Reed Coleman - Hose monkey

Joe went over to the makeshift memorial, kneeling down to try and read some of the cards Cain’s friends and housemates had left behind. He didn’t get the chance.

“Any news?” Steve Scanlon wanted to know.

Scanlon, a retired city fireman, owned Black Gold Oil. It was a smaller operation than Mayday’s and Steve kept his two trucks parked in the next yard over from Frank’s. Though they were competitors, proximity and terrorism had made allies, if not pals, of them. Steve’s partner and several of his friends had fallen victim that terrible day. Frank had volunteered to do all of Black Gold’s stops during the weeks following 9/11. Because of the cold weather and the small size of his fleet, Scanlon had been unable to return the favor this past week.

“No nothing,” Joe said. “The cops have a suspect, but they can’t find him.”

“Hear about the murder over by Babcock last night?” Scanlon asked.

“Another one, huh?”

“Yeah, another kid. Paper don’t say much, no details or anything. You think maybe there’s a connection?”

Joe was unwilling to speculate. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Let’s let the cops do their job and see what they come up with.”

“I guess you’re right,” Scanlon said unconvincingly. “Busy?”

“As a motherfucker.”

“Then I’ll let you get started. Be safe out there.”

“Yeah, you too, Stevie.”

“All right then.”

Scanlon walked quietly away. Joe was glad of it. Not only did he have a crazy day ahead of him, he had decided-in spite of his words to the contrary-that the cops had had enough time to do their work.

Joe was going to stick his nose in where maybe it didn’t belong. He owed Cain that much and, unless some horrible fate suddenly befell Mulligan, he had nothing left to lose.

Bob Healy still wasn’t sleeping very well. It was almost worse now than before he spoke to Joe Serpe. Like his Irish grandma used to say, “Setting things right is God’s work and he seldom sees moved to do it.” But Healy had already tampered with the past and there was no longer any question of leaving things well enough alone. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be an easy way out of his predicament. Unless he called for another oil delivery, which Serpe would certainly avoid, Healy could think of no comfortable way to approach Joe.

Christ, Bob figured, he’d waited all this time. He could be patient a little longer. Something would come up. He only hoped it would be soon. He didn’t know how much longer he could go without sleeping the night and this business of going to Mass was starting to get to him.

He opened the paper. S.O.S.-Same old shit:

IRAQ

IRAQ

IRAQ

MURDER

Murder! While it was surely true that New York City had come a very long way from its ugly streak of 2000 plus homicides per year, murder was still more than a trace element in its chemistry. On Long Island, however, murder was still big news. It was even bigger news when two murders occurred within blocks of each other, in the same town, in a span of eight or so days.

Bob Healy read the story with great interest, though there were few details. The victim was about the same age as Cain Cohen. His name was Jorge Reyes, a nineteen-year-old illegal from El Salvador. Like the Cohen kid, he’d taken a pretty bad beating. The preliminary cause of death, however, seemed to be related to several stab wounds which Reyes received. The cops were very vague about the number of wounds, location of the wounds, etc. In fact, the cops were being rather too coy about everything. Bob Healy could read between the lines. Reyes’ murder was in some way connected to an ongoing investigation. Gangs, he thought.

With newspaper still in hand, Healy walked over to the phone and dialed. It was a long shot, but when a long shot is all you have, you play it.

Joe had done thirty stops, loaded twice and wanted nothing more than to try to meld his molecules with those of his fold-out couch. In order to resist that temptation, he had been feeding himself a steady diet of caffeine in the forms of coffee and Coke. He’d gone home, showered, shaved around his salt and pepper goatee, brushed his teeth and put on some clean jeans, running shoes, and a sweater. His hair was still wet when he rang the bell at the group home.

Only about half a mile east of the oil yard, and a few blocks west of where the Reyes kid’s body was discovered, the group home looked like any of the other houses in the neighborhood. It had once been a large L-shaped ranch to which the previous owners had added a full second floor. That same owner had also converted the garage into living space. Joe had driven by this place dozens of times over the last three years and only once, when Cain pointed it out to him, did he ever take notice.

“Who’s there?” a fuzzy male voice wanted to know.

“Joe Serpe. I worked with Cain and…”

A buzzer sounded. A lock clicked.

“Come ahead.”

Joe walked down a short hallway to a small office. The two cheap plastic plaques on the door read: Kenny Bergman Home Manager

Joe knocked and let himself in. Bergman was seated behind a typical state-issue metal desk. The whole office was filled with what looked like used public school furniture. Dented aluminum and scratched wood seemed to be the unifying design elements. The wood-paneled walls were covered in diplomas, certificates and pictures. Bergman’s desk was covered with stacks of paper, an outmoded computer and a phone. The only up-to-date thing in the office was the row of closed-circuit monitors on the shelf over the manager’s left shoulder. Serpe recognized Bergman from the funeral chapel. He was a relatively young man-in his early thirties, maybe younger. He had a mop of curly brown hair and a full beard in desperate need of trimming, but Joe guessed Bergman did all right with women. If they were his pleasure. He had a straight nose, a bright friendly smile and big hazel eyes. But strain showed at the corners of his mouth, the creases in his eyes, the folds of his brow. The look of Bergman almost made Joe guilty for feeling tired.

Bergman followed Joe’s eyes to the row of monitors.

“We had a security system put in a few months ago. It’s weird. We never had any problems in the neighborhood and then word got out that a private agency was looking at the area as a site for another group home. Suddenly, we became targets of vandalism. People worry about their neighborhoods becoming warehouses for the unwanted. It’s a shame.”

Long Island is the NIMBY capital of North America. Not In My Backyard. You can’t even fart on Long Island without doing an environmental impact study. Any proposal to build public works, power plants, highways, treatment centers, community centers, schools, even parks and hospitals comes under intense scrutiny and attack. If there was the slightest chance property values would be negatively impacted, forget it. The thing wasn’t getting built. Offer to build a golf course, on the other hand…

Joe held his hand out to Bergman. The manager stood and took it. Joe thought it a solid, honest shake. Serpe had never gotten over his belief in judging people by the little things they did. Handshakes were important to him.

“You were at the funeral,” Bergman said. “Cain’s mom went a little crazy on your friend. That was Frank Randazzo, the owner of Mayday, right? I met with him a few times. Good man. Good heart.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“So what is it we can do for you, Joe?”

Serpe collected his thoughts. He knew he had no official standing to be doing what he was doing. He tried the truth.

“The cops have a suspect in Cain’s murder.”

“Yes, Jean Michel Toussant. He was employed here as mental health therapy aide.”