The youth tried to speak, but had to swallow and clear his throat. Beck had nearly crushed his trachea.
“Leon.” It came out as a croak. “My name is Leon. I don’t…”
Beck raised a hand to silence him.
“Stop. Just answer my questions. I don’t want to hear anything else. Understand?”
Leon nodded.
“If you hesitate, if you tried to bullshit me, if you act stupid, my friend here will start hitting you.” Beck paused as Leon took a quick look at Ciro Baldassare.
“And let me tell you something, Leon, if that man hits you, you will never be the same. Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Is this Derrick Watkins’s apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“I ain’t sure. Derrick called me and told me to come up and watch the place. He and his brother have other places. Probably he went to one of those other apartments.”
“Last night a friend of ours came here about ten. Were you here?”
Leon answered quickly. “No.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“Yeah. Guy called out Derrick. Some beef about his daughter or somethin’. Derrick and his crew got into it with your friend.”
“What do you mean, got into it?”
“You know—words was exchanged. Ended up in a fight. I guess they beat him up.”
“You guess?”
“No, no. They gave him a beat down.”
“How do you know that if you weren’t here?”
“One of his guys told me. He was here when I got here.”
“Everybody else was gone?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s the guy who was here when you got here?”
“I don’t know. He left. I came to take his place.”
“What time was that?”
“About midnight.”
“How many of you assholes are in Derrick Watkins’s crew?”
Leon paused, leery of saying the wrong thing. Beck repeated his question.
“How many?”
“It varies.” Leon made a seesaw motion with his hand. “Not everybody has the same status, you know. Just figuring the ones close to him, maybe five, six. But you know, there’s others who float in and out.”
“How many others?”
“Maybe a dozen?”
“And you?”
“I ain’t official yet. You got to buy your way in. Then you get recognized.”
“Why does he need you watching the place?”
“He wants to know if the cops come by. Or if someone wants to get in touch with him.”
“Did the cops come?”
“Yeah. Couple hours ago.”
“I’m not a cop, am I, Leon?”
“No.”
“So that makes me someone who wants to get in touch with him. How do I go about doing that?”
Leon Miller hesitated.
“Careful, Leon. You said Derrick and his brother have other places. How many are there?”
“That I know of?”
“Ask me another question, and I’ll fucking kill you.”
Leon quickly answered, “Three. I know three of them.”
Beck stood.
“Get dressed.”
14
As soon as Derrick and Jerome locked her in the bedroom, Amelia tried to stifle the paralyzing fear gripping her. She paced around the room, taking deep breaths, thinking through what was happening. Her father, whoever he was, whatever he’d been trying to do, had ruined any chance she might have had to escape.
Worse, now there was no way Derrick would want her around. Not after being called out. But he couldn’t just let her go. That would be like admitting he was afraid of her father. So he had called on his brother Biggie to figure out what to do.
Suddenly, with absolute clarity and soul-crushing certainty, Amelia Johnson knew they had only one option: kill her. Make her disappear. Jerome and Derrick were sitting in the kitchen planning it right now.
Amelia Johnson stopped pacing. She felt her own death approaching. She couldn’t take a full breath. Her legs felt so weak she had to sit down on the rumpled bed. The small bedroom closed in on her. There was nothing between her and death except a battered old wooden door with a flimsy sliding bolt lock that could be broken with one kick.
There was no way out of the room. There was a small window that had been painted shut for years with bars on the outside. Breaking the window and screaming for help would do nothing. They’d be punching and kicking her long before anybody could respond, assuming anybody would even hear her cries.
She looked around the room and under the bed, searching for something she could use as a weapon.
Survival pulled her to the other side of her fear. She rushed to the closet. Nothing but a few empty wire hangers hung on a pole. Maybe she could get the pole out of its holders. Use it to fend them off. Or twist the wire hangers into something she could slash at them with. Use the weapon pimps had used on their whores for decades.
No. That was stupid. Wire hangers against fists and guns? And they’d probably beat her to death with the pole if she tried to use it.
She sat back down at the foot of the bed, facing the door. She had nothing. She didn’t even have her shoes; they were in the other bedroom. She hardly even had clothes. All she had was a useless fold of three twenty-dollar bills hidden in her hair that once discovered would make her death even worse.
Her anger hardened into silent cursing. She cursed the father she never had who should have protected her instead of ensuring her death. She cursed her mother for being a hopeless, selfish drug addict who died and left her alone. And her grandmother for being such a crazy, angry, volatile, nagging shrew. She cursed Derrick Watkins to hell and everybody around him—that hulking fool Tyrell, and Derrick’s heartless brother Jerome, and all the stupid boys in his crew scuffling and thieving, ducking and dodging, trying to be criminals. And she cursed the stifling, dark, fearful presence of the mythic Eric Juju Jackson sitting on top of it all, ready to send out his insane assassin Whitey Bondurant. Slowly her hate and fear and anger hardened into a desperate resolve. Whoever they sent for her, she knew he would have a gun. And somehow, through stealth or seduction, she would get close to that gun, grab it, fight for it, and pull the trigger. She would pull and pull until they cut her down and ended her miserable life here and now, once and forever.
15
While Beck and the others filtered out of the Bronx River Houses one at a time, Demarco stayed behind with Leon while he dressed. They walked out of the complex side by side, as if they were friends, and headed over to Harrod Street where the Mercury Marauder sat, engine running.
Manny opened the back door and shoved Leon in next to Ciro, then climbed in after him. Beck sat in the passenger seat as usual. Demarco took the wheel.
Beck turned to Leon.
“Leon, don’t waste our time. You said there are three possibilities. Take us to the best one first.”
Leon Miller directed them to a three-flat house on Mount Hope Place. The drive took less than ten minutes.
Nobody in the car spoke until Demarco parked about fifty feet south of the house.
Beck asked Leon, “Why don’t you call your buddy Derrick and find out if he’s in there.”
Leon answered, “Don’t have to.” He pointed toward the end of the block. “That’s his car.”
“What? The black Jeep Cherokee?”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s your man Watkins doing here?”
Leon had relaxed a bit. Enough time had gone by with Beck and his men that he no longer feared they were going to kill him. He responded to Beck’s question with a sullen attitude.
“Hell if I know.”
Without a hint of warning, Ciro Baldassare slammed the side of his right fist down onto Leon’s left thigh. He hit him so hard that even though the femur was the thickest bone in Leon’s body, covered with
layers of muscle, the blow nearly cracked the bone. The pain was so intense and unexpected that Leon gasped, and then as waves of more pain followed, he bent forward grunting and moaning.
The fact that Leon dared to utter any noise further angered Ciro. He grabbed Leon by the back of his neck and rammed his forehead into the front seat.
“Straighten up your attitude you fucking ignorant hump, or I’ll kill you. Are you too goddam stupid to get what’s going on here?”
Beck knew he had seconds before there would be no way to stop Ciro. He needed Leon Miller. He turned quickly and said, “Ciro, do me a favor and don’t kill him just yet. He’s going to cooperate.”
Ciro snarled at Leon, “Answer his fucking questions.”
Beck waited as Leon struggled to get control of himself, knowing the boy had never felt anything like the pain pulsing through his thigh. Leon grimaced and talked as fast as the pain and fear would allow him.
“I can’t say for sure. I’m figuring he wants to get somewhere away from the Houses after that fight. But he might be doing some deal up there. I seen his brother Jerome’s car about a block back that way.”
“What kind of deal?”
“Could be anything. He and his bro handle money for a lot of deals.”
Beck nodded. “Do they own the whole house?”
“Yeah, everything but the top floor is mostly for stuff he stores.”
“Like what?”
“Stuff they got to buy or sell. Whatever they gotta hide until it gets where it’s s’posed to be.”
“What do they do on the top floor?”
“Run hookers mostly.”
“What’s the layout?”
“There’s a front room, a hallway, a bathroom, two bedrooms for his whores, kitchen, and a small room in back they also got a bed in.”
“How many women is that pimp running?”
Leon shook his head, knowing he did not know the actual number, but reluctant to say out loud that he didn’t know.
“Guess,” said Beck.
“Between him and his brother, I’d say ’bout fifteen, twenty. Maybe more.”
“So we got two pimps hiding out up there, and most likely some whores.”
“Could be some of his guys up there, too. You know, hangin’ with him. Layin’ low.”
“Okay,” said Beck, “D, cruise around a bit. Leon, keep your eyes open and let me know if you see any other cars you recognize.”
Demarco drove until he’d covered every street on the three blocks surrounding Watkins’s whorehouse. Leon picked out two more parked cars he recognized. They arrived back where they’d started out.
Demarco turned in his seat slightly so he could talk to Beck as well as Ciro and Manny in the backseat. “So, what do we figure? Five, six, ten guys up there? Maybe a couple of hookers?”
“The more the merrier as far as I’m concerned,” said Beck. “Better chance we find the one who pulled the trigger on Packy.”
The comment didn’t go unheard by Leon Miller. Up until that moment, he didn’t know the man who had started the beef with Derrick had been shot. Were these guys setting out to kill Derrick and his crew? Couldn’t be. Derrick and the others wouldn’t go down without a fight. And how did these four figure on getting in there? Maybe they were crazy enough to try it, but there was no way they would all come out alive.
Beck asked Leon, “Is there any back door out of there?”
Leon swallowed, distracted by his thoughts. “What?”
Ciro turned to look at Leon.
“Sorry. Sorry. You mean up top? No. No, there ain’t no back door or back stairs. There’s just a window in the kitchen that opens onto a fire escape.”
“How many shotguns do we have?” asked Beck.
Demarco answered, “Two. Both in the trunk. Manny’s Winchester and my Benelli.”
Beck checked his watch. 3:10 P.M.
“Okay, look, we’re never going to get all these assholes in one place again. I’m not losing this opportunity. D, you take the Winchester and go around to the back of the house. See if you can make your way up the fire escape. When you hear us bust in the front, break the window if it’s locked, and get into the kitchen. Make sure nobody runs out the back. Anybody points a gun at you, drop ’em.”
“Ciro, you take the Benelli. I’ll go in the front door. Manny behind me. You last. We put everybody we see on the ground. If it takes a couple of blasts, so be it, but try not to kill anybody unless you have to. I need information.”
Leon asked, “What about me? I done everything you asked me to.”
Beck opened the Mercury’s glove compartment and pulled out a pair of handcuffs joined with a three-foot chain. He handed the cuffs back to Manny, who quickly fed the chain through an eyebolt welded to the back floor of the car and cuffed Leon’s wrists.
“So far you’re good, Leon,” said Beck. “You wait here for us to get back.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“What if you don’t make it back?”
“I was you, I’d start praying we do. If we don’t and they do, they’re going to find your ass sitting here. How long you think it’ll take them to figure you ratted them out?”
“Wait a second.”
“For what?”
Leon thought it over for a moment and then said, “I wanna tell you where they hide the key to the front door of the house. That’s the only way you gonna get in there without them knowing you’re coming.”
“Good thinking, Leon.”
16
John Palmer hadn’t wasted time at the 50th Precinct, but it still took him thirty minutes to find out Peter Malone had nothing useful on Derrick Watkins. The file Malone handed him was pathetically thin. Palmer flashed a tight smile, telling himself he would remember this incompetent prick.
He headed back to his unmarked car and called his FBI contact, Gregory McAndrews, who unlike Malone, had come through for him. He provided addresses for two locations used by the Watkins brothers. He told Palmer there were probably more, but they hadn’t uncovered them yet.
Palmer thanked McAndrews and asked him to stay in touch. He envied the FBI their resources and efficiency, but still preferred the NYPD where he could cut corners, ignore procedure, and take risks under the protective cover of his father.
Palmer climbed into his car, pulled up Google Maps, and checked the two addresses McAndrews had provided. One was north, about a mile in the opposite direction. The other he could check out on the way back to his precinct.
Palmer ached for sleep. He was way out on a limb, following information provided by a source outside the department, working alone. Real cowboy stuff, but fuck it, he thought. Nobody will bitch if I nail this thing. Even if the location didn’t pan out, he’d sleep better crossing it off his list.
He checked the address on Mount Hope Place one more time.
17
By the time Beck, Manny, and Ciro arrived at the second landing of the rickety wood-frame building, the creaking and squeaking of the wood steps made Beck raise a hand and tell everyone, “Hold it.”
Beck held his Browning Hi-Power pointed down, tight against his right leg. Manny held two guns, his long-barrel .38 Colt Special in his left hand and his Charter Arms Bulldog .357 in his right. Ciro Baldassare had the Benelli cradled in his left arm. He’d shoved his Smith & Wesson M&P .45 in the front of his pants where he could reach it easily.
Besides being worried about the noise they were making, Beck wanted to give Demarco time to make it up the fire escape in back.
Of the three of them, Demarco was best suited for a stealthy climb three stories up a fire escape. Ciro was by far the strongest. Manny Guzman was the oldest of the four, the shortest, and the least physically capable, but in a fight he would be the one with the most focus, least encumbered by nerves or tension. Beck didn’t have the athletic skill of Demarco, the strength of Ciro, or the stone-cold nerves of Manny, but he always managed to do what had to be done.
&nbs
p; While the others held their positions, Beck slowly edged toward the apartment door on the second-floor landing and pressed his ear against it. He heard nothing, just like he’d heard nothing on the first floor.
He turned his attention to the apartment above them, thinking it through one more time. He turned to Manny and Ciro, speaking in a whisper.
“They’re going to hear us coming up this last flight of stairs no matter how slowly we go, so I’m going to take it all in one shot and hit the door hard.”
Beck shoved his Browning under his belt in front, pushing it down low so it would be as secure as possible. From his pants pockets he slid out a pair of custom-made brass knuckles cut from a single piece of solid nautical brass, highly polished, no seams. He slid the brass over both his fists.
“We move fast. We put them down. Don’t kill anybody unless you have to.”
Beck turned and stepped up the last flight of stairs, slowly at first, taking the steps one by one. He quickly picked up speed. By the time he reached the top half of the stairway, he was moving as fast as he could, taking two steps at a time. By the time he reached the landing he was moving at full speed. His right foot hit the door with so much force the handle lock, dead-bolt lock, and one of the hinges all broke through the frame.
Beck’s forward momentum carried him into the front room. Everybody in the room jumped up, but Beck went straight for the biggest within his reach and overhanded a punch into the middle of Tyrell Williams’s face, breaking his nose and cracking his right cheekbone. Tyrell fell back, knocked out, hitting the floor hard. Beck felt rather than saw a body closing in on his right. He whipped a backhand in that direction and connected with something that felt like a head.
Manny and Ciro came in right behind Beck, yelling for everyone to get on the floor. Beck heard the slap-cracking sounds of blows landing on body parts, shouts, curses, and the kitchen window in the back shattering. Somebody tried to grab him from behind, but Beck spun him off. Two deafening blasts from Ciro’s Benelli exploded. Chunks of plaster and lath fell. Everyone ducked and froze in place. Beck swept the feet out from under somebody standing near him, yelling, “Get down.”
Bronx Requiem Page 10
