Bronx Requiem(57)

The weather had turned overcast and gloomy. Demarco pulled the Impala to a curb and shut down the engine, got out of the car, stretched, and walked around. Manny stayed in the car making calls on his cell phone.

After a few minutes, he called out to Demarco.

“Yo. Got something.”

Demarco climbed back in the Mercury. “What?”

“Friend of mine. Should have thought of him before.”

“Where to?”

“East 173rd Street.”

“What’s there?”

“A church.”

“At this point I’m willing to resort to prayer.”

Twenty minutes later, Demarco pulled up to a narrow two-story building that looked more like a broken-down social club than a church. The church occupied the ground floor. Fifty-year-old wood siding faded to a dull rust color covered the front of the building. Two holes had been chopped into the wall to accommodate small windows, both protected by ugly iron bars. Next to the windows stood a narrow door. A sign above the two windows announced: True Holiness Church of God in Christ. Pastor Benjamin Woods.

Demarco knew there were hundreds of storefront churches like this scattered throughout the Bronx. He wondered who set foot in such places.

They stepped out of the Impala.

“How do you know Pastor Woods, Manny?”

“Dannemora. He used to be called Big Ben. Lot of the gangs tried to hire him as an enforcer. You did not want Grande Benjamín coming after you.”

Without warning, a huge head popped out from a window above the ground-floor church. It happened so suddenly, Demarco reached for his gun, but a boisterous voice called out a Spanish greeting to Manny.

Manny stepped back and looked up at his friend. He waved. Benjamin Woods motioned for Manny to come upstairs.

One short flight of rickety stairs led them to the pastor’s small living room in an apartment above the church. Smells of cooking and incense filled the apartment. The room had enough space for a small couch and a large wingback armchair set near the front window. Next to the chair, a well-worn Bible had been placed on a small end table.

Benjamin Woods sat in the chair, a dark-skinned man who weighed at least three hundred pounds, very little of it fat. He wore a voluminous white shirt, black pants, and a pair of enormous black midankle boots.

Whenever Demarco saw a man who might compete with him physically, he thought about what he would have to do to take him down. With Benjamin Woods, he decided his first move would be to shoot him. Quickly and continuously while backing away from him until his gun clicked empty.

Manny Guzman stepped toward his friend, hand outstretched. “Woody. Good to see you, man.”

“Come here, brother.” The six foot seven pastor stood and embraced Manny Guzman, gathering in the smaller man. He placed his enormous forehead on the top of Manny’s head for a moment, as if extending a benediction.

Once he released Manny, he turned to Demarco and offered a huge right hand. Demarco took hold and felt a solid grip. The pastor did not attempt a show of strength.

Demarco and Manny sat on the couch. Woods returned to his chair and asked, “What can I do for you?”

Manny got right to it. “A good friend of ours was shot dead. We’re trying to find one of the people involved.”

“Who got shot?”

“Packy Johnson.”

The pastor’s brow furrowed as he searched his memory. “Yes. I knew him. In Clinton. A righteous man, if I remember correctly. Kept to himself.”

“Yes. The one we’re looking for is named Jerome Watkins. We’ve been asking around. His street name is Biggie, but we can’t get a lead on him.”

“Yes. Biggie Watkins. You believe he had something to do with shooting Johnson?”

“We think so.”

“He’s been around for quite some time. He has a brother, Derrick.”

Manny said, “Right,” but didn’t mention that Derrick was dead.

Demarco asked, “What’s his story?”

“Biggie Watkins is another depraved man outside the circle of the Holy Spirit.” Woods raised his right hand. “Although all things are possible in the fullness and sufficiency of God’s grace and scripture.”

Demarco didn’t respond. The pastor looked at Demarco and said, “It was sufficient to save me, son.”

“Amen. Can you help us find Watkins?”

Woods turned his attention to Manny. “Do either of you all intend to kill him?”

Manny answered immediately, “No.”

“What if he killed your friend?”

“We don’t think he did. We think he might know who did.”

The pastor nodded. He took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes, and contemplated. Or perhaps he prayed.

After a few moments, he began speaking and spoke for ten minutes without stopping, working himself up into a sweat. He occasionally mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief he extracted from his back pocket. He kept the handkerchief in hand while he recited a detailed history of the evolution of street gangs in the northern Bronx. He named a dozen groups that had emerged from various neighborhood affiliations, morphed, split, and merged again.

He described how the brothers Watkins’ affiliation could be tracked to an offshoot of the old Black Spades who had dominated several of the Bronx housing projects in the seventies.