Bronx Requiem(68)

There was also an old twenty-seven-inch Toshiba TV mounted on a shelf behind the bar. The Yankees were playing the Red Sox, a game that would normally interest Beck, but not on a small screen viewed from the side.

The woman bartender returned and asked Beck what he wanted.

Beck said, “How about a couple of bags of those Beer Nuts?”

She smiled at him, seeming to approve of his decision to avoid anything on the menu. Beck decided he liked this woman.

When she put the two bags of peanuts on the bar next to his drink, Beck asked, “What’s your name?”

“Janice,” she replied.

Beck extended his hand. “Tom.”

She hesitated for a moment, and then reached out to shake Beck’s hand. She seemed a little embarrassed. Her hand was cold and wet from reaching into the beer cooler, and her skin was rough. Beck made sure to hold her hand softly and smile back.

“Thanks,” he said, not sure what he was thanking her for. The service, or for shaking his hand, or both.

Janice nodded and moved off. As she walked away, Beck took time to enjoy the view of Janice from behind and looked for a wedding ring. There was none.

Beck opened the Beer Nuts, took a large sip of his whiskey, chased it with a swig of cold beer, and tossed a small handful of peanuts into his mouth. It all tasted fine.

He had a fairly clear side view of Oswald Remsen and the man opposite him who blocked his view of the third man at the table.

Remsen had not aged well. He was about fifteen pounds heavier than when Beck had last seen him, and back then he was overweight. His hair had thinned and gone a dirty gray.

When Beck was at Eastern, he had little interaction with Remsen. Oswald Remsen was the kind of guard who always looked to find something wrong so he could give somebody a hard time. Prison guard or prisoner, nobody wanted to fall within his gaze. It rarely turned out well.

Beck sat calmly, drinking his whiskey and beer, eating his peanuts, trying to blend in. He watched Janice. Glanced at the ball game. Kept track of Remsen and the other two. He felt the effects of the booze on his empty stomach and didn’t mind it at all.

The tall working guy with the roofing-tar-stained jeans drained his glass and left.

Five minutes later, a heavyset man entered through the parking lot door. Beck recognized him. Another correction officer from Eastern who had worked Beck’s tier back in the day. His last name was Morgan. As with most prison guards, Beck never heard his first name. Morgan had also gained considerable weight.

He walked straight to Oswald’s table and sat next to him, nodded to the other two, but talked quietly to Remsen. Remsen didn’t even bother to turn and look at Morgan. He just nodded a couple of times.

After Morgan finished reporting in, he pulled an envelope from his back pocket and slipped it to Oswald Remsen under the table. If Beck hadn’t been watching carefully, he might have missed it.

Remsen took the envelope and shoved it into the inside breast pocket of his tan Windbreaker. Less than a minute later, Morgan nodded to the other two and left. He didn’t stay for a beer.

Beck had finished his generous shot of Jameson and most of his beer.

Janice came by and asked, “Another round?”

“Sure.”

When she returned with his drinks, Beck said, “Pretty busy for a Thursday night.”

“Not really. The usual regulars.”

“First time for me.”

“Yeah, I haven’t seen you in here before.”

Beck ripped open his second bag of peanuts and offered the open bag to Janice before he took any.

She said, “No, thanks.”

Beck smiled back. “Come on, you burn a ton of calories on your feet back here all night.”

“Don’t remind me about my feet.”

“That’s the worst part of it, standing all night.”

“You tend bar?” she asked.

Beck nodded. “I’ve spent a little time behind the stick. How long have you been at it?”

“Too long.”

Janice turned away and headed off to the far end of the bar. Clearly, Janice had mastered the art of being friendly while avoiding lengthy conversations with the patrons.

Beck started in on his second round of beer and whiskey. He slowed down, but the arrivals and departures of men bringing payments to Remsen didn’t. Over the next forty-five minutes, three more men came in, spoke to Remsen, slipped him envelopes. The last of them stayed for a beer, but he was the only one. It was as if the others really didn’t want to be seen with Remsen.

Beck had a few more words with Janice. He kept it casual. Janice responded in kind, but when Beck asked her if the man sitting in the back was the owner, Janice’s brow furrowed and she quickly moved off without saying a word.

Son of a bitch. Remsen owns this shit hole. She’s not worried about talking to me. She’s worried about Remsen seeing her talk to me.





44

By the time Palmer and Ippolito arrived at the murder scene on Hoe Avenue, the Crime Scene Unit had sealed off the entire block.

The detective in charge of the CSU, a man named Hallandale, made sure Ippolito and Palmer wore booties and latex gloves. Palmer wanted to check out the dead bodies immediately, but Ippolito stopped him, saying, “Hang on. Let’s try to figure out how this went down.”

They walked near the corpse of Jerome Biggie Watkins laying half on the sidewalk, half in the street. Ippolito pointed to the two guns bagged and left on the ground next to Watkins’s.