Bronx Requiem

by John Clarkson

  Without warning, Bondurant rushed Demarco, throwing all of his two hundred fifty pounds at him. Demarco countered. He met the force of Bondurant’s rush with a forearm rammed into Bondurant’s chest. He grabbed Bondurant’s right arm, turned, and threw him onto the concrete stage.

  Bondurant hit the concrete hard. He rolled over onto his hands and knees. Demarco took a step and kicked him in the ribs.

  Demarco yelled, “Get up, bitch!”

  Blind with rage, Bondurant rushed Demarco again, this time shooting in low, trying to get his long arms around Demarco and take him down.

  Demarco absorbed the force of Bondurant’s rush, sprawled backward, grabbed Bondurant’s left arm, dug his right arm under his chin, and dropped all his weight onto Bondurant’s neck and back, forcing the bigger man to the ground.

  He leaned close to Bondurant’s ear and whispered, “You can’t beat me. I’m not a girl.”

  Bondurant tried to twist away, to get out from under Demarco, but Demarco pulled up on his choke hold and kept him under control.

  One of Bondurant’s hard guys rushed the stage, pulling his gun. Ben Woods slapped the side of his head hard enough to send him flying back off the steps. Another made it to the second step, but Manny cracked the barrel of Bondurant’s Colt across his jaw, and he went down. Pushing and fighting broke out among the residents and a few of Bondurant’s men. A third man pushed past one of Woods’s deacons and made it onto the top step, and then Beck’s final line of defense appeared. The door behind the stage opened and Willie Reese stepped out holding a Serbu Super-Shorty 12-gauge shotgun.

  He raised the weapon with one hand and aimed it at Bondurant’s man who had tried to join the fight. The man froze. Willie took two steps toward the man, planted his huge foot on his chest, and sent Bondurant’s thug flying off the stage.

  Willie stood at the edge of the platform, sweeping his shotgun back and forth, keeping back anybody else who might want to help Bondurant.

  Behind Willie, in a desperate move, Bondurant managed to grab Demarco’s left elbow, pull down and twist out from under Demarco, landing with his back on Demarco’s chest. A flurry of motion exploded. Demarco tried to counter and push off the bigger man. Bondurant surprised Demarco with his speed. He twisted and landed on top of Demarco, scrambling forward, avoiding Demarco’s guard, straddling his chest. He reared up and landed a huge punch to Demarco’s forehead, driving Demarco’s head onto the hard concrete.

  Everything went black. Demarco blocked most of the next punch, he turned away from another punch, but Bondurant landed a fist that caught him on the side of his head. Another hit his left eye. Demarco cursed himself for throwing Bondurant around and taunting him instead of taking him out fast. He knew he was only one or two more punches away from Bondurant beating him to death.

  * * *

  Eric Jackson shoved the Range Rover into reverse.

  Beck stepped out from behind the parked car and awkwardly ran toward Jackson as fast as he could. He had to catch him before he could back up enough to clear the parked car in front of him, but Beck already knew he didn’t have enough time to get to Jackson. It would be up to Ciro to block Jackson’s escape. And the only way to do that would be with a head-on crash.

  And then Beck skidded to a stop.

  In a move Beck hadn’t predicted, instead of backing up to get out of his parking space, Jackson made a Y-turn into the middle of the street toward Beck. He braked and reversed into Drive. Jackson wasn’t fleeing. He intended to drive over the sidewalk and mow a path through the crowd with the Range Rover to clear the way for Bondurant.

  Desperate to stop him, Beck threw the fish bat toward the driver’s-side door. The nineteen-inch bat, weighted at the end, spun end over end and smashed into the window. Glass shattered. Jackson slammed on the brakes, turned, and saw Beck coming at him.

  He put the Range Rover into Park and calmly stepped out into the street, pulling his gun.

  Beck wanted him alive, but it was too late. Too late for his plan. He went down on one knee, raising his Browning into firing position as Jackson pointed his gun at Beck.

  * * *

  Bondurant was big. He was strong. He had the controlling position. He tried to shove aside Demarco’s arms, getting ready to deliver a final knockout punch.

  Maybe it was the clarity that comes before death. Maybe it was because Demarco Jones knew if lost this fight Amelia and Esther would die, too. But mostly it was Bondurant making one mistake. He rose up so high trying to deliver a final, killing blow, that Demarco had enough time to free his left arm and block Bondurant’s downward fist with a sweeping block, followed by one ferocious right hook that hit Bondurant squarely on the temple.

  The blow paralyzed Bondurant, not quite knocking him out, but gave Demarco a chance to land two hammer blows to Bondurant’s ribs and shove him off. Demarco scrambled to his feet. He staggered away from Bondurant, trying to clear his head from the damage he’d taken, shaking off the pain in his right hand.

  Bondurant also made it onto his feet, wobbling and stepping back, trying to recover from Demarco’s punch that had sent his brain banging from one side to the other of his massive skull.

  Both men circled each other. Both knew the fight wouldn’t last much longer. No more taunting. No more unmasking Whitey Bondurant in front of his men. And no more risking broken fists.

  Bondurant edged forward. Demarco leapt forward, closing the space between them before Bondurant could react. He twisted from the hip and torqued the edged of his right wrist and arm into the vagus nerve and carotid artery on the side of Bondurant’s neck. The blow paralyzed Bondurant. Another twist of legs and hips whipped Demarco’s left elbow into the Bondurant’s jaw, cracking the right mandible. In almost the same move, Demarco brought his left fist up, around, and down, landing a hammer blow that broke Bondurant’s collarbone into two pieces, followed by a last twist, which brought Demarco’s knee slamming into Bondurant’s floating ribs, crushing his liver.

  Demarco stepped back. Bondurant, already unconscious, dropped onto his knees, his eyes dead, his brain shut down, he fell forward and his face smacked into the concrete platform.

  Four moves. Three seconds. Fight over.

  The sound of Bondurant hitting the stage made Willie Reese turn for a second to confirm what he already knew. He turned back to the crowd struck silent at the sight of Whitey Bondurant down, out, maybe dead. Willie walked slowly backward, shotgun aimed at the crowd.

  Demarco placed a hand on Willie’s shoulder, guiding him back toward the door held open for them by Amelia. Willie waited for the other three to step into the open doorway, shotgun still ready, and then he disappeared with the others behind the closing door.

  Manny Guzman quickly made his way to Bondurant’s prone body. Behind him Bondurant’s men, shocked at having seen the feared assassin take such a beating, began leaving as police sirens filled the air.

  Big Ben Woods, his deacons, and several of the residents remained on the steps, blocking the view of Bondurant, who had yet to move.

  Manny rolled the still-unconscious albino onto his back, and pressed a gun into his lifeless hand. But this wasn’t the Colt 1911 Bondurant had come with. This was the Ruger 9-mm Amelia Johnson had used to shoot Derrick Watkins, Tyrell Williams, and Biggie Watkins, fully loaded with the ammunition Amelia had found in Tyrell’s laundry bag.

  The first police cars appeared moving slowly through the crowd as they converged on the plaza. Woods and his deacons motioned for the cops to come to the stage. Manny pointed to Bondurant and yelled at the nearest cop, “Careful, he’s got a gun.”

  The cop drew his own gun. Manny melted into the crowd.

  * * *

  Juju Jackson stood behind the Range Rover door, calm, aiming, not a hint of emotion in him. He knew the man in front of him had to be James Beck. He knew he had the drop on him. He almost smiled knowing he was going to put a bullet into Beck’s heart.

  Beck’s only hope was that maybe he wouldn’t take a
direct hit. Maybe he could get a shot off, maybe he could hit Jackson even though he was covered by the Range Rover’s driver’s-side door.

  And then, suddenly, inexplicably, Eric Jackson disappeared with a sudden, metal-crushing bang as Ciro’s Escalade slammed into the Range Rover’s door, knocking Jackson off his feet. Ciro backed up, jumped out, wrenched the bent door out of his way, and kicked Jackson’s gun out of his hand.

  Ciro lifted Jackson up with one hand and threw him against his Escalade. Jackson hit the front fender and slid onto the street.

  It took a moment for Beck to realize he hadn’t been struck by a bullet. And a few more seconds to stand up. He checked out the scene in the plaza. He couldn’t tell much about what had happened beyond seeing the police cars rolling into the area and the crowd dispersing.

  Ciro asked Beck, “So?”

  “Looks like they made it out.”

  “Good. Let’s get this piece-of-shit pimp off the street and get the hell out of here.”

  74

  Beck and Ciro quickly tied up Eric Jackson, pulled a garbage bag over his head, and dumped him into the cargo section of the Escalade. Since Jackson didn’t scream in pain and Beck didn’t see any blood leaking from his ears, he assumed he’d survived Ciro’s intervention with a six-thousand-pound vehicle without suffering any life-threatening injuries.

  They emptied Jackson’s gun, tossed it into the Range Rover, and left the vehicle in the middle of the street where the police couldn’t miss it.

  They were halfway to the entrance of the Cross Bronx Expressway with their captive when the first police car flew past them heading toward Harrod Avenue.

  Ciro and Beck drove to Sedgwick Avenue, where Jonas and Ricky Bolo were waiting parked under the cover of a viaduct. They quickly transferred Jackson into their van. Ciro confirmed with Jonas where they were to take Jackson—a motel outside the Lincoln Tunnel where he’d already stashed Edward Remsen. In less than two minutes, the Bolos were heading for Jersey while Beck and Ciro continued driving south toward Manhattan.

  Beck checked his watch. A few minutes after eleven. He asked Ciro, “So we’re set, right? Alex’s information was accurate?”

  “Yeah. Noon.”

  “He answered your call?”

  “No. I had to leave a message telling him either he calls me, or I’ll show up at his apartment on Arden Street. He called back ten minutes later.”

  “Did he need much convincing?”

  “Not really. He picked a restaurant on Broadway and 103rd Street.”

  Beck checked his watch. “We have time to look around. Make sure he didn’t do anything stupid like call in the troops so they could arrest me.”

  Ciro nodded and then lapsed into silence. After a few moments, he turned to Beck and said, “You sure you want to do this, James?”

  Beck nodded.

  “This ain’t some Bronx pimp, Jimmy. There’s going to be a hell of a lot of heat over it.”

  “Ciro, I know what can happen. I’ll do what I can to make sure nothing blows back on you guys. I know I might have to disappear. I know what this means. I know it all, Ciro.”

  Ciro nodded. Saying nothing because there was nothing more to say.

  When they arrived at Broadway and 103rd, Ciro circled the surrounding streets until he was sure there were no cops lying in wait to arrest Beck. He pulled up across the street from the restaurant and told Beck, “I’ll wait here. If the cops show, I’ll drive this fucking tank into the restaurant if I have to, and get you out of there.”

  “The cops won’t show. This is too far from his precinct. And he thinks there’s already a plan in place to arrest us. He sure as hell won’t try it by himself. Not in a restaurant filled with Upper West Side yuppies and their kids.”

  “All right. Be careful.”

  Beck dodged traffic getting across Broadway, entered the restaurant, and took a seat at a table for two adjacent to the outside seating area. He ordered coffee to revive himself, and watched the patrons at the other tables while keeping an eye out for Raymond Ippolito.

  His phone signaled a text message had come in. It was from Phineas: Starting our 2nd meet with Levitt, Wilson. Higher-ups involved now.

  Beck slipped the phone into his pocket. The timing seemed to be working.

  He noticed a few people looking at him surreptitiously. The swelling under his eye and on his forehead had subsided, but the bruises were very visible. There was no hiding the fact that he’d been in some sort of fight.

  He was about to order a second cup of coffee when Raymond Ippolito appeared at the restaurant doorway. Beck immediately pegged him for the cop. He wore his shirt hanging out of his slacks to cover the gun at his hip, a pair of too-shiny loafers that looked like Gucci knockoffs, and too much gel on his slicked-back hair. He walked directly to Beck’s table, stood over him, and said, “I almost didn’t match you with your mug shot. Looks like you took a beating.”

  “Ippolito.”

  “Yeah, what’s this all about? You got some balls setting up a meet with me.”

  Beck looked up at Ippolito, calculating the precise angle and point of impact necessary to break his nose with a short right hook. The expression on Beck’s battered face made Ippolito sit.

  Beck said, “Did you ask me what this is all about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Murder, conspiracy, perjury, aiding and abetting known felons, prostitution, exploitation of minors, torture, rape, money laundering, tax evasion, and whether or not you and your career are going to survive the next twenty-four hours.”

  Ippolito shot back, “What the hell are you talking about?” But beneath the bravado, Beck saw fear flickering in Ippolito’s eyes.

  “Do us both a favor and drop the act. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  The waiter appeared. Ippolito faked a smile and ordered a Bloody Mary. He turned to Beck, trying to keep up the façade.

  “Yeah, well, whatever the hell you’re talking about, it sounds like you’re threatening an NYPD detective.”

  “Sounds like? This isn’t like threatening you, Ippolito. I am threatening you. You’ve aided and abetted in enough crimes to send you to prison. Now keep your mouth shut and listen to my proof.”

  Beck began a careful, concise explanation of the evidence that proved John Palmer had killed Paco Johnson and had planted the murder weapon to frame Derrick Watkins for that murder. Beck told Ippolito he knew the witnesses claiming he shot Derrick Watkins were phony, and that they would fold when Eric Jackson went down, which he assured Ippolito was going to happen soon.

  Beck continued on, trying to keep his rage in check as he described the depth and breadth of the criminal enterprises run by Eric Jackson. Without going into details about Remsen’s prostitution ring, Beck explained the evidence he had that would allow the FBI and NYPD to send Jackson and Bondurant away, most likely for the rest of their lives.

  Ippolito tried one last attempt at bluster. “So what’s all that got to do with me?”

  “I told you to keep your mouth shut.” Beck continued. “All the evidence on Palmer is being presented to Assistant District Attorney Frederick Wilson, your supervisor, Lieutenant James Levitt, and other police bosses as we speak. It will go right up the line to the chief of detectives, and all the other brass who have been lied to by John Palmer. The FBI will be reviewing evidence against Jackson starting at two o’clock today.”

  Beck’s speech had taken five minutes. Ippolito’s Bloody Mary had arrived and remained untouched the entire time.

  Ippolito blurted out, “Hey, I swear, I didn’t know anything about Palmer shooting that guy. I would have…”

  Beck held up a hand. “If I thought you did, I’d have already killed you. I wouldn’t be offering you a way out.”

  Ippolito tried to say something, but Beck said, “Stop. Don’t say anything that might make me change my mind. The time for bullshit is over. You and I both know what’s going to happen now.

  “The NYPD is going t
o go after you and Palmer. They’ll never get Palmer for murdering my friend, but they’ll know he did it, so they’ll go after you and Palmer on everything they can. When Eric Jackson starts singing to save his ass, they’ll have enough to charge both of you with witness tampering, perjury, falsifying records, colluding with a known felon, aiding and abetting. We both know it’ll be a long list.

  “You’ll hang tough and deny it. But what do you think Palmer will do? Daddy isn’t going to let his golden boy’s career go down in flames. He’ll tell John Junior to turn on you. It’ll be all your fault. You’re the senior guy. You’re the one with all the connections. Palmer will play innocent and blame you. By the time he and Daddy are done, little Johnny will be a hero and you’ll lose everything, and end up in prison. You’re going to talk the fall, Ippolito. You know, and I know it.”

  Ippolito picked up his untouched Bloody Mary and nearly drained it. He gripped the glass, thinking it through. A sick, sour feeling formed in the pit of his stomach.

  Beck said, “So, Detective, time to decide. You want to save yourself, or take the hit for John Palmer?”

  Ippolito couldn’t look Beck in the eye. Head down, he cleared his throat and said, “What are you going to do?”

  “You know goddam well what I’m going to do. Are you in, or not?”

  With his head still bowed, Ippolito muttered, “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  Ippolito looked up. “Yes. I’m in.”

  Beck nodded. “I’m assuming Palmer is home now.”

  “Yeah. He’s home. He worked almost two days straight.”

  “What’s his next move?”

  “He has to be at One Police Plaza today at three to finalize everything for the arrests early Monday morning.”

  “Are you in that meeting?”

  “No. They were done with me yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m out. I put in my retirement papers weeks ago. My last day is Friday.”

  “If you want to make it to Friday, you’ll do exactly what I tell you.”