffee table, moving only occasionally to turn a page.

  Beck looked at Olivia. Her lustrous dark hair was loosely piled on top of her head, making her look younger than when he’d last seen her. She wore blue jeans, leather sneakers, and a crisp white shirt, everything quite simple.

  As he stepped toward Olivia, Beck imagined her walking into a party looking the way she did at that moment, and effortlessly attracting the attention of everyone in the room.

  Beck nodded in their direction, pulled out his cell phone, and walked into the kitchen area where he began loading the coffeemaker with one hand while talking on his phone with the other.

  He finished his call. Shoved the cell phone in his pocket. Pulled open the double doors on his refrigerator. He was hungry. Actually, he was hungry to the point of feeling deeply depleted. He had expended an immense amount of energy fighting for his life. And he was still burning energy.

  From the refrigerator, he pulled out sliced turkey, Jarlsberg cheese, bread, mustard, romaine lettuce, tomatoes. He didn’t bother to make a sandwich. He just assembled food on a plate and poured himself a mug of coffee, not bothering with milk or sugar or anything that would soften its taste.

  He stood at the counter, his back to everybody, and ate. More refueling than eating. He washed the protein and carbohydrates down with swigs of hot coffee. Nobody in the loft said anything, the silence broken only by the occasional mouse click or keystrokes from Alex, sitting in his own world, staring at computer screens.

  Finally, Beck left his food, refilled his coffee mug, and came over to sit with Manny and Olivia.

  Manny sat in his infinitely patient way, saying nothing. Olivia took his cue and remained silent.

  Without preamble, Beck said to Olivia, “Do you know a tall guy, bald, looks Eastern European? Name is Gregor.”

  She answered, “No,” without hesitation.

  “How about a heavyset man? Maybe five six. Dresses well. Gray hair. Cut to a stubble. He strikes me as Russian, but who knows, could be Ukrainian, Turkish, probably been in America for a while?”

  “No. Why?”

  Beck stared at her for a moment. It felt like she had answered too fast. And he didn’t like that she’d answered his question with a question.

  “Okay, let’s go a little slower here. Listen to me carefully. The people I just described were in Crane’s loft waiting to kill me when I arrived.”

  The word kill startled Olivia. It certainly caught the attention of Manny and Ciro. There was no perceptible reaction, but their focus intensified.

  Beck continued. “It would be very reckless and very stupid if you didn’t understand that you are next on their list.”

  Beck waited for a response from Olivia. She stammered, “I, I don’t know what you mean. What do you mean? What happened?”

  Beck paused. Concentrated on being precise. “When I arrived, there were the men I described, plus two others. The heavyset man was in charge. I’m assuming that was Markov. The other three were fighters. Probably ex-military. Lean. In shape. My impression is they were Eastern European. Slavic. The tall, bald guy was their leader. He was very fast, without any fear, and able to take an enormous amount of punishment. The other two also took a great deal of damage, and none of them quit. Men like that are very dangerous and very rare.”

  Beck paused, watching Olivia, carefully gauging her reaction.

  “They were, what? You say they were waiting for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Crane, was he there?”

  “Yes, but forget about him for now. What I’m trying to tell you is that if they tried to kill me, we have to assume they’ll try to kill you, too. Two of the three are too damaged to come after you. But don’t think for a minute that there aren’t more ready to take their places. Are you listening?”

  Olivia seemed frozen in her seat, her brow furrowed in concentration. Beck and Manny were on the same side of the table, so Beck couldn’t see him, but he knew that Manny would be watching Olivia as carefully as he was, and at the same time watching him to make sure he didn’t go too hard at his cousin.

  Olivia answered, “Yes. Of course.”

  “Good. So, I’ll ask this a different way. What is Markov’s connection to men like that? Does Crane know? What’s going on?”

  Beck continued to carefully watch Olivia. She sat quietly, pursing her lips slightly, looking down.

  Beck saw that Ciro had put down the paper and was also waiting, listening. Ciro was like Manny. Generally extremely calm and contained. But unlike Manny, when Ciro Baldassare moved, there was no going back. There was nothing between static and full blast. If Ciro suddenly went after Olivia, nothing was going to stop him. Not Manny, not Beck, not anything or anybody within ten miles of Red Hook.

  Beck also caught the motion of Manny crossing his arms. He could feel the tensions rising.

  Finally, Olivia spoke. “I told you before that the kind of people who have money invested with Crane were … were not legitimate.”

  Beck interrupted her. He did not want her to go off somewhere she could hide out. He wanted the truth. He spoke slowly and quietly.

  “Let me repeat back what you told me when we first met. Or, at least my impression. You described the people who would invest with Crane as unscrupulous, as people who wouldn’t give a shit about Crane manipulating the market in order to bring down investments he’s shorted. You didn’t say they were killers.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Beck leaned forward. “But you told me that Crane threatened to kill you. You described it word for word. I couldn’t see how some hedge fund asshole would be capable of actually following through on a threat like that. So when I pressed you
on it, you told me about Markov and about him being an arms dealer. I got the feeling Crane knew Markov had men who would be capable of killing. Do you know anything about these people? We need to know, because now we have a much bigger problem than Crane and Milstein and your job. These people with Markov, they will kill you in a fucking heartbeat, Olivia. Who are they?”

  “All right.” She said the words abruptly. In a way so that Beck would stop talking about men who wanted to kill her. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know who they are exactly.

  “I told you yesterday, I’ve only heard vague references about Markov. I’ve heard that he is some sort of arms dealer. And yes, he’s Russian. And yes, a connection to Eastern Europeans seems possible. But I’m just speculating. Wall Street money managers don’t give out information about their clients. I don’t know where Markov made his money. Could he have connections to ex-military types? I would think that’s possible. Do I know who they are? No. I don’t. I know he’s not wanted for any felonies. I know there aren’t any outstanding IRS cases against him.”

  Beck sat back, looked away from Olivia. He exhaled. She sounded like a fucking lawyer. Maybe that had to do with her corporate background. Or her job as someone who made sure people followed regulations.

  Manny shook his head slowly, repeating her name in quiet admonition. “Ah, Olivia, Olivia.” As if to say, what have you done to us?

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.” She turned to Manny. “I never wanted to come to you, Manny, but you always told me, if I needed you…” Her voice trailed off. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “All right,” Beck said. “What’s done is done. Right now we need to find out everything we can about these people.”

  Olivia leaned forward across the dining table. “I can help. I can find out.”

  “How?”

  “I still know everybody at Summit. I’ll call people I know and keep asking around. Maybe someone knows more. If I have to, I’ll confront Milstein. He might know, even if he keeps Crane’s operation at arm’s length.”

  Beck said, “Don’t call Milstein. You can’t have any connection to him whatsoever. None. If we need to get information from him, we’ll get it.”