It didn’t surprise Beck. Rita had confirmed that Remsen was a drinker. This was where Sam Herbert said the correction officers hung out. What else was there to do on a Thursday night?
Beck looked at Remsen, but only for a few seconds, not wanting to attract his attention. He scanned everyone else at the bar. It seemed like a typical blue-collar crowd. Nearest him sat an overweight fellow drinking beer who seemed friendly enough, prematurely bald, wearing thick glasses resting halfway down his nose. Two stools past the bald guy sat a tall man in a checked shirt and jeans stained with roofing tar. He sipped straight whiskey at a steady pace, occasionally glancing at the old TV behind the bar. Past him sat a couple, both in their forties, both with mixed drinks in their hands. Beck guessed gin and tonics. They were pleasantly drunk. The woman was sloppy and overweight, wearing a faded old red sweatshirt bearing the Coca-Cola logo. Her partner had turned his bar stool to face her. He was bearded, skinny, talked with a raspy smoker’s voice, slurring his words and occasionally emitting a harsh, annoying, phlegm-filled laugh.
Beck realized every person in the bar had come here to drink until they were drunk. It both depressed him and made him feel like drinking.
He watched the woman working the bar. She moved with easy efficiency. Beck admired that, and he admired her looks. She was the kind of woman who attracted a male clientele, but wasn’t overly concerned by the attention. She dressed in jeans that fit her well and a white shirt. She had dark brown hair stacked on her head to keep it out of her way, which somehow made her look both businesslike and sensual.
She headed in Beck’s direction, gave him a quick smile, and asked, “What can I get you?”
Beck smiled back and said, “A Budweiser and a Jameson neat. And a menu.”
She dropped a menu in front of Beck encased in yellowing plastic marred by a cigarette burn in the corner. She went to pull a Bud from her cooler and set the wet, cold bottle on the bar, leaving Beck to twist off the cap while she grabbed the Jameson from the back bar and poured a generous amount of the Irish whiskey into a four-ounce water glass. The menu looked so stained and old he didn’t even consider ordering food. He scanned the back bar and spied a rack with chips and Beer Nuts.
There was also an old twenty-seven-inch Toshiba TV mounted on a shelf behind the bar. The Yankees were playing the Red Sox, a game that would normally interest Beck, but not on a small screen viewed from the side.
The woman bartender returned and asked Beck what he wanted.
Beck said, “How about a couple of bags of those Beer Nuts?”
She smiled at him, seeming to approve of his decision to avoid anything on the menu. Beck decided he liked this woman.
When she put the two bags of peanuts on the bar next to his drink, Beck asked, “What’s your name?”
“Janice,” she replied.
Beck extended his hand. “Tom.”
She hesitated for a moment, and then reached out to shake Beck’s hand. She seemed a little embarrassed. Her hand was cold and wet from reaching into the beer cooler, and her skin was rough. Beck made sure to hold her hand softly and smile back.
“Thanks,” he said, not sure what he was thanking her for. The service, or for shaking his hand, or both.
Janice nodded and moved off. As she walked away, Beck took time to enjoy the view of Janice from behind and looked for a wedding ring. There was none.
Beck opened the Beer Nuts, took a large sip of his whiskey, chased it with a swig of cold beer, and tossed a small handful of peanuts into his mouth. It all tasted fine.
He had a fairly clear side view of Oswald Remsen and the man opposite him who blocked his view of the third man at the table.
Remsen had not aged well. He was about fifteen pounds heavier than when Beck had last seen him, and back then he was overweight. His hair had thinned and gone a dirty gray.
When Beck was at Eastern, he had little interaction with Remsen. Oswald Remsen was the kind of guard who always looked to find something wrong so he could give somebody a hard time. Prison guard or prisoner, nobody wanted to fall within his gaze. It rarely turned out well.
Beck sat calmly, drinking his whiskey and beer, eating his peanuts, trying to blend in. He watched Janice. Glanced at the ball game. Kept track of Remsen and the other two. He felt the effects of the booze on his empty stomach and didn’t mind it at all.
The tall working guy with the roofing-tar-stained jeans drained his glass and left.
Five minutes later, a heavyset man entered through the parking lot door. Beck recognized him. Another correction officer from Eastern who had worked Beck’s tier back in the day. His last name was Morgan. As with most prison guards, Beck never heard his first name. Morgan had also gained considerable weight.
He walked straight to Oswald’s table and sat next to him, nodded to the other two, but talked quietly to Remsen. Remsen didn’t even bother to turn and look at Morgan. He just nodded a couple of times.
After Morgan finished reporting in, he pulled an envelope from his back pocket and slipped it to Oswald Remsen under the table. If Beck hadn’t been watching carefully, he might have missed it.
Remsen took the envelope and shoved it into the inside breast pocket of his tan Windbreaker. Less than a minute later, Morgan nodded to the other two and left. He didn’t stay for a beer.
Beck had finished his generous shot of Jameson and most of his beer.
Janice came by and asked, “Another round?”
“Sure.”
When she returned with his drinks, Beck said, “Pretty busy for a Thursday night.”
“Not really. The usual regulars.”
“First time for me.”
“Yeah, I haven’t seen you in here before.”
Beck ripped open his second bag of peanuts and offered the open bag to Janice before he took any.
She said, “No, thanks.”
Beck smiled back. “Come on, you burn a ton of calories on your feet back here all night.”
“Don’t remind me about my feet.”
“That’s the worst part of it, standing all night.”
“You tend bar?” she asked.
Beck nodded. “I’ve spent a little time behind the stick. How long have you been at it?”
“Too long.”
Janice turned away and headed off to the far end of the bar. Clearly, Janice had mastered the art of being friendly while avoiding lengthy conversations with the patrons.
Beck started in on his second round of beer and whiskey. He slowed down, but the arrivals and departures of men bringing payments to Remsen didn’t. Over the next forty-five minutes, three more men came in, spoke to Remsen, slipped him envelopes. The last of them stayed for a beer, but he was the only one. It was as if the others really didn’t want to be seen with Remsen.
Beck had a few more words with Janice. He kept it casual. Janice responded in kind, but when Beck asked her if the man sitting in the back was the owner, Janice’s brow furrowed and she quickly moved off without saying a word.
Son of a bitch. Remsen owns this shit hole. She’s not worried about talking to me. She’s worried about Remsen seeing her talk to me.
44
By the time Palmer and Ippolito arrived at the murder scene on Hoe Avenue, the Crime Scene Unit had sealed off the entire block.
The detective in charge of the CSU, a man named Hallandale, made sure Ippolito and Palmer wore booties and latex gloves. Palmer wanted to check out the dead bodies immediately, but Ippolito stopped him, saying, “Hang on. Let’s try to figure out how this went down.”
They walked near the corpse of Jerome Biggie Watkins laying half on the sidewalk, half in the street. Ippolito pointed to the two guns bagged and left on the ground next to Watkins’s.
Ippolito muttered, “Fucker came well armed.”
Palmer noted all the tent cards placed near shell casings lying on the street. “Looks like he nearly emptied both of ’em.”
Ippolito pointed south down the block. “Bunch of casings
over there, too. I assume he was shooting in that direction. Let’s see if he hit anybody.”
They walked to the next set of tent cards. There was no blood in the area. The CSU personnel had started the tedious job of finding where all the rounds fired from Biggie Watkins’s guns had landed.
Ippolito stood in the middle of the street looking back and forth. Then he turned and walked back toward the Watkins corpse, Palmer following. Hallandale met them and fell in step alongside.
Ippolito asked him, “So the big guy who got nailed, what was he doing? Standing over there banging it out with someone down there?”
“Not quite. We found one witness so far. She says he was standing in the street behind the driver’s-side door of his car, shooting at two men coming from over there.”
“Two?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s the car?”
“The doers who nailed him got away in it.”
“What, they came on foot?”
“Yes, but we found the victim’s car three blocks north at a bus stop, engine running. We figure they left their car there, drove to it, and switched. Although we haven’t found anybody who saw them.”
“And you know it’s the vic’s car how?”
“Two shots in the door. Two shots in the back of the trunk. One through the back window into the dash. And the driver’s-side window was blown out.”
“That’s a lot of hits.”
Hallandale said, “I think whoever put all the shots into the car was mostly providing cover for the second shooter coming up the sidewalk trying to close in on the dead guy.”
Hallandale pointed to a dark Camry back down the street. “Shooter number one took cover behind that car. We got two bullets hitting the front of the vehicle, and we’re still counting more landing around it.”
He pointed to the sidewalk. “Second shooter approached on the sidewalk. Shots were fired at him, but there’s no sign he fired back. No shell casings. Could be a revolver, but there aren’t any bullet holes in the dead guy’s car on that side. I think the second shooter held his fire until he got close enough to nail the big guy.”
“Interesting. Guy must’ve have had some balls walking at some asshole with two guns blazing and not take a shot.”
“That’s the way it looks.”
The three detectives retraced their steps back to Jerome Watkins. Ippolito crouched down and used the gloved forefinger of his right hand to turn the head of the corpse. Most of the face had been blown away by the gunshots to the head.
“Fuck. No open casket for this one. How do you know it’s Jerome Watkins?”
Hallandale said, “Credit cards and some other ID in his wallet. But no license or cash.”
Ippolito smirked, “I’m not surprised. In this neighborhood, he’s lucky he still has his shoes.” Hallandale gave Ippolito a look. “Well, relatively speaking,” said Ippolito.
Watkins’s shirt had been pulled up to reveal the gunshot wounds in his back. Palmer and the CSU detective watched Ippolito squat down and look at the bullet holes.
Ippolito looked up from his crouch and asked, “What do you make of these? You think the guy who shot him in the head put these in him, too?”
“No. Different caliber bullet. I’d say the shots in the back are nines. The head shots are forty-fives, or three-fifty-sevens. I’m guessing now, but I figure while the street shooter is giving him cover, the sidewalk shooter comes around the car and puts two in this guy’s head. Then the street shooter comes up and bangs two shots into him for, I don’t know, for good measure. Or because he’s angry at getting shot at. Whatever. So, two shooters. The body shots were put in him after he was down. One of the slugs went through into the asphalt.”
“Two shooters. Two different guns.”
“Yep.”
Ippolito grunted and stood up straight, his knees creaking. “Fuck. I gotta start working out.”
Palmer said, “Let’s go make sure the other vic is our guy.”
Ippolito and Palmer made their way to the bloody corpse of Tyrell Williams lying in the back of the small park.
“Shit, man,” said Ippolito. “I don’t think those guys like your buddy, Tyrell. They shot the crap out of him.”
Palmer stared at the body. “Fuck. It’s Tyrell all right.”
“What’s left of him? I guess the good news is he doesn’t have to worry about his busted nose anymore.”
“Very funny.”
Palmer examined all the bullet holes, using his pocket Maglite to compensate for the waning daylight.
“Why you figure he’s back here?”
“Well, with his dick out my guess he was taking a piss. Somebody follows him. Shoots him in the back. He goes down. They stand over him, bang, bang, bang—make sure he’s good and dead. I guess Beck and his boys aren’t thrilled about these guys shooting their friend Paco.”
“They shot Tyrell pretty much the same way they shot Derrick Watkins.”
“These boys don’t play around.”
Ippolito walked away from the bloody corpse to the center of the small playground and leaned against the toddler-size slide. Palmer followed him.
“So your buddy Tyrell came in here to hose, or else he just likes to walk around with his dick out in a kiddie playground, which I wouldn’t put past him.”
“Come on, Ray.”
“Hey, who knows? Anyhow…” Ippolito pointed from the street to Tyrell’s body. “I’m figuring sidewalk shooter follows him in here, blasts the shit out of him. Gunshots wake up his buddy Jerome, who gets out of the car, pistoleros in hand.”
“Right.”
“Street shooter blasts away at Watkins. Sidewalk guy comes out of the park and draws fire.”
Palmer added, “And then it went down like the CSU guy said.”
“Yep. One shooter gives the other cover while he gets to Biggie and puts two in his head. Second shooter walks up and pounds two more shots into him just for fun. Or maybe cuz he wants to match his buddy.”
“Or to send a message, like with Tyrell.”
“And Derrick,” said Ippolito. “Well there’s a hell of a lot of ballistics and follow-up to do. It’ll take ’em days, maybe weeks, but I’m thinking we got it pretty well figured out. Now all we have to do is find out who was doing all the shooting. Hopefully, your pal Beck was one of ’em.”
“Yeah. Hey, speaking of ballistics, I’m looking to get the results back on the guns I found up at Derrick Watkins’s place.”
“When?”
“Probably tomorrow, Friday.”
“Okay, fingers crossed and all that shit. In the meantime, we should canvass the area for anybody who saw what happened. Show the pictures of Beck and those other two skels. Plus, show ’em to the witness the CSU guy found. See if we get a match.”
Palmer said, “Okay, let’s go.”
“Hold on a sec. First, ask yourself something.”
“What?”
“What the fuck were all these guys doing here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Tyrell was at the Mount Hope apartment. Probably Jerome Watkins, too. Beck and his crew were there. Why are all those same guys here?”
Palmer said, “Because Beck is trying to hunt down the rest of Watkins’s crew.”
“Okay, let’s assume Beck and his guys are looking for the rest of Derrick’s boys. How do they know to find Jerome Watkins and Tyrell Williams in this particular place?”
Palmer thought for a moment. “Well, Loretta Leon lives across the street, but why would that bring them here?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we should go ask the old lady what was going on.”
“We can, but I doubt she knows anything,” said Ippolito.
“Maybe Beck’s guys were here waiting for them.”
“Gets back to my question. Why would Beck’s guys think those two dickheads would show up here?”
“All right, Ray, why do you think?”
“Who’s
the only person in this whole mess connected to Lorena Leon besides our original vic, Paco Johnson, who started all this shit?”
Palmer finally got it. “The fucking daughter.”
“Bingo.”
“So you’re saying they were all looking for the daughter.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” said Ippolito.
“Why?”
“Maybe she knows something. Something Derrick’s brother and Tyrell wanted to know.”
Palmer made a face. “What could she know? She’s just a whore. Why make it complicated?”
“So, what’s your theory?”
“She finds out Derrick, her pimp, is dead. The whole neighborhood has to know by now. So she decides to take a little vacation. Jerome can’t let her do that. He gets Tyrell to help him find her so he can put her back to work. Make sure she doesn’t think the trouble her father caused got her out of peddling her ass. Tyrell suggests they stake out grandma’s.”
Ippolito considered Palmer’s theory. He tipped his head in acquiescence. “Maybe. Maybe. But how does that explain why Beck or guys from his crew were here?”
“I don’t know. If they’re looking to finish off Derrick’s crew, how many leads do they have to find ’em? The old lady or the granddaughter.”
“You’re saying they figured Watkins and company would be looking for the girl, so they came here.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Come on, we have to move fast on this, Ray, because like you said, the borough homicide detectives will be jumping in now, and I for one don’t want to be left on the sidelines with nothing to show for our efforts.”
“All right, all right,” said Ippolito. “This neighborhood ain’t filled with a lot of model citizens, but maybe we’ll get lucky and find someone who will pick out a photo for us.”
Bronx Requiem Page 21