Bronx Requiem(80)

“This answer is startin’ to sound like total bullshit.”

“Why? I went to find Eastern guards and there you were, taking envelopes under the table from guys coming in and out. I asked myself what the hell is Remsen up to? Is he selling drugs? Nah. Too risky. He doesn’t have the guts. What else is there? Where’s the money coming from? I put that together with Packy getting shot trying to save his daughter who was being prostituted. I figure you’re running whores, Remsen. I’m figuring the same guys prostituting Packy Johnson’s daughter, Derrick and Jerome Watkins, are supplying women to you. I haven’t quite figured out who your customers are. You can’t be running hookers through the prison. Where’s the business coming from?”

“You’re not as smart as you think you are.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Mostly dumb-ass horny truckers, *. We’ve got whores working truck stops, bars, motels, and dives everywhere between Westchester and Albany. Only thing holding us back is getting more whores from the mud people.”

Beck gave Remsen an admiring nod, shifting again on his stump to position his fingers so he could gently squeeze the cuff on his left wrist tighter while pushing the shim in with his forefinger.

“Was Packy’s kid going to be one of your whores? Is that why he went after her as soon as he got back to the city?”

“That’s two questions, convict.”

“Take your pick.”

“It was a little more complicated than that, but close enough. But you still ain’t telling me the truth. I don’t believe you just walked into my bar. How’d you know to come looking at me? Who ratted me out?”

Beck ignored the question. He had to keep Remsen talking, because if he got the damned handcuff off, there would be no more questions and answers. Just blood and chaos until either they were dead, or he was.

Beck said, “And you still haven’t answered mine, *. Who did you give the heads-up to about Packy Johnson?”

Remsen yelled at Beck, taking a step toward him. “That’s it. Enough of this bullshit, you lying piece of shit. William, set up the block and tackle.”

Time was up. Beck abandoned all caution. He squeezed the cuff firmly, pushing it all the way closed, hopefully the shim with it. He reared up on the stump and shouted, “Fuck you!” as he twisted his wrist and pulled upward to see if the cuff would slide open. It did, surprising Beck so much that for a moment, he sat motionless.

Oswald had worked himself into a fury, yelling at Beck, “You’re going to tell me everything goddam thing I want to know before the night is out.” He turned and said, “Joe, get him on his feet.”

As Joe Remsen moved, Beck stood up, brought his suddenly freed hands in front of him, bent down, and grabbed the log he’d been sitting on. He underhanded the stump straight at Remsen’s face, putting everything he had into it.

Forty pounds of hardwood flew at Remsen, bottom rising upward. Remsen stood immobile, stunned. He didn’t even have time to flinch as the bottom of the log shattered his jaw and the top smashed into his forehead. He fell backward, unconscious before he hit the ground.

As soon as the log left Beck’s hands, he was already moving toward the falling Remsen. Neither of the sons reacted, too stunned and confused to move.

Beck made it almost halfway to the father before Joe turned to point his gun at him. By the time Joe Remsen pulled the trigger on his revolver, Beck was diving toward Oswald, reaching for the gun in his hand.

William Remsen turned, drawing another service revolver.

Beck slid past Remsen, but at the last second grabbed the barrel of Remsen’s gun, pulled the semiautomatic out of Oswald’s hand with his left hand, turned it, and grabbed the handle with his right. Joe Remsen opened fire. Beck rolled behind Oswald and fired two fast, focused shots at Joe Remsen. William fired a shot. Beck pointed behind him and fired blindly at William, who flinched, ducked, and ran for cover in the lean-to.

Beck’s shots blew Joe Remsen off his feet. William made it to the lean-to and hunkered down near the woodpile at the back corner of the lean-to, behind the lantern light. Beck scrambled away from the circle of light, got to his feet, and stepped back deeper into the darkness.

Beck stood unseen, trying not to make any noise, pulling himself together.

In eight seconds, it had gone from three to one, to one on one.

Beck stood still, positive the light from the lantern shining in front of William prevented him from seeing anything in the darkness. But he couldn’t see William, either.

Beck stayed back out of the light and slowly, silently walked counterclockwise toward the lean-to.

William shaded his eyes, trying to see where Beck had gone. He thought he saw movement and fired off two shots, one of which came close enough to make Beck drop to the ground and stop moving.

Beck pointed Oswald Remsen’s gun at the lean-to, watching for movement. He was familiar with the weapon, a 9-mm Beretta 92FS that could be loaded with either a high-capacity magazine that held fifteen bullets, or a regular magazine that held ten. With the regular magazine he had seven rounds left, but there was no way to know which magazine was in the gun, or even if it had been fully loaded. Checking the magazine would give away his position.

William had a six-shot revolver, but Beck had no way of knowing how many bullets he might have, or if he’d already reloaded the gun.