Bronx Requiem(62)

Manny kept advancing.

Demarco leaned out again from behind the car where he was crouched, knowing Manny would not stop, and fired three times to give Manny cover.

Demarco had to shoot with his left hand, leaning out from behind a car thirty feet from Watkins. His first shot went wide. On his second shot he overcompensated, and it hit the trunk of the car. The third shot hit the Toyota’s door.

Watkins kept firing blindly and almost nailed Manny. Manny continued toward him without even flinching.

Demarco cursed, slipped out from behind cover, switched hands, and fired shot after steady shot at Watkins mostly to distract Watkins’s attention from Manny. Nine-millimeter bullets blew out the driver’s-side door window and banged into the car door, forcing Watkins to drop flat onto the street. That meant Biggie couldn’t shoot at Manny now, so he aimed both guns from under the car door and fired at Demarco.

One of Watkins’s bullets ricocheted up off the street and zinged past the side of Demarco’s face. He felt the heat of it sizzle past him. Demarco dropped down and fired back, trying to get a shot under the car door.

Manny Guzman reached the Toyota, calmly stepped around the front of the car, and put two bullets into the back of Jerome Watkins’s head.

Demarco saw Manny behind Watkins, heard the two quick shots. He knew beyond any doubt Manny had killed him.

Demarco jumped up and ran forward. Manny pocketed his Charter Arms Bulldog and stood waiting for Demarco.

Manny said, “Come on, let’s get him out of the way. We’ll take his car.”

“What about the other guy?”

“He can’t do anything for us and, from the sound of it, she nailed him. Let’s go.”

Manny bent down and grabbed the left ankle. Demarco grabbed the right ankle, and they unceremoniously dragged Biggie Watkins around the Toyota onto the sidewalk.

Demarco hustled back to the driver’s seat. The keys were still in the car. Manny slipped into the passenger seat.

Demarco pulled the driver’s door shut, and the remains of the window fell in on him. He peeled out from the parking space, made a hard right, and shot down 172nd Street heading toward Ricky Bolo’s Impala.

Manny braced himself in the passenger seat, pointed to the floor on his side, and calmly said, “You see this shit these guys had in here?”

Demarco didn’t take the time to look at what Manny pointed at as he raced through an intersection and pulled the bullet-ridden Toyota into a bus stop near where he had parked the Impala. Only then did he look down at the rope and duct tape.

Manny said, “They had some nasty plans for Packy’s kid.”

“Yeah, well, she had her own plan. Damn fools sitting out there where anybody could find them.”

“You surprised?”

“No.”

Demarco shoved the Toyota into park. He wiped down the wheel and gearshift, and the door handle on his side, but didn’t bother turning off the engine. Maybe somebody in the neighborhood would help themselves to the car and make things tougher for the police.

He waited for Manny to wipe down his door handle and then both hustled into the Impala. Demarco pulled out carefully and drove off at a normal speed.

*

At the sound of the first gunshots, Amelia Johnson had ducked down near the body of Tyrell. While the gunfire blasted out on the street, she carefully went through Tyrell’s pockets, searching for his money. She found a fold of bills in his front pocket. Nothing in the wallet of his back pocket. She replaced the wallet and made her way to the park entrance, keeping out of sight.

She waited a few moments after the shooting stopped, came out of the small playground with her shopping cart, and calmly walked over to Biggie Watkins. The two bullets from Manny Guzman’s .357 caliber Charter Arms Bulldog had blown through Biggie’s head and destroyed most of his face.

Amelia felt a strange mix of disappointment and happiness. They had killed him. She supposed that was good, but she still felt a need to point her gun at Biggie Watkins and fire a bullet into the dead bulk of the man lying on the street in front of her. The big body twitched. She fired again. And again. But on the third pull, nothing happened. She had no more bullets.

She carefully slipped the gun into her waistband, feeling the heat of the barrel against her abdomen. She calmly squatted near the body and stripped Biggie of his money. She dropped his wallet next to him, and disappeared from the block before anybody emerged to view the carnage.





39

The sight of Eastern Correctional still sent a sick feeling into Beck’s gut, but as he watched Walter walk out to the parking lot it seemed as if the prison had hit Walter even harder.

Walter slipped into the passenger seat with a sigh, leaned back, silent for a moment.

“How’d it go?”

“Very much as you suspected. They pretty much stonewalled me.”

“Was it the usual closing of ranks, or do you think there was something else behind it?”

“I don’t want to think that, but my gut tells me there is. Which makes it all the worse.”

“I’ll go with your gut, Walter.”

“Fortunately, we don’t have to.”

“Why?”

“I got lucky. They gave me a desk in the social services office to conduct my interviews. One of the women working nearby heard me and came forward. She told me she knew someone who might help.”