“Fuck.”
“I’m betting Oswald Remsen put a lot of money into that man’s pocket. It all fits. Oswald knew an inmate had tipped off Packy about his daughter being turned out by those pimps in Eric Jackson’s set. Remsen knew Packy was getting out on parole. He wanted to make sure Packy didn’t make any waves. I believe Remsen called John Palmer Senior, who, in turn, called his son, an NYPD detective working in the Bronx, and told him to make sure Paco Johnson didn’t cause any trouble for them.”
Demarco asked, “By killing him?”
“No. I don’t think Palmer Senior ordered his son to kill Packy. He wouldn’t want his golden boy to do that.”
Demarco asked, “Then why did he?”
“At first, I didn’t see it. I remembered back when we found Derrick Watkins, I didn’t think he’d shot Packy. I thought one of his crew did it. Trying to make a name for himself. But there was someone else trying to make a name for himself.”
Demarco said, “John Palmer Junior.”
“Exactly. His father tells him check on this guy Paco Johnson who might be causing trouble about his daughter living with a pimp at Bronx River Houses. I think the plan was to intervene and violate Packy back to prison. Simple. Problem solved.
“But Packy moved too fast. Next thing he knows, Palmer hears a bunch of 911 calls about a disturbance at Bronx River Houses, which is in the precinct right next to his. Palmer makes a beeline over there. Or maybe he was already snooping around Bronx River Houses trying to find the daughter before his midnight-to-eight shift.
“Packy is calling out Derrick Watkins. Trying to find his daughter. They beat the shit out of him. Cops start arriving. Palmer doesn’t want to disappoint Daddy. He has to make sure this doesn’t get worse. He follows Packy out of the complex until he walks into Palmer’s precinct. Now Packy is on his turf. What does Palmer see? The guy his father warned him about, already making trouble. A broken-down ex-convict, already half dead from a beating. But he sees more. He sees an opportunity to take care of a problem for his father, and a chance to advance his career. He walks up behind Packy, puts one in his head with his throwaway piece.”
Beck pointed his forefinger like a gun barrel. “Opportunity. Impulse. Pop. One shot. Packy is dead in the gutter. Daddy’s problem is taken care of, and John Palmer is on the way to solving his first murder.
“Palmer had the weapon. He had the opportunity. He had the motive. In fact, two motives.”
For a few moments, no one said a word. And then Manny Guzman spoke. “He should have gotten away with it. Packy was a nobody.”
Beck said, “He should have, but he’s not.”
There were a few moments of silence while everybody at the table absorbed what Beck had told them. And then Ciro Baldassare asked, “How’s Palmer not going to get away with it?”
Beck didn’t answer.
“Hold on, boss. You really thinking about takin’ out a cop?”
Beck sat back. “Let’s not worry about that now, Ciro. First, we have to figure out how to get Manny and Demarco off the hook for shooting Jerome Watkins and Tyrell Williams. And me for shooting Derrick Watkins, and you for the attempted murder of an NYPD detective. And, we have to do it in a way that doesn’t implicate Amelia for shooting Derrick Watkins and Tyrell Williams.”
Manny added, “And we gotta make sure Jackson’s crew doesn’t kill her. Or any of us.”
Demarco said, “Plus, we have to do it fast, before the NYPD comes down on us and locks us all away, maybe this time for good.”
Willie Reese rose his big hand.
Beck said, “Yeah?”
“Plus that other guy.”
“What other guy?”
“You said there were six. You took care of five.”
Beck smiled. Willie Reese never failed to surprise him. He reached in his back pocket and held up the envelope with the name Janice Elkins had written on it. He tossed it onto his pile of documents.
“Plus that other guy.”
Reese nodded and told Alex Liebowitz, “Computer man, don’t lose that name.”
Manny said, “So back to my question. What’s first, James?”
“First, I talk to Amelia.”
60
Beck left the others sitting at the table and headed for the third floor, where there were several bedrooms for guests. Amelia had picked the one at the far end.
The room had a double bed, a single window facing southeast, a closet with sliding doors that took up most of the wall opposite the window. There was a bed, a dresser, a mirror, and under the window a small round table with a club chair upholstered in brown leather. Amelia sat in the chair, her long legs stretched out, her bare feet resting on the edge of the bed. The Glock 17 on the table next to her.
Beck knocked lightly on the open door.
“Amelia?”
She quickly pulled her feet off the bed and sat up.
Beck stayed in the doorway.
“I’m James Beck. Your father was a very good friend of mine. I’m happy to see you here. May I come in?”
“Yes.”
Beck entered the room and extended his hand.
Amelia hesitated. Shaking hands wasn’t something she did. Beck was about to forget it when she leaned forward and put her hand in his. It was more like allowing Beck contact than actually shaking hands.
Amelia was dressed in her jeans and gray Levi’s T-shirt, but all her clothes had been washed and dried by Demarco while she had waited in her room, napping, wrapped up in an extra-large flannel bathrobe.
Beck said, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Okay.”
Beck sat on the edge of the bed. Amelia in the chair. They both made believe the Glock wasn’t on the table.
Beck tried to gauge Amelia’s mood. This was a very different version of the young woman he’d seen shoot Derrick Watkins. That woman had looked like a caricature, a perverse attempt to manipulate and heighten the sexuality of an adolescent. The young woman who stared back at him seemed reserved to the point of austere. She wore no makeup at all. She had combed out her hair and tied it into a tight pony tail. She looked like a high school athlete holding herself in a tense state of composed readiness.
For a moment, Beck thought about asking her to put the Glock in one of the dresser drawers, or just do it himself. Instead, he asked, “How are you?”
The question confused Amelia for a moment. She couldn’t remember anyone ever asking her that. She replied, “All right.”
“I’m sorry you’ve been going through a hard time.”
“When?”
Beck felt foolish. This girl’s entire life had been a hard time.
“Lately.”
“Oh.”
“Well, at least you’re with us now. Assuming you want to be.”
“I got no place else to go. Even if I did, I’d probably get killed before I got there.”
Beck looked directly at her. “We won’t let that happen. You’re safe with us.”
“Why? You think Juju Jackson and his guys ain’t gonna find you? Or the cops?”
“I’m going to take care of that.”
“How?”
“Let me ask you a couple of questions first.”
“Okay.”
“The gun you used to shoot Derrick Watkins, where did you find it?”
“In the freezer, back in the kitchen. I got it when you asked me to get a towel for him.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“What?”
“Shooting him.”
“I didn’t have no choice. They was going to kill me.”
“Do you know why?”
“Pimps don’t need no reason. Maybe cuz of the trouble my father caused.”
“You should know why your father caused them trouble.”
“Why?”
“He was trying to save you from being forced to work for people in a situation even worse than in the Bronx.”
“Who?”
“I’ll explain later. Point is, we have a lot to deal with. First thing I need is information on Eric Jackson’s operation. Where his money comes from. Who was running his women. Do you know any way I can find out about that? Where’d you find those ledgers tracking Derrick’s prostitution business?”
“I found ’em in Tyrell Williams’s car. He must’ve ripped off Derrick’s place after I shot him.”
Beck nodded. “You think there might be more information like that somewhere? More ledgers?”
“Yeah. Most likely at Biggie’s house. Whatever Derrick did, Biggie did more. Biggie has, well had, a house where his wives and kids live, and where he has his phone lines for the in-call hookers.”
“Where is it?”
“Crotona Avenue near 178th. I don’t know the exact number. I know it by sight. I’ll show you if you want.”
“I don’t want to take you up there.”
“You gonna hit the place for Biggie’s records?”
“Yes.”
“You got a lot better chance of gettin’ in there if I’m with you.”
Beck struggled with his decision.
Amelia said, “Hey, I don’t want to go up there very much either, but sooner or later Juju or Whitey Bondurant going to go in there and clean out the place. They might’ve done it already if they ain’t too busy looking for me. I know some of the women in there. I show up, I’m pretty sure they’ll open the door for me.”
Beck checked his watch.
Amelia said, “You ain’t got much time. Biggie been shot for a while now. Juju probably already got people up there watchin’ the place.”
“Okay. We should move fast on this. I guess we could use your help. We’ll figure out how to play it as we head up there.”
They stood up to leave. Amelia slipped on her hoodie and shoved the Glock into the kangaroo pocket.
Beck asked her, “By the way, when you were looking for a gun to shoot Derrick, were there other guns hidden in that apartment?”
“Not that I could find. I didn’t want to use a frozen gun, but it worked.”
“You still have that gun?”
Amelia pointed toward the closet. “In the closet. In a red laundry bag. Why?”
“I might need it later.”
“You can have it. But it’s empty.”
“Empty is fine.”
61
Sitting in their van on Hamilton Avenue overlooking the employees’ parking lot outside Sing Sing, the Bolo brothers spotted a hunched-over man walking toward the car registered to Edward Remsen. Although the car was a gleaming new Lexus GS 350, in his rumpled uniform and scuffed work shoes, Remsen looked like the last person who would own such a car.
Ricky, talking out of the side of his mouth as usual, commented to his brother, Jonas, “That shit bag definitely has a second stream of income.”
They tailed Remsen to a bar frequented by guards located on Main Street in Ossining. While he was still in the bar Ricky called Beck to report on his progress.
Beck answered the call while he, Amelia, and Demarco were heading to Biggie Watkins’s house.
“What’s going on?”
“Remsen’s been in a local watering hole for about forty minutes. Looks like the usual TGIF-activity for law enforcement personnel—getting piss drunk.”
“Interesting. Either they haven’t found his father and brothers, or they haven’t notified him yet.”
“Maybe he likes to turn his cell phone off while he’s drinking.”
“Whatever. Stay with him. Ciro and Manny are heading to Norwood. Call them and let them know when and where they can take him down.”
“Will do. If his next stop isn’t home, I’ll let them know.”
“Good. Tell them where he’s headed, and they’ll catch up to you. Don’t lose him.”
“No way.”
Beck cut the call and turned around in the passenger seat so he could talk to Amelia.
“Thanks for doing this.”
“This is going to help you take down Juju, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then you don’t got to thank me.” Amelia turned to stare out the car window. “If you don’t do somethin’ about Juju Jackson and Whitey Bondurant, I’ll have to look over my shoulder the rest of my life. If they get me, they’ll kill me. After they rape and beat me. Simple as that.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You only two guys. Or four guys. Every damn thug in the Bronx want to be on their crew.”
“That’s why they’re called wannabees. What can you tell me about this place we’re going to?”
“It’s Biggie’s main house. He has other places, but I don’t know all of ’em.”
“What about Jackson?”
“What about him?”
“Does he own part of this place?”
“Juju owns part of everything. He’s behind a lot of shit.”
“How many women you think will be there?”
Amelia shrugged. “I don’t know. Four, five, maybe more. And most likely Queenie.”
“Who’s she?”
“She was one of Biggie’s women. Maybe even one of Juju’s before that. She got passed on. She’s a smart whore who always found a way to be useful. She was helping Derrick run his deal. Watched over his whores.”
“Who else might be there?”
“Some of the ones that lived with Biggie, and probably the girls that can’t stay at Derrick’s place in the Houses anymore.”
“Any children?”
“For sure. And probably some of Juju’s guys in there watching over things. Got to be. They wouldn’t leave all those women alone. And they got to watch over Biggie’s stuff.”
Beck said, “I wanted to ask you about that gun you have.”
“I ain’t giving it up.”
“I’m not asking you to. I want to know if you ever fired it.”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know if it works properly. Please don’t shoot the gun unless you absolutely have to. And, if you have to, be careful. We don’t really know who’s in there, or where they might be. You fire that gun, bullets could go through walls. You don’t want to shoot any babies, do you?”
Surprisingly, Amelia thought for a moment before she answered. “No. I guess not. Then again, if they’re Biggie’s babies, maybe they be better off dead.” Amelia paused a beat, staring out the window. “Especially if they’re girl babies.”
After a few moments, Beck said, “I’m thinking you should help us get in the house, then hang back while we do what we have to do.”
“Fine with me.”
A few minutes later, Demarco drove past a two-story house, three windows wide with faded yellow wood siding on Crotona Avenue between 178th Street and East Tremont. The house stood behind a rusting chain-link fence set into a two-foot concrete base painted a garish red. All the doors and windows were secured by wrought-iron bars. Next to the house stood a four-story brick apartment building. A driveway ran between the house and the apartment building leading to a backyard.
Demarco drove around to Belmont Street and stopped directly behind the house. He pulled over to the curb next to a four-foot chain-link fence that bordered the yard.
Beck said, “Give a minute to get in place behind the house.”
“If someone comes running out the back door, just show him your face. That should stop them.”
“That might be all I can do. Don’t shoot anybody in there unless you have to. I don’t want any kids hurt. We’ve been leaving enough dead bodies behind us as it is. Take ’em down, or drive ’em out. I’ll take care of anybody who comes out back.”
“Then what?”
“We search the house for evidence on Jackson’s operation and get the hell out.”
Beck watched as Demarco pulled away. He wasn’t worried about sending Demarco alone into the house. It would be like releasing a mongoose into a nest of snakes.
Demarco parked on Crotona up the street from the ho
use. He and Amelia stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Demarco told her, “See if you can get someone to open the door. I’ll handle it from there.”
Amelia nodded. She put her right hand in the pocket of her hoodie. Demarco slipped his steel baton out of his back pocket and into his right hand. He walked alongside Amelia in his usual effortless way, dressed in dark slacks and a dark blue Dolce & Gabbana jacquard dress shirt. He noticed the way Amelia shuffled along and said to her, “We have to get you some decent shoes.”
“You got that right.”
“In fact, we should shop for a whole new wardrobe.”
She looked at him and said, “How come you talk so white? You look like a damn hard case, but you sound like you ain’t at all.”
“I speak the way I do because I prefer it. The way I look sometimes makes people nervous, so it helps disarm them.”
“Disarm? Like they gonna lay down their guns or something?”
“Something like that.”
“Why you want to do that?”
“It usually makes things easier.”
“And what’s all this about a wardrobe. It sounds gay, man.”
“I am gay.” Before Amelia responded, Demarco said, “Go do something useful. Get me into that house.”
Demarco softly kicked the unlatched fence gate out of Amelia’s way and motioned her forward. She walked past broken toys, a rusty lawn chair, an open garbage can, and up a short flight of stairs to the front door. The heavy wrought-iron gate in front of the main door stood half open, but the front door was closed and locked. An oval window set high on the front door showed there were lights on in the house.
Amelia pushed the security door out of her way, stepped to the front door, and knocked hard, twice. Demarco positioned himself next to her. He had to stand sideways as there was barely room for him on the landing.
Amelia knocked again, harder. An outside light mounted on the wall next to the door came on.
A voice asked from the other side of the closed door, “Who’s there?”
Bronx Requiem Page 31