William had a six-shot revolver, but Beck had no way of knowing how many bullets he might have, or if he’d already reloaded the gun.
Beck fired a shot at where William’s muzzle had flashed and rolled to his left. William returned fire where Beck had been, a disciplined single shot. The bullet plowed into the ground, sending up a spray of dirt and grass.
* * *
Beck rolled onto his back, took the dangling left cuff and attached it to the closed cuff on his right hand so it wouldn’t distract him. He then rolled back onto his feet and quickly angled around past the far end of the lean-to, making sure to stay hidden in the dark. From that position, Beck didn’t have an angle to shoot into the corner. If he wanted to take out William, he’d have to step into the light and put himself in the line of fire.
Beck stopped, wiped his face with his sleeve, getting ready.
He pointed the Beretta straight up and visualized the spot where he estimated William would be crouched behind the pile of wood. Beck knew once he started, he could not stop.
He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, positioned his feet, and came around the corner of the lean-to firing the Beretta, advancing, firing, moving toward Remsen, shooting nonstop, aiming above and to the left of the muzzle flash, all the while angling away from Remsen’s return fire.
Wood chips flew, the exploding gunpowder blinded him, but Beck never stopped. All in. Win or lose.
The Beretta clicked empty. Only a ten-round magazine.
Beck kept moving left out of the light, dropped down flat, blinking to get his night vision back, trying to hear any movement with his ears still ringing.
If William Remsen had any ammunition left, Beck knew he’d lost. He strained to hear any sound from the lean-to. Nothing.
He waited. An eerie silence filled the clearing. Still nothing.
Beck stood up and walked quietly toward the lean-to, making sure to remain in the dark. He stopped and carefully leaned around the sidewall of the lean-to. There was just enough light to make out an inert heap in the back corner. William Remsen.
Beck had no idea how close William Remsen had come to hitting him, and he didn’t care.
He stepped in, grabbed the lantern off the hook, and placed it on the woodpile in front of Remsen’s body. Two of his bullets had hit Remsen. One below his right eye, and one in the side of William’s neck. Beck didn’t bother feeling for a pulse. The 9mm bullet under the eye had blown a sizeable hole out of the back of William’s head, and the other had destroyed a good portion of his throat.
Beck picked up the lantern and walked over to Joe Remsen. His two shots had hit him center chest, both bullets within an inch of each other. Dead man number two.
That left the father. As Beck approached the older man, the lantern casting its white glow out in front of him, he saw Oswald’s head moving. The man emitted a low, agonized sound. When Beck got within a couple of feet, he saw why. Two of the bullets the sons had fired at him had hit their father. One near Remsen’s groin. A massive amount of blood stained the ground.
The other bullet had hit him in his left side about six inches below his armpit, perhaps taking out a lung, and maybe hitting the spine.
Beck stepped away, letting the man bleed out and die in his own time.
He walked over to Joe Remsen and rummaged around in his pockets to find a key to unlock his right cuff. He got it off in a few seconds, pocketing the cuffs and key. He stood and surveyed the scene in front of him.
A gunfight had occurred here, but Beck realized it didn’t have to involve him.
The two bullets in the father were from his sons’ guns. And the bullets in the sons were from the father’s gun.
Beck walked over to Joe Remsen and took the revolver out of his hand. He brought it over to Oswald and put the gun in the dying man’s hand. He aimed the revolver into the night sky so the bullet wouldn’t be found, and pulled the trigger so there would be gunpowder residue on Oswald’s hand. Then he wiped the Beretta to remove his prints, took Joe’s revolver out of Oswald’s hand, and replaced it with the Berretta.
He wiped Oswald Remsen’s prints off Joe Remsen’s gun, and put the revolver back in the son’s hand.
Next, he retraced his steps and carefully walked with the lantern to each place where he’d fired Remsen’s Beretta, looking for spent cartridges. He found eight out of the ten in the white glare of the Coleman lantern, picked up each one with the tip of a twig he found and scattered them near the fallen Oswald Remsen.
He stood for a moment thinking it through. Okay, but what about the dead big guy over near the GMC? Another body to account for. How? Maybe the sons took him down and then went after the father. Why? Maybe in a fight over the money in Remsen’s pocket.
Beck thought about the log he’d thrown at Oswald. He left it where it was. Somebody threw it at the father. Part of the fight. Which gave him an idea. Beck picked up a piece of hardwood from the pile in the lean-to and walked out to Austen’s body. He slammed the wood into Austen’s face a few times, then laid it across his crushed throat and stepped on it.
He returned to the area in front of the lean-to and lightly scuffed over where his shoes might have left impressions. His footprints really didn’t concern him too much. There had been others at this site with shoes making marks different from the Remsens’.
Even if somebody had enough experience in forensics to piece together the horrendous mess, so what? If by some miracle they figured out there had to be a fourth shooter, it wouldn’t lead to him.
He reached into the pocket of Oswald Remsen’s Windbreaker and retrieved everything of his they had taken from him. Lastly, he took out one of the envelopes of money stuffed into Remsen’s inside pocket, leaving the others.
Beck kicked over the lantern as if it had been knocked over in the fight, assuming it would burn out soon.
He rubbed his face with both hands. Took a deep breath. Rolled his head and moved his arms. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding. All in all, he didn’t feel too bad, mostly thanks to the adrenaline still coursing through him. He’d be feeling the effects of this night soon, and for a long time after.
Didn’t matter. He felt able to finish what he had to do.
He angled away from the murder scene and walked across the dark clearing toward Oswald’s Ford F-350. He’d leave the GMC, which could have held four men.
The lantern sputtering on the ground gave off enough light to reflect off the truck. He pulled open the driver’s-side door, hoping he didn’t have to walk all the way back and look for the keys. He didn’t. They were in the ignition. Even better, there was a half-full bottle of water in the truck’s cup holder.
Beck decided he just might make it through this night.
50
Raymond Ippolito drove. John Palmer sat in the passenger seat, trying to match names in an NYPD file with names on an FBI organizational chart of Bronx gang members. In a horizontal line under mug shots of Eric Juju Jackson and Floyd Whitey Bondurant, identified as Sovereign Commanders aka The Chosen, were eight squares. Two of the squares had the names and pictures of Jerome Watkins and Derrick Watkins, labeled Harrod Avenue Villains, and underneath them a vertical list of twenty-two names.
Ippolito glanced occasionally at Palmer with growing impatience.
“Is that crap showing you anything you really need to know, John?”
“Visual aid, my man.”
“For who?”
“Jackson.”
“That’s part of your pitch?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re only going to get one shot at this, John.”
“That’s the twentieth time you’ve told me that. Where are we meeting him?”
“Chinese restaurant over on 180th. It’s a place where I can set up something like this.”
“Why?”
“There’s a back room that won’t be wired.”
“You sure?”
“As sure as I can be of anything. I know the owner a long time. Don
’t fuck around when we have to prove we aren’t wired. Jackson knows the drill.”
“Okay. What about Bondurant? He gonna be there?”
Ippolito turned to Palmer. “I sure fucking hope not.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because he’s a homicidal maniac. You ever see that big nasty-looking fucker coming at you, you pull and shoot, no questions asked. I’m serious. He’s the enforcer who makes the whole operation what it is. He kills people. That’s what he does.”
“You really think Jackson can deliver?”
“He can if he wants to. But understand one thing, John.”
“What?”
“Once we let this shit out of the tube, we can’t put it back.”
“Yeah. Well … I’d say it’s already out.”
“True.”
Ippolito turned onto 180th Street and parked illegally a few cars away from the Chinese restaurant. He didn’t bother to put any identification on the dashboard. Even the dumbest traffic cop would figure out it was an unmarked police car.
Palmer checked his watch. Exactly eight o’clock.
As they headed for the restaurant, Ippolito told Palmer, “By the way, John…”
“What?”
“Try not to stare at Jackson’s face.”
“Why?”
“He’s got bad skin.”
“How bad?”
“Horrible bad.”
“Shit, now you tell me.”
The Chinese restaurant was only half full when Ippolito and Palmer entered. The host shook hands with Ippolito and said nothing. He led them through the dimly lit restaurant, the air heavy with the scents of old-style Cantonese cooking, to a back room set up with a table for four.
Eric Juju Jackson sat alone at the table, an untouched plate of beef with oyster sauce in front of him. He sipped from a cup of tea. Even doing something as prosaic as sipping tea, Jackson seemed menacing.
He stood. Without saying a word, he looked back and forth at Palmer and Ippolito. Palmer laid his folder on the table. He and Ippolito emptied the contents of all their pockets. They took off their jackets, draping them over chairs. They proceeded to unbutton their shirts, pull them free of their pants and lift them up. They turned around so Jackson could see they weren’t wearing any wires. They unbuckled their pants and dropped them so Jackson could see their bare legs held no wires or recording devices.
Jackson, who wore a plain blue oxford button-down shirt and black jeans, did the same for them. Palmer tried not to stare at the ravaged skin across his back and shoulders. It looked like someone had taken an ice pick to it.
All three zipped and buttoned and buckled, put everything back into their pockets. Palmer and Ippolito sat on either side of Jackson, who still didn’t say anything, or look at them.
Ippolito said, “This is my partner, John Palmer.”
Jackson made a nearly imperceptible nod.
“I think we have an opportunity to help each other out.”
Jackson continued looking straight ahead, as if he held the detectives in such contempt he refused to look at them.
“Why you think I need your help?”
Palmer spoke up. “Because there are a number of investigations focused on people connected to you.”
“I got no people connected to me.”
Palmer didn’t hesitate. “Well, both the NYPD and the FBI say you do.”
Palmer slipped the 11 x 17 FBI organizational chart of known Bronx gang members from his folder and placed it on the table facing Jackson. Many of the names were highlighted in yellow. He paired the chart with pages of NYPD files with many of the same names highlighted in yellow.
Jackson glanced at both as if they had nothing to do with him.
Palmer didn’t try to convince Jackson. He simply said, “Those are the people under FBI and NYPD investigations. Here is a list of the federal charges they’re drawing up.”
He laid a typewritten page on the table listing: money laundering, prostitution, exploiting minors for the purposes of prostitution, transporting minors across state lines for purposes of prostitution, conspiracy, racketeering, tax evasion.
“I’m sure they’ll include more charges when they start petitioning the federal courts for warrants. As usual, the Feds will cast a wide net. They’ll invoke RICO statutes. They’ll arrest everybody connected to those crimes, including you.”
Jackson said nothing.
Palmer continued. “That’s their side of it. Our side is investigating two murders connected to you involving people on those FBI charts. Warrants are in process. Unfortunately for you, Mr. Jackson, once we start making arrests, it’s going to prompt the Feds to move faster than they might ordinarily. They won’t want their targets to end up in state courts. They’ll rush to get warrants, subpoenas, pull in witnesses, and push for indictments.”
Ippolito added in a friendlier tone, “Look, Eric, the FBI has a big hard-on these days about getting convictions on prostitution of minors. Operation whatever. What is it, Detective Palmer?”
“There are several operations in place. All run by their Child Exploitation Task Force. They have a lot of resources they’re focusing on the east coast these days.”
Jackson finally responded, still looking straight ahead.
“FBI ain’t going to find a damn thing on me. All that RICO shit starts with finances. Ain’t no financial records connecting me to anything. No way are they gonna prove any exploitation of any minors by me.”
Ippolito said, “Maybe yes, maybe no, Eric. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is very good at tracking money. Be that as it may, once they move, they’ll grab everybody. They don’t even need warrants to start pulling in witnesses. They start squeezing some of these dipshits around you, threatening ’em with no-bullshit for-real sentences of thirty, forty years’ hard time in a federal penitentiary, these kids are going to fall over each other trying to make deals. It’ll be a race to see who flips first. The FBI will have their choice of rats telling them what they know, whether they know it or not.”
Jackson finally turned to Ippolito. “We got ways of dealing with that shit, too.”
Palmer leaned in now, getting to it. “Okay, fine. Let’s say you do. So the sooner you know when this is going down, the sooner you know who’s going to get pinched, and the sooner you can make plans to deal with it.”
Ippolito took note of how quickly Palmer had volunteered to give Eric Jackson names of people to kill, and when to kill them.
Jackson had heard Palmer, but wanted to make sure. “What exactly are you saying to me?”
Palmer answered, “You’ll know when subpoenas are going to be issued, schedule of arrests, grand jury indictments, and the names.”
“From the Feds?”
“Yes.”
“How you going to get all that?”
“Same way I got the org chart.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?”
“You’ll believe it when you see it.”
“And you saying this is coming down because of some murders you investigating?”
Ippolito spoke up. “Yes. Shit’s gonna hit the fan once we start making arrests.”
“What’re these murders you talking about?”
Palmer said, “On Tuesday, an ex-con named Paco Johnson got released from prison. Mr. Johnson had a run-in with one of your associates, Derrick Watkins, who subsequently shot him. As a result, friends of Paco Johnson tracked down Derrick Watkins, and shot him. We have reason to believe those same friends of Paco Johnson shot and killed two more of your men earlier today, Jerome Watkins and Tyrell Williams. We’re investigating all four of those murders. They’re all connected.”
“Who are these people you talking about? The friends of that convict.”
Ippolito held up a hand. “Hold off on that for a second.”
For the first time since they’d sat down, Juju Jackson looked back and forth between the two detectives, almost catching Palmer, who had been sneaking glances at h
is ravaged skin.
Jackson said, “All right. Let’s cut through the bullshit. You got information I might be interested in. What do I got to do to get it?”
Palmer concentrated on looking directly into Jackson’s eyes, and made his pitch in a low voice.
“Okay, bottom line. The friends of Paco Johnson we’re talking about are part of a crew run by a guy named James Beck. We had Tyrell Williams lined up to testify that Beck shot Derrick Watkins. We believe Beck, or one of his crew, shot Tyrell this afternoon to eliminate him as a witness. We need a witness to replace Tyrell. Preferably someone who was at the location on Mount Hope Place where Derrick got shot. We also need a witness to corroborate that. We also need witnesses to testify that Derrick Watkins shot Paco Johnson, providing a motive for Beck and his men to attack his crew. We need a minimum of four witnesses who can stand up.”
Jackson took a sip of his tea. Palmer and Ippolito waited for a response.
After a few moments, Jackson said, “All this shit you telling me about federal investigations, we all know ain’t worth all that much. There ain’t one dollar they can trace back to me. Maybe knowing who they’re coming after might help me tie up some loose ends, but ain’t no big deal. Like I said, I got ways of finding out who’s thinking about turning rat and taking care of it.”
Ippolito and Palmer waited. Jackson pushed his cup of tea away.
“But this other thing? I can’t have no crew from somewhere coming in here shooting my people. Can’t have it. I appreciate you giving me a name. But I ain’t going to say any more, ’cept I think it’s best if you gentlemen go do what you have to do, and I do what I got to do.”
Ippolito said, “Eric, why make life hard? You really want to start from scratch on this? We can tee up these guys for you.” Ippolito leaned toward Jackson. “Hey, I know what you’re thinking—fuck these cops. Let ’em close their own cases. I get that. But let me tell you, it’s better for all of us if we wrap up these homicide investigations quickly. Yeah, it’s good for me and my partner. But it’s good for you, too. We put this shit to bed fast, maybe the Feds go back to chasing their tails, and it’s business as usual.”
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