Bronx Requiem

by John Clarkson

  All of them continued staring at her: Derrick, Tyrell, Johnny Morris, all longtime members of his crew, plus two newer members. One called Eddie. The other, a dull-looking boy she didn’t know. Last, and certainly worse than all the others, sat Derrick’s older, larger brother, Jerome Biggie Watkins.

  Derrick said, “Sit down, Princess.”

  He motioned toward an empty spot on the old couch between him and Biggie. Amelia took a few steps toward the dirty couch, the upholstery scabbed by years of stains and worn spots, her head down, making sure to avoid eye contact with any of the others.

  She sat between the two brothers, feeling the tension and anger in the room directed at her, still trying to figure out why.

  “You got my money, bitch?”

  She turned to Derrick, pulled out the cash and receipt for food from her front pocket, and handed them to him.

  Derrick pocketed everything without looking at it. A bad sign. He didn’t even count the money. As if he were done with her. Why? She had earned. What was going on? Sitting between the brothers on the filthy couch, all the members of his crew staring at her, Amelia could not shake the idea that Derrick had decided to let them all pull one last brutal chain of serial rape and then kill her.

  She kept her head down, feeling a constricting sensation that made it difficult to breathe. A flush of panic and fear came over her. She began to sweat.

  Derrick narrowed his eyes at her and said, “Why didn’t you tell me your father was out of prison?”

  Amelia flinched in confusion for a moment, but then answered without hesitation. “I didn’t know.”

  “Liar.”

  She kept her head down, still confused, but grabbing at the chance to respond. “I’m not lying. I don’t know nuthin’ about that man. I ain’t seen or heard from him in years.”

  Derrick told her, “Look at me. Look me in the eyes so I know if you’re lying.”

  That’s when she saw Derrick’s left eye was nearly swollen shut and his lower lip had been cut.

  She looked him in the eyes and said, “Last time I seen my father I was maybe three years old. I ain’t heard one word from him since then. I don’t even remember what he looks like. How am I supposed to know he got out of prison?”

  Derrick stared back, trying to find any hint of a lie. Amelia had the sense not to try to convince him.

  Tyrell interjected, “She’s a motherfuckin’ lying bitch.”

  Derrick glanced at him, annoyed. “Shut up.” He turned back to Amelia, “You ain’t never heard from him?”

  “No, never. What happened?”

  “Goddammit bitch, don’t you ask me no fuckin’ questions. Who tol’ him you was workin’ for me?”

  The question confused Amelia for a moment. She could barely grasp that her father knew anything about her, much less that he knew her connection to Derrick. She concentrated, trying to come up with an explanation.

  “I don’t know. Maybe my grandmother told him. I don’t know. I didn’t. I got no business with him. I never talked to him my whole life.”

  Derrick shifted at his end of the couch, going through a calculation Amelia couldn’t fathom. He seemed to be trying to come to some decision, but none of his options worked for him.

  He looked to his older brother, Jerome, for a moment. The big, stolid man sat on the couch with a blank expression, neither moving nor saying anything.

  Finally, Derrick spoke.

  “Your old man come up to the Houses to find you.” He waited for a reaction from Amelia, but didn’t get one. “He’s lucky he didn’t come lookin’ for you with a gun, cuz I’da shot his ass right then and there.”

  “When?”

  “Last night. The fool walked up outside my building shouting my name. Callin’ me out. Like I’m some punk.”

  She asked, “What…?” but stopped.

  “What, what, bitch?”

  “What happened?”

  “What you think happened? Someone call me out, they callin’ all of us out. Like I said, if he’d had a gat, he’d be dead. Dumb son of a bitch threatened me unless I give you up. Shit. If you hadn’t been out getting me my money, I might a kicked you to the curb right then and there. Instead, we fucking beat the shit outta him, that’s what happened.”

  Amelia quickly looked at the others. She noted that a few of them hadn’t come out unscathed. She struggled with her feelings. She’d never had a father, and certainly never had a man who was willing to fight for her. But what the hell good had it done?

  Amelia swallowed, sitting motionless and silent so as not to ignite any reactions. Clearly, Derrick and his crew were blaming her, wanting her to pay for what had happened. It felt like she was surrounded by vicious dogs working themselves up to attack her. Any one of them might make a move at her, particularly Tyrell.

  And then, perhaps sensing control slipping away, Jerome Watkins stood up and spoke.

  “Get up girl. Go back in the bedroom. Derrick, come with me.”

  Amelia moved fast, taking the opportunity to get away from Derrick’s crew. Jerome and Derrick followed her. She went into the bedroom. Jerome came to the door. Before he locked her in, he told her, “Don’t make a goddam sound in here.”

  He motioned for Derrick to follow him back to the kitchen. They sat across the table from each other. Jerome was forty pounds heavier than Derrick and six years older. He spoke more slowly, with less emotion. He leaned toward his younger brother.

  “We got trouble here.”

  “Why? Fuck that bitch. I’ma cut her loose. She ain’t no fuckin’ earner anyhow. More trouble than she’s worth.”

  “It’s past that now.”

  “Why? Cuz her asshole father gonna try to cause us trouble? If I put a bullet in her head and dump her, what’s he gonna do about it?”

  “Listen to me. You don’t know the whole story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I fucked up. Eric told me to get word to you. Wanted you to kick her out.”

  “When?”

  “Day before yesterday. I was going to tell you yesterday, but I didn’t get around to it. I didn’t know it was like a right-away thing.”

  “Why? Why Juju want me to get rid of her?”

  “I don’t fuckin’ know. He don’t explain shit. Just do this, do that.”

  “So whatever. We’ll kick her ass out now. Let her run back to her bust-out father.”

  “Might be too late for that. Might be we have to make her disappear like you said. I don’t know what’s going on with Eric. Or what’s behind all this mess. I gotta get with him and tell him what’s happening. He probably already knows, but we got to wait to hear from him now.”

  Derrick said, “All right. No big thing. I got to lay low anyhow. Cops piled in the Houses after we beat the shit out of that guy. I’m sure they be looking for me.”

  “All right. Lay low. And keep the bitch locked up and out of sight.” Jerome lowered his voice and leaned closer to Derrick. “Comes down to it, who you want to use to get rid of her?”

  “That one’s easy. Fuckin’ Tyrell. I won’t even have to pay him. I tell him he can do what he wants with her for a couple of hours, then get rid of her. That’s all the pay he’ll need.”

  “All right, but make sure after he does her, he meets me with the body. I got to know it’s done and make sure to dump her someplace nobody’s gonna find her. Can’t rely on no retard like Tyrell to do that right.”

  “What about the father?”

  Jerome gave his brother a baleful stare and said, “I suspect that ship is sailed. He might already be gone if Juju heard about this mess and put Whitey on it.”

  12

  By the time John Palmer had filed his reports, checked in with Lieutenant James Levitt, the supervisor of the 42nd Precinct’s detective squad, and liaised with the 43rd Precinct, where the Bronx River Houses were located, it was 2:35 P.M. He’d already dipped into his private stash of Adderall to keep going. He still had to write up a report for the other dete
ctives in the squad, check with the M.E.’s office, and circle back to his FBI contact. Then he would try to locate Derrick Watkins.

  He had feelers out with two contacts. Gregory McAndrews at FBI Violent Gangs Task Force, and Peter Malone, a detective from the 50th Precinct who worked gangs and narcotics. Malone would take his sweet time getting back to him, so he planned on driving over to the Five-O to run down the information with him personally.

  Gregory McAndrews was a different story. Even though the FBI was notorious for keeping information under wraps, McAndrews would check his files and call him back as soon as possible because McAndrews wanted to cultivate a connection with his father, John Palmer Senior, a powerful lobbyist, lawyer, and well-known advocate for law enforcement unions in New York State and City. Senior’s influence extended into the NYPD, the Department of Correction, New York State Police, numerous local police forces, as well as the Justice Department, and Homeland Security. Palmer Senior had long ago mastered the art of greasing the revolving doors between law enforcement personnel and the private sector. A phone call from him could help McAndrews jump ahead of a hundred other special agents when it came time for a career change.

  Palmer knew he shouldn’t reach out to a federal agency without clearing it through his bosses, but protocol had never stopped him before and it wouldn’t stop him now. Palmer could already see his path forward. Step one, make Detective First Grade. He had to have that. Then a few more years in the Detective Division. After that, start taking the necessary civil service exams and rise through management positions. Palmer’s ambition and hubris would not end until he became the NYPD commissioner. Nothing less. And after that, who knows, maybe even mayor of New York.

  Palmer checked his watch. Not quite three o’clock. If he moved fast and got everything in the works, he might even be able to get a bead on Watkins’s location before end of day. Then take five milligrams of Ambien and be in a precinct bunk by around six. Get a good five hours of sleep, and be ready to organize an arrest team and start hitting places after midnight when Ippolito came back on duty. Wrap this whole fucking thing up in less than twenty-four hours. That’s how you made a name for yourself.

  What else? Oh right, the daughter. Find Amelia Johnson. She might be a valuable witness.

  And don’t forget James Beck, the guy who got away with killing a cop. Sending him back to jail would go a long way toward making a name for himself. He’d have to find out everything he could about Beck, including his connection to Paco Johnson. But, fuck, he barely had time to do what he had to do.

  Just then, Palmer saw Tim Witherspoon, the youngest detective on the precinct squad. A crew-cut, eager-to-please straight arrow, but with just enough smarts to brownnose his way into a spot with the big-boy detectives.

  Palmer watched Witherspoon approach, wearing a buy-one-get-one-free Men’s Wearhouse suit, and a permanent-press white shirt from Macy’s, ready to start his four-to-midnight shift.

  Palmer yelled, “Yo, Timster, what up?”

  Witherspoon couldn’t resist basking in the glow of John Palmer.

  “Ah, you know, the usual, man, how’s it going?”

  Palmer mustered up a beleaguered look, taking Witherspoon into his confidence, giving him the impression he could really use his help.

  “Ah, you wouldn’t believe it. Suddenly everything went from same old shit, to the shit hitting the fan this morning.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Ray and I caught a homicide just near the end of our shift. I’ve been going full blast ever since.”

  “Wow.” Witherspoon knew an opportunity when he saw one. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Palmer paused, as if genuinely giving it some thought. As if he hadn’t planned on getting Witherspoon to work for him from the moment he saw him.

  “As a matter of fact, now that you mentioned it, there is something you can do.”

  “Name it.”

  Palmer motioned Witherspoon over to his desk. He opened a folder and extracted a printout of the NYPD file on James Beck. He handed it to Witherspoon.

  “This guy is connected to my homicide. He’s got an interesting history. Right now, I’m not sure how he fits in, but I can’t let any lead slide. This could be really important, Tim. Trouble is, I got so much other crap I have to follow up on there’s no way I can get to it now. If you’re up for it and have some time, I’d really appreciate anything you can come up with on him. I’ll clear it with Levitt. Tell him I need your help.”

  “Sure, man. No problem. I can fit it in. Anything you’re looking for specifically?”

  “Don’t know yet. Just find out everything you can about him. Known associates. Known addresses. Whatever is available.”

  “Okay. How much time do I have?”

  “ASAP, man,” said Palmer. “ASAP.”

  13

  They were four serious men. All ready to beat down doors and anybody behind them, walking slowly and patiently toward Derrick Watkins’s apartment on the seventh floor in building six led by a ninety-one-year-old woman riding her Rascal scooter.

  She neither looked behind her, nor worried about what was in front of her. Belinda Halsted Smith was on a mission concerning Derrick Watkins, whom she had known from the time he was an annoying toddler and through all the years of his unremittingly destructive criminal life. In Belinda’s firm opinion, the best that could be said of Derrick Watkins was that his older brother Jerome was worse.

  Now, for some reason, a day of reckoning seemed to have arrived for Derrick, and Belinda Halsted Smith was eager to lead these men to their task.

  She wore plain, practical clothes: a dark pleated skirt, white blouse buttoned to the neck, and support hose. She peered through thick glasses to compensate for failing vision, but it did not prevent her from rolling in a straight line toward apartment 720.

  Belinda smacked her sturdy wooden cane on Derrick’s door, demanding in a surprisingly loud voice. “Derrick, open up. You open this door now.”

  The four men took up positions on either side of the doorway, Beck and Demarco on the right side, Ciro and Manny on the left, all of them ready to fight their way into the apartment with fists, or guns, or both.

  Belinda ignored all of them and banged harder.

  “Derrick, open up now. It’s me, Miz Smith. You open up this minute.”

  She rapped four times, each one harder than the previous.

  Beck was just about to send Belinda back to her apartment and use his crowbar when he heard feet shuffling on the other side of the door.

  Just as Belinda raised her cane for another smack, the door opened. A tall, thin young man wearing only boxer shorts and a white T-shirt appeared, hovering over the old matriarch and her red Rascal scooter. He hadn’t opened the door for the cops. He wouldn’t have opened the door for Beck and his men, but he really couldn’t bring himself to defy Belinda Halstead Smith.

  “Damn, what you want…?”

  He never got the last word out. Beck spun into the doorway, grabbed the insolent youth by the throat, lifted him off his feet, and threw him to the floor.

  Manny and Ciro rushed into the apartment, guns in hand.

  Demarco deftly turned Belinda’s scooter around and guided her back toward her apartment, patting her shoulder, and telling her everything would be all right.

  Beck kept his grip on Leon Miller’s throat and quietly asked, “Anybody else in here?”

  Leon couldn’t speak with Beck choking him. He shook his head no.

  Manny and Ciro moved fast to check each room.

  Demarco walked with Belinda until they reached her apartment at the end of the hall. Thankfully, there were no sounds of shouting, body parts being hit, or gunshots back in Derrick’s apartment.

  Demarco leaned down to tell Belinda, “Miz Smith, you’ve been a wonderful help here today. My friends and I are going to find out what’s going on in that apartment, and I guarantee you whatever nonsense those boys are up to, it’s going to end.”

&nb
sp; Belinda stared up at Demarco, her bottom jaw jutting out, eyes narrowed behind her thick glasses. For a moment, she wondered about who she had helped get into Derrick’s apartment, but looking at the big handsome young man with such a sincere smile, she decided it must to be all right.

  And then Demarco touched her gently on the arm as he continued speaking quietly. It had been a long time since a man had touched her, much less spoken softly to her. There was a kindness to it.

  Before she knew it, the young gentleman gently guided her into her apartment, one hand on the handle of her Rascal, the other on her upper back, a hand so large in comparison to the diminutive Belinda, it covered most of the space between her shoulders.

  Belinda rolled into her apartment and turned the Rascal around to face Demarco, who held the door open.

  “Thank you, dear,” he said, smiling a dazzling smile.

  Belinda found herself smiling back as he closed her door. She blinked, intent on preserving the memory of Demarco Jones’s kind face as her door clicked shut.

  Demarco quickly walked back to Derrick Watkins’s apartment, his kind look replaced with a scowl. He stepped into the living room and saw a young man sitting in his underwear on an armless wooden chair taken from the kitchen, Beck standing over him.

  Manny and Ciro appeared from the back of the apartment.

  Beck asked, “Anybody else?”

  Manny said, “No. There’s three bedrooms back there. Lot of women’s clothes and makeup and shit, but no women, or anybody else.”

  Manny took a position next to the chair holding his short-barrel revolver, looking like he wanted to shoot the boy. Ciro stood on the other side, his thick arms crossed, straining against his black Gucci short-sleeve shirt, waiting for a reason to hit the sullen youth.

  Beck pulled up a second chair and sat in front of their captive, staring at him, saying nothing.

  Demarco closed the front door and leaned back against it. He knew they had gotten into the apartment without much noise, but he kept his position at the door just in case.

  Beck finally spoke.

  “What’s your name?”