Wednesday morning a little after eight, Walter Ferguson walked from his apartment on Livingston Street to his office three blocks east. As the highest-ranking member of the staff, he tried to be the first one in every morning. This morning, two men were waiting for him. Walter quickly made them for NYPD detectives. One older. One younger.
The veteran detective looked like he had definitely worked past his normal shift and wanted to get home. The younger one appeared to be ready to go another shift and another after that if needed.
Walter went through a quick mental inventory of parolees who might have caused two detectives to show up. Unfortunately, it was a long list.
* * *
By ten thirty, James Beck had finished most of his morning routine and sat restlessly in his usual spot at the far end of an old oak bar on the ground floor of his building in Red Hook. Sections of the morning edition of The New York Times lay stacked on the bar in the order Beck had read them.
Demarco Jones stood cleaning the back-bar shelves and wiping down bottles, his puttering around adding to Beck’s restlessness.
Beck thought about calling Ferguson, but decided to wait. Walter would be busy enough dealing with Packy’s hitchhiking stunt.
Just then the front door opened, and Walter Ferguson entered.
Beck saw the expression on Walter’s face. Noted he was alone. A sick feeling hit him just below his solar plexus.
Walter Ferguson, normally a vigorous, distinguished African-American man, looked sallow, tired, barely able to move. He was dressed as usual in a suit and tie, but uncharacteristically the top button of his shirt was open and the tie pulled loose.
“What happened?”
Walter stepped to the bar, placing his right hand on it for support. He neither looked at Beck, nor answered his question.
Walter cleared his throat and said, “Demarco, may I have a whiskey, please.”
Demarco’s brow furrowed. He had never seen Walter Ferguson drink alcohol. He poured Johnny Walker Black into a rocks glass. No ice, no water.
They waited for Walter to take a long sip.
Walter put his head down and rested his foot on the bar rail, waiting for the burning in his throat to subside.
He looked up, his eyes distant, his voice choked with emotion, and said, “Paco Johnson is dead.”
Nobody moved, as if moving would confirm the truth.
Beck stifled an anguished curse. He came off his bar stool and took a step toward Ferguson. “Walter, what the hell happened?”
Walter turned to Beck. The older man looked so distraught that Beck involuntarily reached out and put a hand on his arm.
Walter responded in a flat, toneless voice.
“Two detectives showed up at my office this morning. From the Forty-second Precinct in the Bronx. They discovered Packy’s body on the street this morning. I forget the exact location. Somewhere, I … I’ll have to look at a map. They said a man opening a bodega saw the body and called it in about six o’clock. They found ID on him and my name and address on his release papers. They came to my office this morning for information.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Beck. “What happened to him? Where was this?”
“Northern Bronx. Near where the, uh, mother-in-law’s apartment is. Where he was staying.”
Beck turned away, gripping the bar with both hands, grimacing, trying to fight off the anguish and helplessness.
“What happened? Did he have a heart attack or something? What was he doing out on the street at six in the morning?”
“James, this is bad. Very bad.”
“Walter, please, just tell me.”
Manny Guzman had come out from the bar kitchen. Dressed in his usual work clothes, Manny looked like a tough, old short-order cook, except for the prison tattoos peeking out from the collar and cuffs of his canvas work shirt.
He had heard Walter’s report and walked slowly, solemnly, to stand on Walter’s left. Demarco remained behind the bar with no expression.
Walter took a small sip of his scotch and spoke calmly in a more normal voice.
“Here is what they told me. And trust me, I used every bit of my authority to get as much information as I could.
“They responded to a nine-one-one call at about six o’clock this morning. Near the end of their shift. Two uniformed patrol cops were already at the scene. Packy was half on the sidewalk, half in the street.
“They did a preliminary exam. They said it looked like Packy had been in a fight, but what killed him was a gunshot to the head. Small caliber.” Walter pointed his forefinger to a spot behind his right ear. “Right here. No exit wound. Bullet still in him.”
Walter paused, blinked, and then continued.
“The younger cop said they didn’t find any shell casings or anything near the body. They left when the Crime Scene Unit arrived to come to my office, but before the medical examiner showed up. They’re still processing the scene. The only witness so far is the store clerk who reported seeing the body. The area was most likely deserted when it happened, but they’re canvassing for witnesses.
“I asked them about when they thought it happened, but they wouldn’t guess. Said they’ll wait for the M.E. report. They reassured me there’d be a thorough investigation.”
Walter paused for a moment, and then continued.
“The older detective asked me if and when I’d talked to Packy. I told him about seven-thirty last night.” Walter turned to Beck. “What time did I call you, James?”
Beck had to focus to answer. “Uh, yeah, yeah. Seven-thirty.”
“Okay. So, sometime last night between then and six in the morning. I told them Packy called me from a pay phone near his mother-in-law’s place.”
“Are the cops going to talk to the mother-in-law next?”
“Yes.”
“You think Packy went to her place after he talked to you?”
“Yes. I think so. And they found him near the mother-in-law’s. I told them her address, they said it was within walking distance of where they found the body.”
Beck had forced himself to calm down even though he was seething, guilty, hovering between devastated and determined.
He said, “I should have…”
“No, James. I told you not to go up there.” Walter rubbed his face with both of his big hands, pulling himself together, standing up straight to his full height of just over six two. He cleared his throat.
“Packy Johnson was the responsibility of the Division of Parole from the moment he stepped out of that prison. He had an officer in my group assigned to him, a man under my supervision. I was the one in charge of Packy. He was my responsibility. I should have gone to see him last night after he hitchhiked into town, but I made an error in judgment.” Walter shook his head at the recollection. “I don’t know what I thought, but I made a terrible mistake, and now Packy is dead.”
Beck said, “Walter, you can’t…”
Walter waved him quiet.
“What I’m saying is, Packy was my responsibility. And still is until everything is resolved, and he’s had a decent burial. I will follow up with the homicide investigation, with the medical examiner’s office, with whomever. I’m not letting this go.”
Beck said, “Yes, Walter, of course. When did the cops leave you?”
Ferguson checked his watch. “About forty minutes ago.”
“Okay.”
The question alerted Walter. He turned toward Beck. “James, you can’t get involved in this.”
Beck stepped back from the bar and nodded. “I know.”
“James, we don’t know what happened yet. You have to let the police handle this. If you get in the way, go out there and do anything foolish”—Walter paused and looked at Demarco and Manny—“it won’t do anybody any good.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you, Walter. And like you said, you’ll follow up on everything.”
“I will.”
Beck placed a hand under Walter’s elbow, put his arm around the taller man, and gently guided him toward the front door.
“You promise you’ll let me know whatever you find out. As soon as you find out.”
“Of course.”
“After they’re done, after they find out what they need to find out, we’ll make arrangements with you about the burial. We’ll cover whatever it costs. You know that, right? Can you claim the body? There’s no other next of kin is there?”
“Packy has a daughter, but as far as I know there hasn’t been any contact between them for years.”
“Right, right. I think I knew that. But can you be in charge of the body? I mean, claiming it and all so we can make the funeral arrangements.”
“Yes. Packy is still the responsibility of the division until the case is resolved. I’ll try to find the daughter and notify her, but I’m responsible.”
“Okay. Fine. Good.”
Beck had walked Walter Ferguson to the door.
“How’d you get here, Walter?”
“Car service. I told him to wait.”
Beck opened the door and saw the car parked across the street.
“Okay, good. I’m—I’m at a loss here, Walter. I don’t know what else to say.”
Walter stepped out of the bar into a day that had continued to be gloomy and overcast. He turned to Beck. “What can you say?”
The two men shook hands solemnly. Beck watched as Walter walked slowly toward the car. After a few steps he turned back and faced Beck.
“James.”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For listening to me.”
Beck nodded, grimacing at the effort to contain the emotions overtaking him. Three seconds after the car pulled away, Beck turned back into the bar, not even bothering to close the door. He let out a primal curse of rage and slammed a fist down on the nearest table.
Manny Guzman, baleful and solemn as ever, had already taken off his apron, heading back to the kitchen for his guns.
Demarco pulled Beck’s gun lockbox out from under the bar and placed it on the bar top. He took out a Benelli M2 Tactical Shotgun with a pistol grip from a cabinet in the back bar. He laid it on the bar, pulled his Glock out from his waistband at the small of his back, and brought out boxes of ammunition from under the bar.
Demarco asked, “What’s the old lady’s address?”
Beck spoke slowly, trying to keep his anger in check.
“I’ll give you directions. Goddam fucking parole board. We had to use her place so it looked like he was with a relative. So it would look good on his fucking COMPAS score. But she wasn’t a blood relative. She was nothing to Packy.”
Manny returned to the bar room, the old gangster’s expression without affect. Maybe old friends like Beck and Demarco could see an extra intensity smoldering in his dark eyes, but even without it, Manny Guzman, a stocky Hispanic man in his fifties, looked to be a man intent on a reckoning.
Manny had a gun in both of his front pants pockets. A Charter Arms .357 Magnum Bulldog revolver for up close. A Smith & Wesson .38 Special for longer distance.
“Do we need Ciro?” Demarco asked.
“I don’t know,” said Beck. “But Packy was one of us. We have to call him.”