Hose Monkey (8 page)

Thursday
February 26th, 2004

 

GOOD DEEDS

 

F
ebruary was back to prove spring would never come. One of the great advantages of sub-freezing cold is that it keeps the stink of garbage to a manageable level. Both men were thankful for that much as they crouched near the dumpsters in the alleyway behind Jerk-It-Out Caribbean Palace. Buzzed as they were with a potent mixture of fear and vengeance, neither’s stomach would have held up to the stench of rotting goat.

Still, they were getting impatient for their cue, dressed in their Halloween costume versions of firemen’s uniforms. It wasn’t the restaurant they were interested in, but the adjoining business. From Flatbush Avenue it seemed harmless enough—just another storefront with its front window and door blacked out. Maybe it was vacant and the “To Rent” sign had fallen away. Could be the windows were blacked out because there was construction going on and the owners didn’t want the public to get a peek until grand opening day. Could have been a lot of things that it wasn’t.

Joe Serpe knew exactly what it was and who was occupying the apartment above. Once Healy had agreed to help, Joe drove into Brooklyn and spent the better part of the evening parked across the street from the little storefront. Around 1:00 AM, a man fitting Cain’s description of Mr. French strolled out the front door of the club. If Joe had any doubts about his identity, the man’s nervous behavior gave him away. Joe followed him from across Flatbush Avenue. As the big man walked, he constantly checked behind him. He ducked into a doorway when he heard a siren. Walking back from the bodega, he kept in the shadows.

Click.

There it was. The lock release bar to the rear exit door of Rien had been pressed. Healy got out of his crouch, but Serpe held him back.

“Easy. We don’t want anyone to see us if we can avoid it. Especially not the firemen.”

“Right.”

Joe counted backwards from ten. “Let’s go!”

They walked quickly across the alleyway, Healy’s Glock at his side. It galled Joe more than he would have believed that he was unarmed. His carry privileges were yet another of the losses he’d suffered during the troubles. At the time, it seemed the least of his worries. He suddenly felt quite naked without a gun.

Healy pushed the door back and stuck his head in. Clear. They tip-toed into the bare-bulb hallway, a staircase to the left. The place smelled of next door’s cooking, stale beer, and piss. Cases and cases of Red Stripe empties lined the walls. They could hear the less-than-cordial exchange between the firemen and a thickly accented man who Serpe assumed was Toussant’s cousin.

Healy nodded at the staircase. Serpe shook his head yes. They didn’t have much time and scurried up the steps. As they did, Healy clicked on the safety and buried the 9mm between the waistband of his pants and the small of his back. Near the landing, Joe pointed to his chest to indicate he would go in first. Healy didn’t disagree. But even before they reached the top of the steps they could hear a woman moaning her way up the orgasm scale. Their job just got a little bit easier. At the very least, Mr. French would be preoccupied. If they timed it just right, he’d be downright distracted.

Although it had been several years, Joe’s police skills hadn’t completely eroded. He fingered the doorknob and gently tested it. He gave Healy the thumbs up. Then made a gun of his thumb and forefinger. Healy retrieved the Glock, released the safety and showed it to Serpe.

Serpe nodded, putting his index finger across his lips. Healy mouthed the word “Quiet.” Though given the intensity of the woman’s approaching orgasm, they probably could have set off a small atomic device and gone undetected. Serpe held up his right hand, fingers spread. He mouthed, “Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Go.”

The doorknob spun easily and the door opened without much effort. Serpe stepped inside.

“That’s it, baby! Yeah. Oh. Oh. Yeah. Yeah. That’s it, baby! Just like that! I’m coming! Fuck me harder! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck—” her demands exploding into an aria of squeals and breathless moans.

“Oh fuck,” Toussant groaned. “Oh fuck.
Moi aussi,
bitch.”

If it wasn’t so hideously perverse, it might have been funny. For there was Jean Michel Toussant, stiff dick in hand, shouting at the 52” inch plasma TV. On screen, the opera singer, a twenty-something leather-bound silicon blond, was coming to the end of her aria.

Healy aimed the Glock at Mr. French’s most obvious target. It got very small very fast.

“My name is Serpe,” Joe whispered. “Cain’s friend.”

Toussant’s eyes got wide just before Serpe’s fist connected with his jaw. Toussant was a big man, but he crumpled. Joe stopped with that punch. It was meant as a calling card.

“I don’t kill ‘im,” Toussant pleaded, the side of his jaw already puffing out. “I ‘it ‘im, sure, dat is why I run, but I don’t murder ‘im, the monkey boy.”

“Where are the videotapes?”

Mr. French was now completely confused. “What video—”

“The rapes, asshole!” Joe said. “All of them!”

Toussant was scared, really scared, and moved too quickly for Healy’s liking.

“You flinch like that again and I’m going to kill you,” he said. “Understand?”

French shook his head vigorously that he did. “Videotapes?” Joe repeated.

“There,” Toussant said, bobbing his head at a cardboard box at the side of the TV.

Serpe stood and checked it out. There were fifteen or so tapes in the box. Most were store-bought porn tapes. Three were homemade. Joe could not believe that these were tapes labeled: Anne, Corral, Kisha. He took the whole box. He also noticed a cell phone by the TV and slid that into his back pocket.

“Throw on some clothes, you sick fuck. We’re going to have a little talk.”

Panic again spread across Toussant’s wide face.

Healy gave his best motivational speech. “Thirty seconds before I shoot your balls off.”

Toussant threw on a sweater, jeans and slipped on a pair of ripped white socks. Without explanation, Joe told him to take off one of the socks. After Toussant complied, Healy handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Serpe tossed a beat up old Army jacket over Mr. French’s shoulders. As he did, Joe slipped a Glad bag filled with several small vials of crack cocaine into the pocket. Neither Toussant nor Healy seemed to notice. That done, Serpe shoved the balled sock into the big man’s mouth. Toussant gagged, but a look at Healy’s sidearm convinced him not to spit it out.

Toussant’s cousin was still arguing with the fire inspectors as the three men came down the stairs and out the backdoor. In total, it had taken less than five minutes from the time they entered the rear door of Rien till they were at Joe’s car. As best they could tell, no one had seen them. Healy and his Glock kept Mr. French company in the backseat. The timing couldn’t have worked out much better. They would make their destination at full nightfall.

Joe Serpe had no clue as to what Scanlon had told his captain friend to get him to cooperate. He didn’t need to know. Whatever line of shit Steve had passed along, the backdoor at Rien was opened when it was supposed to be and now they had Toussant. Serpe wasn’t too worried about there being any repercussions from their snatching the big man. He doubted Toussant’s cousin would want to advertise the fact that he’d been harboring a murder suspect. Unfortunately, Joe had had to tell Scanlon a rough approximation of the truth. He was more than eager to help, saying he had always liked Cain.

Getting Bob Healy to cooperate hadn’t been quite so easy. Especially after Healy had explained about the things he’d discovered on his own since their uneasy meeting at the diner.

“You know about the G.A.T.F.?” Healy asked.

“The what?”

“Gang Activity Task Force. It’s a joint NYPD, Nassau, and Suffolk task force. You read the papers, don’t you?”

“I stopped reading the papers or watching the news when they were harassing my wife and kid. They actually followed my son to school and asked him about what his dad was doing to his Uncle Ralphy.”

“Sorry,” Healy said. “I guess it was pretty rough on your family, the trial and everything.”

“Rough’s one way to describe it,” Joe agreed. “Hell is another. The last time I watched the news was to get info about Vinny. I was out delivering that day and some guy, his face as white as a sheet, invites me to come into his house. That’s when I saw the first tower collapse. I didn’t know it, but I was watching my brother die.”

“Look, Serpe, I didn’t mean for the conversation to go this way.”

“I realize that.”

“Why I asked about the papers is that if you read them regularly, you’d know there’s been a huge increase in gang violence on the island. With the influx of all these illegals, it was bound to happen. It was the same when your people and my people came over. For a long time the only Hispanic gang on the island was the Latino Lobos.”

“I know all about them,” Serpe said. “They started in the city. Mostly Puerto Ricans and some Dominicans. Big into dealing and protection. I arrested plenty of ‘em. But I’ve been outta the loop for a while, so I didn’t know they’d spread out here.”

“Yeah, mostly to places like Freeport and Bayshore. It was pretty much contained until the big influx of day laborers from Mexico and El Salvador the past couple of years. Now you got big Hispanic populations over in Farmingville, C.I., Brentwood, and Huntington Station.”

“The cops gave Frank a warning a few weeks ago about an increase in vandalism and stuff, but they didn’t make the particulars clear. So now there’s competition between gangs?”

“Exactly. I’ve always followed the news real carefully,” Healy said. “And over this last year there’s been a big increase in violence between the Lobos and the MSS, the MexSal Saints. But it was mostly them killing each other. You know the old cop philosophy.”

“As long as they kill each other, who gives a shit?” Joe laughed.

“That’s the one. But violence spreads. Always does. Some civilians have been getting caught in the crossfire just lately.” It hit Joe. “Cain?”

“Well, yeah, apparently the cops think so. It didn’t occur to me until that Reyes kid was killed, then I did some checking. Did you take a good look at the truck you guys found the boy’s body in?”

“What do you mean take a good look? I saw that truck every day.”

“But the day you found him, did you see anything unusual by the truck or some spray paint on the truck itself?”

“No. I was a little preoccupied that day,” Joe said, sarcasm leaking in. “Why?”

“Cops found cans of red and black spray paint and a faint black spray on the tank itself. It was there under the snow, I guess,” Healy said. “The Saints’ colors are red and black and their symbol is a black dagger surrounded by a blood-dripping red halo. I think you can see where I’m headed with this.”

“You don’t have to draw me a map. Cain tried to stop them from fucking up the trucks and got killed for his troubles. It’s just the kinda shit he would pull, too. Fuck!” Joe slammed his fist into his thigh. “He got real attached to things, like this dumb shirt I had made up for him. I could just imagine what he’d do if he found someone screwing with the trucks.”

“The Lobos and the Saints are like rival tigers pissing on trees in the jungle. Marking territory is part of their initiation rites. Rumor has it that another part is—”

“—killing a rival member. But—”

“That’s right. Whoever was in your oil yard that night didn’t do either job right. This Reyes kid, the cops think the Saints killed him because he fucked up, brought dishonor on them.”

“Where did you get all this shit, Healy? I’m thinking it didn’t all come from
Newsday.”

“My little brother George works in the Suffolk County D.A.’s office. He hears things.”

“Hoskins and Kramer part of this task force?” Joe asked.

“Bingo. That’s why they’re on the case even though they didn’t catch it. The minute word got back about the spray paint and the paint on the truck, the case was theirs. So you see, going after this Toussant guy isn’t worth it.”

“I never really thought he did it,” Serpe confessed. “But you can’t tell me he didn’t hit the kid. Trouble was brewing between them for weeks. Besides, whatever went on between Cain and Toussant started the whole chain of events. I can feel it in my guts. I’m going after him whether you come or not.”

“Look, Serpe, I’m not saying the guy’s not a total piece a shit, but—”

“But what? You think it’s too thin, right? It’s not worth the risk. You fucking I.A. guys kill me. You have any idea how many times me and Ralphy risked our necks for nothing, to go after some little pissant dealer who wasn’t half the—”

“Whoa! Whoa!” Healy put up his palms. “The last time I looked, there wasn’t a cop of any kind in this room. We’re just two private citizens here and that’s all we are. There’s a lot of mutts and skells out there on the street, a lot of them worse than this scumbag Toussant.”

“You think so, huh? You wanna ask Corral Lofton?”

After Joe recounted what Marla had told him, Bob Healy didn’t need any more convincing. But after he agreed to help, Healy did say one thing to Serpe that stuck with him and probably always would.

“You know, Hoskins was right about one thing. We
are
both fucked for life. And we can’t buy our souls back with good deeds.”

About twenty-four hours had passed since that conversation. Now they rode a long way in silence, Healy occasionally interrupting the quiet to reassure Mr. French. “Just keep calm and nothing’s gonna happen to you. It’s the Suffolk Police you have to worry about.”

As he steered the car through the setting darkness, Serpe noticed his right hand had swelled considerably. He flexed it with no small measure of difficulty. Only in the movies, he thought, could you smack a man square on the jaw with your bare knuckles and suffer no damage yourself. But that was the thing about movies, wasn’t it? There weren’t any consequences, not really. In make-believe, there never are. Trying to shake some of the pain and stiffness out of his puffy fingers, Joe understood there would be consequences to what he was planning to do.