Free Among Thieves by John Clarkson

that.”
    â€œWhat? That he’s an asshole, or that we have to take this to the next step?”
    â€œJust a figure of speech.”
    â€œUh-huh. You hungry?”
    â€œYes, as a matter of fact. We seem to have skipped lunch.”
    â€œLet’s see, where’s a decent place to eat in this shit neighborhood? Hey, there’s a burger place over on Sixtieth or somewhere. You want a burger?”
    Demarco made a face.
    â€œCome on.”
    â€œIf you insist, James.”
    â€œSee if you can find a parking spot somewhere.”
    As Demarco began his search in the crowded neighborhood, Beck pulled out his cell phone and punched a speed-dial number. When the phone answered, he said, “Ciro. It’s me.”
    Demarco listened to Beck’s side of the conversation, which ended with Beck giving Ciro Baldassare instructions on where to meet them.
    â€œCiro?”
    Beck turned to Demarco. “Hey, man, I don’t want to wrestle with that big son of a bitch again.”
    Demarco pursed his lips. “Pulling out the heavy artillery already?”
    â€œHe’s actually in the city. One of his customers is in over his head on his football bets.”
    â€œGod help him.”
    â€œI don’t think it’ll be too bad. It’s a young guy. His father owns a restaurant downtown. Ciro just had a talk with Daddy about his boy’s gambling debt.”
    â€œDoes Daddy still have a restaurant?”
    Beck smiled. “You know what Ciro once told me is the hardest part of running his gambling operation?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMoving all the money around. All that cash. Picking up the cash from the losers and bringing it to the winners. It’s mostly a messenger service with guys tough enough to walk around with thousands and thousands in green.”
    â€œWith Ciro behind it all so nobody gets any ideas about who that cash belongs to.”
    â€œExactly.”
    Just then Demarco spotted a space in front of a Park Avenue apartment building as a cab pulled away. Demarco deftly parallel parked the Mercury in one move, despite the fact that there was a brass plaque atop a stanchion set in front of the building entrance announcing NO PARKING .
    Beck reached out his window and moved the stanchion out of the way so he could open his door. A doorman was already rushing out to tell Demarco Jones and James Beck they couldn’t park there. Every spot on the block was filled except for the space in front of the white-glove Park Avenue building.
    Beck stood waiting for the doorman. Demarco walked around the front of the Mercury and leaned back on its shiny front fender. The doorman started to say something, saw who he was talking to, stopped, then said, “There’s elderly people in this building. In wheelchairs. You’re blocking the entrance.”
    Beck reached out and lifted the lapel of the man’s uniform coat so he could see the name sewn onto the pocket.
    â€œIs that right, Peter?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWho made that nice sign for you?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œIs that real brass?”
    â€œYes. I think so. Listen, you can’t…”
    â€œYou think having a brass sign makes it true?”
    â€œYou can’t park there.”
    â€œYes I can. Peter.”
    â€œYou’re blocking the entrance.”
    Beck raised a hand. “Take your bullshit and your little sign and go back in your building. You get an old rich person in a wheelchair wants to come in, you hustle your ass out here and roll ’em to the corner, where there’s no curb; roll ’em up nice and easy, and haul them in. And make goddamn sure nobody bumps into my car getting in or out of a cab. Or a fucking limo. Or a delivery truck. Or anything. You got it? Peter.”
    The doorman didn’t say anything.
    â€œWhen’s your shift over?”
    â€œMidnight.”
    â€œGood. I’ll be back before then. Keep an eye on