“The girl? You’re kidding.”
“No. I’m not.”
“How’d that happened?”
“I guess she came to the same conclusion we did. The bad guys had to be looking for her because she shot one of theirs. She figured they would probably stake out her grandmother’s place to find her. Which they did. She dressed up like a homeless can-collector and was sneaking up on ’em as we arrived.”
“What’s with that kid?”
Manny answered, “She got guts. And enough brains to figure out it’s better to shoot them before they shoot her.”
“Hey, she wants to take out the whole fucking gang, good for her.”
“Theoretically,” said Demarco. “But I doubt she’s going to get much further. One of Manny’s connections, an old-timer up in the Bronx, gave us the rundown on what she’s going up against. The Watkins boys were part of a much larger organization.”
“How large?”
Manny interjected. “Pretty much a bottomless glass.”
“Of what?”
Demarco answered, “Mostly local young bloods running around with guns trying to build a rep so they can gang up. Plus a few hard-core guys. Could add up to quite a few. Point being, Packy’s kid isn’t going to last much longer if she keeps shooting people in that part of the Bronx.”
Manny said, “And it ain’t going to be a clean death. They’re going to make an example of her.”
Ciro nodded, “So we got two more dead guys, a sixteen-year-old girl looking at a gruesome death, and we don’t know shit about who shot Packy.”
Demarco said, “I’m figuring the guy who runs this set knows a lot about who shot Packy and why. His name is Eric Jackson.”
Manny interjected, “Juju Jackson. His enforcer goes by the name Whitey Bondurant. You ever hear of them?”
“Hell no. So what do you guys want to do?”
Demarco said, “I think we have three options. Let me take you through them. See if you agree.”
Ciro whipped his feet off the coffee table and leaned forward.
“Okay. Shoot.”
“That’s option one.”
“Yeah, who exactly?” asked Ciro.
Demarco said, “Jackson and Bondurant would be at the top of my list. They have to be looking to kill Packy’s kid. And James. And us. And one way or another, they’re behind Packy getting shot.”
“Okay, how do we get to them?”
Manny said, “That’s the problem. No clue yet.”
Demarco said, “We’re not even close. We would have to really work it right.”
“Okay, so what’s option two?”
“Option two is, we find the girl. Losing Packy was bad enough. They’re going to do more than just shoot her. Plus, the cops will be looking for her at some point. Better for us they don’t get their hands on her. Also, she might be able to help us figure out how to get to Jackson and Bondurant.”
Ciro said, “What’s option three?”
“Wait for Walter to arrive back and find out what the cops are doing. Then wait for James to return and see where he’s at. That might change our priorities.”
Ciro said, “I ain’t sitting around waiting. We don’t know how to get to the big boys yet. So I say we find the kid.”
Manny said, “I agree. That’s what James wanted us to do while he’s gone. Find the brother, or the girl. Brother’s dead. Time to go for the girl.”
Ciro said, “Any idea how?”
Demarco said, “Yes, I think I know, but we’ll have to wait a couple of hours or so.”
“Fine by me. That’ll give us time to get something to eat.”
Without missing a bit, Demarco and Manny both said, “Not here.”
48
The gunshot Beck heard before he lost consciousness had been fired by Oswald Remsen. He stepped into the pack attacking Beck, grabbing and pulling men off.
“Goddammit, stop it. Stop! I don’t want him dead. Back off. Back off.”
He went down on one knee to see if Beck was still breathing. “All right. He’s alive.” He pulled Beck’s hands away from his head and rolled him onto his back. The brass knuckles were still on Beck’s left hand. Remsen removed them and slipped them into the pocket of his Windbreaker.
“Straighten his legs. Give him some goddam air.”
Remsen stood up and stared down at Beck, waiting for him to come around. He kicked the bottom of Beck’s foot. Beck stirred. Remsen kicked again, harder. Beck came to, instinctively tried to sit up, but fell back as a piercing pain shot across the middle of his back. Bruised ribs. Maybe cracked. He gritted his teeth, breathed carefully, dizzy but trying to focus on what was happening.
There were five men standing around him, and one man on the ground, the one Beck had gotten on top of and beaten.
Remsen told the two men nearest to Beck, “Get him on his feet.”
They were the two who’d sat with Remsen in the bar. Remsen’s sons. They lifted Beck up, causing enough pain that Beck stopped breathing. They propped him against his Ford Ranger.
As they held him, Beck leaned forward and threw up, feeling the acid sting of the whiskey and beer coming out of him. Some of it hit the bigger man’s pants and shoe. Both men cursed Beck and shoved him back against the truck, which caused Beck even more pain than vomiting had.
Beck’s head cleared a bit.
Oswald Remsen stepped forward, his sons still holding Beck’s arms, grabbed a fistful of Beck’s hair, and held his head up.
Beck looked back at Remsen without expression.
“You are one stupid, sorry son of a bitch, my friend. You think you can walk into my place and eyeball me, ask questions, and I’m not gonna notice it? I been watching sneaky assholes like you a long time, boy.”
Beck didn’t respond.
“I recognized you about two seconds after you showed up. You’re that piece of shit cop killer who was in my prison awhile back.” Remsen paused, trying to remember the name. “Beck. That’s right, your name is Beck. I know you. What I don’t know is what the hell you’re doing in my bar.”
For a moment, Beck thought about spitting in Oswald Remsen’s face, but he knew another round of fists and feet might finish any chance he had of surviving this.
“I’m gonna ask you one time, what were you doing in my bar?”
Beck croaked out one word. “Drinking.”
“Asshole.” Remsen shoved Beck’s head away and told the others, “All right, let’s get him out of here before anybody notices this commotion. Who’s got cuffs?”
One of the men on the fringe stepped forward and extended a pair of handcuffs toward Remsen.
“What am I?” said Remsen. “Workin’ for you? Go on, cuff him. Joe, empty his pockets.”
Joe Remsen yanked out Beck’s wallet, money, truck keys, and his other set of brass knuckles. He handed everything to his father. Remsen shoved the contents into the pockets of his Windbreaker without bothering to look at any of it.
Once they were done searching him, Remsen’s man pulled Beck’s arms behind his back and cuffed him.
Beck made sure to clench his hands into tight fists so that his wrists were a fraction of an inch thicker than they would be when he unclenched them.
After the man finished cuffing Beck, Remsen told him, “Okay, Fred, get Vic into your car and drive him on over to the hospital. Tell them he was in a bar fight.”
Remsen told his sons holding Beck, “Put him in the GMC. William, you stay with him in the back. If he moves, knock the shit out of him. Joe, you drive. Follow me.”
Remsen’s sons pulled Beck toward a new GMC Terrain. As they walked toward the car, Beck opened and closed his mouth slowly to make sure they hadn’t broken his jaw. He could feel his left eye swelling, remembering a stinging kick that had hit him on the cheekbone. He opened his left eye wide, hoping it wouldn’t close completely. He could breathe normally so his nose wasn’t busted. He decided his ribs were bruised, not broken. His right shoulder where the baseball bat
had hit him was already sore and swollen. His knees were okay, but his arms, right thigh, back, and hip would be covered with deep bruises come morning. He forced himself to stop thinking about the pain. If he didn’t keep focused and concentrate, there would be no morning.
William Remsen shoved Beck into the backseat of the SUV. Beck had to lean forward because his hands were cuffed behind his back. He laid his forehead on the passenger-seat headrest.
William slammed the door. Beck leaned away just in time to avoid being smacked on his throbbing shoulder.
Joe Remsen got behind the wheel.
While William walked around the back of the GMC, Beck slipped his right thumb behind his belt and felt for a small, thin piece of steel taped under a piece of masking tape.
By the time Beck walked out of prison, he so hated being handcuffed he’d made it a point to study every means, every trick invented to escape from them. It boiled down to two methods. Either using a universal key to open the cuffs, or a shim. Universal keys didn’t open every brand of cuff and were much harder to conceal, so Beck settled on shims. He taped them on the back of every belt he owned, under the tongues of his shoes, and hid one in his wallet.
Even under the best of circumstances it wasn’t easy to blindly slip a shim into the tiny opening where cuff fit into the lock housing. Beck didn’t want to think about how much harder it would be trying to do it riding in a moving car, with his hands cuffed behind him, after a brutal beating.
In the few moments William took to walk around the SUV, Beck had freed the shim from his leather belt. He held it in his right hand, waiting until William climbed in next to him and the GMC stopped rocking.
William leaned forward and spoke to his brother. “You noticed the old man took Austen with him.”
“Yeah.”
“I bet he’s giving him hell for not being able to take out this guy.”
“He should.”
William sat back. “I guess we’re going to the place.”
“I guess so.”
While they talked, Beck slid the thin piece of metal between his forefinger and middle finger a split second before William jabbed an elbow into his left arm.
“Asshole. Puke on me and now we gotta sit here and smell your stink.”
The blow nearly made Beck drop the tiny shim.
Beck stifled a curse. Losing the wafer thin, inch-long piece of steel, barely wider than a matchstick meant losing his life.
Joe Remsen shoved the SUV into drive and accelerated out of the parking lot, sending Beck back into his seat, causing more pain. Dirt and gravel spewed as he caught up to a large Ford F-350 truck in front of him.
Beck tried to ignore the pain and concentrated on relaxing his arms, shoulders, and back. If he stiffened up now, he wouldn’t be able to maneuver into position to use the shim.
Beck leaned over so he could see out the windshield. The truck ahead of them looked new, its metallic black paint gleamed in the glare of the GMC’s headlights.
Beck took a sidelong glance at William. He resembled his father, with the same bloated piggy face. Joe must have taken after the mother. He was shorter than his father and brother, wiry, with sharp features and dark, stringy hair. He reminded Beck of a weasel.
Nobody spoke during the drive. Beck breathed deeply, slowly, and quietly.
There was nothing to be done except use his mind to seal off the pain. Every breath hurt him, which made it more difficult, but he kept at it, trying to slow his heart rate and stave off the fear and dread over what was coming. He assumed they were taking him someplace where they would beat him until they found out whatever they could. And after that, kill him.
Beck stopped thinking about it. He tried to take note of what direction they were driving in, and how long they drove. But mostly he sat visualizing the shim sliding into an infuriatingly small space where the ratcheted end of the left handcuff slid into the lock housing.
Once he maneuvered the shim into the opening, it would stop where the ratchet on the cuff met the edge of the pawl inside the housing. The shim had to be pushed past that point for it to release the cuff. But the shim was wafer thin. Trying to push it past the pawl would bend it. The only way to do it was to push gently and squeeze the cuffs farther closed. That would move the shim between the ratchet edge and the pawl. Then and only then would the cuff slide open.
But if the person putting the cuffs on made them too tight, there would be no room to close them farther. Beck had clenched his hands to make his wrists a tiny bit thicker, and the CO who’d cuffed him had learned to avoid closing the cuffs tight on the skin to avoid endless complaints. There was room, but for only one more click.
Suddenly, the brake lights of the truck up ahead flared. Joe Remsen braked hard, pitching Beck forward against the back of the passenger seat.
The sudden movement caused a wave of nausea to come over Beck. He thought he might vomit again. A sign of a concussion. He breathed deeply and swallowed the bile rising into his mouth.
The truck up ahead took a sharp right turn into a scrub forest. Joe followed, bouncing off the asphalt onto a rutted tire-track path that cut through the scrub forest. The SUV’s suspension jounced and creaked as it traveled over the uneven ground. Every jolt sent pain through Beck’s rib cage, but he used it to steel himself and his resolve. Twice the GMC dropped into deep ruts and several times it banged into stones embedded in the ground. The trees and foliage were so dense the SUV’s headlights made it look like they were traveling through a raggedy green tunnel.
Beck knew he might die this night. But not as a beaten, helpless, handcuffed ex-con. He was not going to let these arrogant bastards, who one way or another had been responsible for the death of a man better than they would ever be, kill him without a fight.
Finally, they emerged into a circular clearing about the size of an acre. The two vehicles veered away from each other and parked at opposite edges of the clearing, pointing toward the center.
When they cut their engines and turned off their headlights, everything plunged into near darkness, barely illuminated by a half moon obscured by the clouds.
William and Joe got out of the GMC and walked across the clearing to join their father and Austen. As the dome light in the SUV faded to black, Beck could see them gathered around Remsen, who was working on something he’d placed on the hood of his Ford. In a few seconds, a harsh white light flared as Remsen fired up a Coleman lantern. He adjusted the flame inside the cloth mantel, and all four men stood talking in a huddle.
The moment William and Joe got out of the GMC, Beck began to work on the handcuffs. He took one quick breath to focus, turned his right hand over, and slowly opened his fist. Carefully, he brushed the thumb of his left hand over the palm of his right, feeling for the shim. It was there, stuck to his palm.
He inhaled and exhaled slowly, and concentrated on moving carefully and methodically. He picked up the shim from the palm of his right hand with his left forefinger and thumb, and transferred it to the same fingers on his right hand. He gently gripped the tiny piece of metal, feeling the shim’s small, round top, turning it in the right direction.
While holding the shim, he used the side of his right thumb to feel for the opening into the cuff housing. Experience guided his movements. He carefully, blindly probed for the opening.
The cuffs were positioned so the keyhole faced out, which meant Beck had to twist his torso to position the shim at the correct angle. It caused more pain, but he ignored it. He kept his eyes closed so he wouldn’t be distracted. He didn’t worry about Remsen and the others. He put all his attention into visualizing the tiny opening and the tip of his shim edging toward it. Probing. Gently trying to slide the tip of the shim into the impossibly small space.
He couldn’t find it. The tension built to a point where Beck stopped breathing.
He was trying too hard. Pushing too hard. He stopped everything. Relaxed his arms, shoulders, neck. He looked up. Inhaled, exhaled. And then began all over again, slowly
, patiently.
He tried to forget they would be coming for him any second. Focus everything on the shim. Where the fuck was it hitting? He thought he felt the tip catch the edge of the opening, but it wasn’t moving in.
Beck changed the angle. Bent his left elbow, raised the hand behind his back. Twisted around more. Causing more pain. Tried again. And again. He took a breath, held it.
Go slow. Try three times in row. It’s got to be there.
One, two … and then, without warning, lower than where he thought the opening was, the shim stopped. Was it in the opening? He couldn’t tell.
He rolled his forefinger onto the rectangular top of the shim and pushed. Gently so he wouldn’t bend the wafer-thin piece of metal. A little more. It seemed to move into the slot. Relax. Don’t screw it up.
Now came the last part. He positioned his right thumb on the top of the cuff; his last three fingers against the bottom. Holding the shim in place with the side of his forefinger, he was about to squeeze the cuffs, when suddenly, without warning, the car door opened.
He fell out of the SUV and slammed onto the ground, all his weight falling on his damaged shoulder, jarring his bruised ribs. His feet were still in the GMC. A hand grabbed the collar of his denim jacket.
It was the big one, Austen, sent to get him.
He pulled Beck out of the car, painfully raking Beck’s ankles over the door jamb, turned him onto his back, and dragged him out into the clearing, his cuffed hands underneath him, like Beck was a sack of garbage.
Beck twisted sideways so the cuffs wouldn’t grind into the dirt and grass, ripping the shim out. But it was too late, too late. He’d been slammed onto the ground, dragged across the dirt, everything was lost.
The rage that enveloped Beck was so utterly without bounds nothing mattered now. Not the pain. Not the handcuffs. Not even dying. His entire being focused on the stupid, heartless bully dragging him through the dirt, his back turned to him in disdain.
James Beck was not going to be dragged to his death.
He violently twisted around so he faced the ground, pulled his knees under him, and with all his strength, wrenched his upper body backward, stopping his forward movement just long enough to get his right foot under him.
Bronx Requiem Page 23