Bronx Requiem

by John Clarkson

  “Just like that.”

  “Yep. That’s the way it was with Packy. No preamble. No explanation. He always got right to it. So I agreed, but it’s fucking hard to teach an adult how to read. You ever do it?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t recommend it. I never knew what prompted him to ask me. And he never went overboard thanking me. It was just understood. He’d do the same for me if he could, so that was it.”

  Demarco said, “And with no strings attached like with most cons who only do something as part of a hustle.”

  “Yeah, that endless, goddam running the con.”

  Manny said, “They can’t help it.”

  “You’re right. They cannot stop themselves. Packy was way beyond that shit.”

  The men stopped talking and turned their attention to the neighborhood. They had skirted the edges of Hunts Point and maneuvered into the section of the Bronx where Lorena Leon lived. Everyone’s attention focused. Manny scanned everything out of both windows from the backseat. Beck’s eyes shifted constantly. None of them was very familiar with this neighborhood.

  The area had evolved from bad to decent. Many of the buildings they passed were four- and five-story brick apartment buildings that looked fairly well maintained, interspersed with two-story houses. There were also dozens of newer buildings where there had once been rubble-strewn empty lots. Plus, signs of renovation were everywhere: scaffolding sheds covering sidewalks, buildings being gutted, some of them covered in netting with multiple Dumpster bins out front.

  A few of the lots had been turned into little parks or, in some cases, rough community gardens. One entire block of attached two-flats looked like they could have been pulled out of Astoria, Queens. The cars parked on the streets were fairly new.

  But the people on the streets were still overwhelmingly black and Hispanic. Splashes of graffiti marred the neighborhood, and most ground-floor doors and windows were protected by iron bars.

  Demarco maneuvered along one-way streets to Lorena Leon’s address. As they moved farther north, the density decreased and there were fewer people on the streets.

  The Mercury rolled past a boarded-up three-flat. Two gangbangers sat in front of the abandoned building on lawn chairs. One man stood at the top of the stoop, scanning the street.

  They gave Beck and his men hard looks as they cruised by. Drug dealing still had its place in the Bronx.

  They pulled up to Lorena’s housing complex. Seeing the low-rise buildings again from the outside reminded Beck that the inside was much more grim.

  “D, hang out here while Manny and I go in and talk to her.”

  “Take your time.”

  “We’re not going to need much.”

  8

  At 11:45 A.M., not quite six hours after they’d found the body of Paco Johnson, Palmer and Ippolito parked on Harrod Avenue in front of Bronx River Houses, located in the Soundview section of the Bronx. The complex was bounded by East 174th Street, Harrod Avenue, and Bronx River Avenue, but further isolated by the Cross Bronx Expressway and the Bronx River Parkway—large multilane roads of fast-moving traffic that left Bronx River Houses cut off from the rest of the city, metastasizing out of sight and out of mind.

  Smaller than most New York housing projects, Bronx River Houses had nine twelve-story utilitarian high-rises set around a central building that served as a community center and offices for the New York City Housing Authority.

  When they were first built in the fifties, the apartments housed working poor. Through the seventies and eighties, drugs and urban decay turned the place into a locus of violence, crack cocaine, and misery. In the nineties, the NYPD took over from the Housing Police and began a campaign to crackdown on crime and lawlessness. The FBI Violent Gang Task Force also came in and prosecuted gang members and affiliates using RICO statutes, arresting large groups of young black and Hispanic men and prosecuting them in federal courts.

  Raymond Ippolito knew the history of the Bronx River Houses much better than his partner, but he had no interest in giving John Palmer a history lesson. During the drive from Lorena Leon’s apartment, Palmer had immersed himself in nonstop phone calls, texts, e-mails, and research, oblivious to what was going on in the streets around him.

  When Ippolito pulled in front of the Houses, Palmer announced the results of his research.

  “Okay, Mr. Derrick Watkins is officially a piece of shit. My contact on the FBI Gangs Task Force checked his records. They have him connected to an offshoot affiliated with United Black Nation, called HAV.”

  “What’s that stand for?”

  “Harrod Avenue Villains.”

  Ippolito sneered. “Same shit, different name.”

  “I also talked to the Narcotics Task Force in the Five-O. Watkins and his older brother, Jerome, have been around a long time. He said Jerome Watkins does a lot of financial transactions for the UBN.”

  “UBN. HAV. Fucking morons.”

  “What does it mean that Watkins and his brother do financial transactions for them?”

  “The way it works, the top assholes use guys in their set they trust, like these Watkins pricks. Say the big boys make a deal for drugs, or guns, or whatever. Some skel shows up at an apartment rented to somebody with no connection to the top guys. Watkins is at that apartment. He collects the cash owed for the merchandise.

  “In a second apartment nowhere near where the money changed hands, another asshole picks up the goods when Watkins calls and says he’s got the dough. The top guys are never near the goods or the money.”

  “Who are the top guys in the UBN?”

  “What’s your FBI org chart say?”

  “I didn’t ask for that information.”

  “Well, you don’t need it.” Ippolito tapped his head. “It’s all in here. The top two Mau Maus in this neck of the woods are Eric ‘Juju’ Jackson and Floyd ‘Whitey’ Bondurant. Jackson is the boss, the brains. Whitey Bondurant is Jackson’s muscle. He is one crazy, vicious motherfucker. You do not want to run into that guy.”

  “How’d he get the name Whitey?”

  “He’s a goddam albino. Weirdest looking asshole you’ve ever seen. Big. Big bones. Big head. Got this reddish, white hair he wears in dirty-looking dreads. Always wears sunglasses because of his eyes. The shit I’ve heard about him.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah, he definitely don’t give a fuck. Guy’s a freak. An outcast. The albino thing made him into a mean son of a bitch.”

  “I guess the good news is you’d know him if you saw him.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to see this guy. If you do, shoot him. Seriously. Just shoot him. Empty your fucking gun.”

  Ippolito stared out at the housing complex.

  “Look, John, the gangs in these projects work just like every other organized crime group. The money flows from the bottom up. I know about these UBN assholes. You can trace Juju Jackson all the way to the Black Spades. It got all mixed up with factions and wars and alliances, but it’s basically the same shit. The wannabees underneath run around doing crime, whatever they can pull off. They send money up the chain. The head guys use the money to do bigger crimes, cull out the best earners, and let them in on bigger deals. Everybody else mostly scuffles around until they get locked up, shot, or quit. And not many quit.”

  “I suppose it’s all they have.”

  “You suppose right.”

  Palmer took in everything Ippolito said. If Derrick Watkins was connected to a bigger gang and more crime, it meant he had a chance to arrest more people and make a bigger name for himself.

  Ippolito interrupted Palmer’s thoughts, asking, “What’s his arrest record?”

  “Watkins?”

  “Yeah, who the fuck else we talking about?”

  Palmer clicked through his computer.

  “He got popped for second-degree possession of a controlled substance about nine years ago. He did five months in Rikers, took a plea bargain for time served and probation. Five year
s later, he gets arrested on a murder charge. Spent another eight months in Rikers awaiting trial. Charges dropped for lack of witnesses.”

  “Amnesia caused by a gun to their heads.”

  “He’s been under the radar since then. FBI has him as an unindicted coconspirator on the usual range of charges: conspiracy to commit murder, drug trafficking, firearms possession, prostitution, money laundering.”

  “Yeah, yeah, who isn’t an unindicted coconspirator? The prostitution fits with what the old lady said.”

  Palmer answered absentmindedly, “Yeah. My Fibbie McAndrews says it’s the latest thing now. The gangs are running prostitutes to make up for lost income since their drug businesses are dwindling.”

  “He’s right. But they’ve always run prostitutes. They’re just doing it more now.”

  “McAndrews says they’re going to nail all these guys at some point.”

  “Oh, fuck the FBI. Those assholes take five years to put together a jaywalking case. If this prick Watkins popped Paco Johnson, we take him down now.”

  “And anybody else connected to this,” said Palmer.

  Ippolito gave Palmer a look. “Hey, don’t get too far ahead of yourself on this, Johnny Boy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “John, look at me. How long I been doing this? I know what you’re thinking before you’re thinking it.”

  “What?”

  “What? So far we got two precincts involved, the Four-Two, and now the Four-Three since our lead has brought us to the venerable Bronx River Houses. You got FBI investigations. Plus, Department of Correction. We both know this thing could bounce up to the borough or division level in a heartbeat. And we both know you’re gonna ride this as hard as you can.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Up to you, just don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  “Fine. And, by the way, I did a quick check on James Beck.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who hooked Johnson up with the mother-in-law. The guy the old lady copped to.”

  “Who gives a fuck about him?”

  “Hold on. The guy killed a cop.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “James Beck fucking killed a cop.”

  “You kill a cop, you’re supposed to fry.”

  “Not if your conviction is overturned.”

  “How the hell did that happen?”

  “I don’t know but get this—last year a warrant was issued for his arrest on an assault charge, and then quashed.”

  “This guy must have some lawyer.”

  “He’s a bad guy, Ray.”

  “Yeah, along with a million other bad guys. John, he’s not our problem. We got enough crap on our plate right now. I know you want to arrest everybody within a hundred miles of this thing, but don’t start going off on other assholes before we even figure out what to do with the assholes in front of us.”

  Palmer knew better than to argue, but he wasn’t the least bit dissuaded. Ippolito shut off the car engine.

  Palmer asked, “Where should we start? The housing office.”

  “Yes. Assuming Derrick Watkins has an apartment here in his name, which is a big fucking assumption. And assuming we’re lucky enough the asshole is home instead of hiding out after whatever happened last night.”

  Palmer took out his service revolver, a SIG Sauer P226 9 mm, and chambered a round.

  “Jeezus fuck, John, take it easy.”

  “I just want to be ready. Especially if he’s got some of his crew around.”

  “Relax. We find him, we talk to him. Things get shitty, we call for backup.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who always says get it done fast and simple. Right?” He slid the SIG into the holster at his waist. “Let’s go.”

  “And if he’s not here, we go back, report in before the bosses get pissed, and then we get some sleep. Or I get some sleep, and you can do whatever the fuck you want with your networking and politicking and all your Junior-G-man-buddy bullshit. But we gotta report to the lieutenant. And he’s going to have to fill in the precinct commander, and he’s going to have to liaise with the commander in the Four-Three because this shit hole is in their jurisdiction, which we happen to be operating in without telling anybody jack shit about anything.”

  “Exigencies, Ray. Time is of the essence. We have a right to follow this lead as fast as we can.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Ippolito popped open the car door and stepped out onto the street. It felt like the sun might try to break through the gray skies, but the day was still overcast and muggy. There were trees scattered through the projects’ grounds, and lawns in between the walkways and buildings, but the presence of green did little to dispel the institutional atmosphere created by a crowd of massive redbrick buildings.

  Ippolito and Palmer made their way to the administration building to check with the Housing Authority office.

  “I give you ten to one, even if this guy does live here, he ain’t home.”

  “Maybe,” said Palmer looking at his watch. “It’s not even one yet. He could be still in the sack. Pimps keep late hours, don’t they?”

  “In which case, he won’t open the door.”

  Palmer said, “In which case, maybe Amelia Johnson will, and we can find out from her what happened when her ex-con father came calling. Which doesn’t take a genius to figure. Things turned nasty, Derrick and his boys beat the piss out of him, and put a bullet behind his ear.”

  “But first they dragged him ten blocks away on 174th Street?”

  “Why not? It makes sense. They’re not going to pop him outside their doorstep.”

  Ippolito noted that Palmer had expanded the murder to include Watkins’s fellow gang members. By the time this was done, Palmer would have everybody in Watkins’s crew arrested.

  What the hell, thought Ippolito, he might be right.

  The Housing Authority office confirmed Derrick Watkins occupied an apartment in building six. And was current on his rent. The only mark on his record had to do with him never responding to a request for access to his apartment to check on the source of a water leak.

  They located Watkins’s apartment on the seventh floor and banged on his door, but there was no answer. Nobody else on the floor answered except for one elderly black woman who lived the farthest down the hall from Derrick Watkins’s apartment. She told them Derrick’s mother had died about eight years ago, Derrick had taken over the lease on her apartment, and his dear, departed mother would be ashamed of him.

  Palmer asked a few people on the way out if they knew Derrick Watkins, or had seen what had happened last night. Same result. Not much.

  As they approached the car Ippolito said, “What’d I tell you?”

  “It was worth a try. So what do you want to do?”

  Ippolito leaned against their unmarked sedan. Scrunched his face in thought.

  “We have to figure an angle here. We can’t just wander around hoping this mutt is going to show up, or some moron is going to know where he is and tell us.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

  Palmer had the impression Ippolito was holding out on him, but he knew enough not to push.

  Ippolito levered his backside off the Impala’s fender and opened the driver’s door.

  “Let’s get back to the precinct. We gotta report to Levitt.”

  Before he stepped into the car, Palmer took a last look around. The sky had cleared enough for the sun to turn the weather from muggy to hot and muggy. Palmer ran a hand through his thick brown hair. He felt a nagging fatigue creeping into him. He checked his watch. He’d gone almost twenty-four hours without sleep. And he’d be working four or five more hours before he could rack out.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s get back. Check with the skip. And then we can catch up with the medical examiner’s office and Crime Scene…”

  “You can catch up. Aft
er we talk to the lieutenant, I’m out until midnight.”

  “Fine. I’ll bunk at the precinct. Keep on top of this.”

  Palmer didn’t talk any more about the case on the drive to the precinct. He knew Ippolito could be lazy, bigoted, and racist. But he also knew Raymond Ippolito was a top-notch investigator and had a ton of connections on both sides of the law in the Bronx. So, for now, Palmer decided he would do all the write-ups, report to the bosses, keep the files current, and make sure their immediate supervisor knew what they were doing so he could cover for them.

  And when it all went down, take all the credit.

  9

  Lorena Leon surprised James Beck, buzzing him in without asking who it was. Maybe she expected him to show up now that Packy had been shot. By the time Beck hurried up to Lorena’s apartment on the second floor, Manny had fallen behind. Beck stood in front of Lorena’s door and waited for Manny to catch up and take a position next to the door. Beck raised a hand, but before he knocked, Lorena Leon opened her door partway, holding an old .38 six-shot revolver pointed at Beck. He reflexively kicked the door into her. She fell backward, pulling the trigger. A bullet ripped past Beck’s right shoulder and buried itself in the concrete-block wall behind him. If the door hadn’t hit her, the slug would have gone through Beck’s heart.

  The old lady went down hard, but she still held on to the gun.

  Beck jumped through the doorway and kicked the gun out of Lorena’s hand, sending the old .38 spinning across the floor.

  Manny pulled his gun, stepped in behind Beck, looking for anybody else in the room.

  Beck straddled Lorena. He’d knocked the wind out of her. He bent down, grabbed her under the arms, and lifted her onto her feet, holding her in front of him.

  Beck said, “Breathe. Come on, take a breath.”

  Manny closed the door behind him, wondering if anyone had heard the gunshot.

  Suddenly, Lorena gasped, slapped at Beck, and yelled at him to let her go.