Beck fired a blast into the Tahoe’s engine, stalling the SUV.

The driver was too close to the wall to open his door, but the big Russian, Vassily, fell out of the passenger side, landing hard on the asphalt, gun in hand, firing back at Demarco.

Demarco calmly shifted aim and fired both guns at the downed Russian. After six shots, the Russian stopped firing back,

The panicked driver of the Cadillac tried to turn left, but without a front tire, he smashed into a parked car.

Beck blasted five quick shots into the back of the Cadillac, obliterating the trunk and tires. Everything went silent.

Demarco calmly walked to Vassily, who had been hit four times: his left arm, chest, right shoulder, and a grazing shot that had taken off most of his right ear. He leaned down, put his gun against Vassily’s head, and said, “Who’s the glupo chertovski negr now, fat boy?”

Vassily’s mouth moved like a fish gasping for air. Demarco put him out of his misery with one shot.

Beck had no choice but to climb over the fence. It seemed to take him forever to lower himself to the ground and slide down off the four-foot concrete wall that bordered the parking lot while still holding the shotgun. He had never fired it before and could hardly believe the damage it did. He started limping toward the Cadillac.

Demarco looked inside the open door of the SUV. The driver had fallen over the steering wheel. He looked dead, but Demarco put one shot into him to make sure.

Beck had to be certain Kolenka was dead. He moved as quickly as he could toward the Cadillac. When he was ten feet away, the back door opened and one of Kolenka’s bodyguards leaned out and shot at him. Beck lurched right and fell to the ground, but could not get the AA-12 out from under him to fire back.

Demarco, still back at the SUV, fired off wild shots at the bodyguard over the open door of the Tahoe, until both handguns clicked empty, giving Beck enough cover to fire the AA-12 from a prone position, cutting down the bodyguard with two shots.

Demarco stepped over Vassily, slammed the Tahoe door in his way and ran to Beck, lifting him to his feet. They both walked to the Cadillac, Demarco reloading his Glock. The carnage inside the car was nearly complete. The driver and remaining bodyguards were dead. Kolenka was pitched forward against the passenger seat, blood across the top of his head.

Beck leaned into the car and pulled Kolenka back off the seat. He had a massive head wound, but he was still breathing. Beck placed the muzzle of the AA-12 into Kolenka’s side.

“You should have stayed out of it, Ivan.”

He pulled the trigger.

The entire gun battle had taken less than three minutes.

Demarco helped Beck limp back to the Mercury as quickly as he could. He wasn’t sure if Beck had been shot, but he couldn’t waste time on the street finding out.

The Bolo’s white van was long gone. By the time they crossed over to get onto the BQE heading west, they still hadn’t heard a police siren.

73

Phineas P. Dunleavy loved battling law enforcement. Good, bad, competent, indifferent, it didn’t matter. Cops. Judges. Assistant district attorneys. It didn’t matter. He would even badger a court clerk or a corrections officer if he felt he had to. He didn’t waste energy being mean or vindictive about it. He just took it as his mission in life.

For Phineas it came down to a visceral reaction against bullies. Maybe it was his too often drunk and angry father who demeaned Phineas as a kid, or the fearsome nuns that tried to terrify him in parochial school, or the tough older boys who took shots at him because they didn’t like his looks or his brogue. Or maybe it was just some deep dark Irish DNA that rebelled against oppressors. Whatever it was, Phineas P. Dunleavy was hardwired to fight against anybody who thought they had the right to push other people around, and Phineas never had to look far to find those people. The legal machine that ground out its merciless work 24/7 teemed with tin-pot tyrants who assumed they had a right to ruin the lives of thousands who had neither the education nor the resources to do much about it.

Which stoked Phineas’s ire sufficiently to keep him in battle mode perpetually.

When he knocked on the side kitchen door of Beck’s bar after coming in through the warehouse at the end of the street, and making his way between buildings as Beck had instructed, Phineas looked like a man ready for either a physical or an intellectual brawl, the sooner the better.

Alex Liebowitz opened the door for the heavyset Phineas, who stood five ten, dressed in brown corduroy pants, a green cashmere turtleneck sweater, and a long brown fine wool overcoat. Phineas just about filled the width of the doorway. He stepped in and embraced Alex in his usual bear hug.

“Laddie. Trouble afoot for the good guys, ey?”

“Apparently,” said Alex.

“When I drove up Reed to get into the warehouse lot there were a half-dozen coppers milling around back there.”

“Not nearly as many as before. We gotta stay closed down so they don’t come busting in here looking for James.”

Phineas took a peek out the front window. The hulk of the burned-out SUV, surrounded by scorched sidewalks and cobblestones was still out front, as well as a single patrol car staking out the entrance to Beck’s building.

“That’s what I’m here for. Nobody gets in without a proper warrant and plenty of time for us to get organized. God’s Christ, you look totally wrecked, boy. When was the last time you slept?”

“You mean like eight hours in a row slept?”

“I mean slept at all.”

Alex waived off the question. “Can’t remember. After today I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Good. Good. Where’s James?”

“Don’t know. But he’s due back soon. Certainly before nine-thirty.”

Phineas walked all the way around to the back of the bar. “Nine-thirty? Why nine-thirty?”

“Markets open at nine-thirty.”

That didn’t explain much, but Phineas responded as if it did. “Ah. I see. I might even get the warrants quashed by then. James says he’s already taken care of one witness, and doubts the second will ever show up.”

Phineas began assembling the makings for coffee. While it brewed, he set his mug on the battered old bar and poured in a dollop of Jameson.

“You want some coffee, lad?”

“No thanks.”

“Is it just you?”

“At the moment.”

As if on cue, a knock sounded at the side door. Alex went to answer it. A few moments later, Doctor Brandon Wright appeared in the barroom. Phineas topped off his coffee and waved him in. Behind him came a diminutive woman pulling a wheeled twenty-four-inch suitcase, filled with surgical supplies.

“Good morning, Doctor. I see you followed James’s instructions about avoiding the front door.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve taken that route.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The tall, lanky doctor wore jeans, work boots, and a plaid shirt under a fleece-lined Carhartt canvas coat. He carried a large doctor’s black bag. Brandon introduced the woman with him.

“Gentlemen, this is Ruth Silverman, my nurse. Ruth, Mr. Dunleavy and Mr. Liebowitz.”

She nodded.

“How do you do,” said Phineas, politely shaking her hand. Alex raised a hand in her direction.

Phineas asked Brandon, “When did you speak to James?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“I see,” said Phineas.

Brandon asked Alex, “What happened out there?”

“We were attacked.”

“How many?”

“A lot. Cops came.”

“And our boys?” asked Phineas.

Alex said, “James had a plan. He can give you the details. I stayed in here.”

Phineas peeked out the window again. “Well, if they’re still looking for James, I’d say he’s fallen down pretty low on their list. Looks like they had a lot of other things to take care of last night.”