Bronx Requiem(33)

Leon asked, “What about me? I done everything you asked me to.”

Beck opened the Mercury’s glove compartment and pulled out a pair of handcuffs joined with a three-foot chain. He handed the cuffs back to Manny, who quickly fed the chain through an eyebolt welded to the back floor of the car and cuffed Leon’s wrists.

“So far you’re good, Leon,” said Beck. “You wait here for us to get back.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“What if you don’t make it back?”

“I was you, I’d start praying we do. If we don’t and they do, they’re going to find your ass sitting here. How long you think it’ll take them to figure you ratted them out?”

“Wait a second.”

“For what?”

Leon thought it over for a moment and then said, “I wanna tell you where they hide the key to the front door of the house. That’s the only way you gonna get in there without them knowing you’re coming.”

“Good thinking, Leon.”





16

John Palmer hadn’t wasted time at the 50th Precinct, but it still took him thirty minutes to find out Peter Malone had nothing useful on Derrick Watkins. The file Malone handed him was pathetically thin. Palmer flashed a tight smile, telling himself he would remember this incompetent prick.

He headed back to his unmarked car and called his FBI contact, Gregory McAndrews, who unlike Malone, had come through for him. He provided addresses for two locations used by the Watkins brothers. He told Palmer there were probably more, but they hadn’t uncovered them yet.

Palmer thanked McAndrews and asked him to stay in touch. He envied the FBI their resources and efficiency, but still preferred the NYPD where he could cut corners, ignore procedure, and take risks under the protective cover of his father.

Palmer climbed into his car, pulled up Google Maps, and checked the two addresses McAndrews had provided. One was north, about a mile in the opposite direction. The other he could check out on the way back to his precinct.

Palmer ached for sleep. He was way out on a limb, following information provided by a source outside the department, working alone. Real cowboy stuff, but f*ck it, he thought. Nobody will bitch if I nail this thing. Even if the location didn’t pan out, he’d sleep better crossing it off his list.

He checked the address on Mount Hope Place one more time.





17

By the time Beck, Manny, and Ciro arrived at the second landing of the rickety wood-frame building, the creaking and squeaking of the wood steps made Beck raise a hand and tell everyone, “Hold it.”

Beck held his Browning Hi-Power pointed down, tight against his right leg. Manny held two guns, his long-barrel .38 Colt Special in his left hand and his Charter Arms Bulldog .357 in his right. Ciro Baldassare had the Benelli cradled in his left arm. He’d shoved his Smith & Wesson M&P .45 in the front of his pants where he could reach it easily.

Besides being worried about the noise they were making, Beck wanted to give Demarco time to make it up the fire escape in back.

Of the three of them, Demarco was best suited for a stealthy climb three stories up a fire escape. Ciro was by far the strongest. Manny Guzman was the oldest of the four, the shortest, and the least physically capable, but in a fight he would be the one with the most focus, least encumbered by nerves or tension. Beck didn’t have the athletic skill of Demarco, the strength of Ciro, or the stone-cold nerves of Manny, but he always managed to do what had to be done.

While the others held their positions, Beck slowly edged toward the apartment door on the second-floor landing and pressed his ear against it. He heard nothing, just like he’d heard nothing on the first floor.

He turned his attention to the apartment above them, thinking it through one more time. He turned to Manny and Ciro, speaking in a whisper.

“They’re going to hear us coming up this last flight of stairs no matter how slowly we go, so I’m going to take it all in one shot and hit the door hard.”

Beck shoved his Browning under his belt in front, pushing it down low so it would be as secure as possible. From his pants pockets he slid out a pair of custom-made brass knuckles cut from a single piece of solid nautical brass, highly polished, no seams. He slid the brass over both his fists.

“We move fast. We put them down. Don’t kill anybody unless you have to.”

Beck turned and stepped up the last flight of stairs, slowly at first, taking the steps one by one. He quickly picked up speed. By the time he reached the top half of the stairway, he was moving as fast as he could, taking two steps at a time. By the time he reached the landing he was moving at full speed. His right foot hit the door with so much force the handle lock, dead-bolt lock, and one of the hinges all broke through the frame.

Beck’s forward momentum carried him into the front room. Everybody in the room jumped up, but Beck went straight for the biggest within his reach and overhanded a punch into the middle of Tyrell Williams’s face, breaking his nose and cracking his right cheekbone. Tyrell fell back, knocked out, hitting the floor hard. Beck felt rather than saw a body closing in on his right. He whipped a backhand in that direction and connected with something that felt like a head.

Manny and Ciro came in right behind Beck, yelling for everyone to get on the floor. Beck heard the slap-cracking sounds of blows landing on body parts, shouts, curses, and the kitchen window in the back shattering. Somebody tried to grab him from behind, but Beck spun him off. Two deafening blasts from Ciro’s Benelli exploded. Chunks of plaster and lath fell. Everyone ducked and froze in place. Beck swept the feet out from under somebody standing near him, yelling, “Get down.”