“That’s none of your damn business.”
“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, Eric. If I do this, we both know I’m burned. Word gonna get out with your whores I turned over Princess. No way I’m gonna be able to deal with any more whores. I got to square up, Eric. I got to do something legit. I know you have other businesses. You got to promise to give me a real job.”
“You trying to shake me down, Queenie? You really want to play it this way?”
“Ain’t no shakedown, Eric. It’s just the reality. If I turn over this girl, what do I have left? I got to have something, or I might as well walk away now and take my chances.”
Queenie forced herself to stop talking. She had to wait for Jackson to make a decision.
Finally, he said, “All right, Queenie. I can’t see you going straight, but I ain’t going to argue with you. You deliver the girl; I’ll give you a shot at something. You have my word on it. Where are you? I’ll come for you now.”
“It ain’t going to be that easy. The girl is skittish as a colt. She’s got a gun she took from Tyrell’s car. I got to keep buildin’ her confidence. Sell her on a story. I can’t risk her shootin’ me and takin’ off if she gets suspicious.”
“Queenie, don’t make this complicated.”
“Take it easy. I got this figured out. I told her I know some people outside of Charleston who can take her in. She can’t fly down there cuz she don’t have no ID. So I promised her I’d bring her to Port Authority and put her on the next bus, which leaves tomorrow. That’s when I’ll get her out in the open, and you can take her.”
“I ain’t got time for that.”
“Dammit, Eric, I already sold her on this. I showed her the bus schedule. It leaves at eleven-ten tomorrow, Sunday. I convinced her we should take a car service downtown. Sneak out of the Houses around nine and meet the car on 174th outside the project. Have one of your boys in a car. I put her in. You got her. It’s done.”
“Are you in the Houses now?”
“Yes. And I ain’t telling you where. You gonna have to go through all twelve buildings to find us. Cops will be here long before you find me.”
“Fuck, I don’t have time to mess with you on this.”
“You got a better idea, go for it. But I already got it all set up.”
After a few moments, Jackson spoke. “All right, here’s how this is gonna work. You call me at nine A.M. tomorrow. You tell me what building you’re in. Ten minutes later, you walk out. You’re gonna be tracked all the way to a car on 174th. You get in that car with her, you understand? You tell her you’re gonna make sure she gets a ticket and finds the bus and all. We’ll take it from there.”
“I don’t want to see what you do to that girl.”
“Don’t worry. As soon as you two are in the car, we’ll put a gun on her. My guy will drive you a couple of blocks. I’ll meet you and take you up to my place. We’ll work on setting you up with something.”
“Okay, Eric. Tomorrow at nine.”
Esther put down the phone and looked around the table at Beck, Amelia, Demarco, and Willie Reese, along with the Bolo brothers.
“It’s done. Tomorrow morning at nine, Bronx River Houses.”
Beck said, “You think he bought it?”
“Hell, no. He’s gonna kill me and the girl the second we get into that car. And he sure as hell don’t think an old whore like me would go at him like I just did. No sir, Mr. Beck, he knows a set up when he hears it. Juju Jackson’s gonna fill the Bronx River Houses with Whitey Bondurant and all his thugs, plus every single punk with a gun who want to get with him.
“I hope to God you know what you’re doing, Mr. Beck, because I don’t think anybody going into Bronx River Houses on Sunday morning is coming out in one piece unless Juju Jackson says so.”
“I already told you, Esther. He’s not calling the shots. We are. Here’s how it’s going to work.”
* * *
Eric Jackson turned to Whitey Bondurant, who sat with his size-fifteen feet on Jackson’s coffee table, sharpening a knife.
Bondurant’s deep voice rumbled, “That was Queenie?”
“Yeah. Can’t believe it, but that old bitch Queenie finally turned on me.”
“How?”
“I’m bettin’ she’s setting somethin’ up with that crew who’s been hitting us. And even if she ain’t, the damn bitch thinks she can tell me what’s what. Demand shit from me. She forgot how this works. She forgot who I am.”
“Then she has to go.”
“She shoulda been gone a long time ago. Damn bitch knows way too much.” Jackson sat silent for a few moments, and then told Bondurant, “Okay, Whitey, we gonna play this out. If I’m right, this is our chance to take care of all this mess and be done with this shit.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Are we still meeting with that cop over by the Chinks?”
“Fuck him. I don’t need him now.”
73
All Saturday afternoon into the night and throughout Sunday morning, Beck kept working, tracking everything, getting information, evaluating it, issuing instructions, planning, re-planning.
At five P.M. he’d gotten a text from Phineas: Def stopped Brx DA plans. At minimum have delayed NYPD. Walter pushing FBI. Probably nothing final til Mon. Still working on everything.
By eight P.M. both Manny and Demarco had checked in, telling Beck they were making progress, but slowly.
By one A.M. the Bolo brothers had called in with their final report.
By two A.M. Ciro had called to tell Beck, “Everything is jake. See you at seven.”
At three A.M. Beck forced himself to trudge up to his bedroom, where he slowly settled onto his bed in sections, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt, trying to stop his racing mind. He set his cell phone to wake him at six so he could go over everything one more time before he and Ciro were scheduled to head out for Bronx River Houses.
Beck would have slept until noon, but when his phone woke him he forced himself to sit up and get his feet on the floor. By the time Ciro arrived to pick him up, he hadn’t done much more than shower, dress, and drink enough coffee to get him functioning.
He and Ciro arrived at the Bronx River Houses shortly before eight A.M. Ciro parked his Escalade on Harrod Avenue, while Beck listened to the first call from Ricky and Jonas Bolo telling him they had already spotted eleven men they judged to be part of Juju Jackson’s crew stationed around the perimeter of Bronx River Houses.
Beck had no way of knowing how many more were inside the housing project. Nor did he know where Jackson and Bondurant were.
He had less than thirty minutes to make a crucial decision, and he felt his concentration faltering. He’d stopped taking pain medication so he could stay sharp, but the pain from the upstate beating and lack of sleep continued to drain him.
He sat in Ciro’s Escalade, staring at a satellite image of the Bronx River Houses and a detailed street map of the area. He kept looking back and forth between the two, trying to predict all the moves that might happen, all the lines of action.
Beck took another swig of coffee, rubbed his face, and told himself, fuck it. He folded the satellite image and map, and shoved them under his seat. Either this will work, or it won’t. They were all about to walk into a trap. He’d done what he could, but he knew there were so many variables that a large part of what happened next was out of his control.
* * *
Juju Jackson’s cell phone rang at exactly nine A.M.
“Where you at?”
Esther said, “Gonna be walking out of building twelve at the north end of the complex in one minute. The one off Harrod and the expressway.” And then she ended the call.
Jackson and Bondurant were in a silver Range Rover on Bronx River Avenue. Jackson behind the wheel, Bondurant in the passenger seat. Behind Bondurant sat one of his men by the name of Amir.
Jackson shoved his phone into his shirt pocket and pulled out o
nto Bronx River Avenue heading north, circling quickly around to Harrod Avenue, while Bondurant called his men, telling them to head for the last building at the northeast end of the housing complex and spread the word.
* * *
Amelia and Esther emerged from the building facing Harrod Avenue and walked without hurry toward a semicircular plaza south of the building. At the back of the plaza, a concrete platform rose up three steps, forming a rectangular stage. Behind it rose the twelve-story back wall of the next building south.
As Jackson pulled over to a fire hydrant on Harrod, Bondurant spotted Amelia and Esther. It looked like they were going to cut across the plaza and take the path that led to 174th Street.
“There they are.”
“I see ’em.”
Bondurant looked around, trying to spot any of Beck’s men lurking.
Jackson said, “If this is an ambush, you’ll see them soon enough. Just get in there and pull them bitches out. You’ll have at least twenty guys covering you in a minute.”
“I hope it is an ambush. We see any of that crew, we gonna shoot ’em down like dogs. I put the word out, as soon as we finish off the last one, everybody gets paid.”
“Good. Bring the bitches out fast, load ’em up, and we’re gone. If you can’t make that happen, you shoot ’em both, and get the fuck out of there.”
Bondurant and Amir stepped out of the Range Rover, drawing their guns. Bondurant held a .45 caliber Colt 1911 out of sight against his leg. Amir’s small Taurus .38 six-shot revolver was almost invisible in his hand.
Bondurant pointed south and told Amir, “I’m going to head that way and get in front of them. You hang back and move in behind.”
Bondurant, wearing his sunglasses, scanned the surrounding area. He saw five of his men heading his way from the north. More would be coming in from the south, and more converging from the west perimeter of the complex.
Everything looked normal for an early Sunday morning. He saw only one couple who looked like residents, probably heading for church. Maybe Queenie was playing this straight. Either way it didn’t matter. He’d already decided he was going to shoot both women as soon as he got close to them. If anybody showed up from the crew who’d taken out Derrick and the others, he wanted to be free to kill as many of them as he could.
Bondurant hustled to get ahead of Queenie and Princess, keeping an eye on them as he moved into position. He’d forgotten how good Princess looked. He smiled. She has no fucking idea she’s got about one minute before she takes a bullet in that pretty face.
* * *
Beck and Ciro had seen the silver Range Rover come racing around the corner onto Harrod Avenue and pull in next to the fire hydrant. They were parked across the street from the Rover about five car lengths south. Both of them slumped down in their seats and watched two men get out of the Range Rover, one of them a hulking black albino—Whitey Bondurant. Beck had little doubt the third man sitting behind the wheel was Eric Juju Jackson, hanging back to let others do his dirty work.
* * *
Bondurant watched Princess and Queenie moving almost parallel to him. But instead of continuing across the plaza toward 174th Street, the two women turned and walked up onto the platform at the far side of the plaza. Once there, they stopped and stood in the middle of the stage.
That didn’t make any sense. What the hell were they doing?
Bondurant’s men were converging from every direction, including several of his hard-core gangbangers, and still Bondurant couldn’t see anybody who looked like one of Beck’s crew.
Bondurant turned west and headed directly for the platform, confident nobody could stop him now, but before he reached the middle of the plaza, he saw one of his crew gesturing and pointing behind him.
Bondurant turned and spotted the massive shape of Pastor Benjamin Woods heading in his direction, three men on his left, four on his right, all of them serious. Six were deacons in Wood’s church. The seventh was Emmanuel Guzman. A crowd of at least forty, most of them men, followed Woods and Manny. They were residents of Bronx River Houses, their number growing as more people from the surrounding buildings joined them.
Bondurant looked south and saw another procession, this one mostly women, led by Belinda Halsted Smith, rolling along on her Rascal scooter, chin high, staring straight ahead through her thick glasses, a determined look on her aged face. On one side of her walked Ms. Margaret and Ms. Maxine. On the other side, Demarco Jones. And behind them, more of the older female sentinels of Bronx River Houses along with many of their daughters and granddaughters.
All told, there were three generations of women and men converging on the area, their numbers swelling with every step while Amelia and Esther stood alone bravely waiting for them.
In the face of the marching residents, almost all of Bondurant’s crew heading toward the plaza had stopped. They were both confused and exposed as the residents engulfed them.
Windows were opening. Heads leaned out to see what was going on. More and more residents were coming out to either join the marchers, or watch what was happening. Many of Bondurant’s men who hadn’t made it to the plaza were being engulfed by the crowd of well over a hundred people and growing.
Bondurant yelled and waved for his men nearby to continue toward the plaza. More were coming in from the periphery. Bondurant had no intention of letting anybody stop him. Maybe he couldn’t shoot Queenie and Princess in front of so many witnesses, but he could damn well drag them out of the complex with his men clearing the way. Let these fools try to stop him. All they had to do was make it fifty yards out to the street, get them in the Range Rover, and get the hell out. A couple of gunshots in the air and all these assholes would duck and run. Why the hell did any of them give a shit about these damn whores anyhow?
Bondurant ran toward the stage, yelling for his men to come forward, but by now there were five or six residents for every one of his. The two groups of residents merged into a throng that surrounded Bondurant’s men. Several of Bondurant’s crew tried to push their way to the stage, but the residents stood firm, blocking them. A few of the older women from the complex who had known some of young men since childhood yelled at them, reprimanding them as if they were their own children, warning Bondurant’s bullies not to dare push them aside.
Demarco had walked with Belinda as she drove her Rascal toward the stage, but now he broke and moved fast to get to Amelia and Queenie.
Big Ben Woods, the fearsome enforcer from Dannemora, head and shoulders above the crowd, also strode toward the stage, holding his Bible over his head with his left hand while using his massive bulk and powerful right hand to push aside any of Bondurant’s men in his way, all the while excoriating them and promising damnation to anybody who dared oppose him.
Bondurant made it to the steps of the platform, gun in hand. In two strides he ascended to the stage. When they saw him, Esther and Amelia backed up until they were trapped against the wall. Bondurant headed for Amelia. She yelled, “Get the hell away from me!”
* * *
Out on Harrod Avenue, Beck and Ciro were about to step out of the Escalade when Beck said, “Wait. We can’t both be on the street while he’s in a car. If he tries to drive out of here, run the son of a bitch off the road.”
Beck slipped out the passenger door. In one hand he carried Ciro’s fish bat. In the other, his Browning forty-five. The only way to get to Jackson without being seen was to duck down and walk hidden by the cars parked along his side of the street. But the damage Remsen’s men had done to him made walking bent over excruciating.
By the time he reached a spot across the street from Jackson, he had to take a knee and recover. He leaned out past the front bumper of a parked car. Jackson stared off to his right, trying to make out what was happening in the roiling mass of people gathering in and around the plaza.
Beck saw Bondurant emerge from the crowd and make it to the platform. He saw Jackson shifting in the driver’s seat as if about to make a move. Was he
going to flee the scene to save himself? Get out and help Bondurant? Start firing into the crowd?
Juju Jackson shoved the Range Rover into gear.
* * *
Amelia’s shout stopped Bondurant for a moment. And in that split second Demarco Jones leaped onto the concrete stage and yelled at Bondurant.
“Hey!”
Whitey Bondurant turned toward him. There wasn’t much distance for Demarco to cover, but it was enough so that Bondurant had time to raise his gun into firing position. Even though he was a trigger pull from taking a bullet, Demarco kept coming. As Bondurant’s gun came level with Demarco’s chest, he heard a primal scream as Amelia Johnson threw herself at Whitey Bondurant. She hit him hard, knocking him back, but only a step. Bondurant was much too big to go down. He shoved Amelia away, sending her sprawling onto the hard concrete. It took only two seconds, but time enough for Demarco to close the distance and grab the barrel of Bondurant’s Colt, twist the gun out of his hand, and backhand the butt of the gun across Bondurant’s face.
Bondurant’s sunglasses flew off, his cheek split open, and this time he staggered backward.
Demarco casually looked behind him and underhanded the gun to Manny Guzman who had stepped up onto the platform. Manny caught the Colt, then turned and joined Big Ben Woods and his deacons, who had taken up positions on the top step, ready to hold back Bondurant’s crew. But none of them tried to storm the stage. Every person in the plaza stood where they were, waiting to see the fight about to happen between the feared Whitey Bondurant and someone who almost matched his size.
Demarco circled between Bondurant and the women as Esther helped Amelia to her feet and moved her out of the way toward a door set into the wall bordering the back of the stage.
Demarco taunted Bondurant. “You like hitting girls, you nancy bitch?”
The crowd stood, transfixed. For years, every one of them had dreaded even hearing the name Whitey Bondurant. It didn’t seem possible that someone had taken away Bondurant’s gun and stood taunting him, goading him to fight.
Bondurant’s men called out, telling him to kick the guy’s ass. To kill him. To tear him up. They wanted to see what Whitey could do. They needed to see it.
Bronx Requiem Page 36