Bronx Requiem

by John Clarkson

  Instead of calling Brooklyn, Beck used his smartphone to find a local car dealer that might have what he wanted.

  Twenty minutes later, he pulled up in front of a small house with an oversize garage and about twenty vehicles scattered around the two buildings.

  Beck parked on the patchy asphalt surface outside the office, went to the trunk of the Marauder, and pulled out three thousand in cash from a stash of twenty-five grand in the trunk’s hidden compartment. As he stuffed the money in his pocket and closed the trunk, a short man with a healthy gut hanging over his khaki slacks came out of the office flashing a big smile. The salesman wore a white shirt that didn’t button at the neck, and a red-and-blue-striped tie that didn’t quite make it over his belly. Nor did his comb-over quite make it across his bald head. Beck took an immediate liking to him, shaking his meaty hand, matching the strength of his grip.

  “How’re you today? Sam Herbert. M and T auto sales. What can I do for you?”

  “What’s the M and T stand for?”

  “Martha and Tom. My mom and dad.”

  “Are they still with us?”

  “Just mom. Dad passed away four years ago.”

  “And you’re carrying on the tradition, Sam?”

  The short, stout man nodded with a sincere look. “Doing my best. You shopping for a vehicle?”

  Beck got right to it. “I’m going to buy a truck today.”

  Sam Herbert’s face lit up like someone had given him an unexpected birthday gift. It sounded like this fellow was here to buy, not just shop.

  Beck let the sales ritual unwind for almost two hours. Like most salesmen, Sam Herbert never stopped talking the entire time. Beck took a test drive of an old Ford Ranger, bargained good-naturedly, made up a story about how he was in food supply and had recently taken on the account for the Ellenville area. Beck claimed he was trying to get more business from Eastern Correctional, asking Sam if he knew anybody who worked there.

  “Oh, sure,” said Sam. “Done business with a lot of those folks. Good people.”

  Beck kept his half of the conversation going, asking innocuous questions about the staff at Eastern. He changed the subject and asked about local bars and restaurants. Then circled back to ask about which residents favored what establishments.

  Beck ended up with information on where the prison staff hung out, and a dark green Ford Ranger, a 1998 XLT with 147,276 miles he’d bargained down to $5,700 from $6,500, citing the significant rust on the underside of the truck, which Sam explained away as the unavoidable result of “all the gosh-darned salt they have to put on the roads every winter.”

  Beck used $2,850 of his cash and a New York State driver’s license in the name of Tom Tolsen with Beck’s photo on it and a rural post office box for a mailing address to close the deal. Sam promised to give the truck the once-over and get all the paperwork done right away.

  “I’ll be back around four to pick it up. Can you get me plates by then?”

  Sam checked his watch. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll run over to the DMV in Ellenville. I should have ’er all ready for you this afternoon.”

  Beck left with a smile, a nod, and a final firm handshake from the loquacious Sam Herbert.

  34

  By the time Palmer dropped off Tyrell and met Ippolito for breakfast at their usual diner it was a little past four in the morning on Thursday.

  As they settled into a booth, Ippolito asked, “You get asshole Tyrell tucked away?”

  “Yeah. Did you finish all the paperwork for asshole Frederick Wilson?”

  “Yep.”

  “I guess that’s all we can do.”

  Ippolito said, “For now. As soon as we finish here, I’m going to grab some sleep. You better, too, John. Your eyes look like two piss holes in the snow.”

  “Thank you. That’s charming. Especially with breakfast.”

  “You going to eat?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be a fag. Eat something. That goddam fucking Adderall is taking away your appetite.”

  Ippolito ordered bacon and eggs with home fries. Palmer settled for a toasted bagel with butter.

  Ippolito asked, “So when you figure we’ll get ballistics on those guns from dead Derrick’s whorehouse?”

  “I told them to rush it. Where are you on setting up the meeting with Jackson?”

  “It’s in the works. I’m figuring by end of day, today.”

  “Is Bondurant going to be in on it?”

  Ippolito said, “One way or another. That spooky freak is always hanging around in the background. By the way, that’s another reason we should go in this direction.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Word is going to get out we arrested Tyrell. I’d prefer Jackson doesn’t tell his pal Whitey to rip out your witness’s tongue and put a bullet in his head. And I’m not exaggerating about the tongue.”

  “Christ, Ray, we can’t let that happen.”

  Ippolito answered with a mouth full of bacon and eggs. “Don’t worry. Bondurant won’t do shit unless Jackson tells him.”

  “So end of day today, huh?”

  “Yeah. What’s the matter?”

  Palmer grimaced. Shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Jeezus, what the fuck, John? I don’t want a reluctant virgin on this. Tell me now if you don’t want to do this.”

  “No, no. I just hope Juju Jackson will make a deal.”

  “What, are you fucking kidding me? How the hell you think that heartless bastard has stayed in business so long? Jackson is fucking ruthless. He’ll do what’s good for him. Tell me how this isn’t good for him.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Ippolito leaned forward. “Listen, you want to worry about something…” Ippolito rotated his fork in the air. “… worry about whatever line of bullshit you’re going to come up with about the federal investigations swirling around Jackson. I’ll play up the NYPD side of it, but your FBI crap is what’s going to sell this thing.”

  Palmer nodded. “That won’t be hard. Once the Feds get wind of the NYPD investigation, they might actually step up their own investigations.”

  Ippolito pointed a finger at Palmer. “There you go. In fact, you should go have a homo sponge bath with your gay-boy FBI buddy, and see what he’s got on Bondurant and Jackson. They’re always putting together some massive RICO bullshit plan to take down a million guys. See what they’re trying to nail him for.”

  “You realize as soon as I ask McAndrews about those two in particular, he’ll want to know why.”

  “So? Tell ’em. We’re investigating murders connected to guys underneath Jackson. Plant the idea in his noggin that it would be smart to accelerate their moves against Jackson and Bondurant.”

  “In other words, I go make true the bullshit we’re going to feed Jackson by being the one who tips the Feds off about our murder investigations.”

  Ippolito smiled. “Now you’re getting it, Johnny boy.”

  “But I don’t want the Feds horning in on our murders.”

  “Why the fuck would they? They don’t give a shit about an ex-con nobody hiding out in Red Hook, or a two-bit gangbanger pimp who got shot. They want to lock up top guys on a bunch of conspiracy and racketeering shit. If they’re going to accuse somebody of murder it ain’t going to be Derrick fucking Watkins or this Beck asshole. It’s going to be Jackson and Bondurant. Those two have killed more people than Derrick Watkins ever did, or ever would have. I hope the Feds slaughter those two sick fucks. In the meantime, we need those witnesses.”

  Palmer conceded. “All right. Fuck it. I’ll light a fire with McAndrews about Jackson and Bondurant, then we’ll tell Jackson the FBI is looking at them, so the sooner we wrap up our homicides, the better for them. Ergo, be smart and give us witnesses to back up Tyrell.”

  “Ergo, schmergo, what the fuck ever. John, the beauty of this is if the Feds do move against them sooner rather than later, we can tell Jackson ‘we fucking told you so.’ It’s perfect.�
�

  Palmer laughed, “Even though we’d be the ones who made the Feds move faster.”

  Ippolito shot Palmer a disingenuous look. “Fucking cooperation between law-enforcement agencies at its finest. What say we get in early, and keep this shit ball rolling?”

  “Sounds good. See you at the precinct, around noon?”

  “Fuck no, I gotta get more sleep than that.”

  Palmer said, “Two?”

  “Three. That’ll give us plenty of time.”

  35

  Jerome Biggie Watkins was sweating. Not because of exertion. Because he was sitting next to Eric Juju Jackson. They were on a bench facing two basketball courts in a park off Daly Avenue in the West Farms section of the Bronx.

  It was late morning on a warm spring day, but there were no basketball players on the court. Or mothers and children in the toddler playground behind them. Or anybody out on the ball fields. For a moment, Biggie thought maybe Juju had arranged for the entire park to be emptied. He knew it seemed paranoid. But he also knew if Juju Jackson wanted the park empty, he could make it happen. Why would he? So he could shoot him and walk away unseen, that’s why.

  Juju was a slight man. What hair he had left had turned a dirty gray. He wore clothes that belied his wealth: Levi’s jeans, a blue button-down shirt, and black, plain-toe shoes. His most prominent feature was his skin. At sixty-two, Jackson’s face bore the ravages of the horrendous acne that had plagued him during adolescence. The term “Juju” had nothing to do with African or Caribbean voodoo. It referred to the fruit-flavored gummy candies of his youth called Jujubes. The small, rounded candies resembled the bumps and rivulets of Jackson’s facial skin, and became the basis of a cruel adolescent nickname: Juju-face. The name had been shortened over the years to simply Juju. Nobody dared used the name within hearing distance of Eric Jackson, but the name had long ago done its damage. It was one of several factors that had molded Eric Jackson into the monster Biggie had seen pull a straight razor across the face of a young girl, shoot a young man in the right knee, and when he’d stopped screaming, shoot him in the left knee. And that was only what Biggie had seen himself. He’d heard about much worse.

  What really unnerved him about Juju Jackson was the man’s absence of emotion. With Juju Jackson there was never a warning or an explanation. Jackson could pull a gun or a knife, shoot and maim someone midsentence during a conversation that seemed perfectly reasonable, even pleasant.

  That’s what produced the acrid sweat.

  Biggie had just finished telling Jackson his brother, Derrick, had been murdered by one of his whores.

  Juju stirred slightly on the park bench, scrunched his face, yawned.

  “Any particular reason the bitch shot him?”

  “I don’t know. Just happened out of nowhere. I think she was figuring we were going to do her.”

  “How’d she figure that?”

  “Derrick gave her shit about the thing with her father.”

  “What’d I tell you about that bitch?”

  “Told me to have him cut her loose. I was on my way over there when the father showed up.”

  “You were?”

  “Yeah. For real. I didn’t know he was going to be there like the next day after you told me. Shit. As it was, Derrick had the bitch out on the street workin’. She wasn’t even there to throw out.”

  Jackson stared straight ahead, lips pursed, nodding. “You see how things get fucked up when you don’t do what you’re supposed to do when I tell you to do them?”

  Biggie couldn’t think of any answer that wouldn’t annoy Jackson, so he said nothing.

  Jackson shifted on the park bench. Biggie’s nerves ticked up a notch. He kept a close watch on Jackson’s hands.

  Jackson asked, “What about the crew that came bustin’ in on you?”

  Biggie worried about not knowing enough to satisfy Jackson, but he had to say something. “They seemed like they knew the whore’s father. The guy Derrick and them beat up. They wanted to know who shot him. They thought Derrick shot him. Or one of his guys.”

  “How’d they find Derrick?”

  “I ain’t sure. We heard they was at the Houses lookin’ for him. Probably went to Derrick’s apartment. I’m figuring the kid Derrick had watchin’ the place told them.”

  “He around?”

  “Nobody seen him.”

  “Then he told them. You find him and you shoot him. In the mouth.”

  Biggie nodded. He knew however many times they shot Leon Miller, there damn well had better be at least one bullet fired into his mouth.

  Juju Jackson squinted, going through a thought process Biggie did not dare interrupt. After a few moments, Jackson spoke.

  “Okay, here’s what you do. You gonna find that bitch and you gonna kill her. But first you gonna make a mess of her. And then you leave the body somewhere outside where people will see it. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir”

  “I want you to find Tyrell and get him to help you with the bitch. We got to make sure he knows what his obligations are. I don’t blame him for getting arrested, but I blame him for getting released without being booked or arraigned for somethin’. That means he agreed to work with the cops. Probably to testify against the crew that rolled on you all. But it won’t stop there. Cops’ll use him to come at all of us. So you find him. Let him tell you what bullshit he thinks he’s playin’ at. Then you have him help you find the bitch and make sure he pulls the trigger on her so we got that on him.”

  “Okay. No problem. He’ll be into it.”

  “After you do the bitch, stay close to him and find out what he’s tellin’ the cops. Let me know. I’ll give you the word when I want you to kill him.”

  “Got it. What you want to do about them guys who knew the bitch’s father?”

  “How many of them were there?”

  “Four.”

  “Probably more behind them.” Anger crept into Juju’s voice. “This is the shit that happens when people don’t do what they supposed to do.”

  Biggie froze. He could feel Jackson seconds away from pulling a knife or a gun on him. For a moment, he thought about running, but before he could muster the courage, the moment passed.

  Jackson said, “We’ll have to take care of them.”

  Jerome knew that meant Juju would be bringing in Whitey Bondurant and his men, which was fine with him. He readily agreed.

  “Okay. No problem.”

  “Yeah, right. No fucking problem for you.”

  “Well … “

  Jackson’s voice rose a notch. “Well, what?”

  Biggie cursed silently. Instead of keeping his mouth shut, he’d ignited the spark again.

  I said, “Well, what?”

  “Nuthin’. Sorry.”

  Eric Jackson stared at Biggie for a moment, then turned away. It was the first time he had looked at him in the entire conversation. Biggie had no doubt Jackson was deciding on whether or not to kill him. And then he said, “What time you got?”

  Biggie checked his watch. “Almost two o’clock.”

  “You best get moving, Jerome. You got a lot to do.”

  36

  Manny Guzman sat silently in the front passenger seat as Demarco Jones guided a gray 2008 Chevy Impala north on the Bruckner Expressway. The car had been delivered to Demarco by one of the crew’s colleagues, a master thief and security expert named Ricky Bolo.

  As they drove north out of Red Hook, Demarco and Manny had come up with several names of ex-convicts and criminals they knew who might be familiar with the gang sets up in the Bronx. They needed a lead on how to find Jerome Watkins.

  They hopscotched around the Bronx and Harlem for a few hours, tracking down and talking with associates, but didn’t shake loose any solid information about where Watkins might be.

  The weather had turned overcast and gloomy. Demarco pulled the Impala to a curb and shut down the engine, got out of the car, stretched, and walked around. Manny stayed in the car maki
ng calls on his cell phone.

  After a few minutes, he called out to Demarco.

  “Yo. Got something.”

  Demarco climbed back in the Mercury. “What?”

  “Friend of mine. Should have thought of him before.”

  “Where to?”

  “East 173rd Street.”

  “What’s there?”

  “A church.”

  “At this point I’m willing to resort to prayer.”

  Twenty minutes later, Demarco pulled up to a narrow two-story building that looked more like a broken-down social club than a church. The church occupied the ground floor. Fifty-year-old wood siding faded to a dull rust color covered the front of the building. Two holes had been chopped into the wall to accommodate small windows, both protected by ugly iron bars. Next to the windows stood a narrow door. A sign above the two windows announced: True Holiness Church of God in Christ. Pastor Benjamin Woods.

  Demarco knew there were hundreds of storefront churches like this scattered throughout the Bronx. He wondered who set foot in such places.

  They stepped out of the Impala.

  “How do you know Pastor Woods, Manny?”

  “Dannemora. He used to be called Big Ben. Lot of the gangs tried to hire him as an enforcer. You did not want Grande Benjamín coming after you.”

  Without warning, a huge head popped out from a window above the ground-floor church. It happened so suddenly, Demarco reached for his gun, but a boisterous voice called out a Spanish greeting to Manny.

  Manny stepped back and looked up at his friend. He waved. Benjamin Woods motioned for Manny to come upstairs.

  One short flight of rickety stairs led them to the pastor’s small living room in an apartment above the church. Smells of cooking and incense filled the apartment. The room had enough space for a small couch and a large wingback armchair set near the front window. Next to the chair, a well-worn Bible had been placed on a small end table.

  Benjamin Woods sat in the chair, a dark-skinned man who weighed at least three hundred pounds, very little of it fat. He wore a voluminous white shirt, black pants, and a pair of enormous black midankle boots.

  Whenever Demarco saw a man who might compete with him physically, he thought about what he would have to do to take him down. With Benjamin Woods, he decided his first move would be to shoot him. Quickly and continuously while backing away from him until his gun clicked empty.