Reed Coleman - Hose monkey

Cops, Joe thought. There was something vaguely familiar about sloppy mouth. He was a good six-foot-two, in his late forties with a jowly red face and a lazy left eye. His eyes seemed bluer than they actually were, in contrast to his ruddy complexion. He had the wide shoulders and thick body of an athlete gone to seed. The partner was small only in comparison. He was a six-footer, early thirties, clear brown eyes and a trim moustache. The bigger cop was strictly a Sears man. The partner had pretensions. There didn’t seem to be a stitch of polyester on him.

“What can we do for you, Detectives?” Joe took the offensive.

“Listen to him, Kramer,” the big man started up again. “The Snake knows we’re detectives.”

First Healy and now this clown; it was the second time in less than a week he’d been called by his old moniker and neither time did he much care for the speaker’s tone of voice.

“Do I know you, Detective?”

The big man stuck his face in Serpe’s. “I know who you are. That’s what’s important here. But just to show you I’m a fair guy, I’ll do introductions. That handsome devil there is Suffolk County Police Detective Jeff Kramer and I’m Detective Lieutenant Timothy Hoskins from the Fourth Homicide Squad.”

Neither name rang Joe’s bell. Frank remained quiet, still lost in his own sense of guilt.

“Detective.” Joe nodded to Kramer.

“You don’t remember me, do you, asshole?” Hoskins was at it again. “I’m Rosemarie’s first cousin. You remember Rosemarie? You flipped on her husband Ralphy, you fuckin’ disloyal sonovabitch.”

“Yeah, now I remember you,” Joe said calmly. “And I remember why I forgot you. What do you want? A little far off your patch, aren’t you? This is Nassau County last time I checked.”

“You don’t worry about whose patch is where. This case here, the retarded kid, is mine,” Hoskins sneered, throwing his thumb at the funeral home.

“But you didn’t catch it,” Joe blurted. “You weren’t even at the crime scene.”

“Well, it’s mine now. Imagine how happy I was to see your name in the reports. I was fuckin’ thrilled.”

“And you’re busting my balls why?”

“Other than because I feel like it and that I can. I just wanted to rub it in your face you dickless fuck.”

“Hey!” Frank snapped out of it. “Watch your mouth, Detective.”

“Take it easy, Frank,” Joe warned, stepping between him and Hoskins.

“Yeah, Frank, take it easy,” Hoskins aped. “Your employee here suffers from selective loyalty. When push comes to shove, he caves. You wouldn’t want him to cave in on you.”

“Rub what in?” Joe repeated.

“We got a suspect,” Kramer finally spoke.

“That’s great,” Frank said.

“Yeah, great,” Hoskins sneered. “You’ll love this, Snake. The suspect’s name is Jean Michel Toussant.”

“Mr. French?”

“That’s right, Snake, Mr. French, the mental health aide from the group home. We got witnesses say Toussant had it in for the kid. This tard who’s next door to the kid says he heard a disturbance in the kid’s room Saturday morning. Apparently, Mr. French had a puffy left eye that day. Told the rest of the staff he slipped on a wet floor and banged his cheek into a wall. Since the kid was gone, there was no one to dispute his account of things. And you’ll never guess what we found in the victim’s room.”

“Blood spatter.”

“Bingo!” Hoskins mocked. “See, Kramer, he walks like a cop, talks like a cop, but-”

Serpe ignored him. “So what’s Toussant say?”

“Nothing yet,” Detective Kramer answered. “We’d have to find him first.”

“He ran?” Frank said.

Kramer nodded. “He ran. Left work early on Saturday, complaining about the puffy eye. Didn’t show for work Monday. His neighbors haven’t seen him.”

Hoskins glared at his partner. If looks could kill, several generations of Kramers were doomed.

Kramer yawned. Apparently, he was pretty used to Hoskins’ antics.

“You got any leads?” Joe asked.

“Fuck you, Serpe,” Hoskins said. “I wouldn’t a told you a thing, but now I’m glad Kramer got a big yap. It gives me a chance to tell you to keep your rat fuckin’ nose outta this case. Maybe if you had protected the kid like you promised, we wouldn’t be standin’ here at his funeral makin’ nice. Oh yeah, I heard about that. He bragged to all the tards about how his cop friend Joe was gonna protect him. Yeah, well you did a bang up job, didn’t ya, Snake? Relyin’ on you is like a death warrant.”

Once again, Hoskins pressed his face threateningly close to Joe’s. “What’s a matter, Serpe, nothin’ to say? See, partner, he knows I speak the truth. He sold out his best friend. Both Ralphy and the kid would be alive if they hadn’t met you.”

“That’s enough, asshole!”

All four men turned to see Bob Healy standing behind them.

“Hey, Kramer, it’s a fuckin’ cheese eaters convention. Let me introduce you to Ralphy’s other executioner. This here is Bob Healy, detective first, NYPD, retired. That’s right, in the big city you can make first grade jamming up your brother cops. How’s it feel to build your career climbin’ over the bodies of good men like Ralphy Abruzzi?”

Healy shook his head. “Listen, you sorry excuse for a human being. You don’t think I know that cops get weak, that they fuck up like everybody else? I know. I know better than anyone. In I.A., I saw every kinda weakness a man can see. You think we made a case on Abruzzi because he was weak? If you think that, you’re an even bigger shithead than I thought.

“Let me tell you a thing or two about the blessed St. Ralphy. St. Ralphy wasn’t taking free coffee from the donut shop or veal cutlet parm heroes from the local pizzeria. He was leaking confidential police information to at least three different criminal enterprises. Not one, asshole. Not two, but three. To feed his fucking habit, he was willing to put his brother and sister officers at risk. And you know what, Detective, we had information that St. Ralphy’s mouth got at least two C.I. s and one cop killed.

“Oh, you didn’t know that, huh? Well, now you do. Since St. Ralphy ate his ammo, the department didn’t feel it would serve any purpose to let the press get hold of that stuff. He saved his family and the rest of us a lot of grief. But who’s gonna pay the bill for that dead cop, Detective? You? Your partner? Serpe’s paid his fair share for being loyal to his friend and partner. So why don’t you get off his back and let the man mourn the loss of his coworker in peace?”

Tim Hoskins was unmoved. “Fuck you. And fuck him. It’s not enough that you drove Ralphy into his grave, but now you gotta smear his name. As far as I’m concerned, you’re both F.F.L.

Remember what I said, Snake,” Hoskins hissed, turning to leave. “I don’t care if you and the tard were blood brothers. Stay the fuck outta my business.”

Kramer nodded. “Gentlemen.”

“F.F.L.? What’s F.F.L.?” Frank was curious to know.

Both Joe Serpe and Bob Healy answered at once. “Fucked for life.”

There are awkward silences and then there are awkward silences. The silence between Joe Serpe and Bob Healy as they sat across the diner table was excruciatingly loud. They avoided eye contact, drummed the silverware, folded the corners of the place mats.

Strange, but after days of planning what he would say and how he would say it, Bob Healy was at a complete loss. He hadn’t anticipated the incident at the funeral home nor had he intended to blurt out the details of Ralph Abruzzi’s treachery.

For his part, Joe Serpe had re-consigned Healy to that area of his head the retired I.A. detective had occupied for the last several years. He had thought of Healy like an inoperable tumor-one that had done its damage by disabling him, but wasn’t going to kill him.