Bronx Requiem
Page 40
Amelia raised her voice. “Get it.”
Lorena stood up and walked to the bedroom. She returned holding the old .38 Colt revolver she’d tried to shoot Beck with. She sat on the couch, the gun in her right hand.
Amelia asked, “Where’s the other one? The Phoenix twenty-two.”
Lorena’s expression hardened. “I no have the other gun.”
“Where is it?”
Lorena turned the Colt toward her granddaughter. “I lose it.”
“Why you pointing that at me?”
“You should go. I don’t want you here. I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“What happened to the twenty-two? Where is it? What did you do?”
No response.
Amelia shouted, “What did you do, you goddam, crazy, useless, murdering bitch?”
Lorena screamed, “You don’t talk to me like that!”
Amelia yelled, “Why did you shoot him? Why? Why goddammit?!”
Lorena shouted back, “Because he come here after seventeen years thinking he can push me around. Shouts at me—‘Where’s Amelia? Where’s Amelia?’ Like what you do is my fault. He goes out to do what? Be the big tipo duro. Show everybody. Get you killed.” Lorena leaned toward Amelia, shouting, shaking, still holding the revolver. “He was crazy. I go after him. I see what he does. Starts a fight. They beat him. Tan estupido. So now what he gonna do? Get a gun? Go back and shoot them? Because of you? Kill them, and then what? You think they let you live after he does that?”
Amelia watched her grandmother leaning toward her, her face twisted in rage rooted in decades of anger and pain and loss, still holding the revolver.
Amelia demanded through clenched teeth, “Tell me what you did.”
“All he knows is killing. Killing for what? He couldn’t hardly walk after they beat him, but I know he was coming back to my house. I know he would take a gun. I run ahead of him. Waited in the little park. He come up the street. Passes me. No, I tell myself. No. He can’t come here and do this.”
Amelia felt her throat tightening. She blinked, pushing down the pain and rage until she finally heard the truth.
“What did you do?”
“I come behind him, I point my gun to his head, and I shoot him.”
Amelia’s face twisted in anger. How? How could this pathetic, hateful, wasted old woman have caused so much pain and death and sorrow? Amelia shook her head from side to side, consumed by the horrible revelation, ready now to see it through.
“And then what did you do?”
Lorena pointed the old revolver at Amelia as if to keep her away.
“I drop the gun, and I ran.”
“You left him there in the street?”
“Yes.”
“And the twenty-two?”
She stared at Amelia, defiantly. “Yes.”
“Why? Why did you drop the gun?”
“I see the car coming. Not a regular police car. From nowhere suddenly the flashing lights. He must have followed Paco, too. Heard me shoot him.”
“The police?”
Lorena’s voice lowered, remembering it.
“Yes. A policeman. No uniform. I was scared. I drop the gun and ran.” She looked at Amelia. “Same policeman come here next morning. I thought to arrest me. But he didn’t. I think maybe he never saw me. He left. And then I think he changed his mind and come back to take me to jail. I was going to shoot him, too. But it wasn’t him.”
Amelia felt like she couldn’t breathe. The moment Beck had described the Phoenix twenty-two, she knew it was Lorena’s gun. She knew Lorena must have shot her father, but she hadn’t fully believed it until now. And now she would do what she had come to do. She would make sure what Lorena had done would never be known, would never hurt Beck or the others. And she would make sure the person who really murdered her father would pay for her crime.
Lorena saw the murderous look in Amelia’s eyes. She raised the thirty-eight, pointing it now at Amelia’s chest, her hand shaking.
Amelia grabbed the barrel of the Colt, determined to twist it out of Lorena’s hand, but the old woman lunged at Amelia, fighting back with desperate strength, grabbing Amelia’s wrist.
Amelia fell back off the couch, Lorena on top of her, both fighting for the gun. Lorena pulled the trigger.
* * *
Demarco had been waiting for Amelia’s return, growing increasingly anxious thinking about Amelia dealing with the volatile old woman. And then he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. A sound exactly like the one he had heard when Beck had come to Lorena’s apartment.
He burst out of the car and ran into the courtyard, but he had no idea which door led to Lorena’s apartment. He raced toward what he thought was the right door, a heavy metal-clad door. He kicked it, doing nothing more than denting it. He kicked it again, and again, helpless, choking with dread.
* * *
The gunshot sent a surge of fear and strength through Amelia. Still holding the hot barrel, she grabbed the flailing Lorena by the throat, pushed her off, turned and forced her down onto the dirty green carpet. She straddled Lorena, a violent rage coming over her. She ripped the Colt out of the old woman’s hand and tightened her grip on Lorena’s throat. She wanted to choke her to death. She wanted to shoot her. Amelia pointed the gun at Lorena’s face.
Lorena stopped moving. Staring at Amelia with hate. Lying still beneath her. Waiting for her granddaughter to pull the trigger and end her miserable life.
Amelia held her down and pressed the muzzle of the Colt into the middle of Lorena’s forehead. She tightened her finger on the trigger.
And then Amelia heard Demarco Jones yelling her name over and over.
“Amelia. Amelia. Amelia!”
She froze. The sound of her name cut into her, bringing her back from the brink. She felt her heart pounding, her ragged breaths coming in gasps.
What was she doing? How could she let this bitter, hateful woman make her kill her own flesh and blood, commit a murder that would bring more death, more misery, more police and danger into Beck’s life and the lives of the men who had saved her? How could she let Lorena prove once and for all that she really was worthless?
No. No. She tore herself away from the old woman, turned toward the heavy coffee table, and smashed the gun down on it, over and over. Slamming it against the hard wood. The cylinder popped open. Bullets flew. The barrel bent and the handle split.
Amelia threw the ruined gun away from her and stood up, backing away from Lorena. She was breathless, crying, everything pouring out of her—the loss, the pain, her fear, anger, confusion. Her shame. Letting it all out. Leaving it all behind. Turning her back on the life Lorena Leon represented once and for all.
* * *
Demarco was just about to run around to the front entrance when he saw Amelia emerge into the courtyard, wiping her face with her sleeve, replacing her glasses, blinking back the remains of her tears.
He stopped, his heart still pounding from exertion and fear, fear that she had been shot by that crazy, unstable old woman. But no. There was no blood. No look of pain. Amelia walked toward him without expression. He had no idea what had happened in Lorena’s apartment, but it didn’t matter. Amelia was alive. She was safe.
He went toward Amelia and took her hand. Before he could ask her anything, she shook her head and grabbed his arm. Demarco walked her out of the courtyard, neither of them saying anything.
When they reached the car, Amelia walked to the passenger side. Demarco looked at her over the roof.
She said, “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have come here.”
“What did she do? Did she try to shoot you?”
“Worse. She tried to make me as bad as she is. But I’m not. I’m done with her, Demarco. I’m done with all of it. It’s over. It’s finally over.”
ALSO BY JOHN CLARKSON
THE JAMES BECK NOVELS
Among Thieves
And Justice for One
One Way Out
&nbs
p; One Man’s Law
New Lots
Reed’s Promise
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOHN CLARKSON is the author of six previous novels, including the first James Beck novel, Among Thieves, as well as And Justice for One. He spent many years in the New York advertising industry—as a copywriter, running his own agency, and as a private consultant. He lives in Brooklyn, New York. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Also by John Clarkson
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
BRONX REQUIEM. Copyright © 2016 by John Clarkson. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photograph by TJ Scott
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Clarkson, John, 1947– author.
Title: Bronx requiem / John Clarkson.
Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016021609 | ISBN 9781250047250 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781466847613 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Ex-convicts—Fiction. | Revenge—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3553.L3443 B76 2016 | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016021609
e-ISBN 9781466847613
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First Edition: November 2016