Hose Monkey (6 page)

“Psychologists are trained to be very patient, Joe, but if you don’t say something soon I’m going to scream.”

Joe took his face out of his menu. “Sorry.”

“It’s not the Gettysburg address, but it’s a start.”

The waiter came to the rescue. Marla ordered a Cosmo. Joe a pint of Blue Point lager.

“I remember you from the funeral,” Marla tried again.

“Helluva line, that. I’ve said it a couple of times myself in the last few days.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it? It’s like running into someone at the hospital and saying, ‘Hey, she’s my oncologist, too.’ It’s sad, but it’s common ground. People search for it all the time, common ground.”

“I guess.”

“For a handsome man, you seem awfully uncomfortable around women.”

The waiter gave Joe a brief reprieve by bringing their drinks. “Cheers,” she said. They clinked glasses. “Not all women,” Joe said. “Gee, you’re a real charmer.”

He was flustered. Marla reached across the table and put a calming hand atop his.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” she said, giggling. “I’m sorry. Tell me what you meant.”

“I meant that I’ve been on the sidelines for a long time and I’m unaccustomed to game speed.”

“Christ, men and sports analogies.”

“Yeah, that was pretty dumb, huh?” He felt himself breath normally.

She asked him to just come out and say what was on his mind. To his surprise, that’s exactly what he did. He confessed that he’d thought about her ever since seeing her at Cain’s funeral, but that he never really expected to see her again.

“I came to the group home hoping to get a lead on Mr. French.”

“What an asshole that guy was. Hit on anything in a skirt with an IQ over ninety.”

“I heard he hit anything with an IQ under ninety,” Joe said, the bite of criticism flavoring his words.

Marla didn’t take shit. “Hey, Joe, you ever work with bad cops? You report all of them? Any of them?”

He took that one full in the belly. “You got me there.”

“Look, the office walls are paper thin at the home and I heard almost every word of your conversation with Ken. I’ve got my issues with Bergman, but he wasn’t lying to you about Jean Michel. We work for the state. Disliking someone or even suspecting someone of misconduct isn’t grounds for a firing squad. The mental health therapy aides are part of a union and there are procedures.”

“You’re right.”

“So, aren’t you going to ask me if I know anything about Mr. French?”

Joe obliged. “Do you?”

“No, but I’ll ask around. Professional ethics don’t allow me to question any of the residents, and I wouldn’t in any case. But …” Marla smiled that infectious crooked smile, her eyes lighting up. “Gossip among the staff at these homes is what keeps people coming to work day after day. A lot of the staff has worked in other places, worked for different agencies. Many times they’ve crossed paths before. Maybe some of them have been on staff with Jean Michel somewhere else. Have you got a card?”

Joe laughed. “Oil drivers give out refrigerator magnets, not cards.”

Marla slid a pen and her drink napkin across the table to Joe. “Write down the numbers where I can reach you.”

He hesitated, then felt compelled to explain about Vinny’s voice on the answering machine.

“You probably think I’m nuts,” he said, sliding the pen and napkin back her way.

“No,” she said, “I think you’re mourning. There’s no twenty-four second clock for grief.”

“Christ, women and sports analogies,” he chided. “I deserved that.”

They never ordered dinner. Two rounds of drinks later, they were standing in the parking lot. The snow had stopped, but had left a thin white blanket in its wake.

“You haven’t asked to see me again,” Marla said, writing her name in the snow on the hood of the car. “I know you want to.”

“Pretty confident, aren’t you?”

“It’s not like reading tea leaves, Joe. If you’re trying to hide your attraction, you’re doing a shitty job of it.”

“I’m not trying to hide anything, but—”

“I get that this is the part where you try to push me away,” she said.

“I just come with a lot of baggage is all.”

“We all do.”

“Some more than others. I’m pretty well damaged goods and—”

“Shhh.” Marla pressed her index finger across his lips. “Damage is a two-way street, Joe.” She stood on her toes and placed her lips softly against his. Just as quickly, she pulled back. “My career is all about damage. I’m not afraid of it.”

“You can’t fix me,” he heard himself say.

“I don’t know you. And I couldn’t fix you even if I wanted to. For now, I’d just like it if you’d kiss me.”

Tuesday
February 24th, 2004

 

COPS AND MURDER

 

T
he tugboat seemed to glide. The stops came easy, went fast. Joe smiled when passing drivers, stuck for several minutes behind his soot belching truck, gave him the finger as they passed. And all because he’d kissed a girl. That’s as far as it had gone, as far as he was willing to let it go. They’d stood there for an hour talking, kissing again, talking some more. She thought he looked like De Niro.

“You talkin’ ta me?”

“Not ‘Taxi Driver,’ De Niro. Ich! ‘Heat’ De Niro.”

That’s what she’d thought when she looked back and noticed him at the chapel. He wasn’t about to argue the point, though he didn’t see it himself. Frankly, he didn’t care if Marla thought he was a dead ringer for a horse’s ass, as long as she was partial to horses asses.

It was about 3:00
PM
. Joe had seventeen stops behind him with another seven to go. He was heading up to Commack from Bayshore along Crooked Hill Road when, just south of Suffolk County Community College, his winning streak came to an abrupt end. He had seen the unmarked Crown Vic in his sideview mirror when he passed St. Andrew, but paid it little mind. The tugboat could barely make the speed limit, let alone speed. Besides, he just figured it was an unmarked trooper on his way to the barracks along the Sagtikos Parkway.

The siren broke Joe’s reverie and the display of lights were several months too late for Christmas. Serpe pulled over to let the Crown Vic by. The Vic wasn’t having any. The cop at the wheel did a rather too dramatic skid in front of the tugboat.

“Asshole,” Joe muttered, already scrambling to get his license, the truck registration and insurance, and bills of lading to account for all the oil he had on board.

By the time he had collected his paperwork, the two cops were almost to the driver’s side door of the old Mack. Their faces were familiar and definitely unwelcome.

Detective Hoskins pounded on the door. “Outta the truck, shithead.”

Joe complied, full documentation in hand. “What the fuck?” He handed the paperwork to the detective who, in turn, handed it to Kramer.

Kramer smirked, nodded and began strolling around the truck.

“Gotta love Suffolk County, they even make Homicide detectives do traffic stops. I guess they want you to earn that hundred grand plus, huh?”

Serpe knew he should just keep his yap shut, but couldn’t resist. The disparity in pay between city cops and Suffolk cops was a real sore point. Though it was only about thirty miles from the Queens border east across Nassau to the border of Suffolk Count—they might as well have been light years apart. They call the NYPD “New York’s Finest,” but they’re paid like New York’s finest migrant workers. Suffolk cops, on the other hand, were the highest paid police force in the state, maybe in the nation. It was perverse, almost inversely proportional to the threat level faced by the members of each force.

“It’s bad enough that I have to listen to that horseshit from my neighbors on the job in the city, but at least they’re cops,” Hoskins barked. “From the likes of you …” He spit on Joe’s boots.

Joe was tempted to wipe the spit off on Hoskins’ polyester pants by thrusting his boot into the detective’s groin. He couldn’t afford to be weak, not this time. Serpe didn’t need to be a theoretical physicist to figure out the mechanics of what was going on, that Ken Bergman from the group home had dropped a dime on him.

Joe knew he was taking a risk by freelancing, but he didn’t figure he’d get ratted out in less than twelve hours. It dawned on him that if he intended to take this thing any further, he was going to have to be more cautious, maybe even get a little backup.

“All right, guys, I get the point,” Joe surrendered, figuring to speed up the process of intimidation. “I fucked up. I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in.”

“What the hell you talkin’ about, Snake?” Hoskins chided. “Hey, Kramer, you know what this guy’s talkin’ about? We’re stoppin’ you for violations. Then, when
we’re
done writin’ you up, we’re gonna give you a police escort over to the D.O.T. checkpoint on Wicks Road. Over there, they’re gonna write you so many violations on this piece a shit you call a truck, both you and your boss are gonna have to take out second mortgages.”

The D.O.T., a trucker’s worst nightmare. The cops were hairy enough, but getting stopped by the Department of Transportation was the ultimate bureaucratic cluster fuck. They went over every inch of your vehicle: from tire tread to turn signals, from air horn to air brakes, from mirrors to manifolds. Then they ran your license, inspected your paperwork, matched your trip sheet against your bills of lading. Since 9/11 it had only gotten worse. The government had made a point of cracking down not only on vehicles that carried hazardous materials, but also on the men and women licensed to drive them.

“What you got, Kramer?” Hoskins was getting impatient. “Big stuff, Tim,” Detective Kramer called back to his partner. “Oh yeah, like what?”

“Better come see for yourself.”

When Hoskins and Joe Serpe got to the back of the truck, Kramer was fanning himself with three tickets.

“These are for you,” Kramer said, handing the three citations over to Serpe.

Joe scanned them and laughed. They were all trumped up bullshit, but he found one of the alleged violations particularly amusing. “Dirty taillights, huh?”

“Yup,” Kramer answered trying hard to keep a straight face. The detective walked up and wiped his fingers across the taillights on the rear of the tank. “Filthy,” he said, showing Joe his dirty fingers. “How’s a vehicle following close behind you going to see if you’re turning or coming to a full stop? We must endeavor to keep our truck clean, Mr. Serpe.”

Joe saluted. “Aye, aye. Now can we stop it here?” he urged Kramer. “I get that I stepped on your toes last night and I was outta line. I’m sorry. I really liked the kid and—”

“You’re not listening, Snake,” Hoskins interrupted. “Seems like a problem for you, listening. This got nothing to do with anything but your shitty truck. Kramer, give the man back his paperwork and let’s you and me escort him over to the D.O.T. Then maybe after them guys write his boss a few thousand bucks in tickets, Snake will learn to listen better when Detective Lieutenant Hoskins talks to him.”

Joe looked over to Kramer for a helping hand. Kramer shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Hey, I think Hoskins is a dick, too, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Next time, just do as the man says.”

“Follow us,” is what Kramer actually said.

Joe got back in the tugboat hoping that the detectives were satisfied they’d made their point and would just speed off. It was too much to hope for. Hoskins wasn’t a second chance kind of guy. It was time for the Christmas in February motorcade to begin. Kramer turned his siren on full bore and put on a dazzling display of lights. Too bad Joe left his Santa suit at home.

Maybe because the D.O.T. inspector resented being used by the Suffolk cops to make a point, he took some pity on Joe. The truth is, almost every truck on the road is in violation of one or more local, state or federal statute. Sometimes it’s major stuff, but mostly it’s minor crap. Between the Suffolk cops and the D.O.T., Mayday Fuel Oil, Inc. was in the hole for about a thousand bucks in tickets. That wasn’t the half of it. Between the downtime caused by having to yank the tugboat off the road to repair the violations and the cost of those repairs, Frank was going to be out another grand. Add this to the fact that it was now too late for Joe to finish his route, and the day was shaping up as a financial disaster.

Kramer and Hoskins were waiting for Joe as he pulled onto the south service road of the Long Island Expressway. They were a little less dramatic this time, Kramer signaling to Joe to come have a private word. Hoskins stayed in the Crown Vic.

“What now?” Joe wondered.

“I’m the junior partner here,” he explained. “Look, I don’t know if what Tim says about you is true or not. It’s not my business, but he got a hard-on for you like nobody’s business. And to tell you the truth, this case is none of your affair. Keep a low profile and we won’t have to see each other again. You keep poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, Hoskins is gonna have your balls on a plate. Trust me on this, he’ll pull your ass over every day and then he’ll start on your boss’ other trucks. He’s a slash and burn kinda guy, Serpe, and he gets results. He’ll take your boss down just to prove a point. Consider yourself warned.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Just stay the fuck outta this. I don’t enjoy this bullshit.”

“One more thing.”

“Yeah, what?” Kramer asked.

“Your taillights are filthy.”

A smile flashed across Kramer’s face. When he got back to the car, he didn’t linger. The rear wheels of the Crown Vic kicked up road sand and pebbles as it fish-tailed away. Joe Serpe watched the Ford disappear into the rush hour traffic. Now there was little doubt about what he would have to do.

“What did you just say?”

“I said, I quit, Frank.

“What the fuck for? We got your last stops covered.” Joe pointed to the array of tickets spread across his boss’ desk. “You didn’t do nothing wrong, Joe. I can’t let you do this.”

“It’s not up to you. And it’s not gonna stop here. Dixie’ll pick up the slack. He’ll like the extra money from the full time gig.”

“But—”

“But nothing, Frank. You saved me, buddy, and I’m not taking you down with me. I’ve known too many cops like this asshole Hoskins. I’ll be like a cancer to you.”

“I hate this shit.”

“Don’t worry,” Joe said, resting his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Maybe it’ll be just temporary.”

“You can’t just leave this thing with the kid alone?”

“Maybe if he hadn’t died in our yard, in your truck. Maybe if the cops could find this guy Toussant. Anyway, do you really want me to let it lie?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a bad liar, boss. Besides, I’m doing it for me, really. I figure I got debts to pay.”

“If that’s the way you want it …”

“Sometimes it’s not about wanting, but about the way it is. This is one of those times.” Joe cleared his throat. “One more thing …”

“What’s that?”

“Now that I quit, I need you to fire me.”

Frank slammed his fist onto the desk. “There’s no freaking sense in this.”

“Maybe in the real world this doesn’t make sense,” Joe confessed.

“This ain’t the real world?”

“When you’re talking cops and murder, Frank, it’s a different world altogether.”

“Okay, you’re fired.”

“Not now.”

“Not now what?”

“Don’t fire me now.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“You have a time in mind?”

“Around 7:30, I guess.”

“Why 7:30?”

“I want a very public execution.”

“Public execu—”

“Trust me, boss. I know what I’m doing.” Frank threw his hands up in surrender. “Yeah. Yeah. Cops and murder, a different world altogether.”

The red rectangle blinked three times at Joe when he walked into the basement apartment he had shared with Vinny for less than a year. They had shared a room all through their childhood and Joe remembered how much he wanted to get out, to finally get some space of his own. There were many nights during his marriage that Joe found himself wondering whether it was true love or his desire to get out from under that motivated him to buy an engagement ring all those years before. Whatever the reason, he got out, all right.

Then, when Joe was making an Olympic sport of being kicked out of everything from his house to his marriage to his career, Vinny was there to take him in. Joe’s heart still ached at the memory of Vinny, stuttering madly, promising not to drive him away like he had when they were growing up. That’s one thing Joe had set right before 9/11. Even in the depths of his misery, maybe because of it, he and his little brother had come back together. They were comfortable together in that basement apartment. Joe could have afforded to move to a better place a few years ago, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving.

The three blinks of the phone machine were all messages from Marla. Joe’s heart raced at the sound of her voice, her words barely registering. His response was so beyond voluntary that it frightened him. Maybe he couldn’t control the beat of his heart, but he could control the speed at which things moved along. He was determined to take it slow with Marla.

By the second message, Joe could hear her words.

“Me again. Listen, there’s a woman who drives a van for our group home in Patchogue who dated Toussant for about a month when they both worked for a private agency in Oceanside. She told me some stuff. I don’t know if it’ll help you, but … Give me a call.”

“Hey,” he said. “It’s me.”

“Hey, me. You got my messages?”

“Got ‘em. So what’s this about a woman—”

“What?” Marla interrupted. “No declarations of eternal love?”

Joe didn’t know what to say. “I … I … Um—”

“Calm down, Joe. I’ll settle for assurances you’ll take me out Saturday night.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Kissing. I’ll need kissing.”

“I can almost guarantee you that.”

“Almost.”

“Okay, I’ll kiss you.”

“Promise?”

“Needles in my eyes if I don’t.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “So I guess you’ll want to hear about what Corral had to say.”

“Corral?”

“Corral Lofton. She’s the van driver at our Patchogue home. She said she dated Jean Michel for about a month last year.”

“Did she tell the cops this?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Marla hesitated. “She’s married and …”

“And what?” Joe was impatient. “He raped her.”

“He raped her? Why didn’t she—”

“—go to the cops?” she completed his question. “Come on, Joe, you were a cop. Do you really have to ask?”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Like I said, she’s married.”

“Unfortunately, married women are raped all the time.”

“But she lied to her husband about where she was that night,” Marla shot back. “Corral told him she was going to the movies at the Green Acres Mall with her friends from work and then spending the night at her sister’s apartment in St. Albans. It would have been difficult explaining how she wound up being raped in Brooklyn by a man she worked with. And there’s other reasons.”