Hose Monkey (22 page)

Saturday
March 6th, 2004

 

CANADIAN PENNIES

 

B
ob Healy moved around the house picking up six months worth of newspapers, TV Guides, magazines, etc. George was right about the house being a mess, and papers were an easy place to start, but Bob’s sudden cleaning had more to do with nervous energy than anything else. Joe Serpe was on the way over. Finally, after three weeks, they had some concrete pieces to the puzzle, something more than guesses on which to hang their hats. Then the phone rang and some of the puzzle pieces began to change shape. “Hey big brother.” It was George. “If you’re calling me, it’s not good news,” Bob said. “Good and bad.”

“Christ, not again.”

“You want to read about it in the papers tomorrow or hear about it now?”

“Okay, George.”

“Good news first. The results are in from the second tests on the blood splatter samples from the Reyes murder scene. Your hunch was right on. They found a second contributor in one of the blood samples.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“It wasn’t the Strohmeyer kid.”

“I knew it,” Healy said.

“Hey, don’t get weepy on me, big brother. It’s not like the kid was Mother Theresa. He did beat some poor drunk Mexican to death with a shovel.”

“I know. It just confuses the issue. So who is—”

“So far, he’s a John Doe,” George said.

“That’s just great.”

“Well, maybe John Doe’s not the right name. Maybe Ivan Doesky would be more accurate. Seems the second contributor was of Slavic descent.”

“Russian?”

“Could be. Why?”

“What, I can’t be curious?”

“For the last few weeks whenever you get curious, I get headaches. So what is it?”

“Maybe nothing.”

“The flip side of maybe nothing is maybe something.”

“Shit, little brother, the doorbell’s ringing. I gotta go.”
Click.

Bob Healy was lying about the doorbell, but just as he put the phone back in its cradle Joe Serpe knocked on the front door.

They sat at the kitchen table, Joe Serpe doing most of the talking.

“Here’s what I think happened,” he said. “Steve Scanlon has a source for black market oil and he was using Frank’s yard to do illegal truck transfers from a nine thousand gallon tanker to his trucks. That’s what Cain and Donna saw that night.”

“Why use Frank’s yard and not his own?”

“Size, for one thing. You couldn’t possibly maneuver a tanker and two trucks in Scanlon’s yard. It’s small to begin with and he shares it with other companies. Frank’s yard is big enough to accommodate a tanker and two smaller trucks. Besides, it’s got a layer of crushed concrete which would stand up to all that weight in bad weather.”

“How’d he get access to the yard?” Healy asked.

“That’s easy—Dixie. We all had keys to the yard in case Frank was sick, wanted a day off, or if we had to work the odd Sunday. Dixie resented the fact that Frank wouldn’t put him on his own truck full time and he probably jumped at the chance to make extra cash and stick it to Frank at the same time.”

“It’s a long way from screwing your boss to murder. Black market oil, is it really worth killing over?”

“Let’s say the rack price of oil—”

“Rack price?”

“That’s how much an oil company pays wholesale at the loading terminal,” Joe explained. “Okay, so let’s say the rack price is a buck a gallon and you’re charging your customers a buck twenty-nine-nine per gallon at two hundred gallons, that’s almost sixty bucks gross a stop. You got three trucks out averaging twenty stops a truck, that’s thirty-six hundred bucks a day. Multiply that by six days a week. That’s over twenty-one grand a week. And that’s legitimate.

“Now let’s say I can buy oil at fifty or sixty cents a gallon and I’m still charging my customers a buck twenty-nine-nine a gallon at two hundred gallons. So even if it’s a warm winter, you can make out like a bandit if you’re buying way below rack. Plus, think of how much cash you can launder given the price difference between rack oil and black market. Is it worth killing for? You do the math. I’ve known crackheads to kill for a roll of Canadian pennies.”

Healy was still skeptical. “So if this is such a great scam, why hasn’t anyone done this before?”

“They have, but a steady supply of black market oil is almost impossible to come by. Oil is one of the most regulated businesses on the planet. From the time it’s pumped out of the ground, every gallon of it’s got to be accounted for. Frank used to have to be able to account for every gallon he loaded and pumped. The shipping and pipeline companies, the refineries, the companies that pump the oil all have to account for every gallon they pump. Oil companies get audited all the time and you have to have bills of lading to cover every drop of oil you deliver. That’s how people get caught. Even if you can get oil on the black market, you can’t get legit bills of lading.”

“So you think Scanlon has a way to get black market oil
and
bills of lading?”

“Yes and no.”

Healy was confused. “Yes and no what?”

“I think Scanlon is fronting for someone else. I think Black Gold Fuel was a trial balloon, a test to see if the system was workable. When his partners saw the system worked, they tried to have Scanlon buy Frank out. When he wouldn’t sell, they tried blackmailing him into it. When he still wouldn’t sell, that’s when the shit hit the fan and things got out of control.”

“If the system worked, why not go in big?” Healy asked.

“No, these guys are too smart. They want to stay below the radar screen. Once they get noticed, they’re dead. My guess is they plan to follow a model of starting very, very small and buying out slightly bigger sized companies. Instead of having one big operation that makes a nice fat juicy target for the feds, they’ll have five or six small operations that will pump just as many gallons, but won’t get noticed. We’re talking millions and millions of dollars a year here.”

“I’m sold, Joe. Wait a second.”

Bob Healy got up from the table and retrieved some papers from the kitchen counter and sat back down. First, he showed Serpe the newspaper article about the dead woman found at JFK.

“Holy shit! That’s the blond from the blackmail video. That’s her tattoo. Slave, huh?”

“Wait, it gets better,” Healy said, sliding a handwritten note in front of Serpe. “Look who the black Lincoln Navigator is registered to.”

“Black Sea Energy.”

“Yeah, I think we just found Steve Scanlon’s silent partner. But I wonder how some city fireman got hooked up with these guys?”

“Leave that to me,” Serpe said. “There’s more.”

“There’s more?”

“Reyes.”

“What about him?”

“George called me just before you got here,” Healy said. “And they did find someone else’s blood in the splatter samples at the murder scene, but they weren’t Pete Jr.’s. They’re from a John Doe of Slavic descent.”

“From Mr. Kazakstan and Ilana at the Blue Fountain, to Tatiyana, to the dead whore, to Reyes’ murder, to Black Sea Energy on Brighton Beach Avenue, this shit screams Russian mob.”

“So, should we bring it to the—”

Serpe slammed his hand on the table. “No! Not yet. You ever work a task force with the feds?”

“One.”

“Did they take all the credit?” Serpe asked.

“There was no credit to take. We didn’t make the case.”

“Who got the blame?”

“We did. I guess I see your point,” Healy admitted.

“Well, take my word for it, the feds’ll fuck everything up. They can’t help themselves, because even if their intentions are good, their priorities are always different than yours. Their focus is always the big picture. The second they’d get a hold of this, they’d make a deal with Scanlon to flip on his partners and we’d never find out what happened to Cain, the Reyes kid, or to Frank. And those are things I need to know.”

“But—”

“But nothing, Bob,” Joe said, waving the article about the dead prostitute in Healy’s face. “Look, these guys are already starting to cover their tracks. This chick is dead. My bet is Tatiyana will be soon—if she isn’t already. They probably had a hand in what’s going on with Frank and they tried to run me off the road and they killed my cat. If they get even a whiff that this is anything more than two washed-up ex-cops stumbling around in the dark, they’ll slash and burn any ties they have to this. No, we have to move ahead the way we’ve been going. It’s coming to a head, anyway. You go talk to that Schwartz guy today and I’ll try and find out how Scanlon went from retired fireman to oil magnate in three easy steps.”

“All right,” Healy said. “I’m willing to give it another few days, but that’s it. At some point, we’re going to need the cavalry.”

“Agreed.”

Healy excused himself, went upstairs and came back down in less than five minutes. He had a bag in his hand.

“Take this,” he said, handing it to Serpe. “I bought it for my son years ago when I hoped he might take the test to get on the job. He didn’t want any part of it or the job.”

Serpe knew what it was before he took it out of the bag.

“You know I’m not licensed to carry anymore.”

“I know better than anybody. Just take it and be careful. There’s a box of cartridges in there too.”

“Thanks, Healy,” he said placing the Glock back in the bag and tucking it under his arm. “I’ll return it when this shit is over with.”

“Keep it. If anyone catches you with it, I’ll just say you stole the damn thing.”

“Fuck you.” But Serpe was laughing when he said it.

Healy was laughing, too, as he shook Joe Serpe’s hand. “Let’s talk tonight and see where we are, okay?”

“You got it. Good luck.”

“Yeah, same to you.”

Joe Serpe pulled onto the service road along Sunrise Highway in Bayshore. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find at the Blue Fountain Motel. Somewhere in the back of his mind he guessed he hoped he’d have the good fortune to find Tatiyana working her special brand of video magic in room 217. He’d pay for her time and explain to her about what had happened to the blond. Then he’d offer to protect her in exchange for her help. But he knew it was far more likely she was already dead. And when he saw the barricades in front of the motel’s driveway, he just knew whatever slim hopes he had of finding Tatiyana alive were gone.

There was a black kid posted by the barricade, pacing back and forth in the freezing cold. As soon as he rolled down his window, Serpe got a sense of what had gone on. The smell of smoke and burned plastic still hung heavy in the air.

“They closed. Open back up Monday.”

“Fire?” Joe said to the kid.

“Man, you figure dat shit out all by youself?”

“Anybody hurt?”

“Nah, not too much damage neitha. Only a coupla rooms.”

“Let me guess, rooms 216, 217, and 218, right?” Now the kid stared at Joe with big eyes. “How you know dat shit?”

“They’re my lucky numbers, kid.”

As he pulled down Sunrise Highway, he dialed information on his cell phone. He needed to chat with Captain Kelly, Vinny’s old commanding officer.

Bob Healy was as guilty of stereotyping as the next guy. He had envisioned David Schwartz as a Hasid with a shield. But the man who stood up from the booth at the Sheepshead Bay Diner and offered his hand to Healy looked a lot like Mr. Clean. Schwartz stood a good six foot three with football pad shoulders and a thirty inch waist. He had a shaved head and a neat, reddish moustache. His jaw was square, his neck was thick, but he had a kind smile and gentle blue eyes.

“Detective Healy?” Schwartz asked as a matter of courtesy.

“You can give me my hand back now, Schwartz. Jesus, how did you ever find baseball gloves that fit?”

“Didn’t use one. Caught the ball with my teeth.”

They both had a laugh at that as they settled into their seats. Schwartz flagged down the waitress and Healy ordered coffee. The waitress rolled her eyes at him. “Cops!” she whispered to herself.

“So Skip Rodriguez tells me you need some information,” Schwartz said after the waitress delivered the coffee.

“Yeah, I’m helping out a friend that got into some shit and now he’s nipple deep in it. Another few days and it’ll be over his head.”

“I take it this shit your buddy stepped in has something to do with the Russians, or Skip wouldn’t have called me. That much I can figure on my own, but if you want my help, you’re gonna have to—”

“Black Sea Energy,” Healy blurted out.

Schwartz didn’t say a word, not immediately. The corners of his mouth and eyes, however, took a decided upturn.

“This friend of yours, he own a gas station?” the detective wondered.

“Close. He’s in the home heating oil business out in Suffolk County. How’d you know?”

“Black Sea Energy used to own a shitload of gas stations throughout the New York Metropolitan area. Now they basically do trucking and hauling and own a petroleum terminal.”

“They dirty?”

“Nope. If anything, they’re too fucking clean. They’re owned by two Ukranian Jews who emigrated here in the late 70s.”

“Connected?”

“It’s hard to tell. You’ve gotta understand, the Russian mob is organized crime, but it isn’t organized like the Mafia or the drug cartels. There really isn’t even a
mob,
per se, but a sort of loose conglomeration of different organizations. There’s no Carlo Gambino sitting at the head of the table or Pablo Escobar handing down orders from on high in Colombia. Although in this area many of the players are Jews, they’re not all Jews by a longshot. Many are from the former Soviet Republics like Georgia, the Ukraine, Kazakstan—places like that.

“Under the old Soviet system, the black market was a way of life. Everybody was involved in it one way or the other. Government officials were involved at every level, either looking the other way or getting their cut. Plus, it’s kind of difficult to get reliable police records from the Soviet era. Their justice system was so politicized, it’s difficult to know, even if we can obtain the files, whether they’ve been tainted, rewritten, faked …

“So you see, when two guys show up here in Brighton Beach one day and start opening up gas stations, it’s difficult to know exactly where their money came from. It’s not necessarily dirty money. Look, when my grandparents came over, they were part of a group that pooled monies from people from their old villages and made loans to start new businesses. That’s how the Pakistanis and Koreans do it now. It’s how the Turks and Arabs buy gas stations.”