Among Thieves

by John Clarkson

  “Why?”

  “He’s going to wait as long as he can before he takes down his options that are underwater. There isn’t much time decay on those contracts. If the underlying stocks pop, he could make a good deal.”

  “But what if the market turns against him more?”

  “Then he’s just going to lose more. He’ll have stop-loss orders in. But it’s worth the chance in case any of those positions gap up.”

  “Okay,” said Beck.

  Just then his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the caller ID phone number, but answered it anyhow.

  “Yeah?”

  The sound of a voice talking through a plugged-up nose identified the caller as Willie Reese.

  “Beck.”

  “What?”

  “Just spotted some unfamiliar-looking white dudes who came into the neighborhood.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Thought they might be some hipster types that got lofts or studios around your neck of the woods. But they arrived in a car. A new car. My boys on the street say it’s a rental.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yeah. So I ask myself, what some strange-looking ofays doin’ rentin’ a car to come into this hood?”

  “And the answer?”

  “Ain’t no answer.”

  “Right. How many of them are there and where are they now?”

  “Three. They just rolled through the projects. Heading your way on King Street. Looks like they trying to find a place to park.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Sitting upstairs in a crib across from the park. My boys have been passing them off.”

  Beck heard the sound of a cell phone ring in the background.

  “Hold on a second.”

  He listened to Willie talking to one of his spotters. He came back on the phone and told Beck, “They just got out of their car. Three guys. Average size. They got out and split apart, one walking on one side of King, two on the other. Just about to come out on Van Brunt.”

  “How are they dressed?”

  “Hang on.” Willie asked his man on the street. “Two dark coats and one wearing like a silver down coat. One of ’em has a beard.”

  “Okay, thanks Willie. Good job. Tell your guys to back off. We’ll handle it from our end.”

  Beck moved fast. He motioned for Ciro to keep an eye at the window and hustled downstairs into the kitchen.

  “Manny, let’s go. Grab a coat.”

  Manny turned off the flame under a pot of something, grabbed his Navy-surplus peacoat and followed Beck out to the bar. Beck just motioned with his head for Demarco to come with them. Both men knew by the look on Beck’s face that something was up.

  In less than a minute they were out on the street.

  51

  The point man for the team was Ralph Anastasia. Ex–U.S. Army Special Operations Forces, a man with a long list of military missions, mostly direct-action and counterterrorism, mostly in the Mideast.

  Anastasia hadn’t particularly liked serving in the military, but he was proud of his skills. He had been the right type for a Special Forces fighter. Compact. Unemotional. Resourceful, with more endurance that he’d ever actually needed on a mission. He had zero inhibitions about using deadly force. Ralph Anastasia had been told more than once that he lacked empathy, which he took as a compliment.

  He also lacked tolerance for the military command structure. The long leash allowed on most Special Forces assignments helped, but there was always somebody above him to answer to. So as soon as it was feasible, Anastasia mustered out with an honorable discharge and went freelance.

  He had been quickly hired by private military contractors. At first, most of the assignments were like the ones he participated in while inside the military. The big difference was that Anastasia operated as an independent contractor. He was given an assignment, whatever reasonable support he needed, and allowed to decide how to complete the mission.

  He worked in Sudan, Libya, Iraq, and once in Guatemala on an antidrug assignment which did not go well.

  After Guatemala, he went with private security companies. He was the leader of his current team, which consisted of Anastasia, an ex–Army Ranger called Harris, and a South African Special Forces brigade member turned mercenary called Williams.

  Anastasia didn’t know if those were their real names, and he didn’t care. He knew something about Harris’s training and almost nothing about the South African’s. None of that bothered him. He considered both men about as expendable as paper plates.

  Their first assignment on this particular job on this particular winter afternoon was pretty standard stuff. Find a location based on an address he’d been given. Survey the surrounding area. Attempt to find out who was at that address. Lay out attack options. And do it without attracting any attention.

  Piece of cake.

  But as he walked through the Red Hook neighborhood, Anastasia became increasingly concerned about being spotted. From the moment they parked their rental car, he had an uneasy feeling. He wasn’t worried about being attacked. Any of the locals who might attempt anything along those lines wouldn’t last ten seconds. All three men were armed with Beretta 9-mm automatics, and various other personal weapons. Harris, the Army Ranger, had a supercompact MP5K fitted with a fifteen-round magazine concealed under his winter coat. He also had a spare magazine in each pocket for a total of forty-five rounds, more than enough to shoot their way out of a problem.

  Anastasia’s main worry was the lack of pedestrian traffic. They’d passed pockets of black guys near a bodega. And hanging out near a park. But there were almost no people walking on the streets they could blend in with. He had no idea that this section of Red Hook was so industrial.

  He’d told Harris and Williams to pair up, and walk together. That would attract less attention than a group of three.

  He split off and moved out ahead of them by about a block as he made his way to the location on Conover Street where the target was located. Anastasia walked with purpose, without hesitating or looking around or trying to find a street sign, a sure tip-off that he was a stranger to the area.

  * * *

  Beck walked with Manny and Demarco, north along Conover. He walked slowly and talked softly.

  “So our friend Willie Reese spotted some boys who don’t look like they belong around here. Supposed to be coming our way.”

  Beck described them and what they were wearing. Both Demarco and Manny were already looking ahead, trying to spot them.

  “I don’t want to take them out. I want to see what they’re here for. It’d be best if we got behind them. They should be crossing onto Van Brunt around now. D, you head over to Van Brunt and hang out by the pharmacy or a little south and see if any of them pass you by. Then fall in behind and see if they keep heading toward our place.”

  Demarco drifted left on Coffey Street, while Manny and Beck continued up Conover.

  Beck said, “Manolito, let’s split up. You take the other side of the street. If they show up, let ’em pass between us. Then I’ll figure out what to do from there.”

  Manny nodded.

  Under his peacoat Manny wore his apron and work clothes. Beck watched him slip his Charter Arms Bulldog into his right coat pocket. If it came down to it, he knew the gun’s short four-inch barrel would mean Manny would have to get close to make sure he hit his target. Beck also knew that Manny wouldn’t hesitate to do just that.

  The heat of the kill fairly radiated off Manny. He’d been seething for days.

  Beck blinked, tensing up. If the men Reese had spotted were here to attack Beck’s bar, he knew it would get very bloody, very fast. They’d walk into shotgun blasts from Joey B and a steady stream of rifle fire from Ciro. And if they tried to escape from that, Beck knew they’d be running into Demarco and Manny, and himself.

  But that didn’t mean Beck and his men would escape unharmed. The last thing Beck needed was gunfire and dead bodies. That would bring cops. And cops w
ould mean endless trouble.

  He put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on finding out who these men were, and what they wanted.

  52

  Walter Pearce walked through the familiar doors of One Police Plaza. He’d been in the building enough times to know his way around. Other than promotion ceremonies, it wasn’t a place that any cop really wanted to be. One PP was the house of the bosses. And no cop in his right mind wanted to be around the brass. Not much good ever came from it.

  He showed his identification, checked his gun, went through security, and got a visitor’s badge at the reception desk. He was four minutes early for his appointment, but as he turned from the desk, he noticed a young woman dressed in a conservative skirt, jacket, and white blouse waiting for him. A civilian.

  She smiled and explained that the chief would be meeting him on the third floor.

  Walter smiled back. They rode the elevator to the third floor and she escorted him to a small conference room.

  “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

  Walter could have used more coffee, but he was unaccustomed to being treated like a guest at One PP, so he declined.

  She left him sitting in a small meeting room with space for a table and four chairs.

  He patted his jacket pocket and pulled out the information he had on James Beck and Ciro Baldassare. He wondered how this was going to go. He told himself that he should stop worrying so much. This wasn’t his idea. He was just the messenger.

  Bureau Chief Martin Waldron appeared suddenly at the doorway of the small room. An aide was right behind him, a young man in a brown suit who looked even younger than the woman who’d escorted him.

  Chief Waldron had the look of a lifelong NYPD cop. He was stuffed into his dress white shirt and black tie, the shirt decorated with collar bars and a badge plate with all his decorations.

  Waldron looked annoyed. Clearly, this meeting was not something he wanted to be doing.

  He dropped a thin manila folder on the table and sat across from Walter. He turned to his aide and said, “Come back and get me in ten minutes, Ernie.”

  The young man left without a word.

  Waldron turned back to Pearce and said, “Why am I here?”

  Walter suppressed the urge to say, If you don’t know, why the fuck should I? He dropped his paperwork on the table.

  “I work for a man by the name of Frederick Milstein. He’s runs a small brokerage firm.” Walter pushed the paperwork he had for James Beck toward Waldron. “This is information on a man named James Beck. He assaulted Mr. Milstein in Central Park Tuesday night. He threatened him and tried to extort a large sum of money from him.”

  “How large?”

  “Over six hundred-thousand dollars.”

  Waldron squinted at Pearce. “Who did you say did this?”

  Walter pointed to the folder. “Name is James Beck.”

  “How the fuck did he expect to get six hundred grand from, what’s his name?”

  “Frederick Milstein. He claimed it was compensation for a woman that Milstein fired. He threatened to kill Milstein if he didn’t pay.”

  “Who can corroborate that?”

  “I was there, but they were too far away for me to hear the threat. Mr. Milstein will testify on the extortion, plus he’ll testify that the man choked him until he nearly passed out and threatened to kill him if he didn’t pay. You’ll note that James Beck was incarcerated for killing a police officer.”

  That got Waldron’s attention. “What?” He grabbed Beck’s folder and started skimming through the pages.

  “He was eventually found not guilty, but the fact remains, he killed one of ours.”

  “Who the hell is this guy?”

  “He’s someone associated with known felons.” Walter pushed the second folder across the desk. “Including this man. Name’s Ciro Baldassare. He’s organized crime. Record goes back to when he was a teenager. He held a gun on me while Beck threatened Milstein. Told me he’d blow off my head if I moved. He’s a convicted felon. Long record of assaults and weapons charges. He can go right back to jail just on possession of a firearm. I’ll testify to that.”

  Waldron was still thinking about Beck.

  “What the fuck is a cop killer doing out on the streets?”

  Walter shrugged. “Like I said, his conviction was overturned. Brady due-process stuff. Apparently, not only did the DA’s office withhold exculpatory evidence, they actually suppressed a witness. Plus, the judge overreached on the jury instructions. It was a manslaughter charge. A bar fight. Beck didn’t know it was a cop. They took it to trial. Nailed him, but his lawyer got the conviction overturned. Beck did eight years of hard time before he was released.” Walter decided not to mention Beck’s successful lawsuit against the city.

  Waldron squirmed in his chair. He frowned, stared at the documents on the table.

  “We have warrants?”

  “Milstein’s lawyers already got it done with Central Warrants.”

  Waldron watched as Walter laid the arrest warrants on the room table as if playing his final cards.

  “You know why I’m talking to you?”

  Walter shrugged. “Milstein said somebody in his law firm is a friend of yours.”

  “Not anymore he ain’t. Dumping this crap on me. All right, stop bullshitting me…” Waldron squinted at Walter’s visitor’s pass. “… Pearce. What the fuck is really going on here? And what’s your involvement? You retired as what, detective?”

  “Yes. Three years now. My involvement is simple. I work private security. I’m Milstein’s driver/bodyguard.”

  “Why’s some Wall Street hump need a bodyguard?”

  “He doesn’t. At least not until now. He just likes the idea of someone with a gun driving him around. This is the first time anything like this has happened to him since I’ve been working for him. My two cents, these assholes are bad guys and it’s a good thing you got an excuse to put them back in jail.”

  “We got plenty of bad guys we can put in jail.”

  “So these two made it to the top of the list. But no bullshit—they aren’t choirboys. I saw them operate this extortion. They worked it smoothly. So I wouldn’t plan on just knocking on their door and bringing them in. I’d be prepared.”

  “That’s what you think?”

  Walter gauged Waldron’s comment for animosity and didn’t quite know how much was there. The chief seemed to be a man who was perpetually pissed off. He answered simply, “Yes, sir.”

  Waldron softened. He seemed to have realized he was going to have to take care of this and figured he’d better get what he could from Pearce.

  “So you wouldn’t recommend this just be a regular Warrants Squad.”

  “No, sir. I would plan on more than that.”

  “Fuck.”

  Walter was about to say more, but he kept his mouth shut.

  The chief checked his watch, gathered up the documents, and stood up to leave.

  “Both of them are at this address.”

  “That’s how it looks.”

  “How it looks?”

  “That’s where Beck lives. I’m pretty sure you’ll find Baldassare there, too. And there’s a good chance a few others that you can arrest.”

  “Tell your boss we’ll serve the warrants. If they’re at this location, we’ll arrest them. If not, tell him he can go fuck himself.”

  Walter ventured a question.

  “When do you think you’ll do it?”

  “What? You pushing me now?”

  Walter shrugged. “I just need something to say to Milstein. He’ll be pushing me for an answer.”

  Waldron looked at his watch again. “I don’t want this hanging over me. I’ll put the word out now. We’ll do it wee hours of the morning, Friday. Hopefully these knuckleheads will be tucked in sleeping.”

  “I’ll tell Mr. Milstein.”

  “Yeah, you do that.”

  Waldron left without another word.

  Wa
lter decided he’d call Milstein from where he sat, then get a steak downtown somewhere. Have a couple of glasses of wine, go home, and sleep. It was out of his hands now.

  53

  Demarco Jones spotted two men about a block away coming toward him on Van Brunt. He slipped into a neighborhood bar, not worrying if they had seen him. He knew the bartender, Jimmy, who stood behind the bar, bored, arms crossed. At this time of day, his only customers were two young guys sipping pints of beer and an old crone hunched over a white wine spritzer.

  Demarco nodded at him and pantomimed a cup of coffee. He took a seat at the long shelf that ran along the bar’s front window. Jimmy placed the cup of coffee at Demarco’s elbow, just as two men appeared outside the bar.

  Demarco lowered his head as he sipped the coffee and watched them with raised eyes as they passed by. The one closest to the bar turned to look inside, but didn’t seem to see anything of interest.

  The coffee wasn’t very hot, so Demarco took a long swallow, laid down his cup, and stepped out of the bar. He didn’t pay for the coffee because he knew Jimmy wouldn’t charge him.

  Demarco hung back in the doorway of the bar, letting the two men get out ahead of him. He pulled out his cell phone and called Beck.

  * * *

  Beck’s phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He answered, “Yeah.”

  “Two of ’em just walked past Dikeman. On Van Brunt. My guess is they keep going then come around on Reed and get on the far side of our place.”

  “Right. Manny and I are on Van Dyke. Manny’s making like he’s helping some guys unload a truck.”

  “That would be worth seeing.”

  “Yeah, I think he might actually pick up a box. I’m standing behind a van on the other side of the street. If the third guy comes this way, we’ll drop in behind him. You do the same with the pair.”

  “All right.”

  Beck slipped his phone back into his pocket and kept watch through the windows of the van. He saw a man that fit Willie Reese’s description walking with his hands in his coat pockets, slow and steady. Eyes watching straight ahead of him.