Hose Monkey (5 page)

Once again, Hoskins pressed his face threateningly close to Joe’s. “What’s a matter, Serpe, nothin’ to say? See, partner, he knows I speak the truth. He sold out his best friend. Both Ralphy and the kid would be alive if they hadn’t met you.”

“That’s enough, asshole!”

All four men turned to see Bob Healy standing behind them.

“Hey, Kramer, it’s a fuckin’ cheese eaters convention. Let me introduce you to Ralphy’s other executioner. This here is Bob Healy, detective first, NYPD, retired. That’s right, in the big city you can make first grade jamming up your brother cops. How’s it feel to build your career climbin’ over the bodies of good men like Ralphy Abruzzi?”

Healy shook his head. “Listen, you sorry excuse for a human being. You don’t think I know that cops get weak, that they fuck up like everybody else? I know. I know better than anyone. In I.A., I saw every kinda weakness a man can see. You think we made a case on Abruzzi because he was weak? If you think that, you’re an even bigger shithead than I thought.

“Let me tell you a thing or two about the blessed St. Ralphy. St. Ralphy wasn’t taking free coffee from the donut shop or veal cutlet parm heroes from the local pizzeria. He was leaking confidential police information to at least three different criminal enterprises. Not one, asshole. Not two, but three. To feed his fucking habit, he was willing to put his brother and sister officers at risk. And you know what, Detective, we had information that St. Ralphy’s mouth got at least two C.I.s and one cop killed.

“Oh, you didn’t know that, huh? Well, now you do. Since St. Ralphy ate his ammo, the department didn’t feel it would serve any purpose to let the press get hold of that stuff. He saved his family and the rest of us a lot of grief. But who’s gonna pay the bill for that dead cop, Detective? You? Your partner? Serpe’s paid his fair share for being loyal to his friend and partner. So why don’t you get off his back and let the man mourn the loss of his coworker in peace?”

Tim Hoskins was unmoved. “Fuck you. And fuck him. It’s not enough that you drove Ralphy into his grave, but now you gotta smear his name. As far as I’m concerned, you’re both F.F.L.

Remember what I said, Snake,” Hoskins hissed, turning to leave. “I don’t care if you and the tard were blood brothers. Stay the fuck outta my business.”

Kramer nodded. “Gentlemen.”

“F.F.L.? What’s F.F.L.?” Frank was curious to know.

Both Joe Serpe and Bob Healy answered at once. “Fucked for life.”

There are awkward silences and then there are awkward silences. The silence between Joe Serpe and Bob Healy as they sat across the diner table was excruciatingly loud. They avoided eye contact, drummed the silverware, folded the corners of the place mats.

Strange, but after days of planning what he would say and how he would say it, Bob Healy was at a complete loss. He hadn’t anticipated the incident at the funeral home nor had he intended to blurt out the details of Ralph Abruzzi’s treachery.

For his part, Joe Serpe had re-consigned Healy to that area of his head the retired I.A. detective had occupied for the last several years. He had thought of Healy like an inoperable tumor—one that had done its damage by disabling him, but wasn’t going to kill him.

“You two married?” the waitress asked, a pot of coffee in her hand.

“What?” Healy startled.

“Only married couples look as uncomfortable as the two a you and have as little to say.”

“I’ll have some,” Serpe said, pointing at the pot. “Yeah, me too.”

Frank Randazzo, still absorbing the hurt of the day, had excused himself shortly after Detectives Hoskins and Kramer made their exit. That left Joe Serpe and Bob Healy, the two old enemies, to sort things out for themselves. They agreed to meet at the Lazy Bull Diner in Smithtown.

“So, that stuff you said about Ralphy …” Joe hesitated. “Was it—you know … Was it—”

“—true? You tell me, Serpe.”

“Jimmy the Geek and Moesha Green.” Joe spoke the names. They were the names of two of his and Ralph Abruzzi’s confidential informants who’d turned up dead in the last year they partnered up.

Healy confirmed it with a shake of his head. Serpe wasn’t satisfied. “The cop?”

“We ain’t going there, Joe.”

Serpe stared coldly across the table. Healy had crossed a line. Maybe Ralphy was worse than Joe thought and Healy a little better, but they still had issues between them that weren’t going to go away with a snap of the fingers.

“You don’t call me that.”

“All right.”

“So, if you guys had this shit on Ralphy, why—”

“—go after you? Why make you roll on your partner? Because, like I said before, the brass wasn’t eager to wash the department’s dirtiest laundry in public. A cokehead cop and his partner is one thing … Dead informants and a brother cop, that’s something else.”

Serpe bristled. “I.A.B. sacrificed my career and my family, so the department didn’t have to—”

“Calm down!”

“Fuck you!” Serpe got up to leave. Now they were turning heads.

“Look, Serpe, I see you’re pissed, but sit back down. I’m asking you, please.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s lay the cards down here, right now,” Healy said. “Forget the dead snitches, even the cop, for the time being. You knew Abruzzi was using for years. You never came forward. Okay, maybe I understand that. He was your best friend, your partner. But when he started skimming coke and money off the top … Well, there’s a point where your loyalty to the department, to the other men and women who carry the shield, becomes bigger than your loyalty to your friend and partner.

“The truth is, Serpe, you fucked yourself. Now, if in your heart of hearts, you think I’m full of shit, well, stand up and walk away. We can go back to the way things were before last Saturday; you can put that chip back on your shoulder and I can look at you like any other scumbag cop who disgraced his uniform. You can be like that dickweed Hoskins and go on singing the praises of St. Ralphy till the cows come home.”

Joe Serpe didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. He remembered the call. Rosemarie, frantic on the other end of the line. She couldn’t get the basement door open and Ralphy wouldn’t answer her. He knew he should just let her call 911 or he should do it for her, but he drove over to his former partner’s house that one last time. It was the Sunday before Ralphy’s sentencing hearing. Prison is no place for most people. It’s worse for a cop.

Rosemarie, white and shaking with fear, met him at the garage door. Rosemarie, who was godmother to his son. Rosemarie, who had spit in his face the last time they saw one another. She latched onto his forearm so tightly it felt like a prayer. She could not speak. He unfurled her fingers and told her to go upstairs.

Joe tested the basement door. It wouldn’t budge. He pressed his shoulder to it. It was barricaded. He didn’t bother calling to Ralph. In the garage, he found the pump action shotgun clipped beneath the workbench. Ralphy kept it just in case. Joe kept one in his garage as well. Along the way, most cops get threatened with this or that. In Narcotics, you take those threats more seriously.

Joe aimed the shotgun at where he guessed the hinges on the other side of the door would be.
Cha-ching. Bang! Cha-ching. Bang!
The door did not fall immediately away. He put the shotgun down and pressed his palms against the top of the door and pushed. The door swung up and smacked into his shins.
Christ!
Ralphy had moved the pool table against the door. Joe pushed the door onto the pool table slate and climbed over it. Ralphy was in his favorite recliner, the back of his head spread over the chair and the wall behind.

Remembering that day he found Ralphy was like a shiv in the back, and he let Healy know he wasn’t pleased.

“Why, goddammit?” he barked.

“Why what?” Healy asked.

“Why now, after all these years? Why tell me this?”

“My wife died six months ago.”

“That’s too bad, but what’s that got to do with—”

“Makes you rethink things,” Healy admitted, “when you lose somebody close.”

Joe thought of Vinny. “What happened?”

“Pancreatic cancer. She went quick.”

“Sorry.”

“Mary, that was her name. She was brave about it, but I could see in her eyes she felt it was so unfair. I wished she would have said it just once. Then maybe.”

“You’d be able to live with it.”

“Exactly.”

“My brother, Vinny—”

“The fireman?” Healy remembered him from court. A big, quiet fellow, but always there.

“Yeah, he died at Ground Zero.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I guess there’s a lot of shit we carry around with us,” Joe said.

The awkward silence returned, but it was worse now. What was the protocol? Who would leave first? Was there anything more that needed to be said? Joe Serpe made the first move. He threw a five dollar bill on the table and stood to go.

“I guess I appreciate your telling me,” he said, unable to look Healy in the eye.

“Thanks for hearing me out.”

“Should we shake hands?”

Healy smiled up at Joe. “I don’t suppose it would kill us.”

They shook, but to Joe it still felt slightly like treason. Scars may lighten, but never vanish. Healy lingered. He knew there was one more thing he should have said, that he would someday have to say to Joe Serpe, but the talk had turned to Mary and Vinny Serpe. He had missed his moment. Still, he hoped he would be able to sleep a bit better tonight.

Monday
February 23rd, 2004

 

TRIPLE D CLUB

 

T
he flowers had turned black with truck soot, withered or frozen in the corner of the oil yard. The people from the group home had come the day after the kid’s funeral and laid them out as a memorial to Cain. It was a recent phenomenon, this building of makeshift memorials—flowers and crosses at the roadside wherever an icy patch and oak tree had conspired to introduce an immortal teenager to his Maker. To Joe Serpe’s way of thinking, a memorial was no more out of place at the scene of a murder than at the scene of an accident. They were equal wastes of time. He was quite sure God paid them little mind.

Even the bits and strands of yellow crime scene tape that remained had aged years in the week gone by since he and Frank had climbed into the tank and found Cain’s body. The cops had impounded the International and it was unclear when it would be returned. In a bizarre twist that only modern life can produce, Frank now needed that truck more than ever. Mayday Fuel was benefiting from what politicians would call the “sympathy vote.” The company’s phone was ringing off the hook.

Neighboring oil companies had picked up the slack, making Mayday’s deliveries until Frank could get his trucks rolling again. It had happened that way after 9/11. Some local oil companies were partially owned and manned by city firemen. Many were completely decimated. No one in the oil business had been wholly untouched by the events of that day. Some had drivers, like Joe Serpe, who’d lost relatives.

Joe went over to the makeshift memorial, kneeling down to try and read some of the cards Cain’s friends and housemates had left behind. He didn’t get the chance.

“Any news?” Steve Scanlon wanted to know.

Scanlon, a retired city fireman, owned Black Gold Oil. It was a smaller operation than Mayday’s and Steve kept his two trucks parked in the next yard over from Frank’s. Though they were competitors, proximity and terrorism had made allies, if not pals, of them. Steve’s partner and several of his friends had fallen victim that terrible day. Frank had volunteered to do all of Black Gold’s stops during the weeks following 9/11. Because of the cold weather and the small size of his fleet, Scanlon had been unable to return the favor this past week.

“No nothing,” Joe said. “The cops have a suspect, but they can’t find him.”

“Hear about the murder over by Babcock last night?” Scanlon asked.

“Another one, huh?”

“Yeah, another kid. Paper don’t say much, no details or anything. You think maybe there’s a connection?”

Joe was unwilling to speculate. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Let’s let the cops do their job and see what they come up with.”

“I guess you’re right,” Scanlon said unconvincingly. “Busy?”

“As a motherfucker.”

“Then I’ll let you get started. Be safe out there.”

“Yeah, you too, Stevie.”

“All right then.”

Scanlon walked quietly away. Joe was glad of it. Not only did he have a crazy day ahead of him, he had decided—in spite of his words to the contrary—that the cops had had enough time to do their work.

Joe was going to stick his nose in where maybe it didn’t belong. He owed Cain that much and, unless some horrible fate suddenly befell Mulligan, he had nothing left to lose.

Bob Healy still wasn’t sleeping very well. It was almost worse now than before he spoke to Joe Serpe. Like his Irish grandma used to say, “Setting things right is God’s work and he seldom sees moved to do it.” But Healy had already tampered with the past and there was no longer any question of leaving things well enough alone. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be an easy way out of his predicament. Unless he called for another oil delivery, which Serpe would certainly avoid, Healy could think of no comfortable way to approach Joe.

Christ, Bob figured, he’d waited all this time. He could be patient a little longer. Something would come up. He only hoped it would be soon. He didn’t know how much longer he could go without sleeping the night and this business of going to Mass was starting to get to him.

He opened the paper. S.O.S.—Same old shit:

IRAQ

IRAQ

IRAQ

MURDER

Murder! While it was surely true that New York City had come a very long way from its ugly streak of 2000 plus homicides per year, murder was still more than a trace element in its chemistry. On Long Island, however, murder was still big news. It was even bigger news when two murders occurred within blocks of each other, in the same town, in a span of eight or so days.

Bob Healy read the story with great interest, though there were few details. The victim was about the same age as Cain Cohen. His name was Jorge Reyes, a nineteen-year-old illegal from El Salvador. Like the Cohen kid, he’d taken a pretty bad beating. The preliminary cause of death, however, seemed to be related to several stab wounds which Reyes received. The cops were very vague about the number of wounds, location of the wounds, etc. In fact, the cops were being rather too coy about everything. Bob Healy could read between the lines. Reyes’ murder was in some way connected to an ongoing investigation. Gangs, he thought.

With newspaper still in hand, Healy walked over to the phone and dialed. It was a long shot, but when a long shot is all you have, you play it.

Joe had done thirty stops, loaded twice and wanted nothing more than to try to meld his molecules with those of his fold-out couch. In order to resist that temptation, he had been feeding himself a steady diet of caffeine in the forms of coffee and Coke. He’d gone home, showered, shaved around his salt and pepper goatee, brushed his teeth and put on some clean jeans, running shoes, and a sweater. His hair was still wet when he rang the bell at the group home.

Only about half a mile east of the oil yard, and a few blocks west of where the Reyes kid’s body was discovered, the group home looked like any of the other houses in the neighborhood. It had once been a large L-shaped ranch to which the previous owners had added a full second floor. That same owner had also converted the garage into living space. Joe had driven by this place dozens of times over the last three years and only once, when Cain pointed it out to him, did he ever take notice.

“Who’s there?” a fuzzy male voice wanted to know.

“Joe Serpe. I worked with Cain and …”

A buzzer sounded. A lock clicked.

“Come ahead.”

Joe walked down a short hallway to a small office. The two cheap plastic plaques on the door read:
Kenny Bergman Home Manager

Joe knocked and let himself in. Bergman was seated behind a typical state-issue metal desk. The whole office was filled with what looked like used public school furniture. Dented aluminum and scratched wood seemed to be the unifying design elements. The wood-paneled walls were covered in diplomas, certificates and pictures. Bergman’s desk was covered with stacks of paper, an outmoded computer and a phone. The only up-to-date thing in the office was the row of closed-circuit monitors on the shelf over the manager’s left shoulder. Serpe recognized Bergman from the funeral chapel. He was a relatively young man–in his early thirties, maybe younger. He had a mop of curly brown hair and a full beard in desperate need of trimming, but Joe guessed Bergman did all right with women. If they were his pleasure. He had a straight nose, a bright friendly smile and big hazel eyes. But strain showed at the corners of his mouth, the creases in his eyes, the folds of his brow. The look of Bergman almost made Joe guilty for feeling tired.

Bergman followed Joe’s eyes to the row of monitors.

“We had a security system put in a few months ago. It’s weird. We never had any problems in the neighborhood and then word got out that a private agency was looking at the area as a site for another group home. Suddenly, we became targets of vandalism. People worry about their neighborhoods becoming warehouses for the unwanted. It’s a shame.”

Long Island is the NIMBY capital of North America. Not In My Backyard. You can’t even fart on Long Island without doing an environmental impact study. Any proposal to build public works, power plants, highways, treatment centers, community centers, schools, even parks and hospitals comes under intense scrutiny and attack. If there was the slightest chance property values would be negatively impacted, forget it. The thing wasn’t getting built. Offer to build a golf course, on the other hand …

Joe held his hand out to Bergman. The manager stood and took it. Joe thought it a solid, honest shake. Serpe had never gotten over his belief in judging people by the little things they did. Handshakes were important to him.

“You were at the funeral,” Bergman said. “Cain’s mom went a little crazy on your friend. That was Frank Randazzo, the owner of Mayday, right? I met with him a few times. Good man. Good heart.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“So what is it we can do for you, Joe?”

Serpe collected his thoughts. He knew he had no official standing to be doing what he was doing. He tried the truth.

“The cops have a suspect in Cain’s murder.”

“Yes, Jean Michel Toussant. He was employed here as mental health therapy aide.”

“You know Cain told me he got rough with some of the residents.”

Bergman snapped. “Look, Mr. Serpe, is this about a lawsuit or something? Are you trying to put the squeeze on us? We’re a state-run agency. We hire people, and if we get complaints, we have to follow union procedures. I’m sorry if—”

“Calm down, calm down!” Joe held his palms up. “You’re reading this all wrong.”

Bergman sat back down, but his face was still red. “Then what is it you want?”

“I used to be a cop.”

“Cain told us. He told everyone. So …”

“I want to find this Toussant. The Suffolk County cops can’t seem to do it.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Bergman puzzled, his tone far from accommodating.

“That’s a good question.” Joe let his honesty show. “I was hoping I could talk to the staff, maybe some of the residents. Maybe Mr. Fren—I mean, Toussant, said something to one of them that would help.”

“We all really liked Cain a lot, Mr. Serpe, but I couldn’t possibly let you upset the residents or involve this home in any vigilantism. Besides, the police have already interviewed everyone here. I don’t see what you’d be able to find that they weren’t.”

“Okay,” Joe relented. “I understand you wouldn’t want me upsetting the residents. How about the staff?”

“Like I said, Mr. Serpe, I’m afraid not, but I understand your impulse to help. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been working crazy hours since—”

Bergman was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come.”

It was her, the woman who had comforted the Down’s girl at Cain’s funeral. She strolled right past Joe over to Bergman’s desk and handed him a manila folder.

“These are the assessments you asked for, Ken,” she said in a very businesslike tone.

“Marla Stein.” Bergman gestured at Joe. “Meet Joe Serpe. He worked with Cain at the oil company.”

Joe was already standing, hand extended. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Joe Serpe, the ex-cop, Snake,” Marla said, a crooked smile on her face. “Cain was a big fan of yours, Joe.”

“Marla is our staff psychologist,” Bergman explained. “She works at many of our area homes, but has put in extra time since Cain’s … I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, like grief counseling at a school when something goes wrong,” Joe said, letting go of her delicate hand.

Bergman wasn’t finished. “Joe was offering to help find Jean Michel, but I explained to him that we couldn’t possibly help him.”

“That was very generous of you, Joe.”

“Thanks.”

“Ken, I’m heading out,” she said. “I’ll be in Riverhead tomorrow morning, Patchogue in the afternoon. I’ll be on call for you guys tomorrow night after seven.”

“Great, Marla. Thank you.”

Joe saw his opportunity. “I’ll walk you to your car. If that’s okay?”

“Fine,” she said, smiling slightly and so Bergman couldn’t see. “Just let me go to my office and I’ll meet you out front.”

The home manager didn’t look pleased, but there was nothing he could do about it. Joe thanked him for his time.

Joe barely noticed it had started snowing. He was light-headed, his heart racing. He felt nervous, his bare palms moist, his throat dry. It wasn’t as if Joe had abstained since his wife had packed up Joseph Jr. and headed to the Sunshine State. On the contrary, he’d been very popular with the Triple D Club at Lugo’s. Triple D: Divorced, Drunk, and Desperate. That’s what the drivers called the large group of women who made Lugo’s their home away from home. Some were there so frequently, their real homes were in danger of becoming homes away from home.

Joe felt no guilt over his exploits with club members. He was as divorced and drunk as any of them and maybe a little more desperate. He had come to think of his nights with these women as an odd mixture of necessary pleasure and mutual short term punishment. Not that he was complaining about the sex. Desperation is like a jet engine afterburner. It kicks things up a few notches. No, it was the mornings after that did it; the hangovers, awkward goodbyes, and the lies of possibility.

Occasionally, Joe would break the unwritten club rules and date one of the members. It never lasted. Five weeks had been the limit. There was just too much baggage to deal with. The thing about it was, there were no recriminations after the parting of ways. Two nights later, Joe’d be seated across Lugo’s bar raising his glass to the woman he’d just broken up with while buying a drink for the woman to her right. Just lately though, he had been avoiding the Triple Ds. He had grown weary of hopelessness.

“Hey,” Marla said, walking up to the sidewalk where Joe was waiting. “My car’s across the street. Hungry?”

Not really. “Very.”

“Come on. Dinner’s on me.”

The Seaside Grill was a cozy restaurant on Portion Road just around the corner from Lugo’s. Joe Serpe didn’t know it existed until the moment he walked in. For the second time in less than a week, he found himself steeped in one of those awkward silences.