Free Among Thieves by John Clarkson Page A

things.”
    As they walked away Beck said to Demarco, “More assholes.”

 
    6
    Instead of letting Walter Pearce drop him off at the front entrance to his building, Frederick Milstein rode with him into the underground garage where they kept the car.
    Even though he couldn’t have cared less, Milstein asked, “You sure you’re okay, Walter?”
    â€œI’m all right. My arm and shoulder will be sore in the morning, but only because that guy held back. He knew what he was doing. Never been hit like that on the back of my arm. Still stings. What’s somebody like that doing around you Mr. Milstein? Who the hell was he?”
    Milstein lied without hesitation. “I have no idea, but I intend to find out.”
    They stepped out of the car. Walter handed the key to the parking attendant and they walked through the garage to the building’s service entrance.
    â€œYou need to know who he is. And we need to be prepared.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œThat means at least me and another man, both of us armed. I wouldn’t take any chances, Mr. Milstein. I heard him say he was intending to talk to you.”
    â€œAll right, all right, I’ll look into it. Are you okay for the walk tonight?”
    â€œYes, sir. I’m going to get some dinner. I’ll meet you in the lobby at the usual time.”
    Walter turned and headed back out to the long driveway that opened onto Eightieth Street. Milstein walked through the storage and laundry areas to the building’s lobby and waited for the elevator, his mouth moving involuntarily, propelled by anger and confusion and a fear he didn’t want to admit feeling. Whoever that man was, Milstein was shocked at how easily he’d handled Walter.
    The elevator door opened. One of the amiable doormen greeted Milstein with a respectful “Good evening, sir.”
    Milstein stepped onto the elevator, grimacing, shoving his gloves into his pockets. When the elevator man saw Milstein’s face he pressed fourteen, looked forward, and didn’t say another word.
    Milstein’s wife had gone out to dinner with a friend. The housekeeper appeared from out of the kitchen the moment she heard Milstein enter the apartment.
    She already had her coat on. Her way of telling Milstein he was later than usual and she wasn’t going to spend one more second on the job.
    â€œYour dinner is in the microwave, Mr. M. Just turn it on for two minutes and you’re all set. Mrs. Milstein said she’d be home around ten. I left a red wine out for you.”
    Milstein hated that “Mr. M” title. Where the fuck did she get the idea she could call him that? He didn’t bother to look at her or answer her as he dropped his coat on the chair in the foyer and walked into the living room.
    He headed straight for the phone on the ornate, leather-covered desk that occupied the corner of the room. The only light in the room was from the streetlights outside, another annoyance. Lazy bitch couldn’t even turn on a fucking light for him.
    He snapped on the desk lamp, revealing overstuffed couches in a gold brocade fabric, oil paintings of Hudson Valley landscapes, plush carpeting, and porcelain figurines resting on every end table, on bookshelves, as well as on the fireplace mantel.
    It was his wife’s idea of sophisticated Upper East Side decorating. Milstein never really noticed it much one way or the other, but tonight the room felt stifling, almost claustrophobic. He had to stop and catch his breath. He realized how much being roughed up had shaken him. No one had ever done anything like that to him. And that useless goddamn Walter. A big fucking waste of money, and now he wanted to bring in another bodyguard. Perfect. Can’t do the job I’m paying you for so now I have to pay for another asshole, while I’m still paying you.
    He picked up his home phone and dialed Alan Crane’s number. Crane hadn’t