Bronx Requiem

by John Clarkson

Manny whipped the long barrel of his .38 against someone’s head to put him down. Ciro rammed the butt of the Bennelli into the last man standing.

  It took nine seconds from the time the door broke open until everyone lay flat on the floor.

  Beck felt his heart pounding. He was out of breath. He wiped his brass knuckles off on an old upholstered chair then slipped them back into his pockets.

  Demarco walked into the room holding the Winchester shotgun in one hand and the arm of a barefoot young woman showing a good deal of skin in his other hand. He sat her in a straight-back chair near a beat-up red velour couch.

  All the shouting had stopped. Ciro kept his shotgun pointed at the crew while Manny went from prone body to prone body, telling them to put their hands on the back of their heads as he searched them for weapons and ID. When he found a gun, he tossed it on the ratty couch.

  Beck heard gasping from the man he’d knocked unconscious, the kind of labored breathing that occurs when a brain has shut down except for the autonomic reactions that keep a heart beating and lungs working. He rolled Tyrell Williams over on his side so he wouldn’t choke on the blood flowing from his broken nose.

  He looked for the one he thought he’d skulled with the brass-knuckled backhand, hoping he hadn’t killed him. He found him lying flat on the floor, his right hand pressed against a bleeding forehead. It was Derrick Watkins, quietly cursing at the pain.

  Beck walked to the front door and wedged it into the cracked frame, sealing off the apartment from the landing. Demarco took a position near the door, his shotgun held low, aimed at the group.

  Beck asked Demarco, “Anybody else in the back?”

  “Nope.”

  Ciro firing the Benelli had caused a lot of noise, but it certainly helped put a stop to anybody fighting back. Nobody was dead. None of Beck’s crew was injured. So far, so good, as long as the two shotgun blasts didn’t bring the police.

  Beck waited until Manny finished disarming and collecting identification from the last man on the floor, then he sat on the scabby red couch and gathered the guns and other weapons into a pile.

  There were six men of various sizes and ages on the dirty floor of the Mount Hope Place apartment. All of them had been armed, but none of them had been able to get off a shot.

  Beck looked at the girl sitting to his right. She was dressed in a way that revealed nearly everything about her body. Her short-shorts and tight T-shirt made it difficult for Beck not to stare, which, of course, was exactly the point of the clothes.

  He didn’t want to hear the answer to the question he was about to ask, but he asked it.

  “Young lady.”

  Amelia looked over at Beck.

  “What’s your name?”

  She paused for a moment, staring at Beck with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher. She seemed stunned, yet, at the same time, strangely alert. She took a quick look at the bodies on the floor, and then answered, “Princess.”

  Beck paused. Speaking carefully, he said, “No. I don’t mean your working name. What’s your real name?”

  “Why?”

  “Are you Amelia Johnson?”

  She stopped looking at Derrick’s crew on the floor and turned to Beck. “Who are you?”

  “My name is James Beck. I was a friend of your father’s.”

  He saw a look of confusion on the young girl’s face. It confirmed two things. She was, in fact, Amelia Johnson, and she probably didn’t know her father had been shot and killed.

  Amelia asked, “What do you mean, was?”

  Beck hesitated. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. Which one of these is Derrick Watkins?”

  Amelia didn’t answer, but tipped her head toward Derrick.

  Beck said to Amelia, “Would you do me a favor? Go in the kitchen and get a towel or something. Run cold water over it, wring it out, and give it to Derrick.”

  Amelia stared at Beck for a moment, then got up to do as he’d asked.

  Beck turned to the bleeding man on the floor.

  “Derrick, get up and go sit in that chair.”

  Derrick lifted his head off the floor to glare at Beck, but made no move to get up. Manny Guzman stood closest to him. Without a second’s hesitation, he began kicking Derrick Watkins—hard, fast, brutal kicks into his leg and ribs. Derrick scrambled away from the kicks and got to his feet. He staggered over to the chair and fell into it more than sat on it.

  The others watched, but didn’t move.

  Amelia returned from the kitchen with a threadbare hand towel she had rinsed as Beck had asked. She’d also put on her pink hoodie, zipping it up to her neck. She handed the towel to Derrick without looking at him.

  Beck thanked her and said, “One more favor. There are bedrooms back there, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go back and find me a couple of pillowcases if you can, and bring them out here.”

  Beck spoke to Amelia, but stared at Derrick Watkins, taking in the sight of him. Coming to an opinion about him.

  Derrick sat in the upholstered armchair, holding the wet towel to his bleeding head.

  Beck took note that Derrick appeared to be older than most of the others in the room. He wore better clothes than expected: a square-cut oversized shirt that hung out over black, pleated slacks, and black suede sneakers.

  Beck figured him for midthirties, about twenty pounds overweight, mean, blank eyes. He had none of the expected gang tattoos or garish jewelry, but he did have a typical hateful, defiant expression.

  One other person on the floor also looked to be older than the others. He was the largest in the room, and like Derrick dressed in conventional clothes instead of the baggy jeans and T-shirts the others wore. Beck figured him for close to 230 pounds and had the feeling he was the kind who used his size to intimidate. Maybe he could actually back that up, thought Beck, but he had the feeling the guy would probably be more likely to pay or coerce somebody else to do his violence for him.

  The question was, which one of these had shot his friend Packy Johnson?

  Beck turned his attention back to Derrick Watkins.

  Amelia Johnson returned carrying two pillowcases that at one time must have been white, but were now discolored with indelible stains where too many dirty heads had lain. She handed them to Beck without a word. She also had a small handbag over her right shoulder and had put on a pair of platform high-heeled shoes.

  Beck thought, maybe she thinks I’m going to let her leave now, but she sat back down on the chair near the couch.

  Beck looked carefully at her face, trying to see signs of drug addiction or fear or depression in her eyes. She looked alert, although he did see a remoteness in her eyes he couldn’t quite figure out.

  Beck used one of the pillowcases to methodically wipe down all the guns they had taken from the crew. He divided the guns evenly into the two pillowcases, tossing in a few knives Manny had also collected. Then he tied off both pillowcases and laid them on the couch.

  Finally, Beck spoke to Derrick Watkins.

  “Why are you and all your friends here?”

  Derrick stared back at Beck, saying nothing.

  Beck held his gaze on Derrick Watkins, resisting the urge to put a bullet in one of Derrick’s limbs and asked again.

  “All right, Mr. Watkins, let me explain something. Just so you understand. If I ask you something and I hear anything that sounds like bullshit, I’m going to have my friend shoot off your left foot.”

  Ciro Baldassare pumped the Benelli and pointed it at Derrick’s foot.

  “Then we’ll tighten a belt around your calf and I’ll ask you again. Make a second mistake, and we’ll blow off your right foot. Think you can make it past your hands?

  “One more time. What are you and all these others doing here?”

  Derrick shifted in the overstuffed upholstered chair. Ciro stood unmoving, the unwavering shotgun aimed directly at Derrick’s left foot.

  Derrick pointed his chin at Amelia. “Ha
d a run-in with her father. I figured it was best to clear out of the area for a bit. Any shit happens over in Bronx River Houses, cops always come knockin’ on my door.”

  “You’re getting close to losing a foot, Derrick. Why are all of you here?”

  “It’s my fuckin’ crew, man. We hang together.”

  Beck looked at Ciro. Ciro lowered the shotgun so the muzzle was even closer to Derrick’s foot. Derrick moved his foot back. “Wait, wait. It wasn’t just me. We all took him down. Someone calls me out, they call all of us out.”

  “Uh-huh. So it took all six of you lowlife cowards to beat up one guy?”

  “He’s the one who came lookin’ for trouble, man. And it wasn’t all six. Just five of us.”

  “Oh, so who wasn’t there?”

  Derrick hesitated. From the floor, Jerome Watkins spoke. “I wasn’t there.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I’m his brother.”

  “What’s your brother doing here, Derrick?”

  “We got business to talk over.”

  “What business?”

  Derrick tilted his head toward Amelia again. “Got to decide what to do with that bitch. Guy comin’ around causing all sorts of trouble, bringing attention on me. Fuck it. Time to cut her loose. Goddam, broke-ass bitch can’t even earn a pimp his money. So we discussed kickin’ her to the curb. Lettin’ her go back to her broke-ass father.”

  Beck looked at Amelia for a moment. She stared intently at Derrick. Beck turned back to Derrick, thinking about his answer. It didn’t escape him that Derrick Watkins talked as if Packy Johnson were still alive.

  “Just like that. Let her go? Like everything is okay? She doesn’t owe you anything?”

  “Hell yeah, she owes me. But like I say, fuck it. She a bad investment. A mistake. Smart businessman cuts his losses. What the fuck is the problem? Her father’s the nigger who started all this mess. He come into my hood callin’ me out, what you think is going to happen? He got a ass whipping. So what? Why you all up in here with guns and shit?”

  Beck leaned forward, “Because after the ass whipping, you or one of your crew followed Packy Johnson out of that housing project and shot him in the back of the head like the sneaking, pimping, lowlife cowards you are.”

  Derrick Watkins pulled the bloody towel from his head. His reaction was immediate.

  “Fuck we did. Nobody…”

  But the thunder of a gun exploding in the enclosed room obliterated Derrick’s words.

  Amelia Johnson stood firing a handgun at Derrick Watkins, a gun still cold from the kitchen freezer, its barrel hissing as the exploding gunpowder heated the barrel.

  The first bullet hit Derrick in the upper chest, slightly to the left. As the recoil bucked the handgun higher, the second bullet hit his mouth, taking out most of the lower third of his face. The third bullet hit him slightly off-center in the middle of his forehead, blowing most of his brains out the back of his skull. The fourth bullet missed entirely, burrowing into the wall behind Derrick Watkins.

  Ciro and Manny both ducked and turned their weapons on Amelia, but their discipline held, and they didn’t shoot her.

  Beck was about to lunge off the couch to knock her down, but held back, knowing if she kept pulling the trigger she might hit Manny as she fell.

  And then, as quickly as it had started, the gunfire stopped.

  While she pulled the trigger, she’d kept her eyes on her target, but now Amelia swept the gun from side to side, yelling, “Stay back. Back away,” as she walked toward the front door.

  Beck held up a hand. Manny kept his gun lowered. Ciro did the same with the shotgun. Demarco stood between the door and Amelia. He had laid down the Winchester and now held his Glock 17 behind his back, his eyes never leaving Amelia as she moved toward him. He glanced at Beck, knowing the safest thing would be a head shot, killing her instantly, eliminating any chance she could pull the trigger and injure one of them.

  The decision had to be made now. Shoot her, or let her go. Demarco glanced again at Beck. He gave him a quick headshake, no. Demarco reached up, grabbed the top of the battered door, and tipped it open, holding it between him and the girl, his Glock still ready behind his back. Amelia pointed her gun at Demarco as she slipped out the door.

  As soon as Amelia disappeared, Demarco, Manny, and Ciro turned to Beck. He knew he didn’t have much time to make several crucial decisions. In fact, he had no time.

  18

  As John Palmer drove down Jerome Avenue toward Mount Hope Place, he thought he heard the sound of four, quick, distant gunshots. But the strain of the last hours combined with his fatigue made him unsure. And then he realized how close he was to a known location for Derrick Watkins. Gunshots, definitely.

  He flicked on the grill-light flashers and stopped in the middle of Jerome Avenue to report shots fired at the address he had been given for Derrick Watkins. He called for assistance from any available units in the area, turned on the rest of the unmarked Dodge Charger’s emergency lights, and accelerated forward, tapping his siren when needed to clear away traffic. He glanced at his GPS screen and saw the turnoff onto Mount Hope Place was two blocks away.

  * * *

  Beck cursed in frustration. Where the hell did she get that gun? It must have been hidden somewhere in the apartment. She’d brought it back in the pocket of her hoodie. No time to worry about it now.

  He patted his shirt pocket to make sure he had the IDs Manny had collected from Derrick’s crew. In three seconds, he ran through a series of decisions.

  Let Derrick’s crew go. He didn’t want them around identifying him. If he had to, he’d find them.

  He confirmed to himself that he’d wiped down the guns they’d collected enough to obliterate Manny’s prints. Leave them. Too dangerous to be caught with two pillowcases filled with guns.

  Anything else? Gather the cartridges from the shots fired by Amelia? No. There’d be nothing about them that could lead to Beck or his men.

  Beck stood, yelling at the five on the floor. “Get up. Get the fuck out of here. Now! Use the fire escape out back. You come out the front door, we’ll shoot you. Go.”

  They didn’t need any encouragement. Four jumped up and scrambled toward the back of the apartment. Beck and Manny had to lift Tyrell Williams to his feet and push him in the right direction. He wobbled away, bracing himself against the hallway wall.

  “D, get the car.”

  Demarco tossed his shotgun to Beck and ran out the door, using the handrails to fly down the stairs four and five at a time.

  The others shoved their guns into pants pockets and waistbands and rushed after Demarco. By the time they were halfway down the stairs, Demarco had the Mercury fired up. He pulled out into the street just as John Palmer turned onto Mount Hope Place.

  Demarco saw Palmer’s lights flashing behind him at the top of the block.

  Up ahead, Beck and Manny stepped out of the house, followed by Ciro a few paces behind. They walked quickly, Beck and Ciro holding the shotguns down out of view.

  Demarco accelerated toward them, the Mercury’s wide tires screeching and melting rubber into the asphalt.

  Palmer noticed immediately. He turned his sirens on full blast and accelerated after the black car up ahead, taking note of the two men heading toward the street, followed by a third man.

  Demarco screeched to a halt. Beck jumped into the backseat, climbing over Leon Miller, Manny coming in behind, leaving the front passenger seat for Ciro.

  The unmarked NYPD Charger closed the distance fast.

  Without a second’s hesitation, Ciro Baldassare strode into the middle of the street, raised the Benelli and pumped round after round of 12-gauge shot into the onrushing police car.

  His first blast blew apart the grill, radiator, and emergency lights. His second two shots tore the front tire off the right wheel. The Charger swerved on its bare spinning rim and crashed into a parked car. But Ciro wasn’t finished. He blasted two shots into the engine block,
and two more into the front window.

  When the Charger smacked into the parked car, John Palmer pitched forward into the exploding steering wheel airbag. The impact momentarily paralyzed him, but he quickly shoved aside the deflated bag and threw himself down behind the dashboard as shotgun pellets disintegrated the windshield above him and tore through the upholstery and interior of the car. Palmer didn’t even think about returning fire.

  Walking backward toward the Mercury, Ciro expended his last shell into the wrecked hulk of Palmer’s police car and calmly slid into the passenger seat.

  Demarco floored the accelerator and the Mercury flew down the block. He braked hard and slid into a left turn the wrong way on a one-way street, then took a quick right onto another one-way street, but this time going in the correct direction.

  They heard the deep woop, woop of police sirens coming from multiple directions.

  Demarco slowed down. He drove quickly and precisely, determined to get as far from where the police were converging as fast as possible.

  Leon Miller sat with hands covering his bowed head, repeating quiet curses over and over.

  Beck and the others braced themselves as Demarco braked and turned and maneuvered. About a half mile from the shooting, Demarco finally stopped at a red light. In the backseat, Beck unlocked Leon’s handcuffs. He told Demarco, “Pull over for a second.”

  When the car reached the curb, Beck stepped out, dragging Leon with him.

  He made sure the slim youth was on his feet and steady, and then said to him, “Here’s what you are going to do. Are you listening?”

  He got a blank look from Leon. Beck slapped the side of his head.

  “Look at me, Leon. Derrick Watkins is dead.”

  “Shit.”

  “Shut up. There were five guys from his crew up there. Including his brother. They got out alive. They’re going to figure out you’re the one who led us to them. You have to disappear, Leon. For a long time. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “Go somewhere nobody will find you.” Beck stared at him to make sure Leon got the message. “Got it?”

  “Yes. Yes. Disappear. I got peoples in South Carolina. I can go there.”