Reed Coleman - Hose monkey

“Let’s get back to your apartment, Joe. There’s a police report I need to show you.”

Joe met Tina in the waiting room.

The firm of Bayles, Cohen amp; Mann was located on Main Street in Babylon Village. They were a fairly diverse and successful firm for one located in such a lovely section of nowhere. Long Island is full of quaint little south shore towns with narrow streets, marinas and big brass clocks. But not many law school students daydream about passing the bar to set up practice in Babylon Village.

Bayles, Cohen amp; Mann did their share of ambulance chasing, real estate closings, divorce work, and criminal defense. They did, however, have one particular specialty. They were known as the lawyers to the home heating oil industry. So it was no surprise that Frank sought their services when he established Mayday Fuel Oil, Inc. It didn’t hurt that Tina’s father, a local insurance broker, had played golf with Steven Mann every Saturday for twelve years before moving to the Carolinas.

“How is Frank?” Joe asked.

“Better,” she said. “He’s breathing on his own now and the doctors think there’s a chance he won’t come out of it too badly damaged. They just don’t know how long the oxygen was cut off from his brain. If he’s going to spend the rest of his life in jail, what does it matter if he gets better?”

“That’s what we’re doing here, Tina, to try and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“You watched the DVD?”

“I did.”

Tina faced the floor, her face red with embarrassment, her hands once again squeezing the top of her bag.

“Men do stupid things sometimes. Things that don’t make any sense to anyone but them. Then when they think about it, it doesn’t even make sense to them.”

Tina didn’t want to go there. “How’s your head, Joe?”

“It’s much better. I’m still having headaches, but less and less severe all the time. So, did you check your bank accounts?”

“All the ones I know about.”

“And?”

“Nothing. There haven’t been any sizeable withdrawals for months. It’s just the same boring stuff-the mortgage, utilities, food shopping, small ATM withdrawals, the kids’ karate classes. Just stuff like that.”

“How about deposits? Were the deposits smaller than usual?”

“No. Are you sure he was being blackmailed?”

“Yeah, Tina, I’m pretty sure. I don’t know if this will make you feel any better, but Frank didn’t know he was being videotaped and the women with him did.”

“Do you know the expression cold comfort?”

“Mrs. Randazzo, Mr. Serpe.” The secretary got their attention. “Mr. Mann will see you now.”

Bob Healy pinched the phone between his ear and neck, waiting for Rodriguez to get back on the line. Skip Rodriguez, basically a sweet guy with a mean streak, had been Healy’s last partner at I.A.B. He and Bob worked well enough together, but as the years passed, Skip’s sweetness soured and the mean streak grew. He was good at his job, only just a little too cold-hearted for Healy’s taste. Healy had thought about calling George and decided against it. He wasn’t up for his little brother’s lecture on the joys of retirement. And though he could’ve bullshitted George about why he needed to have him run a plate, there was some info Skip could give him that George could not.

As he listened for Skip to pick up, Healy thumbed through Newsday. Maybe, he thought, Serpe was right not to pay too much attention to the papers. There was very little new in the news, just a chronicle of old sins committed by a different cast of characters. The headline on a story on page 8 caught his attention, but Rodriguez got back on the line.

“I ran the tag like you asked,” the detective said. “2004, Black Lincoln Navigator registered to Black Sea Energy, Inc., 2243 Brighton Beach Avenue, Brooklyn.”

“That’s the Six-One Precinct, right?”

“Right. What’s this all about, partner?”

“You got anyone in the Six-One owes you a favor?”

“Are you kidding me? With all that Russian mob money floating around boardwalk, there’s always someone jammed up at the Six-One or the Six-O in Coney Island. Why?”

“Because maybe I’d like to have a private conversation with somebody.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Healy could hear Rodriguez’s wheels turning. Skip would want to know what was in it for him and was figuring out how to ask the question without offending his old partner. Bob saved him the trouble.

“If there’s a case in it, Skip,” Healy said, “it’s all yours, but you’ve gotta throw me a bone here.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

When Healy resumed his reading, he nearly turned the page before remembering the headline.

WOMAN’S BODY FOUND IN JFK LOT

There was nothing extraordinary about the story. Bodies had been dumped in the marshes and vacant lots surrounding Kennedy airport since before it was called Kennedy. What got Healy’s attention was the police theory about the murdered woman having been a prostitute. The police also speculated that the unidentified woman might have been Russian or from some area of the former Soviet Union. When he saw the police artist’s rendering of a tattoo found on an unspecified area of the woman’s body, Healy was no longer just interested. He was downright fascinated.

Marla scribbled away, catching up on paperwork that had gone neglected even before she’d blown off the last two days. She’d always found that throwing herself into her work was a good coping mechanism. Joe had frightened her. It seemed to her that was his intent, yet he refused to discuss it with her even after she called to tell him she had done what he asked. He made her promise over and over again that she would go straight to her folks’ house after work and would not go out alone at night.

Ken Bergman, the home manager, knocked and walked in without waiting to be invited. Marla didn’t have the energy to lecture him about proper etiquette. And truth be told, she was kind of glad to see Kenny. She knew what he wanted, what he always wanted from her. It was the subtext of all their interactions. He had never made a secret of his crush on Marla. They had even dated a few times early on, but it hadn’t turned out well. For Ken it had been magic; not so for Marla. He’d tried everything to win her affection.

Marla subscribed to the notion of immediate attraction. She needed no more proof than that first few seconds she had stood in Ken’s office next to Joe Serpe. And if she hadn’t surrendered to Kenny’s charms before Joe, she wasn’t going to succumb now. Lately, Ken had sort of settled into following Marla around the home like a lovesick puppy. Oddly enough, he was just the type of man she had always envisioned herself marrying someday, even if she had never been enthusiastic about it.

“How are you feeling?”

She was puzzled. “What?”

“You’ve never missed two days in a-”

“That. Oh, much better. Thanks for asking.”

“You know I would have been happy to nurse you back to health,” he said.

“Very cute, Kenny. Give it a rest, okay?”

“Seriously, Marla, I would do anything for you.”

Now she was losing patience. “Ken! If you came into my office to-”

“Okay, okay, I surrender… for now. There really is something we need to discuss. Everyone’s handled Cain’s murder pretty well except Donna. She’s been acting out and making herself a real problem for everyone, including the other residents. She’s been reprimanded at her job several times. I think it’s time for you to intervene.”

“Of course, but why didn’t you come to me sooner about this?”