Bronx Requiem(27)

“Yeah.”

“Then I think we should definitely try it my way before we start a war in here.”





11

When Derrick Watkins kicked the bed and yelled at Amelia to wake up, it took her a full four seconds to struggle back to consciousness, and another few moments to remember where she was.

“I said wake up, bitch. We got shit to talk about. Get your ass out of here.”

He left the bedroom, kicking the door out of his way.

Amelia forced herself out of bed. She staggered barefoot to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, used the toilet, and checked the folded twenty-dollar bills she’d hidden in her hair. She was taking a huge risk, but she’d be damned if she was going to give Derrick Watkins everything.

She put her red wig back on and walked out to the front room.

The moment she stepped to the threshold, she froze. Not only Derrick, but his brother, Jerome, and five members of his crew turned toward her with hard looks.

What had happened? They looked like they wanted to kill somebody. How could it have anything to do with her? Knowing that it couldn’t did not dispel the paralyzing fear that she was going to be the target of a roomful of male anger and hate.

Her next thought was—if he finds the sixty dollars in front of his crew, he’ll beat me to death.

She desperately wanted a gun, a razor, something, anything to defend herself. She remembered hearing Derrick kept a gun in the freezer of the old refrigerator in the kitchen. She thought about making a run for the kitchen, but she knew she wouldn’t make it halfway.

All of them continued staring at her: Derrick, Tyrell, Johnny Morris, all longtime members of his crew, plus two newer members. One called Eddie. The other, a dull-looking boy she didn’t know. Last, and certainly worse than all the others, sat Derrick’s older, larger brother, Jerome Biggie Watkins.

Derrick said, “Sit down, Princess.”

He motioned toward an empty spot on the old couch between him and Biggie. Amelia took a few steps toward the dirty couch, the upholstery scabbed by years of stains and worn spots, her head down, making sure to avoid eye contact with any of the others.

She sat between the two brothers, feeling the tension and anger in the room directed at her, still trying to figure out why.

“You got my money, bitch?”

She turned to Derrick, pulled out the cash and receipt for food from her front pocket, and handed them to him.

Derrick pocketed everything without looking at it. A bad sign. He didn’t even count the money. As if he were done with her. Why? She had earned. What was going on? Sitting between the brothers on the filthy couch, all the members of his crew staring at her, Amelia could not shake the idea that Derrick had decided to let them all pull one last brutal chain of serial rape and then kill her.

She kept her head down, feeling a constricting sensation that made it difficult to breathe. A flush of panic and fear came over her. She began to sweat.

Derrick narrowed his eyes at her and said, “Why didn’t you tell me your father was out of prison?”

Amelia flinched in confusion for a moment, but then answered without hesitation. “I didn’t know.”

“Liar.”

She kept her head down, still confused, but grabbing at the chance to respond. “I’m not lying. I don’t know nuthin’ about that man. I ain’t seen or heard from him in years.”

Derrick told her, “Look at me. Look me in the eyes so I know if you’re lying.”

That’s when she saw Derrick’s left eye was nearly swollen shut and his lower lip had been cut.

She looked him in the eyes and said, “Last time I seen my father I was maybe three years old. I ain’t heard one word from him since then. I don’t even remember what he looks like. How am I supposed to know he got out of prison?”

Derrick stared back, trying to find any hint of a lie. Amelia had the sense not to try to convince him.

Tyrell interjected, “She’s a motherf*ckin’ lying bitch.”

Derrick glanced at him, annoyed. “Shut up.” He turned back to Amelia, “You ain’t never heard from him?”

“No, never. What happened?”

“Goddammit bitch, don’t you ask me no f*ckin’ questions. Who tol’ him you was workin’ for me?”

The question confused Amelia for a moment. She could barely grasp that her father knew anything about her, much less that he knew her connection to Derrick. She concentrated, trying to come up with an explanation.

“I don’t know. Maybe my grandmother told him. I don’t know. I didn’t. I got no business with him. I never talked to him my whole life.”

Derrick shifted at his end of the couch, going through a calculation Amelia couldn’t fathom. He seemed to be trying to come to some decision, but none of his options worked for him.

He looked to his older brother, Jerome, for a moment. The big, stolid man sat on the couch with a blank expression, neither moving nor saying anything.

Finally, Derrick spoke.

“Your old man come up to the Houses to find you.” He waited for a reaction from Amelia, but didn’t get one. “He’s lucky he didn’t come lookin’ for you with a gun, cuz I’da shot his ass right then and there.”

“When?”

“Last night. The fool walked up outside my building shouting my name. Callin’ me out. Like I’m some punk.”