Peter Spiegelman - Thick as Thieves

Carr’s smile widens. “I’m thinking six.”

Latin Mike scowls. “Why the hell we need to get there so early? Stearn won’t show till nine, and the pimp’s people won’t be any sooner.”

“We don’t need to wait for them,” Carr says. “We don’t need them.”

Dennis looks up. “What?”

“We don’t need them. We’re set for tonight, without them.”

Confusion and relief play across Dennis’s pale face. “What about Stearn, and Lamp? They’re expecting-”

“Howie will sort them out for us.”

Latin Mike shakes his head. “Guess jefe ’s trip worked out okay.”

Bobby looks at Carr. “How do you want to work it tonight?”

“We give Bessemer no time to think,” Carr says. “I want fear, confusion, and compliance.”

Bobby nods, and burps loudly. “You sound just like my ex,” he says.

Water gurgles in the shower drain as Howard Bessemer presses a towel to his face, and then he hears his front door open. He leaves damp footprints on the tiles as he steps cautiously out of his bedroom, and a puddle forms where he stands frozen and stares openmouthed at the men in his entrance foyer.

Carr hands the laptop to Latin Mike. “Set it up in the living room,” he says, and Mike nods and walks off. Carr looks at Bessemer. “You want to get your pants on, Howie, or are you good like that?”

Bessemer wraps his towel more tightly about his waist. His mouth closes and opens again and a sound comes out, but it’s not a word.

“Pants, Howie.”

Bessemer squints, and takes a step backward. “Wha… What?”

Carr points to the bedroom. “Pants.”

“Who… Who the hell are-”

“Get your fucking pants on, Howie,” Carr says, smiling, and he unbuttons his blazer and lets Bessemer see the Glock in his belt. Bessemer backs slowly into the bedroom, and Carr counts to twenty. When he walks to the bedroom door, he finds Bessemer holding the telephone handset, staring at it.

“Just out of curiosity, Howie, if the phone was working, just who do you think you’d call?”

Bessemer drops the phone and stumbles on the edge of his towel. Carr waits in the doorway while Bessemer dresses in Madras shorts and a polo shirt that’s too tight across the gut. Then he walks him into the living room.

It’s a long, bright space, with Persian rugs on the floor, equestrian sketches on the walls, and teak and rattan furniture that is old but still solid. Latin Mike is standing at a black lacquer cabinet whose doors are open to reveal barware and bottles. He pours two fingers of Glenlivet into a tumbler and offers the bottle to Carr.

“Not just now,” Carr says. “You have the disk?” Latin Mike produces a DVD case and scales it across the room. Carr plucks it from the air. “Collect his cell phones. They should be in the office.” Mike downs the scotch and nods, and Carr carries the DVD to the laptop that is open on a low teak table by the sofa.

“Have a seat, Howie,” Carr says.

Bessemer draws himself up and takes a deep breath. “Just who the hell are you, and what do you think you’re doing in my house?” The teddy bear face is damp and pink, and the voice is shaky.

Carr puts a hand on Bessemer’s shoulder, spreads his fingers across Bessemer’s collarbone, and digs. Bessemer cries out and collapses to one knee. “What the fuck!” His face is red and there are tears in his eyes.

Carr yanks Bessemer to his feet again. “On the sofa, Howie. Shut up, and watch the movie.”

Bessemer perches unsteadily on the edge of the sofa and Carr slips a disk into the laptop. It whirrs and hums and a video starts to play. And Howard Bessemer goes pale.

Carr stands silent for several minutes, watching the video and watching the teddy bear split at the seams. When he sees Bessemer’s hands tremble and his chin quiver, Carr clears his throat. “Guess it’s true what they say about the camera, Howie-it adds ten pounds, at least. But still, it’s easy to tell it’s you. Easy to identify your friends too: Brunt and Scoville, Tandy and Moyer, and if you wait just a minute you’ll see Lamp and the Grigoriev brothers as well. See-you can even make out their license plates. And the audio is good quality-nice and clean-you all sound like yourselves.”

Bessemer moans, and Carr puts a hand on his shoulder, gently this time. “This is just the highlight reel, Howie. We’ve got hours more of you guys-phone conversations, payments being made, dope being delivered, girls… lots of stuff.”

Bessemer waves his hands, as if he’s shooing away gnats. His voice is a frightened whisper. “You… you’re cops,” he says.

“Oh no, Howie.” Carr laughs. “We’re much worse than that.”

Carr is sitting in an armchair, drinking soda water from a highball glass and leafing through a month-old copy of The New Yorker , when the teddy bear groans and lifts his head from the waste can. Carr places his glass on an end table and watches as Bessemer’s gumdrop eyes dart about the room-ceiling to floor, wall to wall, lingering over the laptop, and coming to rest finally on the highball glass on its coaster and the Glock beside it.

Carr smiles benevolently. “All done throwing up? You want some water now?”

Bessemer shakes his head and sits back on the sofa. He runs a hand through his thin hair and across his mouth. His eyes dart some more, and then light on a brass clock atop the liquor cabinet.

“Yes, it is getting late,” Carr says. “Time to call Stearn, and Lamp. Tell each of them that the other one has canceled on you. Tell them that you don’t know why, and that you’ll have to get back to them to reschedule. Best to be brief and vague.” Bessemer looks at him and squints, as if straining to remember something. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some water?” Carr asks again.

“Who are you?” he asks.

Carr shakes his head and calls out: “Can we get Howie a phone?” Latin Mike emerges from the kitchen with one of Bessemer’s cell phones. He tosses it to Bessemer, who jumps as if it’s a hand grenade. Mike laughs.

“Stearn,” Carr says, “and then Lamp. Then we’ll talk.”

“Who…?”

“Make the calls, Howie.”

And Bessemer does. He’s both brief and vague, and all the time he talks, he never takes his eyes off the gun on the end table. When he’s done, he hands the phone back to Carr and lies back on the sofa. He closes his eyes, presses his fingers to them, and opens them again. He looks surprised to find Carr still there.

“I’ll have that water now,” he says.

Carr goes into the kitchen and brings out a glass, with ice. Bessemer sits up and drinks it all. “Who are you?” he asks Carr.

“Gregory Frye,” Carr answers, and puts out his hand. Bessemer’s grip is soft and damp. “And I’m not a cop.”

“Then what the hell are you doing in my house, acting like it’s your goddamn house? Who are you, and what the hell do you want from me?”

Carr chuckles and finishes his drink. “I’m the guy who doesn’t care what you’re doing with Willis Stearn or Daniel Brunt or Nick Scoville, or Tandy or Moyer, or Lamp, or the Grigoriev brothers.” Carr points at Bessemer’s glass. “Refill?”

Bessemer blanches, and Carr wonders if he’s going to vomit again. But Bessemer rights himself, smooths his hair, and sits up straight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Carr shakes his head. “Let’s not do that, Howie.”

Bessemer wipes his forehead. “I’m going to call the police.”

Carr sighs and hands him the telephone. “Really, Howie, the dramatics are a big waste. You pretend, I threaten, and round and round we go. Why put yourself through it? You must be tired after the past few days. All that worrying. All that running around. It’s a long way from the Upper East Side, isn’t it? From Otisville too-though maybe not quite as long.”