Bronx Requiem(123)
Beck’s only hope was that maybe he wouldn’t take a direct hit. Maybe he could get a shot off, maybe he could hit Jackson even though he was covered by the Range Rover’s driver’s-side door.
And then, suddenly, inexplicably, Eric Jackson disappeared with a sudden, metal-crushing bang as Ciro’s Escalade slammed into the Range Rover’s door, knocking Jackson off his feet. Ciro backed up, jumped out, wrenched the bent door out of his way, and kicked Jackson’s gun out of his hand.
Ciro lifted Jackson up with one hand and threw him against his Escalade. Jackson hit the front fender and slid onto the street.
It took a moment for Beck to realize he hadn’t been struck by a bullet. And a few more seconds to stand up. He checked out the scene in the plaza. He couldn’t tell much about what had happened beyond seeing the police cars rolling into the area and the crowd dispersing.
Ciro asked Beck, “So?”
“Looks like they made it out.”
“Good. Let’s get this piece-of-shit pimp off the street and get the hell out of here.”
74
Beck and Ciro quickly tied up Eric Jackson, pulled a garbage bag over his head, and dumped him into the cargo section of the Escalade. Since Jackson didn’t scream in pain and Beck didn’t see any blood leaking from his ears, he assumed he’d survived Ciro’s intervention with a six-thousand-pound vehicle without suffering any life-threatening injuries.
They emptied Jackson’s gun, tossed it into the Range Rover, and left the vehicle in the middle of the street where the police couldn’t miss it.
They were halfway to the entrance of the Cross Bronx Expressway with their captive when the first police car flew past them heading toward Harrod Avenue.
Ciro and Beck drove to Sedgwick Avenue, where Jonas and Ricky Bolo were waiting parked under the cover of a viaduct. They quickly transferred Jackson into their van. Ciro confirmed with Jonas where they were to take Jackson—a motel outside the Lincoln Tunnel where he’d already stashed Edward Remsen. In less than two minutes, the Bolos were heading for Jersey while Beck and Ciro continued driving south toward Manhattan.
Beck checked his watch. A few minutes after eleven. He asked Ciro, “So we’re set, right? Alex’s information was accurate?”
“Yeah. Noon.”
“He answered your call?”
“No. I had to leave a message telling him either he calls me, or I’ll show up at his apartment on Arden Street. He called back ten minutes later.”
“Did he need much convincing?”
“Not really. He picked a restaurant on Broadway and 103rd Street.”
Beck checked his watch. “We have time to look around. Make sure he didn’t do anything stupid like call in the troops so they could arrest me.”
Ciro nodded and then lapsed into silence. After a few moments, he turned to Beck and said, “You sure you want to do this, James?”
Beck nodded.
“This ain’t some Bronx pimp, Jimmy. There’s going to be a hell of a lot of heat over it.”
“Ciro, I know what can happen. I’ll do what I can to make sure nothing blows back on you guys. I know I might have to disappear. I know what this means. I know it all, Ciro.”
Ciro nodded. Saying nothing because there was nothing more to say.
When they arrived at Broadway and 103rd, Ciro circled the surrounding streets until he was sure there were no cops lying in wait to arrest Beck. He pulled up across the street from the restaurant and told Beck, “I’ll wait here. If the cops show, I’ll drive this f*cking tank into the restaurant if I have to, and get you out of there.”
“The cops won’t show. This is too far from his precinct. And he thinks there’s already a plan in place to arrest us. He sure as hell won’t try it by himself. Not in a restaurant filled with Upper West Side yuppies and their kids.”
“All right. Be careful.”
Beck dodged traffic getting across Broadway, entered the restaurant, and took a seat at a table for two adjacent to the outside seating area. He ordered coffee to revive himself, and watched the patrons at the other tables while keeping an eye out for Raymond Ippolito.
His phone signaled a text message had come in. It was from Phineas: Starting our 2nd meet with Levitt, Wilson. Higher-ups involved now.
Beck slipped the phone into his pocket. The timing seemed to be working.
He noticed a few people looking at him surreptitiously. The swelling under his eye and on his forehead had subsided, but the bruises were very visible. There was no hiding the fact that he’d been in some sort of fight.
He was about to order a second cup of coffee when Raymond Ippolito appeared at the restaurant doorway. Beck immediately pegged him for the cop. He wore his shirt hanging out of his slacks to cover the gun at his hip, a pair of too-shiny loafers that looked like Gucci knockoffs, and too much gel on his slicked-back hair. He walked directly to Beck’s table, stood over him, and said, “I almost didn’t match you with your mug shot. Looks like you took a beating.”
“Ippolito.”
“Yeah, what’s this all about? You got some balls setting up a meet with me.”
Beck looked up at Ippolito, calculating the precise angle and point of impact necessary to break his nose with a short right hook. The expression on Beck’s battered face made Ippolito sit.