Hose monkey

Sunday, February 29th, 2004

H is lids may have risen before the sun, but sleep had retaken him. When he opened his eyes again, Marla was gone. His heart sank. Then he found her note.

Went to get us some proper breakfast and the Sunday papers.

Be back soon.

Love,

M

His heart, which only seconds before hovered down by his ankles, was now lodged in his throat. He knew that people used love to mean all sorts of things. Some folks threw the word around like spare change. Not Joe. It had been so long since he’d even entertained the possibility of love that he was startled to see it mentioned in relation to him.

For a few months after the divorce, he’d received letters from his son signed, “Love, Joey.” By the end of the year the letters stopped coming. Eventually, so did the love. They barely spoke anymore. There was a call at Christmas, one on his son’s birthday. Both of which Joey managed to unskillfully avoid. Tell him I’m not home. Joe Serpe could not remember the last time they had shared meaningful words. Yeah, sure, it was his ex-wife’s fault, but it was his fault, too. His wife may have started the amputation, but Joe finished the operation. He had cut himself out of Joey’s life as much as he had been cut out of it. His stomach was in a knot over an issue he hated thinking about and all because a woman he hardly knew had written the word love in a note.

Joe rehearsed all sorts of things to say to Marla when she returned, none of which were ever going to reach his lips. Sex was always easier to share than feelings. Feelings take time to make sense and he hoped he would have the time. But when Marla came through the door, dress rehearsal came to an abrupt end. Joe sensed something had changed, something big.

“What is it?” he asked, seeing the strain in Marla’s expression.

At first, she said nothing, needing time to collect herself. She put the coffees, bag of bagels, and papers down on the little kitchen peninsula that was the only table-like thing in the apartment. She took a big breath.

“I know you don’t want to discuss it,” she said, “but I have to ask. How did you get those video tapes?”

“Of the rapes?”

“Yes.”

“Like I said last night-”

“Joe, you can tell me anything. I can always claim I was treating you and that our discussions would be considered priv-”

“Wait a second, here,” Joe said, hobbling over to the kitchen. He softly placed his hand on Marla’s shoulder. “What’s going on? I feel like I’m in one of those movies where the world changed while I was sleeping.”

“Maybe the world did, Joe.” She reached over and picked up the paper. “Look!”

Bob Healy collected the paper, but only to toss in the doorway before heading off to mass. The few hours of contiguous sleep he had managed had come after sunrise. He’d shut the TV off and finally made his way up to the bedroom. Maybe it was the bed itself, he thought. Since that Saturday morning he’d rolled over in bed to find Mary’s side of the sheets so cold, Bob had felt ill at ease. Sure there was the stuff with Serpe, but there was more to it. Without Mary, without the kids around, without his job, Healy felt like a stranger in his own home.

That’s what he was thinking about as he drove west down Main Street toward Church Street. The radio was tuned to a local news station. He paid the anchorman little mind. Just before Church, a fireman stepped out into the road to stop traffic. Two trucks pulled out, sirens wailing. Something told Bob to pay attention to the radio. He turned the volume up full blast, but it was moot against the sirens and screaming horns. The trucks pulled past him, the din fading in the distance. He turned down the now blaring radio. Whatever he’d wanted to listen to had, like the sounds of the fire engines, come and gone.

“The Doppler Effect,” Healy said to himself, slapping the steering wheel in a gesture of self-congratulation. That’s what his high school science teacher had taught him, always using sirens as an example of how noise changes from when it’s coming at you to when it’s moving away from you. He was quite pleased with himself, waiting at the red light to turn. An electronic version of Beethoven’s Ninth was coming from his inside jacket pocket. Last week his ring was Pictures at an Exhibition. Next week Danny Boy. Yes, Danny Boy, most definitely.

“Healy,” he said, wedging the little phone between his ear and shoulder as he turned. “It’s George.”

“Like I wouldn’t recognize my little baby brother’s voice.”

That little baby brother line was fraternal button-pushing at its finest. George’s standard comeback was a profanity-laced tirade interrupted by the occasional reminder of how much taller he was than his older brother. Bob Healy winced in preparation for George’s assault. It was not forthcoming.

“You really haven’t heard?” is what he said instead.

Healy was confused. “Heard what?”

“You better come over here for breakfast.”

“I’m on my way to mass.”

“Forget Mass, big brother, this is more important.”

Healy turned left onto Indian Head Road toward Commack instead of right toward the church.

George, his wife, and their two kids had a neat colonial along Townline Road. It wasn’t an especially big house, nor exceptionally pretty. But on the market it would sell for about six hundred grand. Commack had good schools and on Long Island, the quality of the school district and the value of your house were bound together like strands of DNA. George stepped out the front door the minute Bob pulled onto the blacktop driveway.

George, in his late thirties, was six-foot-three, two hundred thirty pounds, and while he didn’t tower over his brother, he did make Bob feel old when they were together. George, even in his bathrobe, looked the part of the lawyer. It was something about how his brown hair was so neatly cut and parted and how his face was perpetually clean shaven. He and Bob didn’t look much alike, but they did share their father’s bright blue eyes.

“Where’s Beth and the kids?” Bob asked.

“Church.”

“So I had to miss Mass, but-”

“So you really haven’t heard?”

“This again! Jesus, little brother, just tell me. What I haven’t heard.”

“Toussant.”

“What about him?”

“They found him,” George said.

“Good. It’s about time.”

“Not so good,” George contradicted.

“Why?”

“They found him dead.”

“Dead! Dead how?”

“Not breathing dead. Dead dead. That’s how.” Bob was losing patience. “That’s not what I-”

“I know what you meant, shithead, but I like to bust balls too.”

“Great. Consider mine busted. Now what happened to Toussant?”

“He OD’d.”

“On what?”

“Bullets.”

One look at the headlines explained Marla’s mood swing.

MURDER SUSPECT MURDERED

Joe let go of Marla’s shoulder, took the paper, sat down and turned to page three. If Joe had hoped more information would allay his fears, he was sorely disappointed.

BODY FOUND NEAR LAKE RONKONKOMA VICTIM WANTED FOR QUESTIONING BY COPS IN HOMICIDE OF RETARDED MAN

BY KEN RIGA

Staff Writer

The partially frozen remains found on the Brookhaven Town shoreline of Lake Ronkonkoma by two teenagers have been tentatively identified as those of Jean Michel Toussant. Toussant, a mental health therapy aide, was sought by Suffolk County Police for questioning in the Valentine’s Day homicide of Cain Cohen. Cohen, twenty, whose severely beaten body was discovered by coworkers inside the tank of a heating oil delivery truck, was mentally retarded and resided in a group home at which Toussant was employed.

Lt. Robert Didio, spokesperson for the Suffolk County Police Department, confirmed that Mr. Toussant was a suspect in the Cohen homicide, but refused to elaborate on how serious a suspect. He went on to explain that pending a full autopsy and toxicological testing, the county medical examiner had listed gunshot wounds as the apparent cause of death. Lt. Didio also declined to be more specific about the caliber of weapon used or number of wounds.

Toussant, a naturalized American citizen born in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, was last seen at his place of work on February 14th after an alleged confrontation with Mr. Cohen. No one connected with the state funded corporation which runs the group home in Ronkonkoma could be reached for comment.

The police request the public’s assistance with this investigation. Anyone having information about the Cohen homicide or the whereabouts of Mr. Toussant during the last two weeks is asked to call the Suffolk County Police hotline at (631)555-TIPS. (Cont’d on page 38A)

Joe was stunned. Only twice before had he felt anything like this: the day I.A. brought him in for questioning and September 11th, 2001. He believed in unfortunate coincidences as much as the next guy, but for him to accept Toussant’s death as being unrelated to Cain’s homicide or even Reyes’ was asking more than he could give. Something was going on that connected all three murders. What it was, Joe could not divine. Some threads connected one of the murders to another, but not both. For instance, the possible connection between Cain’s death and Toussant’s was self-evident, as was the connection between Cain’s and Reyes’. What was the connection between Reyes’ and Toussant’s? And if the information Joe got from the MexSal Saints about the AFA involvement in the Reyes murder proved accurate, the picture became even murkier.

Never mind all of that, Joe had his own neck to worry about. He and Healy had kidnapped Toussant and were, by extension, implicated in the murder. Innocent of the crime though they might be, they may well have facilitated Toussant’s murder. Joe wracked his brain trying to recall if he or Healy had left any obvious evidence connecting either of them directly to Toussant. The crack! Shit! Had he wiped all the vials? The plastic bag? And would the cousin now come forward? If he did, it wouldn’t take a genius to connect the dots of Toussant’s abduction to the fire inspection to Steve Scanlon back to him.

“Are you okay?” Marla asked.

“Okay and me are pretty far apart at the moment.”

“Did you kill him?”

“I wanted to,” Joe admitted.

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

She came around behind him and threaded her arms under his. She kissed his neck and then rested her cheek on his head. He stood up and walked her back into the living room.

“Why are you limping like that?”

“Listen, Marla, I’m gonna tell you how I got those tapes and how I developed this limp overnight. Then I’m gonna ask you to break the law. If you don’t wanna do it, I’ll understand. The cops will eventually work their way back to me, anyhow. And maybe it’s better if you walk away now.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“But there’s stuff about me when I was on the job… Stuff about my partner you don’t know about. It’s ugly. The cops aren’t gonna believe me and you’ll get tarred by being associated with me. I can’t let you-”

“I’m all grown up, Joe Serpe. Letting has nothing to do with this. So tell me how you got the tapes.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“No, not telling me is a bad idea. You need my help. Let me give it to you, please.”

Joe told her everything. She listened, never interrupting. When he was finished, Marla loaded the three videotapes into her bag.

“I’ll take good care of these until this thing blows over.”

“You’re withholding evidence in a murder case. That’s a felony.”

“I know what it is,” she said, looking appropriately nervous. “I know what I’m risking.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I could say I’m falling in love with you. Which would be true and would probably scare you to death, but I suppose it’s my upbringing. My folks were poster children for good intentions. They were the kind of people whose philosophy was a mishmash of misinformed Judaism, Pete Seeger lyrics and public service announcements.”

“You know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell.”

“I know, but I’d like to believe that there are some good intentions not meant to be used as paving stones.”

“Okay, but maybe we shouldn’t see each other for-”

“Forget it,” she said. “I’ll deal with these tapes. That’s my issue. But you’re not getting rid of me, Mr. Serpe, not this easily. I’ll call you later.”

Joe listened to her car pull away. He looked up at his ceiling and pointed his finger at God. “You better not be using her to fuck with me. That I won’t forgive. That I’ll-”

The phone interrupted the rest of his threat.

“It’s Healy.”

“I was figuring you’d call.”

“You heard?”

“Read it in the paper. It could be bad for us.”

“Bad for us, worse for you,” Healy said. “How’s it worse for me?”

“Saw my brother George. He’s in the D.A.’s office. They found a Mayday Fuel Oil, Inc. refrigerator magnet in the ice a few feet from Toussant’s body.”

“Fuck!”

“You didn’t go back and get him after you dropped me off at home, did you?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Healy said, relieved, “your word’s good enough for me.”

“It didn’t use to be.”

“A lot of things didn’t use to be.”

“Thanks. The paper says he was shot. How many wounds? Where? What kinda gun?”

“Looks like a 9mm. Three entrance wounds, two exit. One shot in the back above the right shoulder blade. One in the back of the left leg and one in the head. Ballistics should be done in a few hours and the autopsy’s going on right now.”

“Drugs?” Joe asked.

“The tox screening won’t be done for-”

“Not in his system.”

“Oh, right, those drugs. Nope. George didn’t mention them finding anything on him.”

“Is there a warrant out for me?”

“Not yet, but you know the minute Hoskins or Kramer get wind of this, you’re seriously fucked. You better get lawyered-up before they come for you and maybe you better warn that fireman friend of yours-what’s his name, Scanlon-that trouble’s coming his way, too. You want some names?”

“Nah. Unfortunately, I already know too many lawyers.”

“Yeah, I guess you would.”

“What about you? What are you gonna do?”

“Don’t worry about me, Serpe. I can handle myself.”

“Famous last words.”

“Yup. I suppose we all think that. Good luck, Joe. Anything you need from me, just ask.”

“Thanks.”

“What’d’ya do with the tapes?”

“That’s been seen to. Listen, I do need your help.”

“I offered, so ask,” Healy said, almost enthusiastic. “I had a little meeting with the MexSal Saints.” Healy was incredulous. “Meeting?”

“Something like that. I’ll tell you about it some other time. Anyway, they denied having anything to do with Reyes’ murder.”

“They would.”

“Maybe, but I believed ‘em. You ever hear of the Americans for America?”

“Those clowns that think Pat Buchanan is too liberal and think we should build a wall along our southern border? Yeah, I heard of them. They’re the ones stirring up things in Farmingville. Why, the Saints think one of them did Reyes?”

“Makes a sick kinda sense.”

“I’ll check around.”

“Listen, Healy, forget checking around. I got a better idea.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“How good are you at picking a fight?”

“Why?” Healy asked.

“Time for a little undercover work. You up for it?”

“Probably not, but tell me anyway.”

When Joe got done detailing his plan, he went back to bed to wait. He wondered how long it would take for the cops to show. He decided there was no formula for figuring out the cops or how many gang members could dance on the head of a pin.