Bronx Requiem(6)
“Not this time.”
“You’re probably right.” Demarco pulled the parking ticket for Beck’s car from his back pocket and handed it to Beck. “You might as well take the Mercury. I can walk to where I’m meeting her.”
“Okay. Hey, how’d you find out which gate to come to?”
“Asked the parking guy. He didn’t know the exact gate, just said the three hundred terminal. Sorry I can’t hang with you, James. Tell Packy I’ll see him later.”
“Will do.”
Demarco said, “It’ll be fine. This stuff happens all the time.”
“I know, but I wanted to get him settled in with the mother-in-law tonight.”
“You have time.”
“That old crone made no bones about not wanting him in her home. I hope she hasn’t locked us out by the time we get there.”
Demarco gave Beck a look. “What old lady is going to keep you and Packy locked out from anywhere?”
“You haven’t met this one.”
“Don’t worry. She’ll hold up her end of the bargain. She wants the rest of her money.”
“I suppose.”
“Come on, James, it was the mother-in-law’s or a shelter, and the last place we want Packy is in a shelter.”
“I know.”
“Hell, most guys get dropped off in a parking lot with a couple of dollars in their pocket, wearing the same dirty clothes they wore into the joint, and maybe a bed in a halfway house or shelter. Packy’s way ahead of the game.”
“Waiting makes me edgy.”
“Packy’s been waitin’ seventeen years. Another hour or two won’t make any difference.”
Beck stood. “You’re right. I’ll walk you out. I’m going to grab a beer.”
“Let’s go.”
Neither of them spoke until they exited the terminal and said good-bye on Eighth Avenue. Beck continued east on Forty-second Street, heading for a hotel bar usually overlooked by the hordes of Times Square tourists because it was located on the eleventh floor of a building mid-block.
He stepped off the elevator and made it halfway to the lobby bar when his cell phone rang.
Beck didn’t even check the caller ID.
“Packy?”
“No, James, it’s Walter.”
Beck stopped in the middle of the lobby, bracing himself for bad news.
“Oh, Walter, yeah, I’m glad you called. The bus broke down. It’s late. He made it onto the bus, right?”
“Yes, yes. He made it. He just called me.”
“Oh. Great. What’s the story? Is he on his way in?”
“Well, I’m not very pleased.”
Beck stepped toward the windows overlooking Forty-second Street. “Shit. What happened?”
“He’s at his mother-in-law’s place.”
Beck checked his watch. 7:32 P.M.
“What? How the hell did he get there?”
“He hitchhiked. Came over the George Washington Bridge and took a livery cab to the old lady’s apartment.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. I’m not. It was incredibly stupid. He could have been violated back to prison if he got caught hitchhiking.”
“Unbelievable. I’m going to call him now.”
“Don’t bother. His phone battery is dead. It was dead when they gave him the phone. And I’m not sure he even has a charger. He called me from a pay phone near his mother-in-law’s.”
Beck wanted to curse and complain about the prison personnel, but didn’t bother.
“Do you have her number? I don’t have it with me.”
“I’ve called her many times, James. She never answers her phone. Listen, don’t worry about it. He’s there. He’s where he’s supposed to be. I told him to report to me first thing tomorrow at eight-thirty, my office in Brooklyn.”
“Maybe I should go up to the Bronx and make sure everything is okay.”
“James, I believe that might be too much right now. I gave him hell for that stunt. But between us, I think it might be positive. He took charge of his situation. The trick is to channel that in the right direction. I think we should let him settle down. Get himself together. He’ll check in with me tomorrow, and I’ll bring him around to see you right after.”
Beck thought it over, nodding to himself. “All right, Walter. By the time I get up there he might be asleep anyhow. All right, let him settle down. Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
Beck cut the call. He stared out the window looking down at the dazzle of Forty-second Street below him. A crushing feeling of loneliness came over him. He had been looking forward to seeing his friend Packy Johnson, perhaps in more ways than he realized. The last place he wanted to be was in a hotel bar amid strangers.
He turned away from the window and headed back to Port Authority to get his car.
2
MONDAY, MAY 26, 2:30 PM
16 HOURS EARLIER
Amelia Johnson sat naked, trembling, hunched over in a locked dark closet asking herself how did this happen? She had been hanging around in the bedroom she shared with another one of Derrick Watkins’s prostitutes. It was early afternoon. She still had on the clothes she had slept in: green-and-black-striped sleep pants and a T-shirt decorated with a picture of a Yorkie and the words, Dream On.