Reed Coleman - Hose monkey

“You know Cain told me he got rough with some of the residents.”

Bergman snapped. “Look, Mr. Serpe, is this about a lawsuit or something? Are you trying to put the squeeze on us? We’re a state-run agency. We hire people, and if we get complaints, we have to follow union procedures. I’m sorry if-”

“Calm down, calm down!” Joe held his palms up. “You’re reading this all wrong.”

Bergman sat back down, but his face was still red. “Then what is it you want?”

“I used to be a cop.”

“Cain told us. He told everyone. So…”

“I want to find this Toussant. The Suffolk County cops can’t seem to do it.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Bergman puzzled, his tone far from accommodating.

“That’s a good question.” Joe let his honesty show. “I was hoping I could talk to the staff, maybe some of the residents. Maybe Mr. Fren-I mean, Toussant, said something to one of them that would help.”

“We all really liked Cain a lot, Mr. Serpe, but I couldn’t possibly let you upset the residents or involve this home in any vigilantism. Besides, the police have already interviewed everyone here. I don’t see what you’d be able to find that they weren’t.”

“Okay,” Joe relented. “I understand you wouldn’t want me upsetting the residents. How about the staff?”

“Like I said, Mr. Serpe, I’m afraid not, but I understand your impulse to help. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been working crazy hours since-”

Bergman was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come.”

It was her, the woman who had comforted the Down’s girl at Cain’s funeral. She strolled right past Joe over to Bergman’s desk and handed him a manila folder.

“These are the assessments you asked for, Ken,” she said in a very businesslike tone.

“Marla Stein.” Bergman gestured at Joe. “Meet Joe Serpe. He worked with Cain at the oil company.”

Joe was already standing, hand extended. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Joe Serpe, the ex-cop, Snake,” Marla said, a crooked smile on her face. “Cain was a big fan of yours, Joe.”

“Marla is our staff psychologist,” Bergman explained. “She works at many of our area homes, but has put in extra time since Cain’s… I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, like grief counseling at a school when something goes wrong,” Joe said, letting go of her delicate hand.

Bergman wasn’t finished. “Joe was offering to help find Jean Michel, but I explained to him that we couldn’t possibly help him.”

“That was very generous of you, Joe.”

“Thanks.”

“Ken, I’m heading out,” she said. “I’ll be in Riverhead tomorrow morning, Patchogue in the afternoon. I’ll be on call for you guys tomorrow night after seven.”

“Great, Marla. Thank you.”

Joe saw his opportunity. “I’ll walk you to your car. If that’s okay?”

“Fine,” she said, smiling slightly and so Bergman couldn’t see. “Just let me go to my office and I’ll meet you out front.”

The home manager didn’t look pleased, but there was nothing he could do about it. Joe thanked him for his time.

Joe barely noticed it had started snowing. He was light-headed, his heart racing. He felt nervous, his bare palms moist, his throat dry. It wasn’t as if Joe had abstained since his wife had packed up Joseph Jr. and headed to the Sunshine State. On the contrary, he’d been very popular with the Triple D Club at Lugo’s. Triple D: Divorced, Drunk, and Desperate. That’s what the drivers called the large group of women who made Lugo’s their home away from home. Some were there so frequently, their real homes were in danger of becoming homes away from home.

Joe felt no guilt over his exploits with club members. He was as divorced and drunk as any of them and maybe a little more desperate. He had come to think of his nights with these women as an odd mixture of necessary pleasure and mutual short term punishment. Not that he was complaining about the sex. Desperation is like a jet engine afterburner. It kicks things up a few notches. No, it was the mornings after that did it; the hangovers, awkward goodbyes, and the lies of possibility.

Occasionally, Joe would break the unwritten club rules and date one of the members. It never lasted. Five weeks had been the limit. There was just too much baggage to deal with. The thing about it was, there were no recriminations after the parting of ways. Two nights later, Joe’d be seated across Lugo’s bar raising his glass to the woman he’d just broken up with while buying a drink for the woman to her right. Just lately though, he had been avoiding the Triple Ds. He had grown weary of hopelessness.

“Hey,” Marla said, walking up to the sidewalk where Joe was waiting. “My car’s across the street. Hungry?”

Not really. “Very.”

“Come on. Dinner’s on me.”

The Seaside Grill was a cozy restaurant on Portion Road just around the corner from Lugo’s. Joe Serpe didn’t know it existed until the moment he walked in. For the second time in less than a week, he found himself steeped in one of those awkward silences.

“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?”