Bronx Requiem

by John Clarkson

  “Is all that true?”

  In Beck’s moral universe every word was true. “Absolutely.”

  Beck crossed his arms, rested his foot against his truck, and waited.

  Rita took out the nozzle and placed it in the pump receptacle.

  Finally, she spoke. “I don’t know the details. But I do know there’s nasty, disgusting shit going down with a group of the guards in there.”

  Beck nodded, taking note of the word disgusting. Beck waited to hear more.

  “It’s bad,” she said.

  “How did you find out?”

  “You hear things. In passing. It involves a small bunch of guards who think they can do whatever the hell they want.”

  “Who are they?”

  She paused. Beck waited. Either she was going to tell him, or she was going to get into her car and leave. She screwed her gas cap on and closed the cover. Finally, she said, “I’m going to give you one name. One name, and it better not come back on me.”

  “It won’t.”

  She looked at Beck. For a moment, she looked like she had decided to leave. And then she said, “Oswald Remsen.”

  Beck nodded. He knew the man. Remsen had been a senior guard when Beck was at Eastern.

  The woman continued, “He’s an old-time CO who’s been around Eastern forever. He has three sons who are guards. Two of them work at Eastern. They are the worst of the worst. I swear I don’t know how they ever got through the academy. Somebody up at Albany must have been dumb, blind, and asleep to let them through. I doubt the third son is any better.”

  “Two of his sons work at Eastern?”

  “Yeah. Remsen is high up in the union. Got his sons in there with him, which anybody with a brain should have prevented.”

  “Where’s the third one?”

  “Down at Sing Sing.”

  Beck asked, “So how can I find Remsen without going through a lot of trouble?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Find out if Oswald Remsen is involved in Johnson’s murder.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  She looked at Beck, still conflicted. He saw her struggling. Beck spoke softly. “Rita, we both know you’ve already decided to help me. You’ve come this far. You’ve given me the name. I’m not going to let it drop. But it would help if you gave me something more. You don’t have to say anything. Just nod yes, or shake your head no.”

  “I’m not playing twenty questions.”

  “How about two? Is he a drinker?”

  She nodded yes.

  “I hear a lot of the COs drink at a tavern over on Fifty-three.”

  Rita nodded again. “You hear right. That’s two questions. That’s all I can do.”

  “I understand.”

  Beck turned away and pulled the gas nozzle out of his truck. He didn’t look at the tough, angry woman again. He heard her car door slam shut, her engine start, and a Subaru with a bad muffler drive off.

  He replaced the fuel hose and walked into the Mobil station store. He bought two cups of coffee, a pack of generic cigarettes, three scratch-off lottery tickets, and a tin of Skoal Wintergreen smokeless tobacco. He paid cash for everything and left.

  He emptied both coffees into the trash receptacle near the pumps, making sure the coffee stained the cardboard cups. He opened the pack of cigarettes, dumped out a few and crumpled the pack a bit.

  He climbed into his truck. There weren’t any cup holders in the Ranger, so he tossed the empty cups on the passenger-side floor. He opened the Skoal, left the wrapper on the floor, then dropped the cigarettes and dip on the dashboard. He quickly scratched off the lottery cards, not bothering to see if he’d won anything, and dropped them on the dash, too.

  He pulled out to rendezvous with Walter Ferguson, wishing Rita had wanted to tell him more, but thankful there wasn’t any information that would compromise Walter.

  He checked his watch. Not even six o’clock. Enough time to send off Walter, get back to his motel, and decide which weapons to bring with him to the tavern on Route 53.

  40

  Palmer and Ippolito had been working on their case and getting ready for their secret meeting with Eric Jackson for two hours, when Levitt and Clovehill walked into the detective squad bullpen at five P.M.

  Ippolito muttered, “Now, what?”

  As they approached, Levitt told them, “We have a problem.”

  “What?” asked Palmer.

  “Somebody shot your witness Tyrell Williams about an hour ago over on Hoe Avenue.”

  Palmer couldn’t believe it. “What?”

  “Am I speaking a foreign language? Your witness Tyrell Williams is dead.”

  “When? How?”

  “Palmer, focus. I just said about an hour ago.” Levitt handed Palmer a piece of paper with an address written on it. “You better get out there and see what the hell is going on.”

  “Jeesuz fucking Christ.”

  “Hey.”

  “Sorry, boss. It’s just…” Palmer shook his head in disbelief. “Do you have anything else? Any more information?”

  Levitt looked at a report he held in his right hand. “Your guy is one of two dead on the scene. The other one is tentatively ID’d as Jerome Watkins.”

  “Any witnesses?” Palmer asked.

  “I don’t know. Go see what you can find out. I want to hear from you two within the hour. Whatever you have. If you don’t reach me, report in to Sergeant Clovehill. Go.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As soon as Levitt and Clovehill left, Palmer blurted out, “I can’t fucking believe it. This is a disaster. Anything to make sure I never get a goddam break. Fuck!”

  Ippolito said, “I wonder if Juju and that maniac Whitey are already cleaning house.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  Ippolito said to Palmer, “Hey, look at the upside, John. Now you got two more murders to investigate.”

  “Upside? Where’s the upside with Tyrell dead? He was my key to closing two murders. What am I supposed to do now?”

  Ippolito lowered his voice. “The same fucking thing we were gonna do. We’ll just get another witness to replace him. There were more guys at that location. Listen, this might be a blessing in disguise. I never trusted shit bag Tyrell.”

  “Christ, Ray, this is getting nuts. Fucking Jackson’s going to squeeze us for everything we got. If I had Tyrell, I’d only need a couple more to corroborate.”

  Ippolito sat at his desk. “Aw hell, John, in for a penny, in for a pound. You think a guy like Jackson does some complex calculation? One of his mooks is as good as another. There was nothing special about Tyrell Williams except for his unfailing ability to fuck things up. I told you that asshole was going to screw you, John. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “By getting killed?”

  “Getting killed is one of their specialties. One way or another these goddam shine, mutt motherfuckers find a way to ruin everything.”

  Palmer raised a hand. “All right, all right, stop. Let’s get the hell out there and see what happened.”

  “Hang on a second.” Ippolito shuffled through the piles of papers and folders on his desk. “Let me get the file Witherspoon put together for you. It’s got photos of Beck and his known associates. Maybe they did this. You know, looking to take out more of Derrick Watkins’s boys. Let’s take pictures and see if we can get an ID.”

  Still distracted, Palmer said, “What?”

  “Photos. From Witherspoon’s file. It might have been James Beck or one of his crew who shot Tyrell and the other guy.”

  “Oh. Right. Right. Okay. Good idea.”

  Ippolito dug out a folder from the mess on his desk and flipped through the loose pages.

  “Here they are.” Ippolito pulled out three sets of identification cards complete with mug shots for Beck, Ciro Baldassare, and Emmanuel Guzman. “I’m thinking it’s too soon for Juju to be doing this. I bet one of these hard cases are the shooters. Which is good.
Could give us more leverage with Jackson.”

  Palmer stared at the photos and scanned the criminal records.

  “Come on, John. Get your head in the game. You lost Tyrell, but this might put us in a stronger position.”

  “How?”

  Ippolito pointed to the mug shots. “I just told you. If one of these guys shot two more of Jackson’s boys, he’ll be fucking foaming at the mouth to go after them. It gives us more to offer him. If he agrees to play ball with us, we’ll point Juju in the right direction.”

  “Hold on, Ray. Beck is mine.”

  “Hey, if Beck or one of his guys shot Biggie Watkins and Tyrell, Jackson and Bondurant are going after them, case closed. You want to get witnesses and keep Beck for yourself, you’re going to have to make a deal.”

  “How?”

  “Like I said before. Witnesses for information. And now we talk him into laying off Beck if we give him the rest of Beck’s crew.”

  Palmer raised a hand. “Wait a minute…”

  “John, you already got two murders on your plate. Now there’s two more. You want to get credit for solving the Paco Johnson murder and lock Beck up for the Watkins murder, we gotta move fast before borough command steps in and takes over all of it. What do you give a shit if Jackson gets a lead on Beck’s crew?”

  Palmer shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Think about it. In the meantime, let’s go see what the hell happened.”

  41

  Demarco drove out of the Bronx thinking about the gun battle with Biggie Watkins and smelling the gun smoke on his clothes. He headed straight to the Cross Bronx Expressway and over the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey. Even though he didn’t intend to keep Ricky Bolo’s Impala for much longer, he wanted to get out of New York City in case there was an alert out for the car.

  Manny asked, “You taking the long way back?”

  “Safer. And I figure we should check in with Ciro. After that shootout, we’re going to need a place to lay low. Cops are going to come looking for us in Red Hook sooner or later.”

  “Yeah. Thanks to Packy’s mother-in-law the cops know about James. They know about him, they’ll know about us. After the war we were in last winter, the Red Hook place is on their records.”

  Demarco said, “We have to get someone to lock up Red Hook and hide all the guns and anything else we don’t want the cops to find. And hang out there if the cops come with search warrants. If someone’s not there, they’ll break down doors and tear up the place.”

  “True. Who should hold the fort? Alex?”

  Demarco said, “Alex got stuck doing it last time.”

  “Willie?”

  Demarco shook his head. “No. No way. Cops bust in on him he’ll start a war. And he’s still on parole. They’ll lock him up in a heartbeat. I guess Alex.”

  “I’ll call him now. And Ciro. Let him know we’re coming.”

  Manny made the calls while Demarco drove. He didn’t expect either of them to pick up. He left messages, pocketed his old clamshell phone, and stared out the windshield, brow furrowed.

  Demarco looked over at him.

  “What?”

  “Cops are only half our problem. This thing is gonna explode now. Three dead, including the two brothers who ran things. Eric Jackson will be coming after us now. And they’ll be looking for Packy’s daughter even harder.”

  “So they can use her to find us.”

  “Yes. Even though she doesn’t know us, or have a clue where to find us.”

  “Which isn’t going to help her,” Demarco said. “They’ll torture her, and she won’t have any answers.”

  Manny shook his head. “First Packy. Now his kid. Shit. We got to find her, D. We can’t let them kill her, too.”

  “Killing her is the least of what they’ll do to her.”

  Manny made a guttural noise, picturing the duct tape and rope he’d seen in Watkins’s car.

  Both men fell silent.

  Finally, Manny said, “We’re going to have to take out those guys.”

  “But how?”

  “I don’t know, brother. I don’t know.”

  42

  Amelia Johnson kept thinking about how to get more bullets as she drove back to the parking lot where she’d found Crackhead Betty. The derelict woman had already finished a pint of cheap white wine and fallen into a stupor. No surprise. Amelia had left her with seven dollars and there was a liquor store nearby.

  Amelia returned Betty’s shopping cart, blanket, and bag of cans. She folded a twenty-dollar bill and stuffed it into the pocket of Betty’s filthy down jacket, hoping she’d find it soon.

  She climbed into the Jeep and drove off, still thinking about bullets. She might not have any, but she had a lot more money. She pulled the Jeep to the curb and dug out the bills she had taken from the bodies, quickly counting the money. It amounted to six hundred seventy dollars. Good, but she needed more.

  And in the next instant, Amelia knew exactly where she might get it.

  She had been unconsciously driving toward Bronx River Houses. She pulled out and headed toward Tyrell’s apartment building on Daly Street. She knew his sister, Darlene, often stayed at his apartment. If she was there, it would make getting into the place easier, and odds were good she hadn’t yet heard her brother had been shot dead.

  Amelia parked the Jeep almost in front of Tyrell’s apartment building. She didn’t think about anything, or plan anything. She walked right up to the outside panel of buzzers, all of them unmarked, and pushed 4E.

  Nobody answered. She buzzed again and again, and finally a female voice yelled, “Who is it?”

  “Darlene, it’s me, Amelia. I got something for Tyrell.”

  “Tyrell not here.”

  “So buzz me in, and I’ll give it to you.”

  “What is it?”

  “A envelope from Jerome.”

  “Jerome?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “What the fuck you think is in it? C’mon, buzz me in. Tyrell don’t get this he’s going to be pissed.”

  Amelia heard a mumbled curse before the buzzer rang.

  She entered the lobby, saw the OUT OF SERVICE sign on the elevator, and headed up the stairs. When she reached the fourth floor, she pulled out her empty gun. Even without bullets, the Ruger made her feel powerful. She walked up to Tyrell’s door without hesitation and banged on it.

  The door swung open in the middle of a curse.

  “Fuck’s up with you, bitch? Bangin’ on doors and shit…”

  Amelia overhanded the barrel of the gun right into the Darlene’s face, splitting the skin from her forehead down to the bridge of her nose, and knocking her backward into the room.

  Darlene was a large girl. As tall as Amelia and fifty pounds heavier. She swung at Amelia, who leaned back away from her fist and whipped the barrel of the Ruger into the side of Darlene’s head. Darlene’s hands flailed at Amelia as she staggered sideways and fell on her side, unconscious.

  Amelia stood over the fallen woman, yelling, “Don’t you never, ever call me a bitch. Ever, goddammit. I ain’t nobody’s bitch.”

  Amelia knew she was in a blood rage. She took a deep breath and stepped back from the woman on the floor, blinking her eyes, coming back to herself.

  She kicked the apartment door closed, forcing herself to calm down and focus. She noticed the ragged, gasping breaths emanating from the unconscious woman. The sound made her angry. She muttered at Darlene, “What the hell you think was going to happen, you calling me that?”

  Amelia walked past Darlene and began searching the filthy apartment. There were clothes on the furniture, the floor, even hanging on doorknobs. There were shoes scattered about, cardboard boxes filled with more clothes and household items, dishes piled high in the sink, garbage bags overflowing, empty fast-food containers everywhere. The whole place had a sour smell to it. Amelia had an urge to get out of the apartment, but she walked past everything, st
raight back to Tyrell’s bedroom.

  She tossed the pillows off the unmade bed, thinking there might be a gun under one of them. She felt under the mattress, then lifted the entire mattress and shoved it off the box spring. Nothing. She went through the closet, looking at shelves, feeling pockets of coats and pants.

  She tore into a chest of drawers. She found nothing except clothes and items she didn’t want. In frustration, she pulled out the top drawer and threw it on the mattress. Nothing. But when she did the same to the second drawer, she saw two envelopes taped to the bottom of the drawer. She tore them off, saw cash in both envelopes, and stuffed them into her back pockets.

  She moved quickly through the rest of the apartment, checking the bathroom, a room filled with boxes and assorted junk, all the closets, the kitchen cabinets, the freezer.

  Darlene had struggled back to consciousness, and had propped herself up against the couch, sitting on the floor holding her shirt to her bleeding forehead.

  She saw Amelia in the kitchen. “Why’d you fuckin’ hit me?”

  “What the fuck you think I’d do, you calling me a bitch? I ain’t nobody’s bitch, Darlene. Shut up and be glad I didn’t shoot you.”

  Amelia was about to leave when she spotted a set of car keys in a glass bowl on the kitchen counter. She grabbed them and asked Darlene, “Where’s Tyrell’s car at?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, tell me or I’ll start in on you again.”

  Darlene screamed, “I don’t know! He parked it outside somewhere. Leave me the fuck alone. I didn’t do nothing to you.”

  Amelia turned away and walked out of the apartment without another word. She’d find the car in the neighborhood. Time to get rid of the damn Jeep anyhow. Everybody knew it belonged to Derrick, it was too hard to park, and almost out of gas.

  Tyrell drove a green Chevy Malibu. She’d find it.

  43

  Beck pulled the Ranger in to an empty area in the dirt parking lot behind the tavern on Route 53 shortly before eight. He entered through a side door that opened directly into the barroom.

  An L-shaped bar dominated the space, the long side facing him, the short side of the L on his left. There were two empty bar stools around the curve at the short end, both empty. Beck walked over to the stools, pushed one closer to the wall, and sat in the other, taking over that end of the bar. This gave him a view of the door he’d entered, all the patrons at the bar, behind the bar, and a seating area past the bar large enough to hold five tables for two. Two of the tables had been pushed together and three men sat at them drinking from longneck bottles of beer. One of the men was Oswald Remsen.