Bronx Requiem(58)

There had been feuds, factions, deaths, and rivalries. Many had died or gone to prison. Woods explained how the current gang scene resembled militias in a third-world country. At the top were older leaders. Under them, in a loosely enforced structure, were hundreds of young men who had, like always, formed into dozens of small groups based mostly on geography.

“It’s all a grand pyramid with fewer villains on top controlling young men below and forming the usual alliances for protection. Everything powered by one unending, ever-growing horror.”

“Which is?” Demarco asked.

“Guns. Guns are the entry ticket. The young ones all aspire to a gun. With the gun, they can get money. With the gun, they can make a name for themselves and avenge anyone who disrespects them. They are willing to shoot each other for the smallest insult. With a gun and money and reputation, they believe they can move up the food chain.

“These boys have nothing else. Most of the men who sired these children ended up among the incarcerated masses. Or died violent deaths. As did their uncles and cousins and older brothers. There are no more role models. The young ones have no god. No religion. No churches.”

Benjamin Woods looked back and forth between Demarco and Manny.

“All the power of God and His Word are within the walls of my humble room downstairs. But do you think any of these young men will walk into that space? No, they won’t. They are lost to us. They run wild, shooting each other for no good reason. Bragging on the Internet. I don’t understand it.”

Manny turned the conversation back to their objective.

“And Biggie Watkins?”

Woods responded quickly. “He’s one of those right below the twin pillars of evil.”

“Who are?”

“Eric Jackson and Floyd Bondurant. Jackson is their leader. He’s known by the name Juju. Bondurant is called Whitey. He is Jackson’s enforcer. A depraved, murderous man. The finger of evil has touched both those men.” Woods turned to Manny. “Do you know them?”

“No.”

“You won’t forget them once you see them. Bondurant is an albino. He has black features, but no color to his skin. He’s big. Has reddish white hair. Jackson is … well, I’ll just say he too is unpleasant to look at.”

“Why?”

“His skin was ravaged as a youth. Perhaps God’s way of marking him. They’ve spread the myth they are special. It’s not a new tactic. In the past, there were some who used to call themselves the Five Percent or some such nonsense. Now these two call themselves The Chosen. An insult to the Lord himself. I’ve long ago stopped trying to understand the kinds of evil men can commit. Those two I leave to God’s judgment and damnation.

“As for Jerome Watkins, he will be difficult to locate. He’s a pimp. He exploits women for money. An abomination in the eyes of the Lord. And he handles money for the sets controlled by Eric Jackson. I believe he has several places around the Bronx to house his whores and play his role as moneychanger. I don’t know where these places are located. I assume he moves around between his houses of exploitation and misery. But if you want to find him, I suggest you find his masters.”

“Jackson and Bondurant.”

“Yes, Emmanuel.”

The pastor said, “I won’t go near those two. I might fall into the trap of hate.”

Manny waited a beat and then stood up and said, “Thank you, Ben.”

Demarco stood with Manny. The pastor blessed them and wished them well. The blessing seemed immaterial to Manny, but it unnerved Demarco. If felt like an assumption of his damnation.

They thanked Benjamin Woods and got back in the Impala.

Demarco said, “I appreciate the history lesson, but the good pastor didn’t tell us anything that will help us locate Watkins.”

“He’s pointing us were we’re gonna have to go.”

“I guess that’s his style.”

“Yep. Straight at it.”

“He’s right. That’s where this is heading.”

Manny said, “But right now, we don’t have nearly enough information to take on Jackson and Bondurant. And we can’t make a move like that until James returns.”

Demarco said, “I think that leaves us one option.”

Manny nodded. He had come to the same conclusion. “The girl.”

Demarco said, “And now that I think about it, she might help us get to Biggie Watkins.”

“And we know of at least one place she might be hiding.”

Demarco nodded, “Her grandmother’s place.”

“Let’s go.”

Demarco leaned forward and fired up the Impala.





37

Amelia had heard the scratching and skittering of rats before. As she lay wrapped in her car-cover cocoon, hidden in the dark basement of the abandoned house, she remembered her mother’s panicked reactions to the rats that always seemed to invade wherever they had ended up living. It was all part of her mother’s self-indulgence. The hysterics, the drugs, the neglect, the nearly incomprehensible disregard for her one child.

The anger rose inside Amelia in an all-encompassing spiral. She sat upright, tearing away at the stupid car cover. She ached from sleeping on the hard, cold, floor. She’d slept more than twelve hours and now felt as if she couldn’t breathe in the goddam dark, stinking, moldy, stifling hole in the ground.