Among Thieves

by John Clarkson

  Markov spat toward the wastebasket near the small desk in his room. No whore for him tonight. But maybe something better before the night was over. Or, at least different.

  35

  Nydia Lopez was an attractive young woman. She was small, but she had a great figure, was strong, and moved with a natural grace. She also had an impressive collection of tattoos, including the burst of stars and lines that extended up the right side of her neck and the back of her head, made visible by the fact that her hair in back was cropped short enough to reveal the ink.

  Adding to her style was a red bandana tied into a do-rag under a New York Yankees ball cap with a hologram seal, camouflage pants, boots, leather jacket, and a permanent scowl.

  And, then, there was the brutal presence of her Smith & Wesson M&P .40 Compact automatic that she held in her left hand resting on her left thigh.

  Nydia took pride in her knowledge of weapons and ammunition. Of all her guns, she loved her Smith & Wesson most. It looked badass. All black and tough looking. Top of the line. Small. Only a 3.5-inch barrel, but it held ten rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber, with lots of features to accommodate left-handed shooters like Nydia.

  Olivia wasn’t sure if the tough young woman really believed she had to keep the gun in her hand while they were alone in the room, or if she just liked holding it all the time.

  Olivia sat on the hotel room bed, her legs drawn up under her as she read through the stack of newspapers and magazines she had ordered up from the concierge downstairs.

  Nydia sat about as far away from Olivia as she could get, slouched in an upholstered armchair, roaming through the TV channels with the sound turned down. She surfed from a show about being locked up in the Indiana State Prison, to a fishing show, to CNN news, to snippets of movies.

  It seemed to Olivia that the TV screen soothed her almost as much as the gun.

  Olivia wondered what her bodyguard would do after she turned off the lights and went to sleep. Probably sleep on the couch or the floor. Holding the gun?

  Clearly. Manny wanted Nydia there as much to keep Olivia in the room as to keep everybody else out. Olivia flipped through the latest issue of Vogue, but couldn’t concentrate on anything. She kept thinking about how much events seemed to be spinning out of control.

  The phone call to Nydia had been a welcome relief, even if all it did was break the monotony.

  Nydia ended the call and said to Olivia, “Manny says a dude named Beck is coming up. You know him?”

  “Yes. When is he coming?”

  “Like, right now. I asked Manny what he looks like, but all Manny said was he looks like a guy you don’t want to fuck with.”

  “Well, that’s one way of putting it. He’s maybe six, six one. Solid. You know, strong looking. Good head of hair. Dark hair.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know why he’s coming?”

  “No. Alls Manny said was to let him in.”

  Just then, there was a light knock on the door. Followed by another. Just two.

  Nydia moved quickly toward the door, the Smith & Wesson held against the side of her left thigh.

  She stood in front of the door. There was no peephole. She slid the security lock into place.

  “Yeah, who is it?”

  “Beck.”

  “Step back from the door, and don’t move when I open it, or I’ll shoot you.”

  “Okay. Is Olivia in there with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have her ID me.”

  Nydia motioned for Olivia to come to the door. She turned the knob and opened the door as far as the security lock would allow. Olivia leaned around to see if it was Beck.

  “It’s him.”

  Nydia closed the door, unfastened the security lock, and let Beck in as she quickly stepped back, her gun aimed at the center of his chest.

  Beck took one step into the room and let the door shut by itself with a thunk.

  Nydia looked back and forth between Beck and Olivia, lowered the gun, and took her seat in front of the television, satisfied she had let the right man in, and content to ignore them both.

  Beck looked at Nydia for a moment, then at Olivia, who tipped her head and widened her eyes as if to say, I didn’t tell her to do that.

  Beck scanned the hotel room. It was a bit smaller than he had expected, decorated in warm wood tones, browns and beige, with a queen-size bed, two armchairs, an ottoman, a round table desk with chair, and a 36" flat-screen TV.

  The room occupied a corner and featured a large square window on the south wall, and a floor-to-ceiling set of windows on the west wall. Only the inner curtains were drawn, adding a gossamer layer over the lights outside and the traffic moving on Fifty-seventh Street. Beck could hear the faint hum of the city through the double-paned windows. It seemed a comforting sound.

  Olivia returned to her perch on the queen-size bed. Beck kicked the ottoman toward the side of the bed and dragged the desk chair over so he could sit next to the bed and talk to Olivia.

  For a few moments, Beck said nothing. Olivia waited. Beck’s demeanor did nothing to comfort her.

  Beck noticed that Olivia wore the same clothes he had seen her in earlier, white shirt and jeans. She still looked stunningly attractive. Beck wasn’t getting accustomed to it at all.

  “So,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  Beck sat back in the chair and put his feet on the ottoman and looked at Olivia again. She looked back at him without expression. She sat with her back against the headboard, her encased hand in her lap, watching Beck, waiting.

  Finally Beck said, “The situation isn’t getting any better.”

  “Why? How?”

  Beck waved off her questions. “I’m not sure how to stop this, and that makes me very uncomfortable.” Beck scowled for a moment. Shifted in his chair. “Worse, I don’t know how to stop this without risking Manny and my friends ending up back in jail.”

  “I’m … I don’t know…”

  Beck interrupted Olivia. “And just so you’re clear, that cannot happen.”

  Just as Olivia was about to respond, Beck’s cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID. Brandon Wright.

  He told Olivia, “I’ve got to take this.” He answered the call by saying, “Hang on.” He walked into the bathroom, closed the heavy door behind him, and sat on the closed toilet seat.

  “What’s up?”

  “I obtained that information on the woman’s injury.”

  “Yes?”

  “How did you say the injury occurred?”

  “Somebody standing over her slammed a fist down on her hand.”

  “I see.”

  “See what?”

  “I think this news I’m about to share is going to upset you, James.”

  As he listened to the doctor, Beck noticed that Olivia had washed her bra and panties and hung them on the shower rod to dry. The bra was black, made out of a sheer lacy material. The panties were black, too, a string and a lacy triangle piece, nothing more. The lingerie seemed incredibly erotic to Beck. His mind alternated between picturing her in the sheer underwear and thinking about her sitting on the bed a few feet away naked under her white shirt and jeans. It was enough to give Beck the beginning of an erection.

  “Why?”

  “Are you calm, James? Seriously. Are you calm? Are you someplace where you can…?”

  “Brandon, for fuck’s sake, you know I’m not going to be calm. But have you ever known me to do something stupid because I’m pissed?”

  “That depends on how you define stupid.”

  “Come on.”

  Beck was already standing, the cell phone pressed to his ear, the images of Olivia in black lingerie instantly dispelled.

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  Beck spoke more calmly. “Brandon, believe me, this isn’t the time for you to second-guess me. What’s going on?”

  Another pause, and then Doctor Brandon began to speak.


  “All right, here are the facts. Because you got me her signature I was able to get copies of the Lenox Hill records. The admission records, ER notes, X-ray report, all of it.

  “James, your friend didn’t sustain those fractures the way you described it.”

  A cold, sick sensation hit Beck in his gut.

  “Are you sure?”

  There was a pause and Wright answered, “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “First, the notes from the triage nurse. Olivia Sanchez’s hand came in with scrapes on the palm of her hand, embedded dirt that the ER nurse took pains to wash and sterilize. Second, the X-rays showed all the damage was done to the proximal phalanges, indicating that the fingers broke because they were pushed backward. If they had been broken like you described there would have been more damage to the metacarpal bones. The fractures were above the knuckles. It didn’t happen from a blow landing down on the hand.”

  “So how do you think it happened?”

  “According to the notes, she told both the nurse and the surgeon that she fell on the street. Tripped on a curb or something. She fell, put her hand out, landed hard on it, bent back the fingers. She broke the little finger just above the knuckle, broke it completely, and cracked the finger next to it, the same bone, proximal phalange.”

  Beck muttered a curse.

  “James, I…”

  Beck spoke softly. “No, Brandon, you don’t have to say anything more. Thank you. I’ll deal with it. I had to find out the truth.”

  “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry. I’m not going to ask you what this all means now.”

  “I’m not sure I can tell you, but…” Beck’s voice trailed off. “I have to go. I’ll be in touch. Thank you.”

  Beck ended the call and sat back on the toilet seat, phone in hand, thinking it through. Going back over the time frame. Trying to figure out how she worked it. Roughing it out. Thinking of the angles, the motives, the possibilities.

  He slowly raised his phone and speed-dialed Manny. Beck found it difficult to focus. The anger and tension nagged at him. He felt it in his neck and jaw, in the involuntary movements in his face and mouth.

  The phone answered.

  “Yeah.”

  “Manny, what’s going on?”

  “Same. Nothing.”

  “No sign of anybody coming into the neighborhood?”

  “No. Don’t worry, we got our eyes open.”

  “Okay, do me a favor. I need to talk to your cousin in private. This lady you got up here, I have a feeling if I tell her to do something she doesn’t want to do, she’ll shoot me.”

  “Yeah, that’s Nydia.”

  “Well, the room’s too fucking small for me to talk to Olivia in private, so call Nydia and tell her to take a break for a while. Go downstairs and get a drink or something to eat. Or take a walk around the block. Tell her she should wait for me to call her back to the room.”

  “What’s going on, James?”

  “I don’t know yet. Not all of it. I have to talk to Olivia.”

  “James…”

  Beck interrupted the wariness he heard in Manny’s voice.

  “Manny, just let me do what I have to do. Okay? We got our fucking backs against the wall here. I have to figure this out. I just don’t have time to tell you everything now. You have to trust me, partner.”

  There was silence. And then Manny Guzman spoke slowly and carefully. “She’s my family, James.”

  “And you’re mine. Call your girl with the gun, and tell her I need some time here.”

  Beck ended the connection before Manny could ask him anything more. He shoved the cell phone in his pocket, put both hands on the sink, concentrating on letting his anger recede. Brandon Wright knew him well, but Beck knew himself. He ran the water and rinsed his face, first feeling the cold water, then feeling the water when it had heated up, soothing him, calming him.

  As he dried off with the plush hand towel, he heard a cell phone ring outside in the room.

  He stepped out of the bathroom and stood waiting as Nydia finished her call. She looked up at Beck. He said, “Dial my cell number so I have yours.”

  He recited the number. Nydia dialed it without comment. Beck answered the call, stored the number, and said, “I’ll call you when it’s time to come back.”

  Olivia watched the exchange. Something had changed Beck’s mood. She wondered what had happened in that bathroom.

  Beck walked over to the window overlooking Fifty-seventh Street and stood with his back to Olivia while Nydia gathered herself, shoved the Smith & Wesson in the back of her camouflage pants, and left the room.

  As the door shut, he turned to face Olivia, staying near the windows at the other end of the room.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Beck stared at her for a moment. Amazed that part of him was actually thinking about the fact that she was sitting on that bed with no underwear on. A rueful smile crossed his face. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, he thought. If I completely terrify this woman, it probably won’t do me much good.

  He watched her for a moment, wondering if there was any way he could see the true part of her underneath everything on the surface.

  She was wary, confused by Beck, but so accustomed to controlling men that she still seemed relaxed and confident.

  Beck said, “So, I was telling you about things getting worse.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you understand what I was saying?”

  “I think so.”

  “Just to be clear, it’s important that you realize any one of us could be dead now: Manny, Demarco, me. Ciro. You understand that, right?”

  “Yes, if you say so. Of course.”

  “Or on our way back to jail.”

  Olivia continued to give Beck her attention, but said nothing.

  Beck motioned toward the door with his head, “I like that tough little chick Manny has looking after you. But she wouldn’t be much more than a small bump between Markov’s men and you. You get that, right?”

  “His men?”

  “Yes. You have to understand who Markov has working with him. War criminals. Rapists. Killers of women and children and old people. Mass murderers. One of them, the one who seems to be their leader, is clearly insane.”

  Olivia stared at him, but didn’t answer.

  “There are others, too. A group of hardcore gangsters. Russian. Not the crazy loose-knit crews who flail around with dumb shit. Hardcore. Old, old school.” He shook his head, thinking about it. “From out of the gulags. Beyond anything you know about.”

  He moved away from the window overlooking Fifty-seventh Street and sat in the chair where Nydia had been, keeping his distance from Olivia, but his gaze unwavering.

  “So,” said Beck, “you and I have to talk about a few things.”

  “All right.”

  “And there can’t be anything less that the truth. In whatever you say. So help you God.”

  Olivia stared back at Beck.

  “You understand, right?”

  Olivia nodded.

  “Let me talk you through it. You’re at Summit. You’ve worked your way to a position of responsibility. You find out Alan Crane is being reckless. Investing money for, as you say, bad people. And he’s pushing it, taking big risks. Naked shorts and all that. Manipulating stocks, whatever unscrupulous shit guys like that do.

  “Milstein isn’t comfortable with it. He’s made a deal with the devil, but you know he’s worried. Crane’s too reckless. But Milstein is between a rock and a hard place because he needs the fees and the twenty percent of profits.”

  Beck paused, waiting to see if Olivia wanted to say anything. Correct anything. She just continued to stare at him, composed, unmoving. He continued.

  “You go to Milstein. You encourage him to put a stop to Crane’s high-risk behavior. Nothing more than that. Basically pushing him in the direction he wants to go anyhow.”

  Beck waited. Olivia said nothing.

&
nbsp; “Okay. Crane gets wind of it. He goes nuts. Comes down on you. Threatens you. Bangs on your desk. Breaks your hand. Yells. Tells you he’s going to kill you. Have I got it right so far, Olivia?”

  “That’s what I told you.”

  “I know that’s what you told me. Is that what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of it? All of that is what happened?”

  “Why don’t you believe me?”

  Beck leaned forward and spoke softly, but his intensity sent a chill through Olivia.

  “This is not the time to ask me questions, Olivia. This is the time to tell me the truth. That’s the only way this will work. So don’t ask me questions. Just tell me the truth.”

  Beck leaned back. “It makes no sense that Crane would go off the way you described just because you gently pushed Milstein in the direction he was thinking of going. No, the truth is—you and Milstein conspired to get rid of Crane, and he found out about it. You and Milstein joined forces to shut Crane down.

  “But you had to do it in a way that wouldn’t upset Markov. Milstein couldn’t afford to lose him. So you and Milstein came up with a plan. Milstein would drop the hammer on Crane to make him stop taking so much risk. You would step forward to monitor his trades. Why? Because you convinced Milstein you could handle Markov. There isn’t a man alive you don’t think you can handle, Olivia.”

  For the first time, Olivia looked down, staring at her lap, looking at her broken fingers in their cast, no longer maintaining eye contact with Beck.

  “You saw all that money. You saw Crane screwing it up. You knew you could twist that fat guy around your finger. So why not? Why shouldn’t you get your fair share? Earn a nice bonus. Hey, Wall Street jerks a fraction as good as you are taking home multimillion-dollar bonuses like it’s nothing.

  “You were willing to work for it. Hell, a measly two, three million and you’d own that nice little place up in Riverdale. All you needed was a chance to make your mark. To get your wings. You could save the day. Crane was looking at huge losses. You could keep the account from blowing up.”

  Beck sat forward, talking faster. Now Olivia looked up and watched him.

  “But you both knew Crane wouldn’t go quietly. Hell, Markov was his client. He brought him in. No way he would give up control. But you had that figured out, too.” He stopped and turned to face Olivia. “You had Manny. What did you tell Milstein about Manny? Did you tell him you could have Crane killed?”