Bronx Requiem(73)

She spotted an empty parking spot near the Happy Land Memorial, a small inconspicuous fenced-in area in the middle of the median across from a twenty-four-hour parking garage. The memorial commemorated eighty-seven people who were killed in a fire that destroyed an unlicensed social club a few blocks south on Southern Boulevard.

Amelia backed into the side-by-side parking space. The people on the street took no more notice of her than they did of the tiny memorial park. She looked through the glove compartment, hoping to find a gun. Nothing. She checked the mesh pockets behind the front seats and found nothing.

She got out and opened the trunk. At first, all she saw was the spare tire and a cardboard box filled with junk. And then she saw the laundry bag. She grabbed the neck of the bag and knew by its weight the bag didn’t contain just laundry.

She pulled open the drawstring, pushed aside the dirty sheet, and found two bundles of cash, two guns, boxes of bullets, and two ledger books.

“Damn.”

She immediately pulled the drawstring closed and shoved the laundry bag into the back of the trunk. She pushed the cardboard box in front of it.

She climbed back into the Malibu, trying to estimate how long it had been since Biggie had been shot and killed. At least an hour? Maybe a little more. Plenty of time for word to spread. She had to get off the streets. Right now. Lay low. Check the guns, count her cash, get something to eat. Clean up. Figure out her next move.

Amelia fired up the Chevy and headed for a motel in an industrial area almost within walking distance of the Bronx River Houses. It was the only place Amelia knew where she could get a room without a credit card or ID.

Derrick rented rooms for his whores there for short-term stays late at night. There were almost always vacancies. He would make a deal with the night manager to rent the empty rooms until morning for half the normal price. There were times when he rented two or three rooms a night. Derrick had once told her if it weren’t for him the night managers would starve.

Amelia could feel her heart racing a little as she drove toward the dreary motel. From the moment she’d pulled the trigger on Derrick, Amelia knew she would have to leave the Bronx forever. If she could take down one more place, she’d be gone. It had worked at Tyrell’s. Logic told her to try Biggie’s house next.

Juju Jackson and Bondurant would have men out on the street looking for her. And for those guys who shot Biggie. The last place they’d expect to find her would be at Biggie’s house. If she moved fast, she might make her biggest score yet. Hit the place around three, four o’clock in the morning. It would most likely only be Queenie and a few of Jerome’s wives and whores in there. Hit fast and take whatever money she could find and then get the hell out of the Bronx once and for all.

Amelia told herself, calm down. Get organized. Clean up. One more hit, and she’d be gone. Maybe Atlantic City. Hell, maybe California. Figure it out once she had her stake. She had guns, bullets, money, and a car. She could do this.





47

Manny saw the expression on Demarco’s face as they walked through the parking lot heading for a strip club in the back of a small shopping mall near the West Shore Expressway on Staten Island.

“Don’t let Ciro see that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“You know what look.”

“You mean the look you get when you think of stale booze, body odor, and cheap perfume?”

“Guys on your team don’t get the attraction.”

“You mean the thrill of women with fake breasts and bad tattoos grinding their fat asses into your genitals?”

“My point exactly, ese.”

Demarco suppressed a smile and asked, “Does Ciro have a stake in this place?”

“If you ask him, he’ll say he has an interest in it.”

Demarco said, “What’s the difference?”

“You’d never find his name anywhere.”

The club had just opened for the evening when they entered. Ciro must have told the bouncer/doorman they were coming. He waved them in and said, “He’s downstairs,” pointing to a door located to the right of the cashier’s cubicle.

Manny led the way. Demarco wrinkled his nose at the damp basement odor. Was it the proximity to the bay? The wildlife refuge across the road? Probably both, but the smell reminded him of something.

“By the way, Manny. We have to dump our guns in the wildlife refuge.”

Manny made a face.

“Hey, my bullets aren’t in any bodies back there. It’s really only your gun we have to dump. I’m only tossing in the Glock so you don’t feel too bad.”

“The only thing too bad is, too bad you can’t shoot better. Then some of your bullets would be in that fat pimp, too.”

“Just laying cover for you, amigo.”

Manny smiled and nodded. Patting Demarco on the back. “I know, D. Muchas gracias.”

“De nada. But we still gotta dump the guns. We’ll buy you a new one out of the house fund.”

They walked through a storage area containing kitchen supplies stacked neatly on wire shelving, past a doorway and into a larger area with lockers for the busboys and bartenders. There were several folding chairs set up in front of the lockers. A lingering odor of stale cigarette smoke mixed with the damp basement smell.

A large office occupied the far end of the downstairs space, warmly lit by lights recessed into a drop ceiling. There was a black leather couch, a glass coffee table flanked by two matching leather chairs in front of a large oak desk, and oak wainscoting on all four walls.