Hose Monkey (11 page)

“I like you, boss,” Paco said calmly. “So don’t make me have to blow a big, fat hole through the side of your face, okay?”

“Okay.”

Paco whistled and two men stepped out of the shadows. Both held handguns at their thighs.

“Step out slowly and put your hands on the roof,” Paco instructed Joe. Then he let go with some Spanish.

Joe did as instructed, not bothering to try and talk his way out of this. First, he wanted a sense of how this was going to play out and he didn’t want to piss anybody off. One of Paco’s men sat in the backseat, the other walked up behind Joe and wrapped a thick piece of duct tape across his eyes. Joe felt the barrel of a gun in his ribs and followed its directions carefully. He couldn’t see, but he knew he was in the backseat between Paco’s buddies.

“Relax,” Paco said.

“When I used to tell people to relax, it usually meant they were fucked.”

Joe knew the area roads better than most, but after a few turns he lost track. His mind was on other things. He couldn’t get the thought out of his head that he might never see Marla again. It seemed so strange that he should worry about her most of all. Maybe not. He thought of Healy, too. Man, his life had changed a lot in two weeks. He tried calming himself with the notion that he had at least gotten a life back. That and the fact they’d blindfolded him gave him some room for hope. No need to blindfold a man you were going to kill. But reminding himself about God’s sick joy in kicking the same dead horse, Joe was careful not to get his hopes up too high.

The car came to an abrupt stop. Unlike Jean Michel Toussant, Joe didn’t make a scene of exiting the car. All it took was a nudge in the ribs and he climbed right out. Someone rapped on a door, a metal door. There was an exchange in Spanish. The door opened. Another nudge. Joe stepped through the door. Another exchange. Hands slapped together. Backs were patted.

“Careful,” Paco warned. “There are stairs. Go down slow.”

One of Joe’s back seat companions took his arm and made sure he didn’t tumble. The door closed behind them. One step and another and another and. Twelve steps. Too bad he wasn’t an alcoholic.

“Whachu smiling at?” a strange voice asked.

“Inside joke,” Joe said.

“He got some
cojones
on him, this guy.”

A hallway. Linoleum on the floor. Joe had lots of company. He could hear their footfalls and shuffling, their breathing. Another door closed, wooden this time. He was shoved into a seat. The tape was ripped off his eyes.
Fuck!
Whatever became of him, there’d be no need for the undertaker to tweeze his eyebrows.

The light in the room was low. There were four men in plain sight: Paco, his two car mates and a short, barrel-chested man with skin like the moon and cold, black eyes. When full focus returned, Joe noticed that Moon-face and Paco’s two friends had tears painted under their eyes. No, not painted, tattooed. Moon-face must have been particularly sensitive as he had the most tear tattoos. Some of his tats were black, some red. Paco’s buddies featured two red tears below their left eyes. Although Joe could see only these four men, he sensed at least one other lurking in the shadows or standing somewhere behind him.

“Whachu wanna know about Reyes for?” Moon-face asked, his mouth barely moving.

There were a few ways Joe could go with this. He could try being cute and get himself tortured before being killed. He could play it halfway, still get tortured, and get killed. The fact was, he could tell the gospel truth and get tortured and killed.

“Did you guys kill my friend?”

Paco didn’t look happy. He shook his head at Joe and mouthed, “Bad idea.”

Moon-face grabbed Joe by the throat and lifted him out of his chair.

“Put him down, Nardo.” A disembodied voice came out of the shadows. Joe had guessed right. There was someone else in the room.

Nardo let go. Joe didn’t have far to fall and he enjoyed breathing again.

“Hey, cop,” the voice from the shadows continued, “just answer the question.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Used to be a cop,” Paco corrected. “Same thing. You were a very bad boy,
jefe,
no?” Paco pantomimed snorting coke. “We know all about you, your partner, and your disgrace.”

“The MexSal Saints have a research department?” Joe said.

Nardo took exception to Joe’s tone and laid an Asp across his thighs.

“Fuck!” Joe doubled over and fell out of the chair.

“America’s a great country, Mr. Serpe!” said the man in the shadows. “They sell computers and internet service here to anyone, even scum from south of the border. You should visit our website:
www.wetback.com.”

Paco laughed. The red tears boys lifted the corners of their mouths. Nardo just got uglier.

“Pick him up.”

Joe was put back in the chair.

“You know what the tears mean, Mr. Serpe?” Shadow-voice asked.

One whack across the thighs with a metal pipe was enough for Joe, so he answered as best he could.

“They’re either badges of honor for stretches inside or like notches on a gun.”

Nardo’s black eyes seemed to light up.

“Very good, Mr. Serpe, like notches on a gun. I like that, that’s good.” The unseen man was pleased.

“What’s the difference between black tears and red?” Joe was curious.

“Both mark death,” Paco explained. “If I killed you, boss, there’d be a black tear under my left eye. Now, if I were to kill—”

“Nardo!” came a shout from the dark.

Without any wasted movement, Moon-face slammed the Asp across Paco’s ribs. The wind went out of the boy in an explosion of air and saliva. Some of the spray caught Serpe in the face. Paco rolled around on the floor, gasping for breath and holding his ribs.

“Paco is young and talks a little too much for his own good,” Shadow-voice said.

“He’ll learn,” Joe said.

A laugh that had no relationship to warmth came out of the dark. “Yes, he will learn. He will have to. Now, I ask you again, why do you want to know about Reyes?”

Joe told him about Cain, about the spray paint, about the cops and their theories. Serpe could hear that the man in the shadows was pacing, taking in what he had said.

“I am sorry your friend was killed. It is one thing to die for a cause, but to die for nothing is bad. You say he was retarded.”

“He was.”

“We don’t kill the weak.”

“He was slow, not weak. If he caught someone trying to graffiti the trucks, he would have been hard to deal with. Would Reyes have panicked? Would he have—”

“Reyes!” Even Nardo was incredulous.

“Reyes was a clown, a …” Shadow-voice hesitated. “How do you say it?”

“A wannabe,” Paco answered, now on his knees. “Still, he brought dishonor on you. Did you kill Reyes?”

“We are serious men here. We do not kill retards and clowns. He could not have dishonored what he was not a part of.”

“But the cops—”

“Fuck the cops, man. They all bullshit.” Shadow-voice said. “On my honor, we did not kill these men.”

“Why bring me here? Even if I believe you, what does it matter? I’m nobody.”

“You carry the message for us.”

“Me? The cops wouldn’t believe me if I told them the sky was blue.”

Nardo laid the Asp on Joe’s right kneecap. Once again, Serpe got up close and personal with the floor. “What the fuck was that for?”

“It wasn’t a request, jefe,” Paco said. “You carry the message!”

“Okay, I’ll carry the message, but it would be a lot more convincing if I could give the cops something to back it up. Give me a name, some proof, something.” Joe put himself back into the chair. “Give me a Lobo. You think they did it anyway, right?”

“The Lat Lobos are
putas,
but they have no need to kill the clown either. You think maybe the America for Americans people are crying for Reyes or your friend? Could these two murders serve them any better?”

Joe was silent. There was logic in what the man in the shadows had said. It was a perfect scenario to whip up anti-immigration sentiment and, while Joe Serpe was anything but a conspiracy nut, he had been involved with people who had done much worse for much less.

“I’ll do more than carry your message,” Joe said. “I’ll look into it. And if I need your help …”

“What help? This is all the help you gonna get.”

Joe stood and walked toward the silhouette. “Okay, but if I find out you’re lying to me—”

Joe could still not make out the man’s face. A hand and forearm emerged from the shadows. Nearly all of its skin was covered in tattoos. Some were expertly done, like the black dagger surrounded by a blood-dripping halo. Others were less skillful prison tats.

“On my honor, I am not lying.”

Honor. Honor. Honor. What a load of crap. The powerful preached it to protect their own asses. Joe had heard this line of shit his whole life. It was the same with the mobbed-up guys in his old neighborhood or with the Colombians or Jamaicans. There was no honor, only fear. When the leaders are facing a long stretch in prison, honor goes right out the fucking window.

Joe shook his hand.

“Take Mr. Serpe where he wants to go.” Shadow-voice released Joe’s hand and retreated into the darkness.

“Sit down, boss, we got to blindfold you again,” Paco said, holding his hand against his bruised ribs.

“Nice way to treat the help,” Joe said.

“Nice!” Paco smiled in spite of the pain. “Nice has nothing to do with it.”

Joe passed out on an old recliner, makeshift ice bags on his knee and thigh. Marla was asleep when he came back in, still asleep when he woke up. Never a late sleeper to begin with, working for Frank had trained Joe’s eyelids to snap open between 5:00 and 5:30. Minus a hangover, like on the Monday they found Cain, he was up before the sun. Not even the mix of intense sex, kidnapping, and mild torture could keep his eyes shut. The ice had gone to water and the gallon Glad Bags had flopped to the floor. Joe didn’t have to see the wounds to know they’d swollen up pretty bad and turned an ugly shade of purple.

The soreness had spread out from where Nardo had laid the telescoping metal baton across his legs. Joe could only imagine the kind of damage old Moon-face could have done if he was really mad and not tethered to his master’s leash. His only consolation was that he was sure Paco’s ribs hurt a lot worse than his legs.

It was time to shit or get off the pot, as Joe’s dad had loved to say. Joe got the recliner in an upright position, braced himself against one of its arms, and pushed himself up. Standing was not nearly so bad as he anticipated. Walking, however, was worse. But Mulligan was meowing his head off to be fed and Joe really had to pee. As he stiff-legged across the linoleum, Joe was sure he looked pretty ridiculous.

He took care of Mother Nature’s calling, showered without disturbing Marla, then threw some dry cat food in Mulligan’s bowl. If his cat had possessed a middle finger, he would have flipped Joe the bird. As disenchanted as the cat was, at least he shut up. The shower had loosened Joe up some and his walk back over to the convertible sofa was somewhat less of a struggle. He climbed onto the foldout bed as stealthily as possible. Marla stirred a little, but not to full consciousness. Joe was glad of that. He just wanted to be near her and watch her sleep. It had been several lifetimes since he’d gotten pleasure from watching a woman sleep.

So much for sound sleep. Insomnia had reinserted itself into Bob Healy’s life. That was why he felt such relief to have drifted off, even for a few brief moments. His eyes closed just before Jean Michel Toussant’s face had appeared on screen.

Sunday
February 29th, 2004

 

PAVING STONES

 

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?”