Bronx Requiem

by John Clarkson

  Manny gave Demarco a short nod, his eyes on the car midway down the block.

  * * *

  Amelia spotted the two men at the other end of Hoe Avenue coming her way at the same time she saw Tyrell and Biggie sitting in a white Toyota Avalon three cars ahead of her.

  She stopped and turned toward the curb, her heart pounding. She kept her head down, but turned to check out the two at the other end of the block. Shit! She recognized them. The tall black guy who had opened the door for her at Derrick’s place, and the shorter Hispanic one who had searched Derrick’s crew for guns.

  They had to be after Tyrell and Biggie, too.

  She couldn’t move. She bit down to stop herself from screaming in frustration.

  Not now. Not when I’m so close. Goddam them. I’ll shoot them first if they get in my way. But then she told herself, Take it easy. You barely have enough bullets for Tyrell and Biggie, much less those other two.

  She tried to remember how many times she’d shot at Derrick. Three? Four?

  It didn’t matter. She was closer. Walk up to Biggie’s car and start shooting. That would drive the other two off. Shoot right through the windshield. Grab their money and run. Now. Do it now.

  She turned and reached under the blanket for her gun.

  * * *

  Demarco and Manny were about to split apart when they saw the woman on the street with a shopping cart filled with soda cans.

  Great, thought Demarco, a damn homeless can-collector walking right into the middle of their play.

  Manny saw her, too, and stopped a few steps ahead of Demarco. He turned to him and guided Demarco over to a building near the corner. He leaned back and faced Demarco.

  “Let the homeless woman pass by and get off the block, and then we’ll take them down.”

  Demarco stood facing Manny, his head turned slightly to watch the can-collector up the block. And then Demarco said, “Aw, hell.”

  * * *

  Amelia kept her gaze down. She held the Ruger under her blanket, eyes on Biggie and Tyrell in the front seat. There were three cars and a stretch of empty curb between her and them.

  She had an overwhelming urge to walk faster, but she forced herself to keep a slow pace, pulling the shopping cart behind her.

  She felt her heart pounding. The gun seemed very heavy in her hand, held awkwardly under the blanket. She advanced within two car lengths. She saw Tyrell turning to talk to Biggie, who didn’t look at him. Biggie kept his attention across the street on her grandmother’s place. She saw Tyrell lift a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor to his mouth. He drained the bottle and in the next second opened the car door, stepped out, and walked toward the small park with the empty bottle in his hand.

  Without even thinking about it, Amelia followed him into the park.

  * * *

  Manny said, “What?”

  “Guy just got out of the car. The can-collector followed him into that little playground.”

  “Christ, she probably wants the bottle he’s carrying.”

  “It’s not the empty bottle she wants,” said Demarco. “That’s the girl, Manny. Look how tall she is. Same skin tone. That’s Packy’s kid. The one who shot Derrick Watkins.”

  Manny turned to get a quick look before Amelia and Tyrell disappeared into the park.

  “Goddammit,” said Manny. “Come on.”

  Manny ran as fast as his bowed legs would carry him, Demarco gliding along right behind him.

  * * *

  There was a toddler-size slide and a set of monkey bars in the center of the small park, and nothing else. Past the play area, a short chain-link fence, a wall of foliage, and small trees blocked the park from the empty lot beyond it. There was nobody else in the park.

  Amelia followed Tyrell at a distance. He was oblivious to her presence, intent on emptying his bladder after downing forty ounces of malt liquor.

  Amelia hung back until Tyrell found a spot at the back of the little park near the foliage. Tyrell tossed the empty malt liquor bottle into the bushes.

  He unzipped his pants.

  Amelia waited patiently, then moved within five feet behind him. She carefully aimed at the small of his back, anticipating that the pistol would kick up and the bullet would hit him dead center.

  She held the Ruger with two hands, concentrating, ready this time for the sharp crack and recoil. She squinted in anticipation. As she was about to pull the trigger, Tyrell sensed someone behind him. She held off. Amelia wanted him to see her. Still holding his penis, he looked over his shoulder. Amelia pulled the blanket off her head and waited until he recognized her before she pulled the trigger.

  The first bullet obliterated Tyrell Williams’s lower spine. The impact pushed his pelvis forward. Paralyzed from the waist down, his legs folded under him. He felt hardly any pain as he sagged to the ground in an awkward heap, landing mostly on his back.

  Amelia walked to him. She made sure Tyrell was looking at her. She couldn’t clearly hear his cries or pleas, or whatever noise came out of his mouth because the gunshot had deafened her somewhat. She carefully aimed the gun at his chest, even as he raised his hands to ward off the shot. She fired three times. Three steady, even shots. The first bullet went through his sternum. The second bullet took out a lung and clipped his heart. The last bullet hit his throat, cutting off any chance of Tyrell Williams finishing the curse he tried to scream at Amelia Johnson.

  * * *

  Biggie Watkins didn’t hesitate. When he heard the first gunshot, he came out of his car with not one, but two guns in his hands. He couldn’t see into the playground where the gunshots had sounded, but he saw Demarco Jones and Manny Guzman coming at him from down the block.

  Without a second’s hesitation, he raised his guns and began shooting at them with both hands.

  Manny and Demarco veered away from each other so Biggie had to fire in two directions. Watkins spread his arms and kept shooting.

  Demarco slipped behind the back of a car for cover, letting off a fast shot that blew out the back window of Watkins’s Toyota. He leaned out, took careful aim, and shot at Watkins, but missed as the big man moved around behind the open driver’s-side door.

  Manny Guzman did not duck, did not take cover, did not stop. He continued advancing on the sidewalk toward Watkins, who remained in the street, using his car door for cover.

  Watkins extended his right hand around the door and fired two shots at Demarco. Then he popped up just high enough to get his left hand above the roof of the car and shoot at Manny.

  Manny kept advancing.

  Demarco leaned out again from behind the car where he was crouched, knowing Manny would not stop, and fired three times to give Manny cover.

  Demarco had to shoot with his left hand, leaning out from behind a car thirty feet from Watkins. His first shot went wide. On his second shot he overcompensated, and it hit the trunk of the car. The third shot hit the Toyota’s door.

  Watkins kept firing blindly and almost nailed Manny. Manny continued toward him without even flinching.

  Demarco cursed, slipped out from behind cover, switched hands, and fired shot after steady shot at Watkins mostly to distract Watkins’s attention from Manny. Nine-millimeter bullets blew out the driver’s-side door window and banged into the car door, forcing Watkins to drop flat onto the street. That meant Biggie couldn’t shoot at Manny now, so he aimed both guns from under the car door and fired at Demarco.

  One of Watkins’s bullets ricocheted up off the street and zinged past the side of Demarco’s face. He felt the heat of it sizzle past him. Demarco dropped down and fired back, trying to get a shot under the car door.

  Manny Guzman reached the Toyota, calmly stepped around the front of the car, and put two bullets into the back of Jerome Watkins’s head.

  Demarco saw Manny behind Watkins, heard the two quick shots. He knew beyond any doubt Manny had killed him.

  Demarco jumped up and ran forward. Manny pocketed his Charter Arms Bulldog and stood waiting f
or Demarco.

  Manny said, “Come on, let’s get him out of the way. We’ll take his car.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “He can’t do anything for us and, from the sound of it, she nailed him. Let’s go.”

  Manny bent down and grabbed the left ankle. Demarco grabbed the right ankle, and they unceremoniously dragged Biggie Watkins around the Toyota onto the sidewalk.

  Demarco hustled back to the driver’s seat. The keys were still in the car. Manny slipped into the passenger seat.

  Demarco pulled the driver’s door shut, and the remains of the window fell in on him. He peeled out from the parking space, made a hard right, and shot down 172nd Street heading toward Ricky Bolo’s Impala.

  Manny braced himself in the passenger seat, pointed to the floor on his side, and calmly said, “You see this shit these guys had in here?”

  Demarco didn’t take the time to look at what Manny pointed at as he raced through an intersection and pulled the bullet-ridden Toyota into a bus stop near where he had parked the Impala. Only then did he look down at the rope and duct tape.

  Manny said, “They had some nasty plans for Packy’s kid.”

  “Yeah, well, she had her own plan. Damn fools sitting out there where anybody could find them.”

  “You surprised?”

  “No.”

  Demarco shoved the Toyota into park. He wiped down the wheel and gearshift, and the door handle on his side, but didn’t bother turning off the engine. Maybe somebody in the neighborhood would help themselves to the car and make things tougher for the police.

  He waited for Manny to wipe down his door handle and then both hustled into the Impala. Demarco pulled out carefully and drove off at a normal speed.

  * * *

  At the sound of the first gunshots, Amelia Johnson had ducked down near the body of Tyrell. While the gunfire blasted out on the street, she carefully went through Tyrell’s pockets, searching for his money. She found a fold of bills in his front pocket. Nothing in the wallet of his back pocket. She replaced the wallet and made her way to the park entrance, keeping out of sight.

  She waited a few moments after the shooting stopped, came out of the small playground with her shopping cart, and calmly walked over to Biggie Watkins. The two bullets from Manny Guzman’s .357 caliber Charter Arms Bulldog had blown through Biggie’s head and destroyed most of his face.

  Amelia felt a strange mix of disappointment and happiness. They had killed him. She supposed that was good, but she still felt a need to point her gun at Biggie Watkins and fire a bullet into the dead bulk of the man lying on the street in front of her. The big body twitched. She fired again. And again. But on the third pull, nothing happened. She had no more bullets.

  She carefully slipped the gun into her waistband, feeling the heat of the barrel against her abdomen. She calmly squatted near the body and stripped Biggie of his money. She dropped his wallet next to him, and disappeared from the block before anybody emerged to view the carnage.

  39

  The sight of Eastern Correctional still sent a sick feeling into Beck’s gut, but as he watched Walter walk out to the parking lot it seemed as if the prison had hit Walter even harder.

  Walter slipped into the passenger seat with a sigh, leaned back, silent for a moment.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Very much as you suspected. They pretty much stonewalled me.”

  “Was it the usual closing of ranks, or do you think there was something else behind it?”

  “I don’t want to think that, but my gut tells me there is. Which makes it all the worse.”

  “I’ll go with your gut, Walter.”

  “Fortunately, we don’t have to.”

  “Why?”

  “I got lucky. They gave me a desk in the social services office to conduct my interviews. One of the women working nearby heard me and came forward. She told me she knew someone who might help.”

  “Who?”

  “A high-ranking correction officer. A female captain. She gave me her cell number.”

  “Did you call her?”

  “Yes, but she refused to talk to me. Especially on the phone. She also refused to let the social services lady act as a go-between. She didn’t want to have contact with anyone connected to Eastern.”

  “Is there any way we can convince her to talk to you?”

  “No need. I offered you.”

  Beck shot Walter a surprised look. “And she agreed?”

  “She figured there would be zero chance you’d talk to anybody in the department.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “She agreed to meet you at the Mobil station in Ellenville at five-fifteen. Said her name was Rita, but I have no idea if it’s her real name.”

  Beck looked at his watch. 4:05.

  “Perfect. Just enough time to get my truck.”

  Walter leaned back in his seat and said, “If you don’t mind, James, I’m going to rest my eyes.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Beck drove in silence toward M & T Auto Sales thinking about Walter’s polite euphemism. Resting his eyes. As if he’d been in there reading all day. Within a minute, Walter had fallen asleep.

  Beck left Walter napping in the Mercury while he paid the balance he owed on the truck, signed the rest of the paperwork, and collected the Ranger. When he returned, truck keys in hand, Walter was sitting behind the wheel, awake and waiting. Beck leaned into the open driver’s-side window and said, “Hey, Walter, you know if you want to head back to Brooklyn now, it’s fine with me.”

  “No. I want to hear what the lady CO says to you.”

  “All right. I’ll meet with her, then we’ll have some dinner, and you can head back.”

  “Fine.”

  “As we enter town, you’ll see a church on the right. You park there. I’ll go to the Mobil station and hear what she has to say.”

  “All right.”

  “How will I know who she is?”

  “Her friend says she’s a blonde.”

  Beck gave a short nod. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.”

  Beck kept an eye on his rearview mirror until Walter pulled in to the church parking lot. He continued on to the Mobil station at the edge of town, pulling in at 5:15 P.M. exactly. There was a single row of two pumps with nozzles for cars on each side. A typical convenience store anchored the station.

  A bleached blonde stood at one of the pumps filling up a Subaru Forester that hadn’t been washed in a long time. Beck figured her for about two hundred pounds packed into a pair of slacks and the white shirt worn by high-ranking correction officers. Everything about her seemed round, especially her head and face.

  Beck didn’t know the location of the gas cap on the Ranger. He pulled up to the other side of the pump the woman was using and saw he’d guessed correctly. He knew the truck had a full tank, but he still went through the motions of putting the fuel nozzle into the filler neck.

  Beck decided she had set this up pretty well. Even if someone saw them talking, it would look like two people filling up their gas tanks shooting the shit.

  Rita watched the man on the other side of the pump carefully. He almost looked like a local. Sturdy. Ordinary clothes. Maybe hands that were too clean for a workingman, but at least he didn’t pull up in an expensive car wearing clothes with a bunch of logos.

  Beck turned to face the woman laid back against the truck, and said, “Is your name Rita?”

  “Is yours Beck?”

  She had a voice that sounded like she had been chain-smoking and shouting for decades.

  Beck nodded and waited.

  “I hear you want to know about Paco Johnson.”

  “Yes. Did you know he was murdered?”

  She said, “As of a few hours ago.”

  “Do you have any idea why?”

  “You served time with him?”

  Beck nodded. “At Clinton and Eastern.”

  “You’re the one who got his convic
tion overturned.”

  “Because I didn’t commit a crime.”

  Rita smirked. “I never met a con who did.”

  Beck said, “You have now.”

  The woman looked at the digital readout of her pump. She seemed to be looking to turn it off at some dollar number, but then decided to keep going until her tank filled.

  “Answer me one question. If I tell you what I know, what are you going to do with the information?”

  He gave Rita the same answer he’d given Walter. “I’m going to do the right thing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m going to do the right thing.”

  Beck watched her hover between leaving and talking to him.

  “This is crazy, talking to an ex-con about this.”

  “About what? You haven’t told me anything.”

  The gas pump shut off as Rita’s tank reached full. She hesitated. Looked up, looked at Beck. He didn’t want a full tank to be the thing that tipped her into leaving.

  “Leaving now won’t accomplish anything.”

  Rita had her hand on the fuel nozzle, but didn’t pull it out.

  Beck said, “I’m guessing there’s something going on in that prison you can’t tell the bosses about. Maybe you don’t have enough information, or enough proof, or if you try to do something about it, you’re going to get jammed up. Even with your rank I’m betting it won’t be easy going up against the men’s club that runs the place.’

  “And you think you can do something about it?”

  Beck thought of Walter’s answer. “I can try.”

  Rita continued to struggle.

  Beck said, “Sorry you don’t have a better choice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You want to do something about the people who caused the death of an innocent man. But you don’t want to talk to an ex-con you don’t know who might do something outside the law.”

  Rita looked at Beck. “Well, at least you’re not stupid.”

  “What if I told you I’ve never committed a criminal act? Never even got a parking ticket. Bounced a check. Stolen a dime. The only thing I have to do with crime was being a victim of it.”