Bronx Requiem

by John Clarkson

  “What room is she in? A black girl. Tall. Young. What room?”

  The man yelled back, spluttering, “Four eighteen, four eighteen.”

  “Stairs?”

  The clerk pointed south.

  Demarco ran toward the first-floor corridor, yelling to Ciro, “Get rid of the surveillance disc, then get the car. If you see her, stop her.”

  * * *

  Three blocks south on the Sheridan Expressway service road, Floyd Whitey Bondurant thought he heard the faint crack of a gunshot. His driver was already headed toward the Expressway Motel. Bondurant had been driving around the Bronx, checking in with his men, who had been trying to find Amelia Johnson without success. The two motels in the area were logical choices, and when he heard the gunshot he yelled at his driver, “Punch it!”

  Bondurant’s men never questioned him. The driver floored the accelerator on the 2009 Lexus RX 350. The car leapt forward. Within a block, they had reached sixty-seven miles an hour.

  A look of fierce concentration and anger descended on Bondurant. He had very prominent cheekbones, a massive forehead, a pronounced chin. He would have looked more frightening if his eyes showed, but he always wore sunglasses to protect them from the light. He pulled out a large-frame Taurus PT 24/7 loaded with .40 caliber bullets. There were fifteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber.

  Bondurant sat in the passenger seat. His deep voice rumbled at the man in the backseat, “Elliot, get your shit ready.”

  Elliot already had his gun in his hand.

  * * *

  The gunfire awakened Amelia instantly. She did not hesitate; she did not look out the window. She grabbed the Glock, picked up the red laundry bag, slipped into her ballet flats, and ran out of the room.

  The door to the back stairs was only fifteen feet away. She smacked the release bar and hit the stairs, running down so fast she almost ran out of her shoes.

  By the time Demarco emerged on the fourth floor, Amelia had burst out the ground-floor door into the parking lot. She ran toward the green Malibu parked on the north side of the motel.

  * * *

  Ciro came running out the front entrance on the south side, looked right and left, saw nothing. He made a fast decision. Instead of running to check the other side of the motel, he sprinted for his Escalade.

  * * *

  Demarco glanced into Amelia’s room just long enough to confirm it was empty. He raced down the back stairwell almost twice as fast as Amelia had, taking the stairs in huge three-step strides, grabbing the handrail and jumping down the last third of each flight.

  * * *

  Amelia had parked the Malibu far back from the street. As she ran for it, a clap of thunder sounded and cold rain suddenly lashed her face.

  Out on the service road, Bondurant’s driver braked hard trying to make a turn into the south driveway, but the Lexus slid past the driveway on the rain-slick street. Bondurant pointed with his gun, “Go in the next driveway. Go.”

  The driver wrestled the car straight and headed for the north side of the motel.

  Amelia made it to her Malibu as Demarco emerged into the lot, his Glock in hand. He ran toward Amelia’s car, trying to get close enough to block her from pulling out.

  Amelia saw Demarco. She saw the gun in his hand. She floored the Malibu and scraped the car next to her making a Y-turn. Demarco got close enough to bang on the trunk of the car and yell, “Stop!”

  Bondurant’s Lexus reached the north driveway as Amelia accelerated toward the street. Bondurant yelled at his driver. “Stop!”

  The Lexus slid into the driveway, blocking more than half the exit.

  Bondurant stepped out of the passenger side and calmly rested his Taurus on the roof of the Lexus as Amelia accelerated toward the space between the Lexus and a painted brick wall dividing the parking lot from the sidewalk.

  Bondurant tracked the car, and fired at the Malibu.

  Demarco took aim at Bondurant, firing at the strange-looking man in the sunglasses. Bondurant turned in the direction of the gunfire.

  The Malibu surged toward the small opening. Bondurant’s driver dove sideways onto the seat. Elliot was out of the back door, bringing his gun into position to shoot.

  Inside the Malibu, Amelia hunched over the steering wheel, aiming for the small opening.

  Bondurant returned fire in Demarco’s direction as the front of the Malibu simultaneously smashed into the Lexus and the wall with a deafening bang. A chunk of the brick wall exploded. The Lexus spun counterclockwise, away from Bondurant toward Elliot knocking him down, shattering his right pelvis.

  The Malibu continued forward, scraping past the wall and the Lexus because the terrified Amelia had jammed her foot down on the accelerator. Scraping past the Lexus slowed her enough so Amelia was able to turn right onto the service road without colliding head-on into the guardrail.

  Bondurant remained on his feet as the Lexus spun away from him. Demarco advanced on him, firing the Glock. Bondurant returned fire as he climbed into the Lexus, yelling at the driver, “Follow her. Go. Go!”

  The steering on the Lexus had been compromised by the impact of the Malibu, but the driver managed to turn onto the road, swerving and wobbling as he accelerated after the green Malibu.

  Ciro screeched around the corner and braked next to Demarco, who emptied his gun at the disappearing Lexus. He jumped into the Escalade.

  Demarco reloaded his Glock and calmly told Ciro, “We’re not losing her now.”

  “No fucking way.”

  52

  By the time Beck pulled the Ford F-350 into the dirt parking lot next to Remsen’s bar, there were only two vehicles left in the lot. His Ford Ranger, and a blue 2001 Volvo V40 Beck assumed belonged to Janice the bartender.

  He parked Remsen’s truck exactly where it had been and wiped down everything he’d touched with a microfiber towel he found behind the passenger seat. He climbed out, dropped the keys in the cup holder, threw the towel in the back, and closed the door with his elbow.

  Beck headed for the bar, but had to stop as a wave of fatigue and nausea hit him. He bent over, hands on knees, waiting for the weakness to pass.

  “Shit!”

  He straightened up and continued walking until he got close enough to the bar’s front door that he could see inside. There were no customers. Most of the lights were off. Janice stepped out from the kitchen, turning off those lights. She walked quickly behind the bar, grabbed her purse, and headed for the front door with a bundle of keys in her hand.

  Beck walked over and sat against the front fender of the Volvo. Janice stepped out and locked the front door.

  She turned toward the Volvo, stuffing her keys into her purse. When she finally looked up, the sight of Beck startled her.

  He held up a hand and said, “Sorry, I need to talk to you.”

  She remained standing on the front porch of the bar, two steps up from the dirt parking lot. She looked out into the lot, saw Oswald Remsen’s truck, but no sign of him or the others. She looked back at Beck.

  “What do you want?”

  “Just a minute of your time.”

  “Did you drive Remsen’s truck here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s Remsen?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  She stared at Beck, bloody, beat-up, dirty. She asked again, “What do you want?”

  “I want to give you some money and ask you a few questions.”

  “Money? Why?”

  “You might need something to tide you over for a while.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Beck answered with a shrug.

  “I saw what Remsen and his men did to you.”

  “You did?”

  “Some of it. I heard a gunshot and looked out.”

  “You didn’t call the cops?”

  “Not on Remsen. I’m sorry. You left the bar before I could warn you.”

  “So make it up to me by answering a few questions.”r />
  Janice looked around again and said, “Get into my car. I don’t want anybody seeing us out here.”

  Beck walked around to the Volvo’s passenger door, steadying himself on the body of the car as he made his way. He climbed into the passenger seat, still feeling depleted and woozy. He began to think he might not be able to drive back to his motel.

  Janice slid into the driver’s seat. When the car’s dome light came on, she got a better look at Beck.

  “Good Lord. You should get to a hospital.”

  “I don’t need a hospital. Just let me get through this with you.”

  “Through what?”

  “Some questions.” He reached into his pocket and took out the envelope of cash he’d taken from Oswald Remsen. “Here, take this. For your time and trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Well, your time then. If you keep your mouth shut about seeing me, or even remembering me, you shouldn’t have any trouble at all.”

  “Wait a second. If you have Oswald’s money and his truck, that means he’s dead or near to it. And his sons, too.”

  “You’re right. And so is that big son of a bitch who likes baseball bats.”

  Janice sat back in her seat, clearly stunned.

  “My God. How did…?”

  “It’s much better for you if you don’t know anything about it.”

  She didn’t respond for a few moments, absorbing what Beck had said.

  She turned to Beck. “What do you want from me?”

  “A few answers, and I’ll be on my way. I know Oswald Remsen and his sons were running prostitutes servicing truckers. Correct?”

  She paused, looked at Beck for a few moments, made a decision.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know how many men besides his sons were in on it?”

  “No. But I know there were others involved.”

  “All prison guards?”

  “Five of the ones I know are prison guards.”

  “Four men came in tonight to give him money. Are they all guards?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who the big guy is?”

  “He’s a cousin or something. Austen White. He’s the one who isn’t a guard.”

  “There were two others with the big guy who jumped me. One was named Fred. Do you know his last name?”

  “Yes.”

  Janice pulled a pen from under her visor. She took the cash out of the envelope Beck had given her and shoved the money into her purse. She wrote on the empty envelope.

  “You’re not going to … “

  “No. I’m not. And don’t assume I killed Oswald Remsen or anybody else. What do you know about Oswald’s third son?”

  “Not very much. He works downstate. Sing Sing.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Edward. Edward Remsen.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “I think he lives in the Bronx. I’m not sure.”

  Beck nodded.

  “About these prostitutes, do you know where the women come from?”

  She finished printing the name Fred Culla on the envelope. “No. I hear Remsen talking and laughing about mud people, which I guess means black people, but I don’t know anything about how he recruits women.”

  “Okay, last question. Do you know how Remsen recruited those other guards? The ones besides his sons?”

  Janice looked at Beck, thinking it over.

  “Not for sure,” she said. “But Oswald Remsen has been a steward in the union at Eastern for a long time. And he’s a captain. So I expect he’d know most of the guards and has some influence.”

  Beck nodded, taking it in. “Okay. Thanks.”

  Janice handed him the envelope. “I don’t know much. I try to avoid hearing their conversations.”

  Beck nodded. “I understand.” He put the envelope in his shirt pocket, turned carefully so as not to aggravate his bruised ribs, and opened the car door.

  He stepped out of the car and stood up. Another wave of nausea and dizziness hit him. He thought, I have to get some food and more water. That was the last thought Beck had for ten hours.

  53

  Demarco calmly finished reloading his Glock as Ciro roared after the Lexus, fighting to keep control of the big Escalade slaloming up the Sheridan Expressway service road. Fortunately, there was no other traffic except the Lexus in front of him.

  The Escalade’s wipers could barely keep up with the wind-lashed torrent of rain. Ciro concentrated on the red taillights of the damaged Lexus. As he closed in on the it, he yelled to Demarco, “Save your bullets. You’ll never hit him with us sliding all over this fucking road.”

  “We can’t let them or the girl get on the Expressway.”

  Ciro’s answer was to accelerate even more. He angled right and banged the corner of his massive bumper into the rear left corner of the Lexus, sending it into a violent counterclockwise spin on the wet asphalt. It banged into a guardrail, bounced clockwise, and smashed into the base of a streetlamp pole. As the pole crashed onto the roof of the Lexus, Ciro wrestled the Escalade straight and roared past. He clipped a DO NOT ENTER sign, bumped over a grass divider, and straightened out onto service road.

  Amelia heard the crash, looked in her rearview mirror and saw the rainwater spray into the air and debris fly as the Lexus smacked the guardrail. But taking her eye off the road was a mistake. With the Malibu wobbling so badly, she had veered toward a fence running along the expressway. In a desperate move, she wrenched the steering wheel right, hit a curb, and slalomed off the road into an open construction site.

  Ciro saw the Malibu leave the road up ahead and barely managed to brake enough so he could follow Amelia.

  Amelia just managed to keep control of the Chevy. She slammed on the brakes and slid into a concrete partition. The engine died. She tried to start the car, but the key was already turned in the ignition. She turned the ignition off and then tried again, grinding the starter. She pumped the gas pedal, desperately turning the ignition key. Suddenly, the passenger door opened. Rain blew in. Before she realized what was happening, a large hand covered her hand turning the ignition key and a calm voice said, “Hold it, kid. Don’t you smell the gas? Turn the damn thing off before you start a fire.”

  Amelia looked over at Demarco Jones smiling at her.

  “That was some driving. But I think those guys put a couple of bullets in your gas tank. You’ve been spewing gas all over the road, which was good. They slid all over the place once we hit them.”

  Amelia sat frozen. Demarco gently, but firmly, turned off the ignition. She didn’t know what to do or say.

  “Come on, we gotta get out of here before the cops find us.” Demarco flashed a dazzling smile. “Hey, how much worse off can you be with us? Come on. You have anything in this car that will track back to you?”

  He had already found the empty Ruger from Mount Hope Place in the glove compartment and the laundry bag on the floor. He dropped the Ruger into the bag.

  He held up the laundry bag and asked, “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “You hear those sirens? We don’t have much time.”

  Demarco had to go around to the driver’s side and help Amelia get the bent door open. They climbed into the Escalade, both Demarco and Amelia in the passenger seats behind Ciro.

  Ciro killed his headlights, put the big SUV into all-wheel drive, and carefully navigated across the excavated rock and rubble to the far end of the construction site. He managed to squeeze between huge boulders that had been dug up at the site and set in a line to form a barrier between the construction area and a footpath that ran alongside a soccer field. He meandered through the park paths, under the 174th Street overpass, across a footbridge, and under the Cross Bronx Expressway until he emerged on Devoe Avenue.

  Once on Devoe, Ciro switched on his headlights and announced, “That was fun.”

  54

  Manny Guzman stood across the street from Walter Ferguson’s
apartment waiting patiently.

  It was a warm, almost sultry evening, the air pregnant with the feel of a rainstorm coming. He’d called Walter while waiting in the bar on Atlantic. Walter said he should arrive by nine. Sure enough, two minutes before nine the all-black Mercury Marauder pulled up in front of Walter’s apartment on Livingston Street.

  Manny strolled across the street and slipped into the passenger seat.

  “Hey, Walter.”

  “Hello, Emmanuel.”

  “How’d it go?”

  Walter rubbed the back of his neck to release tension from the long drive. He’d stopped only once for a bathroom break.

  “I think I found some information that helped James.”

  “Which was?”

  “It seems this thing with Packy might involve correction officers.”

  Manny scowled. “How?”

  “It’s not completely clear. I made contact with a guard on the staff who seemed to know something, but all she did was give us a name of another guard who works at Eastern. He was there when James was there. Name of Oswald Remsen.”

  “But you don’t know how he’s connected to Packy.”

  “No. That’s what James stayed to find out.”

  Manny stared out the windshield of the Mercury, nodding to himself, then he turned to Ferguson and said, “Well, I’m glad you’re back, Walter. I wanted to check in with you, remind you to follow up on what the cops are doing. See where those two detectives are on Paco’s case.”

  “Yes, James told me the same thing when I left him. I’ve already called them, but I haven’t heard back. Not all that surprising. Before I left Ellenville, I put in a call to their precinct. Got the name of their supervisor and left a message for him.”

  “And?”

  “He hasn’t called me back either.”

  “What you going to do?”

  “Head up to the Bronx in the morning and find the man. His name is Levitt. I’m going to sit in that precinct until I find him and get answers.”

  “Good.”

  Walter turned again to Manny. “Anything I should know about that happened while I was gone?”