Bronx Requiem(64)

“And you think you can do something about it?”

Beck thought of Walter’s answer. “I can try.”

Rita continued to struggle.

Beck said, “Sorry you don’t have a better choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“You want to do something about the people who caused the death of an innocent man. But you don’t want to talk to an ex-con you don’t know who might do something outside the law.”

Rita looked at Beck. “Well, at least you’re not stupid.”

“What if I told you I’ve never committed a criminal act? Never even got a parking ticket. Bounced a check. Stolen a dime. The only thing I have to do with crime was being a victim of it.”

“Is all that true?”

In Beck’s moral universe every word was true. “Absolutely.”

Beck crossed his arms, rested his foot against his truck, and waited.

Rita took out the nozzle and placed it in the pump receptacle.

Finally, she spoke. “I don’t know the details. But I do know there’s nasty, disgusting shit going down with a group of the guards in there.”

Beck nodded, taking note of the word disgusting. Beck waited to hear more.

“It’s bad,” she said.

“How did you find out?”

“You hear things. In passing. It involves a small bunch of guards who think they can do whatever the hell they want.”

“Who are they?”

She paused. Beck waited. Either she was going to tell him, or she was going to get into her car and leave. She screwed her gas cap on and closed the cover. Finally, she said, “I’m going to give you one name. One name, and it better not come back on me.”

“It won’t.”

She looked at Beck. For a moment, she looked like she had decided to leave. And then she said, “Oswald Remsen.”

Beck nodded. He knew the man. Remsen had been a senior guard when Beck was at Eastern.

The woman continued, “He’s an old-time CO who’s been around Eastern forever. He has three sons who are guards. Two of them work at Eastern. They are the worst of the worst. I swear I don’t know how they ever got through the academy. Somebody up at Albany must have been dumb, blind, and asleep to let them through. I doubt the third son is any better.”

“Two of his sons work at Eastern?”

“Yeah. Remsen is high up in the union. Got his sons in there with him, which anybody with a brain should have prevented.”

“Where’s the third one?”

“Down at Sing Sing.”

Beck asked, “So how can I find Remsen without going through a lot of trouble?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find out if Oswald Remsen is involved in Johnson’s murder.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She looked at Beck, still conflicted. He saw her struggling. Beck spoke softly. “Rita, we both know you’ve already decided to help me. You’ve come this far. You’ve given me the name. I’m not going to let it drop. But it would help if you gave me something more. You don’t have to say anything. Just nod yes, or shake your head no.”

“I’m not playing twenty questions.”

“How about two? Is he a drinker?”

She nodded yes.

“I hear a lot of the COs drink at a tavern over on Fifty-three.”

Rita nodded again. “You hear right. That’s two questions. That’s all I can do.”

“I understand.”

Beck turned away and pulled the gas nozzle out of his truck. He didn’t look at the tough, angry woman again. He heard her car door slam shut, her engine start, and a Subaru with a bad muffler drive off.

He replaced the fuel hose and walked into the Mobil station store. He bought two cups of coffee, a pack of generic cigarettes, three scratch-off lottery tickets, and a tin of Skoal Wintergreen smokeless tobacco. He paid cash for everything and left.

He emptied both coffees into the trash receptacle near the pumps, making sure the coffee stained the cardboard cups. He opened the pack of cigarettes, dumped out a few and crumpled the pack a bit.

He climbed into his truck. There weren’t any cup holders in the Ranger, so he tossed the empty cups on the passenger-side floor. He opened the Skoal, left the wrapper on the floor, then dropped the cigarettes and dip on the dashboard. He quickly scratched off the lottery cards, not bothering to see if he’d won anything, and dropped them on the dash, too.

He pulled out to rendezvous with Walter Ferguson, wishing Rita had wanted to tell him more, but thankful there wasn’t any information that would compromise Walter.

He checked his watch. Not even six o’clock. Enough time to send off Walter, get back to his motel, and decide which weapons to bring with him to the tavern on Route 53.





40

Palmer and Ippolito had been working on their case and getting ready for their secret meeting with Eric Jackson for two hours, when Levitt and Clovehill walked into the detective squad bullpen at five P.M.

Ippolito muttered, “Now, what?”

As they approached, Levitt told them, “We have a problem.”

“What?” asked Palmer.

“Somebody shot your witness Tyrell Williams about an hour ago over on Hoe Avenue.”