Bronx Requiem(119)

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, f*ck 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 onto 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 f*ck out of there.”