Bronx Requiem(37)

Demarco floored the accelerator and the Mercury flew down the block. He braked hard and slid into a left turn the wrong way on a one-way street, then took a quick right onto another one-way street, but this time going in the correct direction.

They heard the deep woop, woop of police sirens coming from multiple directions.

Demarco slowed down. He drove quickly and precisely, determined to get as far from where the police were converging as fast as possible.

Leon Miller sat with hands covering his bowed head, repeating quiet curses over and over.

Beck and the others braced themselves as Demarco braked and turned and maneuvered. About a half mile from the shooting, Demarco finally stopped at a red light. In the backseat, Beck unlocked Leon’s handcuffs. He told Demarco, “Pull over for a second.”

When the car reached the curb, Beck stepped out, dragging Leon with him.

He made sure the slim youth was on his feet and steady, and then said to him, “Here’s what you are going to do. Are you listening?”

He got a blank look from Leon. Beck slapped the side of his head.

“Look at me, Leon. Derrick Watkins is dead.”

“Shit.”

“Shut up. There were five guys from his crew up there. Including his brother. They got out alive. They’re going to figure out you’re the one who led us to them. You have to disappear, Leon. For a long time. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Go somewhere nobody will find you.” Beck stared at him to make sure Leon got the message. “Got it?”

“Yes. Yes. Disappear. I got peoples in South Carolina. I can go there.”

“Good.” Beck shoved a wad of bills into Leon’s front pants pocket. “Go. Now.”

Beck jump back into the Mercury as the light turned green. He didn’t bother to watch Leon Miller run away.





19

Amelia Johnson clomped down the worn wooden stairs of the Mount Hope house as fast as she could, her ears ringing from gunfire, the acrid smell of gun smoke clinging to her clothes. She felt a mixture of joy, fear, and excitement that made her shiver.

By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, she was out of breath. Her legs felt wobbly. She stopped at the interior door, forcing herself to take deep breaths and concentrate.

She realized she was still holding the gun in her right hand. She shoved it into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie, feeling both the hot barrel and the cold body of the gun against her stomach.

She checked her red wig, making sure it was in place, and then she stepped out onto Mount Hope Place, moving with an urgency fueled by exhilaration and fear.

Without knowing when the idea had come to her, she turned and walked toward Derrick’s black Jeep parked near the end of the block. When she reached the car, she quickly crouched down near the left-rear wheel well, feeling inside the top of the rear panel for the magnetic key case Derrick used to store a spare key. She located the case, extracted a single key for the Jeep, and opened the driver’s-side door.

She climbed in the driver’s seat, fired up the engine, and drove away, nearly sideswiping the cars on the other side of the street. She’d driven a car only twice in her life. Never anything as big as the Jeep. She drove hunched over, gripping the wheel, staring straight ahead, concentrating on keeping the Jeep in the middle of the narrow street. When she managed to get three blocks away, she pulled over to an empty section of curb on Mount Hope Place, bounced the right front wheel up onto the sidewalk, and braked hard. She put the car in park. It was only then that she figured out how to adjust the seat, strapped on her seat belt, and positioned the rearview mirror.

She slipped off her red wig, pulled the gun out of her hoodie, wrapped the wig around it, and shoved both under the passenger seat.

Her hands still shaking slightly, she fished out the bills she’d hidden in her hair, stuffed them into her front pocket, and pulled the hoodie over her head. She drove back out into the street without hitting anything, but cut off a driver coming up behind her who beeped furiously at her.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

She put all her attention on driving straight forward. Mount Hope Place quickly dead-ended at Jerome Avenue, forcing Amelia to make a nervous left turn onto the busy two-way street. The traffic ran in narrow lanes squeezed between huge iron girders supporting the elevated subway tracks, bordered by cars parked block after block on both sides.

Minutes ago, Amelia had the courage and strength to shoot a man, but now she felt like a teenager who had stolen the family car and was worried about getting into a traffic accident. The adrenaline that had fueled her escape and sharpened her concentration had worn off. She felt weak, almost faint. She hadn’t eaten anything except a chicken leg the night before, and a cup of coffee and a stale donut eleven hours earlier.

Up ahead, she spotted a McDonald’s. She managed to turn into the parking lot without hitting anything and park the Jeep in an empty space. She kept her hood up and walked into the fast-food restaurant, ignoring the looks her bare legs and platform heels attracted.

She got her food and took a seat in a corner, as far back from the front window as possible. She forced herself to eat her meal slowly, but sitting in a public space where anybody might see her gave her a nearly unbearable feeling of dread and anxiety.

Unless those friends of her father had killed everyone else in the room, and she hadn’t heard any gunfire after she left, she knew it wouldn’t be long before Biggie got the word to Eric Jackson about what she’d done. Once that happened, dozens, maybe hundreds of neighborhood punks would be out looking for her along with the dreaded Whitey Bondurant.