Beck heard the rumble of the Marauder outside the bar. He smiled at the sound of the modified exhaust, the low growl that went perfectly with a car that was black from the body to the bumpers. Even the grill and tire rims were black.

Beck turned and lifted his leather shearling coat off the hook next to the front door. He paused, holding the heavy coat in his hand, then pulled the Browning out from under his belt. He put the heavy pistol back into the gun box, and instead pulled out a six-inch leather Bucheimer sap which he slid into his back pocket. He figured visiting Manny’s cousin didn’t require much firepower.

Beck slipped into his coat, not bothering to button up. The Mercury sat right in front of the bar, its exhaust pluming against the cold February air.

“Where to?” asked Demarco.

“Head through the tunnel and up the West Side Highway. She lives up in Riverdale.”

Demarco slipped the Mercury into gear and drove like he moved … effortlessly.

They sat silently while the throaty engine accelerated them toward the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel.

After a few minutes, Beck broke the silence.

“So you didn’t stay upstate with Elliot?”

“No. We came in last night. He had to substitute for somebody’s class this morning.”

Beck nodded. “Good weekend?”

Demarco shrugged. “We went to a dinner party on Saturday.”

“I would imagine gay couples are in demand at dinner parties up there in the shire. Especially a mixed couple like you and Elliot.”

“You looking for an invite?”

“Why not? I got a car. I know how to buy a bottle of wine.”

Demarco smiled at the idea of Beck attending a dinner party in the country.

“I had to come in anyhow. Remember that woman, Maxine Barnes?”

“The one with the restaurant in the theater district?”

“Yeah. She’s opening a club midtown on the West side. Wants me to set up security for it.”

Beck nodded. “Good. You’ve done enough of it.”

They drove in silence for a while, and then Demarco asked, “You gonna check with Walter about that guy Reese?”

Beck shook his head. “Not yet. Walter has enough to do following about a thousand parolees. Let’s see how the window thing goes.”

“What do we have in the pipeline line now, two guys?”

“Yep. Packy Johnson up at Eastern, and the Irish kid Dermott Ryan has a parole hearing in about six months at Coxsackie.” Beck changed the subject. “So did Manny tell you about his cousin?”

“No. Didn’t know he had any family. Closest thing I thought he had are those cronies he fishes with down on the piers. Did you know about her?”

“No. Nothing.”

“She knows you’re coming?”

“Yeah.”

“Manny is pretty riled up.”

“Yes.”

“What’s it going to take?”

“Don’t know yet.”

They lapsed back into silence, until Demarco guided the Mercury onto the Henry Hudson Parkway.

Beck asked. “How old you figure Manny is, closing in on sixty?”

“Nah, he’s what, fiftysomething, I think. He looks older because he’s been at the hard life longer. Takes its toll.”

“He says the cousin is a lot younger.”

Demarco didn’t comment.

When they drove over the Henry Hudson Bridge into Riverdale, Beck said, “Take the Palisade Avenue exit.”

Within a few minutes they pulled up parallel to a small complex of Tudor-style apartments that looked like a cluster of small Mediterranean villas overlooking the Hudson River. Beyond the buildings, the winter water of the Hudson River looked gray, and even a blue sky and bright sun couldn’t make the Palisades across the river anything but dull brown.

Beck popped open the door of the Mercury and stepped out. He made his way along connecting walkways, under stone arches, and up freestanding stairways until he found Olivia Sanchez’s apartment on the second-floor level.

He tapped the knocker against the sturdy wooden door and waited. He heard someone on the other side of the door and assumed Olivia Sanchez was checking him out through the peephole.

“Who is it?”

Beck answered loud enough to be heard through the thick door. “James Beck. Your cousin Manny called to say I’d be coming to see you.”

Beck heard a dead bolt lock turn and then a sucking swish as the heavy door sealed against the river winds pulled open.

Beck hadn’t bothered to picture Manny’s cousin, but if he’d tried he wouldn’t have come close to the woman who stood in front of him with a slight smile, her hand extended.

“Hello, I’m Olivia.”

Beck gripped her hand lightly and felt a firm grip in return.

She nodded. He stared. She waited, accustomed to the effect she had on men.

She was about five six. She had strong, but feminine features, an elegant nose, beautifully shaped full lips, large eyes, and a nearly fantasy figure: long-limbed and thin with a model’s wide shoulders, but with full breasts and shapely hips. She wore little if any makeup. She didn’t need it. Her smooth skin had a natural glow, the tone somewhere between olive and gold.

She took her hand from Beck’s and stepped aside to let him enter. He walked past her into a long, narrow, comfortably furnished living room, but Beck didn’t notice the room much. He turned back toward Olivia so he could look at her again. She wore jeans and a deep maroon turtleneck cashmere sweater.

“Can I take your coat?” she asked.

“Sure.”

He passed the heavy coat to Olivia. When she turned to put the coat in the closet, he saw that her thick shiny black hair was pulled back into a pony tail that reached just past her shoulders.

When she reached for a hanger a bit awkwardly, he noticed the cast on her left hand, encasing her little finger and ring finger. The plaster extended past her left wrist.

She closed the closet and turned to lead him into the living room. She moved easily, without any affectation, but it seemed like an extra life force animated her body.

Beck forced himself to stop staring at her and take in the room. Dark wood floors, crown molding, furniture in greens and beige, with prewar plaster walls painted in various delicate shades of green. It all served to make the room seem warm, comfortable, and inviting.

She led Beck to a couch flanking a wood-burning fireplace, where embers glowed and occasional flames licked the remains of a small log. She placed a piece of split hardwood onto the embers, and took a seat opposite him in a comfortable leather chair backlit by the late afternoon light coming through leaded windowpanes behind her.

A private, quiet retreat perched above the blustery Hudson River. Beck wondered how many men would have given how much to be alone in this apartment with a woman that looked like Olivia Sanchez. For Beck, however, it made things slightly uncomfortable and off-balance.

“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?”

Beck remembered he hadn’t finished his morning coffee. He checked his watch. Nearly four in the afternoon.

“No, thanks.”

She sat back in the chair, waiting for Beck to start the conversation.

“This is a very interesting apartment. Quite a location.”

“Yes. People love this place. They built these apartments in nineteen twenty six. It’s like nothing else. I love the river. I can walk to the train station in ten minutes. Twenty-two minutes to Grand Central.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Four years. I don’t own. I rent from the owner, but someday I’ll buy one of these places for myself. When the opportunity comes up. And if I can get the money.”

“It’s a co-op?”

“Condo. They don’t limit the amount of time an owner can rent out. Just the number of units.”

Beck nodded. “How’d you decide on this place?”

“Oh, kind of putting all my needs together. When I first moved here, my mother was living in Mott Haven, so I could just cut across the Bronx to visit. But she’s gone now. Mainly it’s the proximity to Manhattan. Like they say, location, location, location. And you, Mr. Beck, where did you grow up?”