Free Old Flame by Ira Berkowitz Page A

much merchandise my guys can heist before it all blows up in shit, so I’m pursuing the China angle. If it works for Wal-Mart, why shouldn’t it work for me? You got factories there that are churning out really great products and slapping brand names on them. And, since they pay their workers dick, cheap as hell. Why can’t they slap my brand name on?”
    “Sounds like a plan.”
    “And it would have worked if I had enough time.”
    “Let’s get back to Barak,” Kenny said.
    “So we meet. And so far, he’s been getting his rebates, every penny, like clockwork. But he’s concerned.”
    “It’s too good to be true,” I said.
    “Yeah. Wants to double his orders. Wants assurance that everything is going to be OK.”
    “And even though you know the business model is broken, you give it to him.”
    “Right.”
    “Why?”
    “The assurance came with a price. He wants guarantees, he’s going to have to pay for them.”
    “You’re kidding me! You’re hosing your employers, hosing your hijackers, and now you’re sticking it to Barak.”
    “What can I tell you? It was the brass ring. Doesn’t come around too often. And, as for Barak, I didn’t know who the fuck I was dealing with. Who knew the guy’s a psycho killer?”
    “And now the greed has come home to roost,” Kenny said.
    “Hey, it was a shot,” Danny said.
    “More importantly, Barak wants his money,” I said.
    “It’s beyond that,” Kenny said. “He wants Danny Reno.”
    “Where are the techies?” I said.
    “Beats me! Maybe the feds got them locked away somewhere, or maybe they cashed it all in and went where no one could find them. Or—”
    “Maybe Barak has them,” I said.
    That possibility had apparently not occurred to him. His shoulders slumped and the color drained from his face.
    “Now what?” he finally said.
    Kenny and I looked at each other. I didn’t have an answer. Neither did Kenny.
    Out on the beach, the guy in the windbreaker knelt down, picked something up, studied it, and tossed it into the ocean with a cry of disgust.

CHAPTER
    15
    D uring the subway ride back to Manhattan, Ginny called.
    The urgency in her voice was palpable. She was in town and wanted to meet at Feeney’s. She wouldn’t talk about it on the phone.
    Ginny and her brother Liam were in a side booth when I arrived. Three empty beer bottles sat on the table. The fourth was clenched in Liam’s hand. Ginny’s hands were wrapped around a mug of coffee.
    Liam Doyle always wore an annoying little smile that said he knew something you didn’t. But this time Liam’s stupid smile had company: a leather vest garlanded with chains, and thick-soled Grinders on his feet.
    Fancy that!
    It had been about eight years since I had seen him. It had been at his arraignment. The charge was lifting a couple of six-packs from a bodega. The trouble was, Liam was a regular customer who knew the owner, a cop named Figueroa, who happened to be working the register when Liam strolled out with his booty. The security cameras caught him, and so did Figueroa, who leaped the counter and beat the living shit out of him.
    I worked it out by convincing Figueroa that kicking the crap out of Liam was all the satisfaction he needed, and convincing the DA that someone as stupid as Liam would last about twenty minutes at Rikers. He got off with a conditional discharge, which meant he had to keep his nose clean for a year, and all charges would be dismissed. That lasted exactly two weeks. Lifting hubcaps was the charge. Interesting crime. Liam didn’t own a car and had no interest in selling hubcaps. He just liked the way they looked on his bedroom wall. Little did I know Liam was an aficionado of hubcap art.
    Ginny didn’t bother asking me to intervene that time.
    “Hey, Steeg. Long time no see,” Liam said.
    “Liam,” I said, with a nod. “Keeping out of trouble?”
    He took a swig of beer and leaned back. His stupid smile was on overdrive. “I got no troubles,” he