Bronx Requiem(55)
“No, no. I just hope Juju Jackson will make a deal.”
“What, are you f*cking kidding me? How the hell you think that heartless bastard has stayed in business so long? Jackson is f*cking ruthless. He’ll do what’s good for him. Tell me how this isn’t good for him.”
“Okay, okay.”
Ippolito leaned forward. “Listen, you want to worry about something…” Ippolito rotated his fork in the air. “… worry about whatever line of bullshit you’re going to come up with about the federal investigations swirling around Jackson. I’ll play up the NYPD side of it, but your FBI crap is what’s going to sell this thing.”
Palmer nodded. “That won’t be hard. Once the Feds get wind of the NYPD investigation, they might actually step up their own investigations.”
Ippolito pointed a finger at Palmer. “There you go. In fact, you should go have a homo sponge bath with your gay-boy FBI buddy, and see what he’s got on Bondurant and Jackson. They’re always putting together some massive RICO bullshit plan to take down a million guys. See what they’re trying to nail him for.”
“You realize as soon as I ask McAndrews about those two in particular, he’ll want to know why.”
“So? Tell ’em. We’re investigating murders connected to guys underneath Jackson. Plant the idea in his noggin that it would be smart to accelerate their moves against Jackson and Bondurant.”
“In other words, I go make true the bullshit we’re going to feed Jackson by being the one who tips the Feds off about our murder investigations.”
Ippolito smiled. “Now you’re getting it, Johnny boy.”
“But I don’t want the Feds horning in on our murders.”
“Why the f*ck would they? They don’t give a shit about an ex-con nobody hiding out in Red Hook, or a two-bit gangbanger pimp who got shot. They want to lock up top guys on a bunch of conspiracy and racketeering shit. If they’re going to accuse somebody of murder it ain’t going to be Derrick f*cking Watkins or this Beck *. It’s going to be Jackson and Bondurant. Those two have killed more people than Derrick Watkins ever did, or ever would have. I hope the Feds slaughter those two sick f*cks. In the meantime, we need those witnesses.”
Palmer conceded. “All right. Fuck it. I’ll light a fire with McAndrews about Jackson and Bondurant, then we’ll tell Jackson the FBI is looking at them, so the sooner we wrap up our homicides, the better for them. Ergo, be smart and give us witnesses to back up Tyrell.”
“Ergo, schmergo, what the f*ck ever. John, the beauty of this is if the Feds do move against them sooner rather than later, we can tell Jackson ‘we f*cking told you so.’ It’s perfect.”
Palmer laughed, “Even though we’d be the ones who made the Feds move faster.”
Ippolito shot Palmer a disingenuous look. “Fucking cooperation between law-enforcement agencies at its finest. What say we get in early, and keep this shit ball rolling?”
“Sounds good. See you at the precinct, around noon?”
“Fuck no, I gotta get more sleep than that.”
Palmer said, “Two?”
“Three. That’ll give us plenty of time.”
35
Jerome Biggie Watkins was sweating. Not because of exertion. Because he was sitting next to Eric Juju Jackson. They were on a bench facing two basketball courts in a park off Daly Avenue in the West Farms section of the Bronx.
It was late morning on a warm spring day, but there were no basketball players on the court. Or mothers and children in the toddler playground behind them. Or anybody out on the ball fields. For a moment, Biggie thought maybe Juju had arranged for the entire park to be emptied. He knew it seemed paranoid. But he also knew if Juju Jackson wanted the park empty, he could make it happen. Why would he? So he could shoot him and walk away unseen, that’s why.
Juju was a slight man. What hair he had left had turned a dirty gray. He wore clothes that belied his wealth: Levi’s jeans, a blue button-down shirt, and black, plain-toe shoes. His most prominent feature was his skin. At sixty-two, Jackson’s face bore the ravages of the horrendous acne that had plagued him during adolescence. The term “Juju” had nothing to do with African or Caribbean voodoo. It referred to the fruit-flavored gummy candies of his youth called Jujubes. The small, rounded candies resembled the bumps and rivulets of Jackson’s facial skin, and became the basis of a cruel adolescent nickname: Juju-face. The name had been shortened over the years to simply Juju. Nobody dared used the name within hearing distance of Eric Jackson, but the name had long ago done its damage. It was one of several factors that had molded Eric Jackson into the monster Biggie had seen pull a straight razor across the face of a young girl, shoot a young man in the right knee, and when he’d stopped screaming, shoot him in the left knee. And that was only what Biggie had seen himself. He’d heard about much worse.
What really unnerved him about Juju Jackson was the man’s absence of emotion. With Juju Jackson there was never a warning or an explanation. Jackson could pull a gun or a knife, shoot and maim someone midsentence during a conversation that seemed perfectly reasonable, even pleasant.
That’s what produced the acrid sweat.
Biggie had just finished telling Jackson his brother, Derrick, had been murdered by one of his whores.