Bronx Requiem(25)

She made no response.

Beck didn’t repeat the words. They felt empty and worthless.

She had taken the money with her left hand. He looked at her right hand, trying to remember how hard he had kicked the gun out of her grip. He reached for her hand, lifting it so he could see if he’d hurt her. She didn’t resist.

Beck walked to her small kitchen and opened the freezer. Old, cloudy ice cubes filled an ancient aluminum tray. He dug out two.

He could feel Manny behind him, restless to get out of the apartment.

Beck wrapped two thick ice cubes in a threadbare kitchen towel, returned to the living room and placed her hand on the covered ice.

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. They left quickly, walking past the old revolver still on the floor.





10

Demarco turned the Mercury onto Harrod Avenue bordering Bronx River Houses forty minutes after Ippolito and Palmer had left.

“I remember coming here when I was a kid. My Auntie Esther and her husband, Mickey, lived here back in the day.”

Beck asked, “How many aunts you got, D?”

“Lots. In my community aunts come in varying degrees.”

Manny said, “Back in the day?”

“When this place was known for all the hip-hop stuff going on.” Demarco peered out the windshield. “Man, I remember there being a lot less grass and trees, and a lot more junkies back then. Place looks livable now.”

“Still the damn projects,” said Manny.

“True. They’re like gulags, these places,” Demarco eased the Mercury alongside the curb. “If Derrick Watkins is in one of these buildings, I’ll find him. My cousin Giles still lives here. My Aunt Esther’s oldest.”

“You think your cousin is still around?” asked Beck.

“Doesn’t matter. I know you’re burning to get in there, James, but give me a little time to look around before we storm the place.”

Demarco slipped out of the Mercury before Beck could answer and ambled into the projects. As Beck watched Demarco walk away, his cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID. Ciro.

He quickly told Ciro Baldassare where they were, and what was going on. Ciro told him he was heading north on the Henry Hudson and would be there in about thirty minutes.

Beck answered, “Okay, let me know when you’re in the area and I’ll tell you where to meet us.”

When he broke off the call, Manny asked from the backseat, “You hungry?”

Beck looked up and down the block on the other side of the street. The only place that appeared to sell food was a Pioneer Supermarket.

“Better than sitting here waiting.”

Beck and Manny killed time walking the cramped aisles of the little market. Beck found a sealed bag of cashews, unsurprised at the high prices typical of stores in minority neighborhoods. He matched it with a single can of beer from a limited selection, particularly since he didn’t drink malt liquor. Manny picked out a banana.

Beck paid for the food. They crossed back to the other side of the street and ate leaning against the Mercury, watching the comings and goings of the housing project residents, almost exclusively minority women and young kids.

Beck could feel the heat of the midday sun seeping into his back and shoulders.

Demarco hadn’t been gone very long, but Beck was restless. He remembered the duffel bag he’d taken from Lorena’s apartment. He reached into the backseat, pulled out the bag, and dropped it on the trunk of the Mercury. The items he’d taken from Amelia’s dresser drawer were on top of Packy’s clothes. He shoved aside flimsy undergarments that looked inappropriate for a teenager, trying to ignore them. He felt inside the pants pockets of Packy’s slacks. Checked the shirt pocket. Nothing.

He looked through Amelia’s things, seeing nothing of interest until he spotted the small bundle of receipts. Beck pulled them out of the bag and thumbed through them.

Most of them were for amounts under ten dollars. Some were from fast-food outlets. There were several cab receipts, and one for $83.68 from Old Navy. Who were these records for? Beck decided they had to be for Amelia’s pimp. The thought both saddened and angered him.

Beck dropped the receipts back into the duffel bag and tossed it into the backseat. He was almost ready to go into the housing project and find Demarco when his cell phone vibrated.

He answered it, seeing Demarco’s caller ID.

“Yeah?”

“Walk in on that path I took. Go past three buildings. I’m sitting in front of Derrick Watkins’s building.”

“Good work. On my way.”

Beck cut the call. He opened the trunk of the Mercury and pulled out a three-foot steel crowbar. He positioned it under his right arm to conceal it, and hustled into the complex to find Demarco. Manny followed as quickly as his bowed legs allowed.

*

Demarco Jones sat on a bench wearing black cotton slacks, an extra-long designer T-shirt, Allen Edmonds slip-ons with no socks. Despite the expensive clothes, most would have thought twice before they sat on the same bench. He looked like a man who wanted to kill somebody, and could easily do it.

Beck walked into the courtyard and headed quickly toward Demarco. Manny Guzman lagged behind, taking time to check his surroundings, look for security cameras, take note of every person nearby.

There were two elderly black ladies on a bench about twenty feet away. A young woman wearing a halter top and blue shorts stood near the front entrance of Watkins’s building rocking a double stroller with her left hand as she yelled into a cell phone in her right hand, warning whoever listened at the other end they better goddam remember to pick up some motherf*cking Pampers.