Bronx Requiem

by John Clarkson

  Amelia said, “Is that you, Queenie?”

  “What the hell you doing here, Princess?”

  “I need a place to stay.”

  Queenie opened the door a crack and spoke in an angry whisper. “Are you crazy? Everybody’s lookin’ for you. You don’t want to be coming in here.”

  “C’mon, Queenie. I need a place to stay.”

  “What? There’s three of Whitey’s boys in here right now. They say you shot Derrick. They gonna kill you, Princess. Go on, get the hell outta here.”

  Demarco moved Amelia aside and shoved the door open, knocking Queenie back. Queenie opened her mouth to yell out a warning, but Demarco covered her mouth with his left hand and pushed her back against the wall with his right.

  “Don’t move. Don’t say…”

  Before he could finish, a male voice shouted out from upstairs, “Who the fuck is that?”

  Demarco motioned with his head for Amelia to come in. She stepped into the house with her Glock in her hand.

  Demarco whispered to Queenie, “Tell him nobody.”

  Amelia stepped forward and pointed her gun at Queenie’s face.

  Demarco took his hand off her mouth, and she yelled back, “Nobody.”

  The voice upstairs yelled, “What the fuck you mean, nobody?”

  Demarco was already running for the set of stairs on his right. He heard heavy steps pounding down from above. He hit the stairs running and almost made it up the first flight when a large man holding a gun at his side turned into him. Before the man could react, Demarco rammed the point of the closed steel baton into his solar plexus. The gunman doubled over, paralyzed. Demarco grabbed the back of the his head and slammed it into the stairway bannister, breaking his nose. He jammed the butt of the baton into his temple, knocking him out.

  It had taken all of three seconds. Demarco paused to pull the gun out of the unconscious man’s hands and continued rushing up the stairs, gun in one hand, his expandable steel baton in the other.

  He heard crying and whimpering from children awakened by the yelling.

  He reached the dark second-floor hallway just as someone burst out of a room to his right. Demarco slashed the steel baton across the side of a tall man’s head, then backhanded it against his jaw. Two out of three, down and out.

  Demarco couldn’t see much in the dim light, but at the far end of the hall another figure leaned out of a room and fired a shot at him. The sudden gunshot caused an eruption of screaming and crying.

  Demarco jumped into the room the tall man had come out of. It was lit with only a night-light. Demarco could make out three cribs, but the noise from the children awakened by the gunshot was horrible. He leaned out and back for a split second and the shooter fired two more times. Now the screaming turned into hysteria, with women on the floor yelling and crying out. Demarco was trapped, but somehow he had to get to the gunman without returning fire.

  He moved to his left to get a view of the hallway. There was another doorway on the opposite side, halfway down the hall. He took one step back and went for it full speed, bursting across the hall, banging the door open, and almost falling into the room. Several women had taken cover behind a bed that couldn’t possibly stop a bullet. They screamed and yelled. Demarco yelled back, “Shut up!”

  Demarco had moved like a pawn on a chessboard, getting one step closer to the guy with the gun, but he still couldn’t risk shooting at him.

  One of the women was cursing, another whimpering. Demarco ignored them. He pulled out the gun he had taken from the first attacker, leaned out into the hall, and threw it into the wall at the end of the hallway. Shots rang out. The shooter leaned out from the doorway to see if he’d hit anything and Demarco overhanded his steel baton at him. The handle of the baton cracked into the shooter’s forehead. He stumbled backward and disappeared down a set of stairs leading to the kitchen on the first floor.

  Demarco let him run. The first man was still unconscious. Demarco walked back to the other end of the hallway, wincing against the cacophony of crying children and babies, and checked him for weapons. He found a small revolver stuck in his waistband. He pulled the gun out and shoved it in his back pocket. He ripped the man’s belt off his pants, tied his wrists with it, and kicked the side of his head.

  He continued back along the hallway, leaning into bedrooms, yelling at the women to be quiet and take care of their damn babies, and headed down the back stairs.

  * * *

  Outside, Beck heard the gunshots. He stood motionless, waiting in the shadows of the small backyard, cluttered with empty spackling buckets, bags of garbage, cinder blocks, scrap wood, and other junk.

  Beck picked up a concrete masonry block.

  He heard footsteps running down stairs. The back door flew open. He braced himself and swung the concrete block into the body mass running his way, timing it just about perfectly.

  The man fleeing the house stopped so suddenly, his feet flew out from under him and he hit the ground with a loud thud. Beck kicked the gun he had been holding into a pile of rubble. As the downed man groaned and struggled for air, Beck dragged him back into the house, the effort making him groan, too.

  He called upstairs, “Demarco? Any more in there? Where are you?”

  Demarco stepped into view on the back steps.

  “That was the last one. You get him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Beck and Demarco found a roll of duct tape in the kitchen. Beck used it to immobilize Bondurant’s men, taping them from ankles to knees, wrists to elbows, and around their mouths. While he did that, Demarco, Amelia, and Queenie settled down the women and children, collected all their cell phones, and then brought the women into the large front room.

  Amelia, Glock in hand, watched over the women as Beck and Demarco searched the house.

  They found one ledger book on the dining room table, along with two cell phones and two landline phones. They found four rifles and five handguns stashed around the house. Beck went out into the yard and retrieved the last handgun. They piled everything on the dining room table.

  In the closet of the largest bedroom, they discovered a safe bolted to the floor.

  Beck said to Demarco, “Hey, bring that woman in charge up here. I don’t want to waste time on this safe if there’s nothing in it.”

  Demarco returned with Queenie. She stood in the middle of the messy bedroom, a sullen look on her face. She wore jeans that fit her fifteen pounds ago and a white top with a red stain above her right breast. The years had added weight, softened her body, and hardened her attitude.

  Beck said, “Thanks for getting the kids settled.”

  “What you want with me?”

  Beck held up the ledger book he’d found in the dining room.

  “You’re the one who made all the entries in this, aren’t you?”

  “So what?”

  “Are there any more ledger books in that safe?”

  Queenie’s mouth turned into a firmly shut line. Her expression told Beck everything he needed to know.

  “What else is in there?”

  He got the same reaction.

  “Okay, there’s two ways you can play this, ma’am. You can take a share of all the cash we find in that safe and come with us. Or, you can stay here until Jackson, Bondurant, or more of their men show up and deal with what they do. Which way do you want to go?”

  Queenie stood where she was, unresponsive.

  “And just so you know, in terms of Jackson and Bondurant, their time is over. One way or another, they’re done. I guarantee you that.”

  Queenie sneered. “You trippin’, man.”

  “I won’t tell you again. Their time is over. You want to go in with us and take your share of what’s in the safe, or you want to stay here and wait for Bondurant?”

  “What do you mean ‘go in’ with you?”

  “I don’t have time to explain everything. Decide now.”

  Queenie refused to make a choice about going with Beck, but she
did say, “I don’t know exactly what’s in that safe. But if I were you, I’d find a way to open it.”

  62

  Ciro and Manny sat in Ciro’s Escalade parked about a half block from Edward Remsen’s house on Hull Avenue in the Norwood section of the Bronx. Manny’s cell phone rang.

  “Yo.”

  “It’s me,” said Ricky Bolo. “We’re about five, six minutes out heading your way. Coming down Mosholu Parkway. Where are you?”

  “Parked at a hydrant a half block from his house.”

  “Good. Looks like this useless drunk will be home soon. You set?”

  “Yes. He’s got his own parking area. A driveway leads up to it from the street. Nice little gate and all. He pulls in there, it should be easy.”

  “I’ll leave it to you. We’ll tail him until he turns onto his block and then be on our way.”

  “Good.”

  “Over and out, sweetheart. Have fun.”

  Manny hit the End button on his phone and turned to Ciro.

  “He should be here in about five. How you want to play this?”

  Ciro squinted at Remsen’s house down the block. Night had fallen. Five-story apartment buildings occupied the north side of Hull Avenue except for two small houses, one of which was Remsen’s. The other side was mostly modest two-flat houses. Only three streetlights illuminated the long block, so there were plenty of shadows under the trees and between houses.

  Ciro stepped out of his car and looked down the block. He came back and said, “I can’t get between his house and the one next door. Gate is blocking the way, so I’ll wait in the doorway across the street. What’d Ricky say he’s driving?”

  “New Lexus. Dark blue.”

  “Okay, you get behind the wheel. Fall in behind the Lexus. When he turns into his driveway, you pull in and block the driveway. I’ll do the rest.”

  Ciro pulled a two-pound, nineteen-inch fish bat made of molded glass-filled polypropylene from under his seat.

  “Don’t kill him, Ciro.”

  “I’ll just give him a tap.”

  “Make it half a tap. And don’t hit him in the stomach. He’s been drinking. He’ll puke all over himself. I don’t want to haul away a stinking mess.”

  “Jeezus, maybe I should give him a fucking written invitation to come with us.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes after the Bolos ended their tail on Remsen, Ricky Bolo’s cell phone rang.

  Ricky said, “You get him?”

  “It’s me, Beck.”

  “Oh, we just left Ciro and Manny. They were doing that thing.”

  “I know. They called me. It’s done. Listen, I have a safe needs opening.”

  “Cool. What kind?”

  “A Diebold.”

  “With a dial or a touchpad?”

  “Touchpad.”

  “You have the model number?”

  “Uh, no, you need it?”

  “Not really. Where is it?”

  “In the Bronx. On Crotona near 178th Street.”

  “Is that a house?”

  “Yes. The safe is in a closet. A fairly big one.”

  “The closet or the safe?”

  “The closet. Safe isn’t very big. Two by two by three.”

  “Good. In a closet will help cover the noise. If it matters.”

  “It does. We have sleeping babies here.”

  “What?”

  “Just hurry.”

  * * *

  Demarco joined Amelia downstairs keeping watch.

  Beck and Queenie roamed the second floor, making sure doors were closed and the babies and children were sleeping.

  Jonas did most of the work. Ricky changed drill bits; handed him tools; adjusted the chain holding the frame that kept the drill in place. It took thirty-eight minutes to remove the touchpad, drill a hole, and set up an electronic box that made the connections to open the lock.

  The safe turned out to be a bonanza.

  It contained eighteen thousand dollars, fifteen ledger books going back over a period of ten years, and a Western Digital one-terabyte external hard drive, along with three more handguns and six boxes of ammunition.

  Beck said to Jonas and Ricky, “Get those guns and ammunition out of here. And the weapons downstairs on the dining room table. Do what you want with them.” Beck handed Ricky Bolo six thousand dollars. “Here’s your share. After you take care of the guns, head back to Red Hook. There’s more to do.”

  “On it.”

  Beck turned to Queenie, who had been napping in a large wingback chair in the bedroom. He tapped her on the shoulder.

  Queenie cleared her throat, took a moment to get her bearings, and stood up.

  “What?”

  “Gather the women in the living room downstairs. I want to talk to them.” Beck handed Queenie three thousand dollars. “Here’s your cut from the safe.”

  Queenie looked at the money, said nothing, and shoved the cash into her bra.

  Beck went downstairs and asked Demarco, “Those guys squared away?”

  “Yeah, I put them in three different rooms.”

  “Good. Time to get out of here.”

  Demarco left to get the Mercury. Beck found Amelia in the front room with the other women. He motioned for her to step out in the hallway.

  “What?”

  Beck handed her three thousand dollars. “This is yours. We found it here.”

  Amelia took the cash without comment.

  “We’re leaving now. You take Queenie out to the car when Demarco pulls up. Get in the backseat with her. Keep an eye on her. I know she’s not your favorite person, but try not to show it.”

  Amelia nodded and went to wait by the front door.

  Queenie came out of the front room. “They all here.”

  “Good. Thanks. Queenie, go with Amelia please. It’s time.”

  Beck waited for pushback, a comment, but Queenie just looked around once and left.

  Beck walked into the front room. Six women looked at him, perfectly willing to let him be in charge. Some stood, some sat. Some were dressed for bed, others were in street clothes. Beck stood at the dining table, quickly counting the remaining money into one-thousand-dollar piles. Beck found himself a hundred dollars short for the last pile. He wasn’t sure where he’d miscounted. He didn’t have time to recount. He added the difference from his own pocket, picked up the piles, and handed them out to each of the women.

  Beck wasn’t sure how he felt as each woman looked at him and took the money. None of them asked any questions. None of them said anything. After he handed the last pile of cash to the last woman, Beck said, “When Jackson’s men come, hide that money. Tell them I took it all. I’m sorry for the disturbance. Good-bye.”

  Beck turned and hurried out, unable to count all the things he was sorry about.

  He closed the door quietly as he left so as not to wake any of the children.

  63

  On the drive back to Red Hook, Amelia and Queenie sat in the backseat of the Mercury as far apart as they could. A few minutes into the drive, Beck heard Queenie muttering to Amelia, “What the hell you doing with these two? Comin’ in there tearing the place up.”

  Amelia kept her voice low. “What do you care?”

  Queenie said, “Girl, don’t give me no damn attitude. I tried to help you when you needed it.”

  Amelia’s voice rose. “Help me how? Help me get raped and beaten and locked up in a closet? Help me be a whore?”

  Queenie folded her arms and harrumphed, talking as much to herself as to Amelia. “You think you the only one? My name is in them books, too. Long before yours. You ain’t the only one got prostituted. Uppity…”

  Amelia spun toward Queenie, ready to punch her, but Beck turned to them.

  “Ladies, please!”

  Turning sent a bolt of pain flashing across his lower ribs. He grimaced. The pain put an edge in his voice.

  “We don’t need any arguing.”

  Queenie couldn’t stop herse
lf from announcing to everyone in the car, “I hope you all know what the hell you doing. Juju Jackson and Whitey Bondurant got a hell of lot more men than you got. And everyone of ’em is looking to kill this girl.”

  Amelia yelled back, “And everyone one of ’em tried is either dead or busted up, so fuck you and fuck them.”

  Beck raised his voice to interrupt them. “Queenie.”

  She turned to face him, cocking her head back and forth with each word. “What? What you got to say to me, motherfucker?”

  Beck softened his voice. “You’re an intelligent woman. This is the time to stop talking and start thinking. Time you got on the right side of this thing whether you like it or not.”

  “What side is that?”

  “The side against Eric Jackson.”

  “Yeah? And how’s that gonna work?”

  “We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

  Queenie made a face, crossed her arms again over her chest, and shook her head. It took a great deal of effort for her to stop talking.

  When they arrived in Red Hook, Beck asked Demarco to get Queenie settled in a room.

  He stood outside his bar while Demarco and Queenie went inside. Beck hadn’t asked her to, but Amelia stayed with him. It was nearing one-thirty on Saturday morning. A cold front had moved in and the moist air off the bay seemed to be hovering right at the dew point.

  A bone-deep fatigue had seeped into Beck. The constant pain from the beating outside Remsen’s bar had drained him. Amelia stood next to him, tall and straight, her silent presence lending gravity to the early morning surroundings.

  She asked, “Are you okay?”

  Beck turned to her, surprised at the question.

  “I’m okay. Just tired.”

  “Sorry about that shit in the car. She just reminds me…”

  “I understand. Try to forget about that. It’s all going to be over soon.”

  “How?”

  “Step by step.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “So do I. Do me a favor, can you reach in and get those ledgers and the hard drive in the front there?”

  Amelia moved quickly to do as Beck asked.

  Beck picked the hard drive off the pile and let Amelia carry the rest. He’d aggravated something in his back slinging the masonry block into the guy running out the back door at Watkins’s house. He didn’t want to risk bending over to get the ledgers, or carry them.