Bronx Requiem(120)

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 f*cking 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 *s 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!”