Bronx Requiem(82)

Beck kicked over the lantern as if it had been knocked over in the fight, assuming it would burn out soon.

He rubbed his face with both hands. Took a deep breath. Rolled his head and moved his arms. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding. All in all, he didn’t feel too bad, mostly thanks to the adrenaline still coursing through him. He’d be feeling the effects of this night soon, and for a long time after.

Didn’t matter. He felt able to finish what he had to do.

He angled away from the murder scene and walked across the dark clearing toward Oswald’s Ford F-350. He’d leave the GMC, which could have held four men.

The lantern sputtering on the ground gave off enough light to reflect off the truck. He pulled open the driver’s-side door, hoping he didn’t have to walk all the way back and look for the keys. He didn’t. They were in the ignition. Even better, there was a half-full bottle of water in the truck’s cup holder.

Beck decided he just might make it through this night.





50

Raymond Ippolito drove. John Palmer sat in the passenger seat, trying to match names in an NYPD file with names on an FBI organizational chart of Bronx gang members. In a horizontal line under mug shots of Eric Juju Jackson and Floyd Whitey Bondurant, identified as Sovereign Commanders aka The Chosen, were eight squares. Two of the squares had the names and pictures of Jerome Watkins and Derrick Watkins, labeled Harrod Avenue Villains, and underneath them a vertical list of twenty-two names.

Ippolito glanced occasionally at Palmer with growing impatience.

“Is that crap showing you anything you really need to know, John?”

“Visual aid, my man.”

“For who?”

“Jackson.”

“That’s part of your pitch?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re only going to get one shot at this, John.”

“That’s the twentieth time you’ve told me that. Where are we meeting him?”

“Chinese restaurant over on 180th. It’s a place where I can set up something like this.”

“Why?”

“There’s a back room that won’t be wired.”

“You sure?”

“As sure as I can be of anything. I know the owner a long time. Don’t f*ck around when we have to prove we aren’t wired. Jackson knows the drill.”

“Okay. What about Bondurant? He gonna be there?”

Ippolito turned to Palmer. “I sure f*cking hope not.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because he’s a homicidal maniac. You ever see that big nasty-looking f*cker coming at you, you pull and shoot, no questions asked. I’m serious. He’s the enforcer who makes the whole operation what it is. He kills people. That’s what he does.”

“You really think Jackson can deliver?”

“He can if he wants to. But understand one thing, John.”

“What?”

“Once we let this shit out of the tube, we can’t put it back.”

“Yeah. Well … I’d say it’s already out.”

“True.”

Ippolito turned onto 180th Street and parked illegally a few cars away from the Chinese restaurant. He didn’t bother to put any identification on the dashboard. Even the dumbest traffic cop would figure out it was an unmarked police car.

Palmer checked his watch. Exactly eight o’clock.

As they headed for the restaurant, Ippolito told Palmer, “By the way, John…”

“What?”

“Try not to stare at Jackson’s face.”

“Why?”

“He’s got bad skin.”

“How bad?”

“Horrible bad.”

“Shit, now you tell me.”

The Chinese restaurant was only half full when Ippolito and Palmer entered. The host shook hands with Ippolito and said nothing. He led them through the dimly lit restaurant, the air heavy with the scents of old-style Cantonese cooking, to a back room set up with a table for four.

Eric Juju Jackson sat alone at the table, an untouched plate of beef with oyster sauce in front of him. He sipped from a cup of tea. Even doing something as prosaic as sipping tea, Jackson seemed menacing.

He stood. Without saying a word, he looked back and forth at Palmer and Ippolito. Palmer laid his folder on the table. He and Ippolito emptied the contents of all their pockets. They took off their jackets, draping them over chairs. They proceeded to unbutton their shirts, pull them free of their pants and lift them up. They turned around so Jackson could see they weren’t wearing any wires. They unbuckled their pants and dropped them so Jackson could see their bare legs held no wires or recording devices.

Jackson, who wore a plain blue oxford button-down shirt and black jeans, did the same for them. Palmer tried not to stare at the ravaged skin across his back and shoulders. It looked like someone had taken an ice pick to it.

All three zipped and buttoned and buckled, put everything back into their pockets. Palmer and Ippolito sat on either side of Jackson, who still didn’t say anything, or look at them.

Ippolito said, “This is my partner, John Palmer.”

Jackson made a nearly imperceptible nod.

“I think we have an opportunity to help each other out.”

Jackson continued looking straight ahead, as if he held the detectives in such contempt he refused to look at them.