The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [2]
Now, the Grave Dancer was approaching Long Beach Island, cruising along in a dark sports car. He was feeling particularly sanguine about the past few weeks. He had been mapping out a strategy that would ultimately change the face of organized crime. He had financial backing, both in New York and abroad. He simply had to make certain nothing went wrong during the next few critical months.
One man has been interfering lately, St.-Germain was thinking as he crossed the bridge onto Long Beach. A detective named Stefanovitch had taken it upon himself to make St.-Germain’s life in America difficult, if not impossible. He was a master at harassment. He was persistent, and cleverer than most policemen. He had already caused more trouble and embarrassment than St.-Germain could allow.
Twice he had trailed St.-Germain to Europe. He had conducted surveillance watches outside his apartment on Central Park West. One evening, he had followed St.-Germain into Le Cirque, practically interviewing the restaurant’s owner, Sirio Maccioni.
This desire to prevail against the odds, to tilt against windmills, seemed to be an American trait. St.-Germain had watched it fail miserably in Southeast Asia during the early seventies; he would watch it fail again now in New York. Stefanovitch was challenging him, and that couldn’t be permitted.
His sports car finally entered Long Beach, and he gunned it toward his rendezvous. An important lesson had to be taught tonight.
4
John Stefanovitch; Long Beach
FOURTEEN N.Y.P.D. and Nassau County detectives walked single file, making uneven lines on either side of Ocean View Street in Long Beach.
They passed forty-year-old tract houses and a few Irish bars on the narrow street. Occasionally, there was a pizza stand or ramshackle novelty store, boarded up for the winter.
“I could use a slice of pizza,” Bear Kupchek cracked. “Pepperoni and onions, extra cheese.”
“I could use a sane partner,” John Stefanovitch whispered back.
They continued walking until they reached an even narrower street, called Louisiana. Nothing but parked cars were visible there, dented and rusting like the dank beach cottages themselves.
At the far end of Louisiana, the detectives entered a sharp bend, which opened into a wide fork. Two large beach houses stood at either end, like sentinels.
Stefanovitch knew everything about Alexandre St.-Germain: that he was the current drug star in Europe, the largest narcotics dealer in years; that he was also known as a businessman in parts of the world, a legitimate financier and investor—which made tripping him up that much more difficult. Stefanovitch knew that St.-Germain and his organization were moving very impressively into the United States; that St.-Germain had masterminded a Byzantine, highly effective system to control organized crime throughout Europe, known as the “street law.”
This street law applied to criminals and to the police alike. There were strict rules, and they were known to everyone. Rival crime lords, but also policemen, prosecuting attorneys, even judges who came into conflict with St.-Germain’s system, were dealt with ruthlessly. Murder and sadistic torture were the usual forms of retribution. Revenge against friends and family members was common. Alexandre St.-Germain said that he refused to live by the rules of the weak.
Tonight, Stefanovitch and his Narcotics detectives were breaking the street law. They were striking a major St.-Germain drug factory inside the United States.
Stefanovitch’s eyes were drawn suddenly to the far left of the cul-de-sac. The house lights there had blinked out.
“Uh-oh. The left. See that?” Bear Kupchek pointed.
Stefanovitch and everyone else stopped, their legs and feet suddenly frozen in step.
The wind from the ocean held a sibilant, almost ominous whistle in the background.
“What’s that all about?” Kupchek whispered. “I hope somebody’s just going beddy-bye late.”
“I don’t know. Hold tight.” Stefanovitch was slowly raising his Remington. He had a sick feeling, the