Bronx Requiem(67)

Amelia knew she was in a blood rage. She took a deep breath and stepped back from the woman on the floor, blinking her eyes, coming back to herself.

She kicked the apartment door closed, forcing herself to calm down and focus. She noticed the ragged, gasping breaths emanating from the unconscious woman. The sound made her angry. She muttered at Darlene, “What the hell you think was going to happen, you calling me that?”

Amelia walked past Darlene and began searching the filthy apartment. There were clothes on the furniture, the floor, even hanging on doorknobs. There were shoes scattered about, cardboard boxes filled with more clothes and household items, dishes piled high in the sink, garbage bags overflowing, empty fast-food containers everywhere. The whole place had a sour smell to it. Amelia had an urge to get out of the apartment, but she walked past everything, straight back to Tyrell’s bedroom.

She tossed the pillows off the unmade bed, thinking there might be a gun under one of them. She felt under the mattress, then lifted the entire mattress and shoved it off the box spring. Nothing. She went through the closet, looking at shelves, feeling pockets of coats and pants.

She tore into a chest of drawers. She found nothing except clothes and items she didn’t want. In frustration, she pulled out the top drawer and threw it on the mattress. Nothing. But when she did the same to the second drawer, she saw two envelopes taped to the bottom of the drawer. She tore them off, saw cash in both envelopes, and stuffed them into her back pockets.

She moved quickly through the rest of the apartment, checking the bathroom, a room filled with boxes and assorted junk, all the closets, the kitchen cabinets, the freezer.

Darlene had struggled back to consciousness, and had propped herself up against the couch, sitting on the floor holding her shirt to her bleeding forehead.

She saw Amelia in the kitchen. “Why’d you f*ckin’ hit me?”

“What the f*ck you think I’d do, you calling me a bitch? I ain’t nobody’s bitch, Darlene. Shut up and be glad I didn’t shoot you.”

Amelia was about to leave when she spotted a set of car keys in a glass bowl on the kitchen counter. She grabbed them and asked Darlene, “Where’s Tyrell’s car at?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, tell me or I’ll start in on you again.”

Darlene screamed, “I don’t know! He parked it outside somewhere. Leave me the f*ck alone. I didn’t do nothing to you.”

Amelia turned away and walked out of the apartment without another word. She’d find the car in the neighborhood. Time to get rid of the damn Jeep anyhow. Everybody knew it belonged to Derrick, it was too hard to park, and almost out of gas.

Tyrell drove a green Chevy Malibu. She’d find it.





43

Beck pulled the Ranger in to an empty area in the dirt parking lot behind the tavern on Route 53 shortly before eight. He entered through a side door that opened directly into the barroom.

An L-shaped bar dominated the space, the long side facing him, the short side of the L on his left. There were two empty bar stools around the curve at the short end, both empty. Beck walked over to the stools, pushed one closer to the wall, and sat in the other, taking over that end of the bar. This gave him a view of the door he’d entered, all the patrons at the bar, behind the bar, and a seating area past the bar large enough to hold five tables for two. Two of the tables had been pushed together and three men sat at them drinking from longneck bottles of beer. One of the men was Oswald Remsen.

It didn’t surprise Beck. Rita had confirmed that Remsen was a drinker. This was where Sam Herbert said the correction officers hung out. What else was there to do on a Thursday night?

Beck looked at Remsen, but only for a few seconds, not wanting to attract his attention. He scanned everyone else at the bar. It seemed like a typical blue-collar crowd. Nearest him sat an overweight fellow drinking beer who seemed friendly enough, prematurely bald, wearing thick glasses resting halfway down his nose. Two stools past the bald guy sat a tall man in a checked shirt and jeans stained with roofing tar. He sipped straight whiskey at a steady pace, occasionally glancing at the old TV behind the bar. Past him sat a couple, both in their forties, both with mixed drinks in their hands. Beck guessed gin and tonics. They were pleasantly drunk. The woman was sloppy and overweight, wearing a faded old red sweatshirt bearing the Coca-Cola logo. Her partner had turned his bar stool to face her. He was bearded, skinny, talked with a raspy smoker’s voice, slurring his words and occasionally emitting a harsh, annoying, phlegm-filled laugh.

Beck realized every person in the bar had come here to drink until they were drunk. It both depressed him and made him feel like drinking.

He watched the woman working the bar. She moved with easy efficiency. Beck admired that, and he admired her looks. She was the kind of woman who attracted a male clientele, but wasn’t overly concerned by the attention. She dressed in jeans that fit her well and a white shirt. She had dark brown hair stacked on her head to keep it out of her way, which somehow made her look both businesslike and sensual.

She headed in Beck’s direction, gave him a quick smile, and asked, “What can I get you?”

Beck smiled back and said, “A Budweiser and a Jameson neat. And a menu.”

She dropped a menu in front of Beck encased in yellowing plastic marred by a cigarette burn in the corner. She went to pull a Bud from her cooler and set the wet, cold bottle on the bar, leaving Beck to twist off the cap while she grabbed the Jameson from the back bar and poured a generous amount of the Irish whiskey into a four-ounce water glass. The menu looked so stained and old he didn’t even consider ordering food. He scanned the back bar and spied a rack with chips and Beer Nuts.