Reese focused his one good eye on Beck. “So what you wanna do? You wanna do business?”
“Maybe. Probably. Look, I don’t need your crew for protection. You can see that. I just need some eyes on my backside. Any cops heading this way, any people I might want to know about—they have to drive through the projects to get over here. I like to know if that’s happening. Not a big deal. Not worth a fortune, but worth something. You’re not going to get rich off me.”
“How much you pay Shorty and them guys?”
Beck shook his head. “You mean you actually don’t know?”
“I didn’t care. Was going to charge you my price.”
“Okay. It’s a thousand bucks a month. And before you tell me that’s chump change or some dumb-ass remark, add on the value of me deciding not to be your enemy.”
Willie Reese didn’t respond.
Beck looked at his watch.
“Okay. Take it or leave it. But if you take it, first you get my front window fixed. That doesn’t mean you give me money or the name of somebody. You get it fixed. Fast. Just the way it was. Painted black on the bottom third. Like it never happened. Do that, and you’re hired. And I won’t charge you the cost of having my personal physician make a house call and fix you up. Deal?”
“At a thousand bucks a month.”
“Yeah.”
“Deal.”
“All right,” said Beck. “And one other thing.”
“What?”
“I’m counting on you kicking the shit out of Shorty Wayne for letting you come in here without warning me.”
Willie Reese finally managed a half smile. He stood up. “You a interesting motherfucker, Beck.” Then he turned and walked out of the bar without another word.
As soon as Willie Reese left, Demarco picked up the shotgun and stood up from his table, walked around the bar, and stashed the Benelli in its usual place under the bar top.
Beck said to Demarco, “Nice work this morning.”
Demarco made a small sound of acknowledgment. He walked out from the other side of the bar, still watching the front door, just in case, sat on the stool next to Beck, and asked, “You think we’ll ever see him again?”
“Maybe,” said Beck, “There might be something in him that could get him out of the slide.” Beck paused. “That window is going to be very hard for him to take care of. He doesn’t have a lot of money. He doesn’t know how to go about getting it done. Doesn’t want to. It’s absolutely not in his nature to clean up after his shit. But I wouldn’t count him out yet. He took in everything that I said. That’s fairly unusual for a guy like that.”
“Taking a beating maybe got his attention.”
“Nah, not even half a beating. He could have gone on a lot longer. He’d have gotten me eventually. We’d have had to kill him to stop him.”
Demarco made a face that showed he wasn’t necessarily agreeing.
Beck said, “Guy like that, what do you think it took for him not to jump up and start warring all over again?”
“Not with me sitting there with a shotgun on the table.”
“I suppose. But it still seemed possible, didn’t it? The whole time he was sitting there. Right up until the end.”
Demarco considered it. “Maybe he thought I wouldn’t pull with the doctor in here.”
“Maybe. Anyhow, he’s not completely the usual. It’ll be interesting to see. Keep your eye on the front window.”
Beck stood up and headed behind the bar. “I gotta get some more ice on my hands, then we have to head out and see about this thing with Manny.”
“What’s it about?”
“Trouble. I just don’t know how much yet.”
4
Demarco went out the kitchen side door which led out to Imlay Street. They kept a customized 2003 Mercury Marauder in a converted stable about a half-block from Beck’s bar. It was a beast of a car with a 4.6-liter supercharged engine, but it was almost always mistaken for a Grand Marquis, or a Ford Crown Victoria. Or even a Lincoln Town Car, which was one reason Beck liked the car.
While Demarco headed for the garage, James pulled a gun storage box from a cabinet behind the bar. He opened the lid and picked up a Browning Hi-Power 9-mm automatic, dark metal with wood grips. A classic firearm. Solid. Crisp trigger action. Hefty, but beautifully balanced. He didn’t have to check the magazine or chamber, but he did it anyhow before he slipped the gun under his belt behind his right hip.
Beck heard the rumble of the Marauder outside the bar. He smiled at the sound of the modified exhaust, the low growl that went perfectly with a car that was black from the body to the bumpers. Even the grill and tire rims were black.
Beck turned and lifted his leather shearling coat off the hook next to the front door. He paused, holding the heavy coat in his hand, then pulled the Browning out from under his belt. He put the heavy pistol back into the gun box, and instead pulled out a six-inch leather Bucheimer sap which he slid into his back pocket. He figured visiting Manny’s cousin didn’t require much firepower.
Beck slipped into his coat, not bothering to button up. The Mercury sat right in front of the bar, its exhaust pluming against the cold February air.
“Where to?” asked Demarco.
“Head through the tunnel and up the West Side Highway. She lives up in Riverdale.”
Demarco slipped the Mercury into gear and drove like he moved … effortlessly.
They sat silently while the throaty engine accelerated them toward the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel.
After a few minutes, Beck broke the silence.
“So you didn’t stay upstate with Elliot?”
“No. We came in last night. He had to substitute for somebody’s class this morning.”
Beck nodded. “Good weekend?”
Demarco shrugged. “We went to a dinner party on Saturday.”
“I would imagine gay couples are in demand at dinner parties up there in the shire. Especially a mixed couple like you and Elliot.”
“You looking for an invite?”
“Why not? I got a car. I know how to buy a bottle of wine.”
Demarco smiled at the idea of Beck attending a dinner party in the country.
“I had to come in anyhow. Remember that woman, Maxine Barnes?”