Demarco parked on the south side of Fifty-seventh facing east, in a no-standing zone.

At exactly 6 p.m. a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up and slid to the far end of the bus stop just in front of Milstein’s office building on the north side of Fifty-seventh. The Lincoln was a late model, cleaned and buffed to a high shine. There was no car service number displayed in the window. The driver filled most of the front seat. His head nearly touched the roof.

Beck jumped out of the Mercury Marauder, crossed Fifty-seventh, and blended in with the flow of pedestrians. He walked across the plaza and stepped through a revolving door into an opulent lobby that was surprisingly compact, about seventy-five feet wide from east to west, but only fifteen feet deep.

There was a small security desk just past the revolving door. Straight ahead six elevators emptied into a central corridor.

There were no turnstiles or security guards other than two men who sat behind the desk off to the right. A few people waved keycards at an electronic pad set into the west wall on their way out.

Beck stepped to his left, away from the security desk, out of the flow of people leaving the building. He watched carefully for a short man amidst the groups of people getting off the various elevators.

Beck checked his watch. Three minutes after six. And here he came, head down, slightly bent over, just as Olivia had described him. He was hatless—making it easier to spot his nearly white hair.

He wore a dark overcoat, tie and suit. Dress shoes.

Beck stepped in front of him before Milstein reached the revolving door, calling his name so that he would look up.

“Mr. Milstein.”

Milstein stopped, squinted up at Beck. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Olivia Sanchez. I’d like to speak to you about her.”

Milstein continued staring at Beck. “Are you a process server?” Before Beck could answer, Milstein answered for him. “No, or you’d have already served me. I don’t know you and I’m not interested in talking to you about Olivia Sanchez, or anything else.”

Milstein tried to step around Beck to get into the revolving door, but Beck blocked his path, saying, “It would be better if you talked to me.”

Even though Beck was much bigger than Milstein, the smaller man tried to shove Beck aside. He snarled, “Get out of my way.” Beck hardly moved, but Milstein quickly stepped around Beck and ducked into one of the revolving door sections. Despite his size Beck was just as quick as Milstein. As Milstein began to push the revolving door, Beck slipped into the section behind him, grabbed the door bar, and pulled back hard.

Milstein banged into the glass. Furious, he pushed hard to get out, but found himself trapped. He turned and yelled an obscenity at Beck. Beck shoved the revolving door forward, smacking Milstein with the heavy slab of glass, sending Milstein sprawling out onto the plaza. Beck followed quickly and lifted Milstein up by his right arm, pulling the smaller man nearly off his feet. He spun and pinned Milstein against the wall next to the revolving door.

He’d done it so swiftly that it almost looked as if Beck had helped a fallen man back to his feet. But the flurry of motion caught the eye of Milstein’s driver. When he saw Milstein fall, he quickly got out of the car to see what was going on with his boss.

Beck pinned Milstein firmly against the wall with his forearm and elbow.

“I asked you nicely, now I’m telling you. I’m going to talk to you about Olivia Sanchez. It won’t take much time. I suggest you answer my questions. It’ll be much easier than the alternative.”

Milstein ignored Beck, looking past him. Beck guessed that Milstein’s bodyguard was heading his way, because the smaller man threatened him, “Take your goddamn hands off me or I’ll have you arrested. My driver is an ex-cop and he’s…”

Beck cut him off, “If you’re smart, you’ll tell him to get back in the car.”

Instead, Milstein yelled over Beck’s shoulder, “Walter. Walter, get over here and get this son of a bitch off me.”

Beck turned, let go of Milstein and stepped forward a few paces to meet the bodyguard, a big man, pear-shaped, wide-hipped, with long arms and plenty of bulk. Beck figured him to be close to six foot six, at least two hundred fifty pounds. He came straight at Beck.

Beck pointed at him and said, “If you touch me I’ll put you down. If you pull your gun, I’ll kill you.”

For a moment the threats confused the big man, but quickly angered him enough so that he came at Beck with surprising speed, rearing back his right fist aimed at Beck’s face.

Beck didn’t duck or even blink. He leaned to his right and let the punch move past his cheek, then pivoted, grabbed the big man’s right wrist with his right hand, and punched him hard on the back of his arm just above the elbow, hitting a bundle of nerves that paralyzed the bodyguard’s arm and caused sharp, intense pain.

Beck turned the paralyzed arm at the wrist, shoved at the back of the man’s shoulder and swept the bodyguard’s right leg out from under him. The ex-cop went down hard onto his left knee.

Beck kept his grip on the arm and could have twisted the man’s shoulder out of the socket, but instead he kept the arm levered high, leaned close, and spoke into the bodyguard’s ear.

“You’re lucky you still have an arm you can use. I should have you arrested for assault and end your fucking career, but you’re just doing your job for this asshole, so we’ll let this one go. Don’t make this mistake again. Don’t ever come at me again, you understand?”

Walter nodded, wincing against the pain.

“I’m going to let you stand up now. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Beck dropped the arm. Walter grabbed his shoulder, remaining down on one knee, not moving, waiting for the pain to subside.

Beck straightened up and turned to Milstein, who hadn’t moved from the wall. “Take care of your man here. Next time I see you, I suggest you talk to me.”

Beck had kept his voice down. A small crowd had gathered around Beck and Walter, but nobody seemed to know what to do, if anything. Whatever happened seemed to be over. The big man was slowly rising to his feet, holding his shoulder.

Beck drifted away to his right, stepping to the ramp that slanted down onto Lexington Avenue.

He blended in with the sidewalk pedestrians and disappeared, heading uptown, out of sight to anyone in front of the building.

Demarco had watched carefully from his parking spot across the street, never for a moment worried that Beck would need his help with the bodyguard. As soon as Beck headed uptown on foot, he pulled out onto Fifty-seventh, immediately turning right, heading downtown with the one-way traffic on Lexington. He took the first right going west and accelerated toward Park Avenue. By the time he had gone one block on Park, he spotted Beck coming his way. Beck slipped into the Mercury.

“That was fun.”

“Big bastard, wasn’t he?” said Demarco.

“Yeah. It helps when you surprise them. Of course, I knew if it went wrong you’d be right there to jump in.”

“’Cept I don’t like leaving the car in a no-standing spot, so, you know.”

“In other words, the car is more important.”

Demarco tipped his head, shrugged, and asked, “Now what?”

“Now we escalate. That little cocksucker Milstein is an asshole.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“What? That he’s an asshole, or that we have to take this to the next step?”

“Just a figure of speech.”

“Uh-huh. You hungry?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. We seem to have skipped lunch.”

“Let’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.

“Come on.”

“If you insist, James.”

“See if you can find a parking spot somewhere.”