When Demarco turned onto Hoe Avenue from 174th Street, he and Manny spotted a car parked in front of a small playground across the street from Lorena Leon’s public housing unit. Two men sat in the front seats. Coming up Hoe, they could see only the backs of their heads, but they had little doubt they were from Derrick Watkins’s crew.
Demarco said, “Looks like we’ve got two of ’em. And I’m betting the big one behind the wheel is Jerome.”
As Demarco drove past the parked car, Manny slid down out of view below the window level. Demarco casually scratched the right side of his head, blocking his face.
“Park around the corner, D. We’ll come back on foot and take them.”
“How you want to work it?”
“We come up on each side of their car from behind. Put guns on them. If one of them is Biggie we throw the other one out, and take Watkins to Red Hook.”
“In their car?”
“Yeah. Ricky can drive up here and fetch this one. You sit in the back with him. If he twitches, put a bullet in his damn knee.”
Demarco said, “I might do that anyhow. Get him talking right now. Who cares if he bleeds all over the place. It’s his car.”
* * *
Amelia could feel the excitement growing as she pulled the shopping cart and bag of cans out of the Jeep. She took a deep breath, telling herself to go slow. She pressed her hand against the Ruger, feeling the reassurance of its solid mass.
As she closed the Jeep’s hatch, and set off with her shopping cart and cans, she pictured shooting whoever might be waiting for her to show up at her grandmother’s house. She hoped one of them was Tyrell Williams.
She decided if they were parked near Lorena’s house, she would come at them straight on. She wanted to see their faces when she shot them. They’d be looking for a whore. She wasn’t a whore anymore. She was a stooped-over can-collector dressed like a crazy homeless person.
She walked around to 172nd Street and headed for Hoe, pulling the wobbly shopping cart with her left hand so her right hand would be free to pull the gun.
When she turned onto Hoe Avenue, she made sure to stop and look at the tied-up garbage bags set out for collection near the curb. As she pretended to check garbage bags for cans, Amelia tried to see if any of the parked cars were occupied. She couldn’t see much farther than three cars ahead, which meant she’d have to get fairly close before she would spot anybody staking out her grandmother’s. She wondered if she should pull the gun out now, so she could shoot more quickly.
* * *
Demarco had to drive two blocks on 172nd Street before he found a spot to park. He pulled in to the space, and they hustled back to Hoe Avenue. They planned on coming at them from behind, figuring they could get fairly close without too much risk of being spotted. At some point they’d appear in the side-view mirrors. Hopefully, they could close the distance before Watkins’s guys drew their weapons.
At the corner of 172nd and Hoe, Demarco turned to Manny and said, “Let’s stay on the sidewalk until we get close. Just two guys walking. Then we’ll split up and take them. If they spot us before we get close, do what you have to do. Don’t risk getting nailed by these dopes.”
Manny gave Demarco a short nod, his eyes on the car midway down the block.
* * *
Amelia spotted the two men at the other end of Hoe Avenue coming her way at the same time she saw Tyrell and Biggie sitting in a white Toyota Avalon three cars ahead of her.
She stopped and turned toward the curb, her heart pounding. She kept her head down, but turned to check out the two at the other end of the block. Shit! She recognized them. The tall black guy who had opened the door for her at Derrick’s place, and the shorter Hispanic one who had searched Derrick’s crew for guns.
They had to be after Tyrell and Biggie, too.
She couldn’t move. She bit down to stop herself from screaming in frustration.
Not now. Not when I’m so close. Goddam them. I’ll shoot them first if they get in my way. But then she told herself, Take it easy. You barely have enough bullets for Tyrell and Biggie, much less those other two.
She tried to remember how many times she’d shot at Derrick. Three? Four?
It didn’t matter. She was closer. Walk up to Biggie’s car and start shooting. That would drive the other two off. Shoot right through the windshield. Grab their money and run. Now. Do it now.
She turned and reached under the blanket for her gun.
* * *
Demarco and Manny were about to split apart when they saw the woman on the street with a shopping cart filled with soda cans.
Great, thought Demarco, a damn homeless can-collector walking right into the middle of their play.
Manny saw her, too, and stopped a few steps ahead of Demarco. He turned to him and guided Demarco over to a building near the corner. He leaned back and faced Demarco.
“Let the homeless woman pass by and get off the block, and then we’ll take them down.”
Demarco stood facing Manny, his head turned slightly to watch the can-collector up the block. And then Demarco said, “Aw, hell.”
* * *
Amelia kept her gaze down. She held the Ruger under her blanket, eyes on Biggie and Tyrell in the front seat. There were three cars and a stretch of empty curb between her and them.
She had an overwhelming urge to walk faster, but she forced herself to keep a slow pace, pulling the shopping cart behind her.
She felt her heart pounding. The gun seemed very heavy in her hand, held awkwardly under the blanket. She advanced within two car lengths. She saw Tyrell turning to talk to Biggie, who didn’t look at him. Biggie kept his attention across the street on her grandmother’s place. She saw Tyrell lift a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor to his mouth. He drained the bottle and in the next second opened the car door, stepped out, and walked toward the small park with the empty bottle in his hand.
Without even thinking about it, Amelia followed him into the park.
* * *
Manny said, “What?”
“Guy just got out of the car. The can-collector followed him into that little playground.”
“Christ, she probably wants the bottle he’s carrying.”
“It’s not the empty bottle she wants,” said Demarco. “That’s the girl, Manny. Look how tall she is. Same skin tone. That’s Packy’s kid. The one who shot Derrick Watkins.”
Manny turned to get a quick look before Amelia and Tyrell disappeared into the park.
“Goddammit,” said Manny. “Come on.”
Manny ran as fast as his bowed legs would carry him, Demarco gliding along right behind him.
* * *
There was a toddler-size slide and a set of monkey bars in the center of the small park, and nothing else. Past the play area, a short chain-link fence, a wall of foliage, and small trees blocked the park from the empty lot beyond it. There was nobody else in the park.
Amelia followed Tyrell at a distance. He was oblivious to her presence, intent on emptying his bladder after downing forty ounces of malt liquor.
Amelia hung back until Tyrell found a spot at the back of the little park near the foliage. Tyrell tossed the empty malt liquor bottle into the bushes.
He unzipped his pants.
Amelia waited patiently, then moved within five feet behind him. She carefully aimed at the small of his back, anticipating that the pistol would kick up and the bullet would hit him dead center.
She held the Ruger with two hands, concentrating, ready this time for the sharp crack and recoil. She squinted in anticipation. As she was about to pull the trigger, Tyrell sensed someone behind him. She held off. Amelia wanted him to see her. Still holding his penis, he looked over his shoulder. Amelia pulled the blanket off her head and waited until he recognized her before she pulled the trigger.
The first bullet obliterated Tyrell Williams’s lower spine. The impact pushed his pelvis forward. Paralyzed from the waist down, his legs folded under him. He felt hardly any pain as he sagged to the ground in an awkward heap, landing mostly on his back.
Amelia walked to him. She made sure Tyrell was looking at her. She couldn’t clearly hear his cries or pleas, or whatever noise came out of his mouth because the gunshot had deafened her somewhat. She carefully aimed the gun at his chest, even as he raised his hands to ward off the shot. She fired three times. Three steady, even shots. The first bullet went through his sternum. The second bullet took out a lung and clipped his heart. The last bullet hit his throat, cutting off any chance of Tyrell Williams finishing the curse he tried to scream at Amelia Johnson.
* * *
Biggie Watkins didn’t hesitate. When he heard the first gunshot, he came out of his car with not one, but two guns in his hands. He couldn’t see into the playground where the gunshots had sounded, but he saw Demarco Jones and Manny Guzman coming at him from down the block.
Without a second’s hesitation, he raised his guns and began shooting at them with both hands.
Manny and Demarco veered away from each other so Biggie had to fire in two directions. Watkins spread his arms and kept shooting.
Demarco slipped behind the back of a car for cover, letting off a fast shot that blew out the back window of Watkins’s Toyota. He leaned out, took careful aim, and shot at Watkins, but missed as the big man moved around behind the open driver’s-side door.
Manny Guzman did not duck, did not take cover, did not stop. He continued advancing on the sidewalk toward Watkins, who remained in the street, using his car door for cover.
Watkins extended his right hand around the door and fired two shots at Demarco. Then he popped up just high enough to get his left hand above the roof of the car and shoot at Manny.
Manny kept advancing.
Demarco leaned out again from behind the car where he was crouched, knowing Manny would not stop, and fired three times to give Manny cover.
Demarco had to shoot with his left hand, leaning out from behind a car thirty feet from Watkins. His first shot went wide. On his second shot he overcompensated, and it hit the trunk of the car. The third shot hit the Toyota’s door.
Watkins kept firing blindly and almost nailed Manny. Manny continued toward him without even flinching.
Demarco cursed, slipped out from behind cover, switched hands, and fired shot after steady shot at Watkins mostly to distract Watkins’s attention from Manny. Nine-millimeter bullets blew out the driver’s-side door window and banged into the car door, forcing Watkins to drop flat onto the street. That meant Biggie couldn’t shoot at Manny now, so he aimed both guns from under the car door and fired at Demarco.
One of Watkins’s bullets ricocheted up off the street and zinged past the side of Demarco’s face. He felt the heat of it sizzle past him. Demarco dropped down and fired back, trying to get a shot under the car door.
Manny Guzman reached the Toyota, calmly stepped around the front of the car, and put two bullets into the back of Jerome Watkins’s head.
Demarco saw Manny behind Watkins, heard the two quick shots. He knew beyond any doubt Manny had killed him.
Demarco jumped up and ran forward. Manny pocketed his Charter Arms Bulldog and stood waiting for Demarco.
Manny said, “Come on, let’s get him out of the way. We’ll take his car.”
“What about the other guy?”
“He can’t do anything for us and, from the sound of it, she nailed him. Let’s go.”
Manny bent down and grabbed the left ankle. Demarco grabbed the right ankle, and they unceremoniously dragged Biggie Watkins around the Toyota onto the sidewalk.
Demarco hustled back to the driver’s seat. The keys were still in the car. Manny slipped into the passenger seat.
Demarco pulled the driver’s door shut, and the remains of the window fell in on him. He peeled out from the parking space, made a hard right, and shot down 172nd Street heading toward Ricky Bolo’s Impala.
Manny braced himself in the passenger seat, pointed to the floor on his side, and calmly said, “You see this shit these guys had in here?”
Demarco didn’t take the time to look at what Manny pointed at as he raced through an intersection and pulled the bullet-ridden Toyota into a bus stop near where he had parked the Impala. Only then did he look down at the rope and duct tape.
Manny said, “They had some nasty plans for Packy’s kid.”
“Yeah, well, she had her own plan. Damn fools sitting out there where anybody could find them.”
“You surprised?”
“No.”
Demarco shoved the Toyota into park. He wiped down the wheel and gearshift, and the door handle on his side, but didn’t bother turning off the engine. Maybe somebody in the neighborhood would help themselves to the car and make things tougher for the police.
He waited for Manny to wipe down his door handle and then both hustled into the Impala. Demarco pulled out carefully and drove off at a normal speed.
* * *
At the sound of the first gunshots, Amelia Johnson had ducked down near the body of Tyrell. While the gunfire blasted out on the street, she carefully went through Tyrell’s pockets, searching for his money. She found a fold of bills in his front pocket. Nothing in the wallet of his back pocket. She replaced the wallet and made her way to the park entrance, keeping out of sight.
She waited a few moments after the shooting stopped, came out of the small playground with her shopping cart, and calmly walked over to Biggie Watkins. The two bullets from Manny Guzman’s .357 caliber Charter Arms Bulldog had blown through Biggie’s head and destroyed most of his face.
Amelia felt a strange mix of disappointment and happiness. They had killed him. She supposed that was good, but she still felt a need to point her gun at Biggie Watkins and fire a bullet into the dead bulk of the man lying on the street in front of her. The big body twitched. She fired again. And again. But on the third pull, nothing happened. She had no more bullets.
She carefully slipped the gun into her waistband, feeling the heat of the barrel against her abdomen. She calmly squatted near the body and stripped Biggie of his money. She dropped his wallet next to him, and disappeared from the block before anybody emerged to view the carnage.