Hose Monkey (14 page)

Bob Healy watched her pull away, making a mental note of her tag number, but he wouldn’t track her down, not yet. Even if he were prepared to explain the real reason for his being at the meeting, there was something else for which he was unprepared. In the wake of his attraction to Barbara came a flood of guilt. Until he dealt with his guilt, he’d be no good to anyone, especially himself.

Tuesday
March 2nd, 2004

 

TIMOTHY LEARY

 

J
oe had already spoken with Bob Healy, if only briefly. They didn’t discuss Healy’s visit to Jerry’s Joint. Neither man was in a particularly talkative frame of mind. Serpe was too preoccupied with Frank’s plight to ask about every detail concerning Healy’s handling of the Reyes matter. Besides, he trusted that Healy would tell him if there was anything worth telling. For his part, Healy couldn’t get Barbara off his mind, or the guilt that came with her.

Bob did have some information for Joe, most of it bad. Frank had lawyered up, but hadn’t chosen to be represented by any of the criminal attorneys Joe had suggested to Tina. He’d been arraigned at the Cohalan Court Complex in Central Islip. At the arraignment, Frank pled not guilty and was denied bail. He was remanded to the Suffolk County Jail in Riverhead. The one positive note was that George Healy had arranged for Joe to visit with Frank in a more private setting at the jailhouse than was usually permitted.

“Don’t get too excited,” Bob Healy had warned Joe. “George told the D.A. you’re going there to try and convince Frank to plead out.”

Frank, handcuffed to the table, was already seated when Joe came into the room escorted by a sheriff’s deputy. He looked terrible—pale, gaunt, unshaven. He was dressed in his own clothes, including jeans and a western style shirt with the Mayday logo embroidered on the left breast. Joe had one just like it. It didn’t escape his notice that Frank’s belt and shoelaces were missing. If it was possible for a room to be simultaneously sterile and grungy, then this room was. Everything about the place was hard: the steel, the edges, even the air. The stink of the pine-scented cleaner burned the lining of Joe’s nostrils. Still, just being there made Joe want to shower.

In our daily lives, Joe thought, we’re used to concessions made for aesthetics. No such compromises are necessary in modern jails or prisons. Function, function, function; that’s the driving force.

Joe remembered a street corner dealer caught up in a neighborhood sweep, begging him and Ralphy to let him go. The guy offered to roll over on his own mother, he’d do anything to not go back to Rikers again. When asked for a reason, the guy said he couldn’t stand the ugliness of the place, that he’d kill himself. Joe wondered whatever became of that guy.

The deputy went over the rules, said they had up to a half an hour, and that he’d be just outside the door. Joe thanked him. Frank was mum.

“What are you doin’ here, Joe?” Frank asked as soon as the door clicked shut.

“What do you think I’m doing here? I’m here to help.”

“Go away, Joe. You can’t help me.”

“Frank, you pretty much saved my life and I’m not about to turn my back on you.”

“I’m not askin’ for any favors. You don’t owe me any. So just get lost.”

“Sorry, buddy. I’m not a deserter.”

“I bet your ex-partner’s wife wouldn’t see it that way.”

Joe stayed calm. He got that Frank was trying to get rid of him any way he could.

“What about Tina and the kids?”

Frank looked nauseous. “They’re taken care of no matter what happens to me.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Frank. There’s no taking care of this kinda shit. They’re gonna be scarred by this forever. Money won’t make this right. Nothing will. I know. So if you didn’t kill Toussant, stop this crap now while you can salvage things.”

“Fuck you, Joe. Get the fuck out!”

The deputy knocked on the door. “Everything all right in there?”

“Just five more minutes,” Joe shouted before Frank could answer. Then he got back to the business at hand. “Okay, Frank. You did it and I can’t help you. You wanna get rid of me?”

“Yeah.”

“Convince me. Tell me where you found Toussant, how you got him to the beach, why you were so stupid as to leave a refrigerator magnet behind and your gun in the office. You convince me and I’m outta here. You might as well practice now, because if you cop to a plea, you’re gonna have do elocution before the judge.”

Frank shifted uneasily in his metal chair.

“Come on, Frank. Just tell me where you found Toussant and I’ll get outta your hair.”

“He was hiding out in. He was hiding out in Wyandanch.”

“Yeah, and how did you find him there?”

“You said you’d get out if I told—”

“Just tell me how you found him.”

“I went looking for him there.”

“You’re full a shit. I know it and you know it.”

“Deputy!” Frank screamed. “Deputy, get me outta here, now!”

“Listen, Frank, I don’t know what you’re hiding, but it isn’t worth it. You’re gonna ruin a lot of people’s lives. Let me help—”

“All right, that’s it! Party’s over,” the deputy barked, pushing in the door. He pointed at Joe. “You, outside now.”

“Think about what I said.” Joe said in parting. “Leave it be, Joe, please. I’m beggin’ ya.”

“Now, fucko!” the deputy insisted, slapping his hand down on Joe’s shoulder.

Healy had called Serpe five times since they’d spoken earlier and had gotten nothing except familiar with his new phone message. On the fifth try he simply hung up. Now not only was he waiting for Joe’s call, but for George’s as well. Last night’s bout of insomnia had been a productive one. His mind constantly drifted back to the sight of the younger Strohmeyer’s battered hand.

You didn’t have to be a retired detective to know that stabbing someone to death can be a dangerous proposition for both parties involved. The person wielding the knife is often cut in the process. The more stab wounds, the greater the chance that the attacker will be injured. He had called George right after getting off the phone with Serpe. George wasn’t happy.

“Are you nuts? You want me to ask the lab to retest all the blood samples at the Reyes murder scene to check for a second contributor. This isn’t even my case, for fuck sakes! What are you playing at here, big brother?”

“It’s not playing.”

“And it’s not police work either. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re retired. And this is Suffolk, not Kings County. You’ve got no standing here.”

“But this could clear more than one case,” Bob said. “Couldn’t hurt to put a few feathers in your own cap.”

“My cap’s just fine the way it is, bro. Besides, neither this, Toussant or that retarded guy’s case has anything to do with me. The D.A.’s going to start wondering why I’ve got my fingers up everyone else’s ass.”

“Because you’re ambitious, little baby brother.”

“Fuck you, dickhead.”

That was more like it, Bob thought. That was the George he knew.

“Try and get them to test the samples,” Bob urged. “Like Uncle Mick used to say, ‘I got a feelin’ in me gut.’”

“That was gas. Uncle Mickey was a drunk.” There was no arguing that.

The snow was falling at a pretty steady clip as Joe drove away from the jail complex and headed toward the Long Island Expressway. It was one of the great contradictions of the island that this far east the L.I.E. was anything but the world’s biggest parking lot. The only time it got real heavy out this way was when most of Manhattan moved to the Hamptons for the summer. Then, on Friday nights heading east and on Sunday nights heading west, the expressway was as ridiculously crowded as those sections closer to the city.

Joe pulled onto the expressway completely unchallenged by other traffic. There were a few red taillights visible in front of him, but they were almost a full exit ahead. Accustomed as he was to driving in this weather, Serpe enjoyed the solitude and peacefulness it afforded him. It was one of the things he liked most about driving the tugboat, his time alone. So with the Moody Blues proclaiming Timothy Leary’s death and Joe feeling he had the world to himself, he moved into the center lane.

He tried to think of who Frank was protecting. He had to be covering for someone. Short of actually having executed Toussant, it was the only explanation for Frank’s self-destructive bent. Clearly, Frank was scared and not for himself. It couldn’t be Tina and the kids, he thought. You’d really have to take liberties with the word protection to consider the hell Frank was putting them through a good thing. No, it had to be—

Bang!

Joe’s car fish-tailed wildly. He fought hard to steady the car, his heart pounding, adrenaline pumping. A blow out? He didn’t think so. He had the car just back under control when—

Bang!

This time he felt it coming, caught a streak of black in his side view mirror. A Lincoln Navigator with deeply-tinted windows slammed into his rear passenger side quarter panel, causing the fish-tailing to start all over again. Christ, had he been that far lost in his own thoughts that he was unaware of another vehicle so close to him? You had to love these assholes in their fucking SUV’s. Just because the damned thing had four-wheel drive and weighed more than a tank, didn’t mean you could drive it like one.

Joe righted the ship once more. He slowed to allow room for the Navigator’s driver to regain control of his vehicle and pull to the shoulder. But Serpe had misread the situation. The Navigator hadn’t accidentally slid into him. As Joe slowed, the Navigator swung out right and turned sharply back left, its nose smacking hard into the rear wheel well of the Accord. There was no controlling the car now. It spun out, turning circles on the slippery road surface before riding onto the grass that divided the east and westbound lanes. Oddly, that seemed to help Joe get the car back under his command.

He hit the gas, shot off the grass back up onto the roadway, and got it up to eighty-five, but the Navigator was a brute and was back at his side within seconds. Joe’s only hope was to try to buy some time until he got to an exit or to a more crowded area of the expressway where the Navigator’s actions would be restricted by the presence of other vehicles. Problem was, any delaying tactics he might use were nearly as dangerous as the Navigator. The road surface was so slick that he couldn’t afford to push the speed much more, nor could he bob and weave. He waited. When he saw the Navigator swing out wide right once again, preparing to go for his wheel well, he slammed on his brakes.

Unfortunately, the car did not stop. Instead it skidded uncontrollably, but all was not lost. Because the Accord’s rear end swung left just as the Navigator gored it, the big Lincoln’s hit was off target, barely clipping the Honda. Now it was the Navigator that was out of control, spinning, nearly tipping over on its side, sliding into the grass. When Joe came out of his skid, he raced to the approaching exit. He sped off the road, around one curve and then another. The big Lincoln was nowhere in sight, but Joe was paying too much attention to what was not behind him at the cost of missing what lay ahead. The Honda hopped the curb and slammed into a clump of trees.
Bang!

This time it was the air bag. But because of the angle at which the car had jumped the curb, Joe’s head snapped sideways and thumped against the door glass. At first he just felt sort of disconnected, more an observer of what was going on than a participant. Then came the pain. It didn’t last long. Blackness fell down on him, and he had no weapons to fight it.

Healy had gotten a call, but not from Serpe. It was Strohmeyer Jr., calling on the cell to let him know where to meet tonight. Healy had been purposefully vague about his address and had made sure to give out only his cell number as the exchange wasn’t traceable to a particular town. He was under no illusion that he’d be able to hide the fact that he didn’t live anywhere near Farmingville or Ronkonkoma. He had already worked out a cover story to tell if need be. In any case, he didn’t figure the AFA was real choosy about where their recruits came from. He was white, had half a brain, and carried a gun. What else did they need?

The house phone rang.

“Healy,” he said.

There was an unnatural silence on the other end. Healy thought he could hear labored breathing and some sort of movement. “Hello,” he shouted.

“Healy?”

“Serpe, is that you? Are you drunk?”

“Healy,” the voice repeated. “Where are you, Joe?”

“I’m not sure. I smacked up my brother’s car.”

“Are you okay?”

“My head’s all foggy and I’m bleeding a little. Come and get me.”

“Where are you?”

“I remember leaving the Suffolk County Jail and it was snowing pretty bad. Frank’s scared. He’s protecting somebody, but I don’t think it’s—”

“Okay, Joe, let’s stay on point here. Try to remember where you are.”

“I guess I’m near the L.I.E.”

“That’s something,” Healy said. “You were headed west on the L.I.E. from Riverhead. We can work with that. How bad are you bleeding?”

“Not bad. I got a bad headache and—”

Healy thought he heard Joe puking up his guts. “Should I call the cops?”

“Just come get me.”

After he hung up with Healy, Joe tried Marla’s number and got her machine. This is the message he left: “It’s me. I love you. Don’t be mad.” He snapped the phone shut, knelt over, and emptied out the remainder of his breakfast and lunch.

An hour after putting down his house phone, Bob Healy pulled up to what was left of Vinny Serpe’s 2000 Honda Accord. He couldn’t believe what bad shape the car was in for what looked to be a low speed run-in was some scrub pines. When he clicked his flashlight on, Bob noticed streaks of black paint all across the crushed passenger side of the Honda. Well, that explained it, Healy thought. There had been an impact with a black vehicle that launched Serpe’s Honda over the curb. If there were skid marks, they were obscured by the snow and there was no black car in sight.

“Come on, Joe,” Healy said, pulling Serpe out of the driver’s seat. The stink of vomit was intense.

“Bob?” Joe asked, voice thick, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

“Yeah, it’s me. Let me have a look at your cut.”

It was hard enough to see anything through Joe’s thick hair, and the darkness wasn’t helping any. The flashlight wasn’t of much use either as the blood had dried and caked up.

“Okay, I’m taking you to the ER at Stony Brook. I don’t think you’re bleeding anymore, but I think you’ve got a concussion.”

“I’m all right.”