Among Thieves (47 page)

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 patrol 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?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“I see,” said Phineas.

Brandon asked Alex, “What happened out there?”

“We were attacked.”

“How many?”

“A lot. Cops came.”

“And our boys?” asked Phineas.

Alex said, “James had a plan. He can give you the details. I stayed in here.”

Phineas peeked out the window again. “Well, if they're still looking for James, I'd say he's fallen down pretty low on their list. Looks like they had a lot of other things to take care of last night.”

Just then a loud bang sounded as the kitchen side door opened and hit the wall, accompanied by grunts and voices.

From back in the kitchen, Manny Guzman yelled out, “Is it clear?”

Alex yelled back. “All clear.”

Ciro and Manny appeared in the bar, each with one of Joey B's massive arms draped across their shoulders. The big man was clearly in excruciating pain, barely able to walk.

Blood covered Manny's right shoulder and arm.

The left side of Ciro's face was streaked with blood. But the strain of holding up Joey B seemed to be more cause for discomfort than their injuries.

Brandon stepped forward calmly. “Has he been shot?”

“No,” said Ciro. “The poor bastard slipped on the ice and went down hard on his ass. He broke something. Can't walk.”

Joey B added, “Fucking can't even stand. Hurts like hell. Fuck.”

“Should we lay him down?”

Brandon put up both hands, “No. No. Don't put him on the floor. It'll be too hard to get him up. We have to get him on a table so I can examine him.”

Ciro asked, “How about the bar?”

Brandon looked at Joey B and at the bar top. “No, not wide enough.” He looked around and then said, “Okay, come on. Let's put four of these tables together.”

While Alex and Phineas slid the tables together, Brandon fished around in his medical bag and came out with a syringe and a vial. He filled the syringe, plunged it into Joey B's huge thigh, right through his pants, and emptied the contents into him.

“You won't feel much in a few minutes.” He turned to the others and directed Phineas to take Manny's place. “Just lay him down on the tables.” He turned to his nurse. “Ruth, head upstairs. Manny will show you.”

Phineas, Alex, and Ciro maneuvered Joey B onto the tables. The shot already taking effect, Joey B laid his head back and said, “Jesus, give me some more of that shit, doc.”

“Let me get a little better idea of what happened to you first.”

Ciro asked Alex and Phineas, “You heard from James and Demarco?”

“No. How'd you get Joey in here?”

“Guys from the market let us borrow a panel truck. We drove it right in the warehouse. I wasn't sure we were going to make it the rest of the way. Manny is stronger than I thought.”

Alex said, “You okay? You got blood all over your face.”

Ciro peered into the cloudy mirror over the back bar.

“Shit.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know. I think something tore off that SUV out back and it zinged across my face.”

Alex had already wet down half a bar towel and handed it to Ciro, who wiped away the obvious blood and held the dry end against his wounds.

Brandon continued to gently examine Joey B, moving his legs, asking questions.

Ciro asked, “Many cops around?”

“No. They opened up the streets about an hour ago. I took a walk around. All I saw were Crime Scene people in the back lot. And that one patrol car out front.”

Phineas said, “Best we get upstairs anyhow. Let's go.”

“What about Joey?”

Brandon had finished his examination. “He'll be okay. He broke part of his hip, but nothing serious. It's just going to hurt like hell for a while.”

“That's good,” said Beck.

Everybody turned. Beck and Demarco had come in unnoticed. Demarco was still holding him upright. The amount of blood on Beck turned everybody silent.

 

74

By 9 a.m. the second floor in Beck's building looked like a combination hospital emergency room, computer hacker's headquarters, and law office. With a kitchen.

The dining room table area served as Doctor Wright's emergency room. The wrappers from surgical dressings and suture kits and bloodstained gauze littered the floor around him. The smell of isopropyl alcohol and Betadine mixed with the aroma of ham and eggs.

Phineas Dunleavy had taken over a space near the coffee table seating area, making phone calls to track down the court that had issued the warrants for Beck and Ciro.

Alex Liebowitz sat glued to his computer screens.

From the moment Ciro and Manny appeared with Joey B, Doctor Wright had instituted an efficient triage.

Joey B had been made as comfortable as possible downstairs, covered in blankets and dozing under a large dose of painkiller. Brandon was ninety percent sure that Joey had cracked the ischium, a part of his hip. It was painful, but didn't require surgery. They would get him to a hospital to confirm the diagnosis when the cops cleared out of the neighborhood.

After Joey, he'd come upstairs. His nurse had prepped Manny, and the doctor began treating his bullet wound. His nurse then started prepping Beck.

Manny's wound had given the doctor an open view of the acromion where a bullet had nicked off a small piece of the bone. There didn't appear to be any fracture that had radiated from the area of impact. Wright already knew it was hopeless to try to get Manny to go for an X-ray. He did not take bullet wounds lightly. He carefully examined, cleaned, disinfected, and sutured everything. When he was done he gave careful instructions.

“Manny, wear that sling I put on you. You'll have to sleep sitting up for a few weeks. Keep the wound clean. Finish the antibiotics. Okay?”

Perched on the edge of the dining table, his legs dangling, Manny nodded.

“Promise to let me know if something looks bad or starts to hurt too much.”

“I will.”

“Or if you start running a fever.”

“I will.”

Brandon looked carefully at Manny Guzman to make sure he wasn't placating him. “Fine. Don't push it. No fishing with that arm. Six weeks, you should be fine.”

Manny thanked the doctor and walked into the kitchen to continue preparing breakfast for whoever wanted it.

Wright determined that Ciro's wound could wait, and turned his attention to Beck. Beck had been hit by two bullets as he fell to the ground to avoid the shots from Kolenka's bodyguard, both causing fairly superficial wounds. One ran across the side of his left thigh, four inches above his knife wound. The second had slashed across the side of his left arm, just below the shoulder.

Branded injected the wounded areas with enough anesthetics that Beck actually fell asleep during the hour it took to examine, clean, disinfect, and stitch everything. The bullets had torn through clothes, skin, and muscles. They weren't deep, but they had left ragged trails that had to be fixed before they could be sutured shut. As for the long knife wound on his back, it had been open too long to stitch. The doctor used a substance akin to Krazy Glue to hold the skin together, disinfected the area, and expertly bandaged the wounds.