Bronx Requiem(35)

One other person on the floor also looked to be older than the others. He was the largest in the room, and like Derrick dressed in conventional clothes instead of the baggy jeans and T-shirts the others wore. Beck figured him for close to 230 pounds and had the feeling he was the kind who used his size to intimidate. Maybe he could actually back that up, thought Beck, but he had the feeling the guy would probably be more likely to pay or coerce somebody else to do his violence for him.

The question was, which one of these had shot his friend Packy Johnson?

Beck turned his attention back to Derrick Watkins.

Amelia Johnson returned carrying two pillowcases that at one time must have been white, but were now discolored with indelible stains where too many dirty heads had lain. She handed them to Beck without a word. She also had a small handbag over her right shoulder and had put on a pair of platform high-heeled shoes.

Beck thought, maybe she thinks I’m going to let her leave now, but she sat back down on the chair near the couch.

Beck looked carefully at her face, trying to see signs of drug addiction or fear or depression in her eyes. She looked alert, although he did see a remoteness in her eyes he couldn’t quite figure out.

Beck used one of the pillowcases to methodically wipe down all the guns they had taken from the crew. He divided the guns evenly into the two pillowcases, tossing in a few knives Manny had also collected. Then he tied off both pillowcases and laid them on the couch.

Finally, Beck spoke to Derrick Watkins.

“Why are you and all your friends here?”

Derrick stared back at Beck, saying nothing.

Beck held his gaze on Derrick Watkins, resisting the urge to put a bullet in one of Derrick’s limbs and asked again.

“All right, Mr. Watkins, let me explain something. Just so you understand. If I ask you something and I hear anything that sounds like bullshit, I’m going to have my friend shoot off your left foot.”

Ciro Baldassare pumped the Benelli and pointed it at Derrick’s foot.

“Then we’ll tighten a belt around your calf and I’ll ask you again. Make a second mistake, and we’ll blow off your right foot. Think you can make it past your hands?

“One more time. What are you and all these others doing here?”

Derrick shifted in the overstuffed upholstered chair. Ciro stood unmoving, the unwavering shotgun aimed directly at Derrick’s left foot.

Derrick pointed his chin at Amelia. “Had a run-in with her father. I figured it was best to clear out of the area for a bit. Any shit happens over in Bronx River Houses, cops always come knockin’ on my door.”

“You’re getting close to losing a foot, Derrick. Why are all of you here?”

“It’s my f*ckin’ crew, man. We hang together.”

Beck looked at Ciro. Ciro lowered the shotgun so the muzzle was even closer to Derrick’s foot. Derrick moved his foot back. “Wait, wait. It wasn’t just me. We all took him down. Someone calls me out, they call all of us out.”

“Uh-huh. So it took all six of you lowlife cowards to beat up one guy?”

“He’s the one who came lookin’ for trouble, man. And it wasn’t all six. Just five of us.”

“Oh, so who wasn’t there?”

Derrick hesitated. From the floor, Jerome Watkins spoke. “I wasn’t there.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m his brother.”

“What’s your brother doing here, Derrick?”

“We got business to talk over.”

“What business?”

Derrick tilted his head toward Amelia again. “Got to decide what to do with that bitch. Guy comin’ around causing all sorts of trouble, bringing attention on me. Fuck it. Time to cut her loose. Goddam, broke-ass bitch can’t even earn a pimp his money. So we discussed kickin’ her to the curb. Lettin’ her go back to her broke-ass father.”

Beck looked at Amelia for a moment. She stared intently at Derrick. Beck turned back to Derrick, thinking about his answer. It didn’t escape him that Derrick Watkins talked as if Packy Johnson were still alive.

“Just like that. Let her go? Like everything is okay? She doesn’t owe you anything?”

“Hell yeah, she owes me. But like I say, f*ck it. She a bad investment. A mistake. Smart businessman cuts his losses. What the f*ck is the problem? Her father’s the nigger who started all this mess. He come into my hood callin’ me out, what you think is going to happen? He got a ass whipping. So what? Why you all up in here with guns and shit?”

Beck leaned forward, “Because after the ass whipping, you or one of your crew followed Packy Johnson out of that housing project and shot him in the back of the head like the sneaking, pimping, lowlife cowards you are.”

Derrick Watkins pulled the bloody towel from his head. His reaction was immediate.

“Fuck we did. Nobody…”

But the thunder of a gun exploding in the enclosed room obliterated Derrick’s words.

Amelia Johnson stood firing a handgun at Derrick Watkins, a gun still cold from the kitchen freezer, its barrel hissing as the exploding gunpowder heated the barrel.

The first bullet hit Derrick in the upper chest, slightly to the left. As the recoil bucked the handgun higher, the second bullet hit his mouth, taking out most of the lower third of his face. The third bullet hit him slightly off-center in the middle of his forehead, blowing most of his brains out the back of his skull. The fourth bullet missed entirely, burrowing into the wall behind Derrick Watkins.