Bronx Requiem

by John Clarkson

  When they reached the second floor, Alex Liebowitz and Willie Reese were the only ones present. Alex sat at Beck’s computer. Willie napped on one of the couches.

  Beck took a seat at the dining table.

  “Amelia, can you put those ledgers on the table?”

  She did.

  “Try to get some sleep.”

  Amelia understood that was Beck’s way of politely asking her to leave. As she walked upstairs, Alex came over and sat next to Beck. Willie Reese woke up and joined them.

  They waited for Beck to finish typing text messages into his smartphone. One for Walter Ferguson and one for his lawyer, Phineas Dunleavy, asking both of them to please come to the Red Hook headquarters at eleven A.M.

  When he’d finished, he looked up and said, “Okay, guys, I don’t have a lot of gas left.” He handed the external hard drive to Alex and said, “See if you can open this.”

  Alex went off to check the drive.

  Beck turned to Willie. “Everything okay?”

  “I got a lot of eyes and ears out there. It’s quiet, boss.”

  “I don’t think anything will happen until Sunday or Monday. Tell your guys to watch for two things. Cops moving in a group, and any rough boys they don’t know. In particular, a black albino guy, big, wears his hair in dreads. He’ll probably be wearing sunglasses.”

  Reese scowled. “What do you mean? Like a white black guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never seen one.”

  “Hopefully, you still won’t. From what Demarco tells me, he’s dangerous.”

  “Then if we see him, we should put him down. Fast.”

  Beck thought about his answer for a moment. “If it gets to that, agreed. Main thing right now, Willie, I want you to keep an eye on Amelia. I’d prefer she doesn’t leave the place, but if she gets restless and wants to take a walk, or really needs something, you stick with her. Nobody bothers her.”

  “Done.”

  “Last, before I forget, when Demarco comes down, ask him to make sure and secure the gun Amelia has in a red laundry bag in her closet.”

  “Got it.”

  “Thanks. I’ve got to sleep.”

  On the way to the back stairs Beck passed Alex.

  “Any luck?”

  “I haven’t gotten through the password protection yet.”

  “I need what’s in there, Alex.”

  “Go get some sleep.”

  When he stripped for bed, Beck avoided looking at the purplish bruises blossoming all over his arms and torso. He did check out the wound on his forehead, gently pulling off the large three-by-four-inch adhesive pad. Janice Elkins had done a good job squeezing the split skin closed and securing it with butterfly bandages, but there would still be a scar. Beck spread a finger of antibiotic ointment on it and covered it with a fresh adhesive pad.

  He rummaged around in his medicine chest, deciding he’d better take a Vicodin or he’d never sleep. And he knew he had to stop his mind from constantly wrestling with his seemingly intractable, interlinked mess of problems. The worst of which was how to take out an NYPD detective, a politically connected one to boot, without creating a firestorm of investigations that would bring all of them down.

  Beck would not risk allowing any of them to have any contact with the judicial system. Despite their resources, one mistake, one misstep, one person in the monstrous machinery of law enforcement, and they could be incarcerated for years. And if things went really bad, for the rest of their lives.

  And now Beck had two wildcards to deal with: Amelia Johnson, a young woman more volatile and unpredictable than most adults he’d ever met. And Queenie, a woman who had much of her humanity leached out of her first by years of being abused, and then by years of being the abuser.

  Beck lay down on his bed, trying to clear his mind while a dozen questions, concerns, and thoughts swirled into a blur that slowly pulled him into a deep, merciful sleep.

  64

  At 6:50 A.M. the Vicodin had worn off. When Beck rolled over, the pain pulled him out of his sleep. He forced himself to get up and move. Shower, coffee, food. He pushed through it all, step by step.

  When Beck emerged on the second floor, he saw Manny at the stove, heard the soft sizzle of eggs frying, and smelled the tang of maple-honey ham frying in a skillet all mixed with the scent of strong coffee brewing.

  Amelia and Demarco sat side by side at the work island, eating and sipping coffee from oversize mugs. It sounded to Beck like they were talking about clothes.

  Alex sat at Beck’s computer, printing out documents on Beck’s high-speed laser printer. He’d been working steadily for six hours.

  “How’d you get it open?”

  “I went in through the BIOS and disabled the password, but it didn’t get me very far. The files are encrypted.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Especially since I don’t have the original computer they used to encrypt the files. Were there any computers where you found this hard drive?”

  “I didn’t see any, and we searched the place pretty thoroughly. So what did you do?”

  “I had to reach out to a hacker group that has the firepower and software to search the drive sector by sector, find the encryption keys, and open the files.”

  “How much did that set us back?”

  “Ten K. They got about eighty percent of the files open.”

  “You find anything we can use to nail these guys?”

  “How about bank accounts in Kansas City, Missouri; Roslyn, Long Island; and a TD Bank in Toronto?

  “Really?”

  “Yep. I got bank statements and deposit images. I’m printing out everything now.”

  “How were the deposits made?”

  “U.S. postal money orders via snail mail.”

  Beck smiled. “We got ’em.”

  “Uh-huh. All kinds of federal crimes connected to moving money between states and a foreign country. We also busted open a folder showing a bunch of properties, along with the titles and deeds.”

  “Who owns them?”

  “I’ll tell you who doesn’t.”

  “Who?”

  “Eric Jackson.” Alex handed Beck a single page. “Here. I printed out the names of the straw owners and the addresses.”

  Beck scanned the names.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Interesting, huh?”

  “Very.” Beck’s voice trailed off, as he thought through the implications. “You find any information on other properties?”

  “I think that’s it. It was all in one folder.”

  “Okay, can you destroy that folder? After you copy the information?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do it. How long before you open the rest of the drive?”

  “Couple hours, but I think the rest of the drive is empty. I’m making sure now.”

  “Okay. Finish printing the bank stuff. Wipe out the information on these properties and leave everything else. Can you do it without leaving a trace?”

  “No. But I’ll make sure there won’t be any way to figure out when it was done.”

  “Good enough. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Beck paused and looked at Alex. “The ten thousand was worth it.”

  “Yep.”

  Beck headed up to the third floor and knocked on Queenie’s door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Beck. Can I come in?”

  “It’s your house.”

  Beck stepped into the room. Queenie had raised the window wide open. Beck could smell the sea air chilled by the cold water in the bay. A bright sun lit up a blue sky cleaned by a high-pressure system. But there was nothing fresh or sunny about Queenie. She sat on the bed, slumped over, her short hair uncombed, her clothes wrinkled from wearing them all night.

  “How much sleep did you get?”

  Her answer was a smirk.

  “What do you want for breakfast?”

  She looked at Beck, ann
oyed. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. How about we take a walk? Might do you some good to get outside.”

  Queenie shook her head as if this were simply another bother to endure.

  “You want some coffee? I’m going to get some coffee to walk with.”

  She frowned at Beck, but hoisted herself off the bed and followed him down the back stairs to the kitchen area.

  Queenie remained sullen, refusing to look at Amelia while Beck prepared coffee in two stainless-steel travel mugs. The tension between the two women ended all conversation in the kitchen. Queenie took her coffee with milk and three spoons of sugar.

  Beck and Queenie made their way outside and walked toward the waterfront without speaking until they settled on a bench with a view of New York Bay.

  Queenie broke the silence. Pointing out across the bay, she asked, “What’s out there?”

  “Jersey. Bayonne. Over there is Staten Island.”

  Queenie nodded, pointed, “And the so-called Statue of Liberty.”

  “Yep.” He paused. “I’m sorry I had to pull you out of your place last night.”

  “Ain’t my place. Ain’t got no place.”

  “Well…”

  Queenie turned to Beck. “Well what, dammit? What’d you bring me out here for? You lookin’ to turn me into a rat? I been ridin’ this bitch for a long time, son. You ain’t going to make me no rat now.”

  “I’m not asking you to rat out anybody, but why the hell would you stay loyal to those pimps?”

  “Juju Jackson is a hell of lot more’n a pimp. And Whitey Bondurant ain’t no pimp. He’s Jackson’s enforcer.”

  “Wrong. Whatever else he does, Eric Jackson makes millions from prostituting women. He’s a pimp. And anybody who helps him is a pimp.”

  Queenie looked at Beck askance.

  Beck said, “Don’t give me that look. It’s millions. Maybe hard to believe, but it’s true.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. You can put a number on the dollars, but you can’t measure the pain and misery behind it. Anyhow, this is all beyond you ratting out anybody. There’s no cops involved. I already told you, they’re going down.”

  “Uh-huh. And how’s that gonna happen?”

  “It has to. It’s either them, or us.”

  Queenie leaned back and said, “I ain’t gonna argue with you. But what’s it got to do with me? Why you need my help?”

  “To get to Jackson.”

  “And how I’m gonna do that?”

  “Call him on his phone.”

  “And say what?”

  “Are you willing to help us?”

  “I help you, are you gonna take care of me?”

  “You can take care of yourself. All you need is a fresh start.”

  “Shit. What I’m gonna do? Go work for Google?”

  Beck’s voice hardened. “You’re going to have to do something, because what you’ve been doing with Eric Jackson is over.”

  Queenie shook her head. “You keep leavin’ out Whitey Bondurant and his thugs.”

  “I’m not leaving him out. Why is everybody shitting their pants over that guy?”

  “Cuz he’s a damn monster. I seen that man do things will give you nightmares for the rest of your life. I seen him burn people. Break bones. Cut people. Shoot people.”

  “Then it’s long past time he went down. There are more dead bodies piling up around this mess than you want to know about. All connected to Eric Jackson. The thing you should know, what you have to understand, is that you don’t want to go down with them.”

  “I ain’t done shit they can pin on me.”

  “I hope you really don’t believe that, Queenie. You’ve been mixed up in their business for a very long time. The cops and the Feds are going to start arresting everybody they can get their hands on, including you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know. They’re the ones who’ll force you to turn rat, not me. They’ll threaten you with so much jail time, you won’t have a choice. They will not have a drop of mercy for you, Queenie. They don’t care if you sit out at Rikers, or in a federal detention center, and rot for months or years before you even go to trial. A trial that will put you away for decades, maybe for the rest of your life.”

  “You tryin’ to scare me?”

  “No. I’m trying to warn you. If the NYPD or FBI don’t lock you up, Juju Jackson and Bondurant are going to kill you. You know too much.”

  Queenie stared out at the bay, frowning, sullen. But she had stopped arguing with Beck.

  After a few moments of silence Beck asked, “What’s your real name, Queenie?”

  She turned, surprised at the question. “Why you want to know?”

  “Because Queenie was your working name. I don’t want to use that name.”

  She stuck her chin out, rummaging up a vestige of pride in her name and herself.

  “My real name is Queen-Esther Goodwin. Sometimes I used my middle name, Karen. My first name is two names. Queen-Esther. The pimps changed it to Queenie a long time ago. Like a goddam dog’s name.”

  “Time to let it go. Queen-Esther sounds a lot better.”

  She looked at her coffee mug, but didn’t sip from it.

  “Used to take a lot of shit for my name when I was a kid. Mostly just used Karen.” She shook her head. “I wondered if this day was ever going to come.”

  “It has.”

  She finally took a sip of the coffee Beck had prepared for her.

  “You sure, Mr. Beck?”

  “I’m sure your other life is over. I’m sure there has to be a way to start over. You have any relatives or friends someplace else?”

  “I got people in Florida. A sister if she ain’t forgot me. She’s married. Had two daughters. They grown up now.”

  “Husband still around?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “Will she give you a roof for a while?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did you manage to put any money away?”

  “About sixteen hundred dollars hidden in one of Biggie’s apartments I’ll never see again.” Queen-Esther shook her head and frowned. “Sixteen hundred dollars. You know how long it took me to save that?”

  “No.”

  “Shit. In one night you give me almost double that. Enough to get a plane ticket out of here.”

  “You’ll need more than that to start over. But I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve got to look into some things a bit more, but one way or another I’ll get you what you need to start over. Hell, Esther, all those years you worked for that scum, you earned it.”

  She paused, thinking about whether or not she could believe the man sitting next to her. “What I got to do for it?”

  “Help me do what I have to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Take down Jackson and Bondurant. And save the girl.”

  “Princess.”

  “Amelia.”

  “And how you gonna do that?”

  “I’ll explain when we get there.”

  “How long it gonna take?”

  “I don’t think we have much more than twenty-four hours.”

  “You think they comin’ for you that fast?”

  “I know they are. The cops for sure, if Jackson and his crew don’t get to us first.”

  Queen-Esther Karen Goodwin continued staring out at the expanse of water in front of her and spoke as if she were talking to herself as much as to Beck. “Man, I run now it won’t be easy. Even with the money you say you gonna give me.”

  “You have any warrants outstanding?”

  “Some old stuff nobody is lookin’ at. Still, I can’t be bringing heat on my sister.”

  Beck nodded. “Not these days. Every jurisdiction has access to everybody else’s records. These days they stop you for a traffic ticket, unpaid bill, anything, warrants in N
ew York will come up. You won’t be able to get insurance, a driver’s license, credit cards, ID, go to a hospital, or work under your real name. Even if you buy some ID, it can blow up if someone rats you out.”

  Queenie nodded. “You know what you talkin’ about, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well so do I. I been duckin’ police my whole life. You really think you can get me a decent stake and help me get away clean without Juju and Whitey comin’ after me?”

  “It’s either that, or we all die.”

  “All right, Mr. Beck, whyn’t you tell me exactly what I got to do for you.”

  Beck checked his watch.

  “I’ve got to prepare for a meeting with a couple of gentleman at eleven. After that, we’ll get to work. Okay?”

  “All right.”

  “In the meantime, start with one thing.”

  “What?”

  “No more fighting with Amelia. You two are going to have to get along for now.”

  Esther pursed her lips. “That girl wasn’t never cut out to be no whore. Girl like her woulda been beaten down by now till she broke, or died. I don’t know how she thought she could play with the likes of Derrick Watkins. It don’t work like that.”

  Beck listened, saying nothing.

  “But it ain’t my place to teach her anything. All right, Mr. Beck, no more fussin’ with her. She’s your problem now.”

  65

  Except for two hours of sleep grabbed when he couldn’t function anymore, John Palmer had been working nearly nonstop from late Friday afternoon until just after twelve noon on Saturday, first running down as much proof as he could to bolster the case against Beck and his men, and then making himself available to the police officials cycling in and out of meetings at One Police Plaza.

  Clearly, the word had come from on high to go after Beck and his crew. Palmer was fairly sure his father might have had something to do with it, but they hadn’t discussed it.

  Cops cycled in and out of meetings from multiple divisions bearing ranks all the way up to assistant chiefs. Palmer and Ippolito, their squad commander, James Levitt, and their precinct commander, Dermott Jennie, presented material over and over again. Also included were Bronx Borough Commander Assistant Chief Edward Pierce, precinct commanders based in Brooklyn, the Bronx, and Manhattan, the assistant chiefs in charge of the Warrants Squad, NYPD Emergency Services Unit, and lawyers from the Bronx District Attorney’s office led by Frederick Wilson.