Fourth Victim

by Coleman, Reed Farrel

“Fuck you, Serpe!”

  “All right, forget her for now. Any idea why the cops are curious about a guy who’s been off the job for two years, a guy they were happy to see go?”

  “Thing is, Joe, we can’t even be sure it is the cops looking at Monaco. Weird, huh?” “Worth looking into.” “That’s what Blades is doing.”

  “Blades? Getting kinda cozy there, aren’t you Bob?” “Drop it.”

  “It’s dropped. So your prick brother’s not going to help.” “Nope. Says he’s probably gonna prosecute the case when it comes in, so.”

  “I guess I can’t blame him.”

  “You can blame him, but it isn’t gonna do us any good. So you said something about a body shop …”

  “You know the one right across from the Kings Park Fire Department by Indian Head Road?” Joe asked.

  “I live about a mile away from it and my church is around the corner. Yeah, I know it: Noonan’s Collision.”

  “They’re guilty about something in there, but I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with the dead drivers. I mean it’s a fucking body shop, right? And they had a shitload of Hondas, Toyotas, and Escalades in their lot.”

  “Chopshop maybe, stolen parts you’re thinking? You know any totally clean body shops?”

  “What I know is that my being in there asking questions spooked the shit out of the blond and that the biker guy made me for a cop. I don’t think I should go back there. Might raise a red flag.”

  “Which means I should go?”

  “First maybe you should bring a box of donuts over to the fire house and make nice so you can sit across the street and see what’s what.”

  “I know how to make nice with the neighbors. Don’t worry. I’ll be on it first thing in the morning.”

  “Good,” Joe said, flipping through the tickets for Saturday delivery. “Looks like I’m gonna have to drive tomorrow. Busy day.”

  “Busy is good.”

  “After my brother died, busy is all I lived for.”

  “Tell me about it. After Mary died I used to go nuts looking for ways to fill up my days with something other than General Hospital. I looked for anything to occupy my thoughts.”

  They sat silently for a moment, both together and apart, remembering where their lives had been only several months ago. Men find it easy to drink and bullshit together, but silence is the real test of friendship between men.

  “So,” Healy said, “how about the other oil companies?”

  “I didn’t learn anything except about other people’s grief at Baseline. The business died with Cameron Wilkes, so there was nobody to talk to there. The guy who owned Armor didn’t seem too bent outta shape about Monaco, but who the fuck would be? I’ll talk to Tim Breen from Five Star next week or maybe I’ll go looking for him at Lugo’s tomorrow after work. And as far as Epsilon goes … That guy was looking for a way out even before this happened to his driver.”

  Bob Healy stood and stretched. “I’m going home, partner. Long day. You sure you can manage tomorrow without me?”

  “No problem. I’ll have one of the guys load my truck. I’ll take stops, route the trucks and then I’ll go out. I’ll have the calls forwarded to my cell and dispatch from the truck.”

  “Sounds good. Where you headed now?”

  “Monaco’s wake.”

  “That sucks.”

  “I don’t know. As popular as he was, it might just be me and him.”

  The wake was in some funeral parlor in Massapequa on Sunrise Highway somewhere. He was pretty sure he’d find his way, but the truth was that Serpe wasn’t in any fucking rush to get there. Fearless as a cop, or at least able to control his fears better than most, he dreaded the idea of running into any guys he’d known from the job. It was always awkward and never turned out good for Joe. In the end, they could never understand his testifying against his partner. To them, he was worse than a man like Healy. Sure they would consider Healy a rat, but his was a career decision. In their eyes, what Joe did by giving up his brother cop that way, was not only inexplicable, but unforgiveable. So Serpe had given up trying to explain that blind loyalty sometimes comes with a heavy price.

  Joe parked in the nearly empty lot behind the funeral home and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d already had a rough day and thought he deserved a break. He should have known better than to think that bad times earn you anything good. Just as he was passing by one of the few other cars in the lot, the driver’s side door swung open behind him and smacked hard into the back of his bad leg.

  The ironic part about it was that the bullet that had shattered Serpe’s femur and nicked his femoral artery might have been fired by a dead man. When the cops burst in on the Russians, bullets were spraying everywhere. Joe had never wanted to know if the bullet was part of the spray or if it came from that sick fuck Pavel’s handgun. Pavel—the man who had tormented Marla—died that night too, so he really didn’t see the point.

  None of that mattered now as Joe collapsed face first in a heap on the cold blacktop. His leg had healed as well as it was ever going to heal and could pretty much take the daily stresses delivering oil put on it, but any direct hit like the one he’d just got, put him right down.

  “What’s a matter, fuck face, you fall down and go boom?” It was Detective Hoskins. “Here, let me help you up, scum bag.” He grabbed Serpe by the back of his coat and yanked him up so that Joe’s body-weight sat right atop his bad leg. “You look like your’re hurtin’, Snake. Let me fix that.” He kicked Serpe square in the solar plexus with the toe of his shoe and Serpe went down gasping for breath.

  Hoskins just stood over him patiently waiting for Serpe to try and get up. But a patient temperment wasn’t a description that fit Tim Hoskins, so he got on his knees next to Serpe and put his lips almost against Joe’s left ear. His breath smelled of old beer, fresh garlic, and hatred. “Listen to me, you cowardly-cunt-rat-cheese-eatin’-bastard. You already embarrassed me once with what you did with the Russians. Once is too much, but there’s nothin’ I can do about it now. But I hear you been askin’ around about these murders. That’s right, asshole, somebody ratted you out instead of the other way around. How’s it feel to get the dime dropped on you?”

  “Drop dead.”

  Hoskins laughed and the air got colder. “Stop sticking your nose in my shit. Stop it now! Stop it now or I’ll get into the oil driver murderin’ business my own fuckin’ self. Understand?”

  “Fuck you!” Serpe coughed.

  “Fuck me, huh?” He kicked Serpe in the ribs and then did it again. “Fuck me, huh?”

  “You deaf or just ugly?” He kicked him again.

  The headlights of a car swept across the lot. “Fuck me, huh?”

  “Get that hearing aid fixed, motherfucker.” Hoskins reared his leg back.

  “Hey!” a woman screamed. “What are you doing? Leave him alone. I’m dialing nine-one-one right now.” She waved her open and lit up cell phone at Hoskins.

  “Remember, cocksucker, you been warned.” Hoskins got in his car and tore out of the lot, tires squealing as he went.

  “You okay?” the woman asked, helping pull Joe up in a sitting position.

  “I’ve been better. Thanks,” he said, getting to his feet and brushing himself off.

  “Who was that guy?”

  “An incompetent, frightened little prick.”

  “Whatever.”

  With his feet firmly under him, Serpe took a closer look at his rescuer. She was, he guessed, about thirty with a pretty, but hard face. Her brown hair was cut short and her eyes were pennies with some of the shine worn off. She was about five foot five, curvy, but thick through the neck and body. She wore a black leather coat over a plain black dress and black, low-heeled shoes.

  “Joe Serpe.” He shook her hand. “I’m here for Rusty’s wake.”

  She took his hand. “Georgine Monaco. Rusty’s little sister. You a cop?”

  “Used to be, Georgine.”

  “Call me Gigi, G-i-g-i,
like two soldiers. Everybody calls me that.” “Your brother saved my life once, Gigi.”

  She laughed. “Probably the only good thing he ever done. He was a prick, my big bro. Easy to tell with this overwhelming outpouring of love. Look at this parking lot. I buried cats where more people showed. So, d’you like my brother?”

  “Not really. He was a hard guy to like, but I owe him. I also own an oil company now, so I got my reasons for coming.”

  “Thanks for coming, no matter why.” She wrapped her arm in his and walked Joe into the home.

  In front of five rows of empty wooden folding chairs, the closed coffin lay in the chapel’s smallest viewing room. There was a uniformed honor guard from the NYPD standing a bored vigil along the walls. They outnumbered the rest of the attendees even if you included Rusty Monaco’s body in the count. A funeral director strolled laps around the room.

  “I guess you were right about the cat burials,” Joe said.

  “What does it matter anyhow? Rusty ain’t counting heads. Come on, let’s get a prime seat before all the good ones are taken.”

  “You’re pretty funny.”

  “Comin’ outta our family, I had to be.” She wasn’t smiling now and before Joe could ask another question, Gigi walked up to the coffin, knelt, and crossed herself. She moved her lips and crossed herself again before touching her bent fingers to her mouth.

  “Go say something,” she said, pushing Serpe’s arm, “even if it’s thanks.”

  It wasn’t Serpe’s style, but he did it anyway. He said a quick thanks and sat back down. They sat there quietly for a few minutes, Joe studying Gigi’s hard face. No tears. No cracks. Not much of anything washed across it.

  “You guys keep in touch?” Joe broke the silence.

  “Not really. There wasn’t a whole lotta love in our house, not from my folks and not between us kids. Rusty kinda looked after me when I was little, so I guess I owe him too.”

  “So you didn’t know about him moving to the condo in Plantation City, I guess.”

  Now Gigi showed more on her face than she had since coming to Joe’s aid in the parking lot. And what she showed wavered between skepticism and total disbelief.

  “Get the fuck outta here! My brother didn’t have two nickels to rub together his whole life. What he didn’t blow on the ponies and pussy, his bitch wife soaked him for a few years back in the divorce. Not that she didn’t deserve it for putting up with his shit for so long. Christ, Joe, the only time I ever heard from Rusty was when he needed a stake from me. Why you think he was driving a oil truck for ten bucks a stop? No offense.”

  “None taken. Still, the condo is a fact. Maybe he borrowed the money from a friend.”

  “Yeah, right! How many friends you see here? Even if he coulda found someone who didn’t find him a miserable bastard, no one woulda lent Rusty a dime. Would you?”

  “No.”

  “And he saved your life, right?”

  Joe conceded her point. He looked around and noticed that the honor guard was gone. A priest came in, made a little speech about Russell’s service to his community, said a few prayers, and then beat a quick path out of the place.

  “I’m heading out,” he said. “Wait, I’ll go with you.”

  As he offered his hand, Gigi asked if he didn’t want to go get a drink or something to eat. Joe felt as awkward as a teenager. He kind of liked her style and he had certainly been with women a lot less attractive than her, but he was still connected to Marla.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, and started making excuses about his early morning.

  “I don’t wanna fuck ya, for chrissakes, I just wanna have a drink with you.” “I’m hurt.”

  “I like men when I’m in the mood for ‘em and if that wasn’t my brother’s carcass in there, I could probably work up the mood for you. But on the whole, I think you and me have the same preferences … if you catch my meaning.”

  “I do. Okay, one drink.”

  [Omerta]

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 8TH, 2005

  The temperature was warmer than had been predicted and as the sun rose it seemed ready to preview its spring muscles. The firetrucks were parked on the concrete outside their bay doors. The guys at the firehouse were thrilled to interrupt their washing and waxing to make a new friend. No one asks questions of a man bearing donuts and coffee. And there was an added bonus; a Suffolk cop from the 4th precinct. His white and blue unit was already parked in the house’s side lot when Healy pulled in.

  As he bullshitted with the guys from the house and the cop, Healy kept an eye on the doings across the street. At 7:00, a guy pulled into the body shop’s lot and parked his gray Acura in a corner spot. He was in his fifties and walked with the stooped grace of a man who had done the same hard job for many years. To Bob it seemed there was a sort of resignation in the man’s stride. Dressed in the now familiar green coveralls of Epsilon Energy, he carried a metal ticket box and his Hagstrom maps in one hand, a tall cup of 7/Eleven coffee in the other. 7/Eleven coffee: the oil man’s breakfast of choice. When he disappeared around the back of the body shop, Healy excused himself from his new pals and walked across the street.

  The Epsilon guy was just getting into the cab of a 2000 Mack cab-over with a 3000 gallon tank. The truck was cleaner than any oil truck Healy had ever seen and it started right up without the grumble and coughs of Mayday’s aging fleet.

  “Nice, clean truck,” he called up to the cab.

  “You want buy it?” the driver shouted over the din of the diesel.

  “You the owner?”

  “Couldn’t sell it to you if I wasn’t.”

  The man stepped down from the cab, approaching Healy cautiously. It didn’t escape Healy’s notice that the guy’s right hand was tucked out of sight.

  “You might not want to let me think you’ve got an unregistered firearm there behind your back,” Bob said, pointing.

  “I don’t give a shit what you think, but if it makes you feel better, it’s registered,” he said, showing Bob the blue finish on the short-barrel. 38. “Funny thing, you know. I’ve owned Epsilon for about fifteen years, another oil outfit for ten before that, and not once has anybody come up to talk to me about how clean I keep my equipment at seven in the morning.”

  “I see your point.” Healy held his hands up in surrender. “I just wanted to say I was sorry to hear about your driver, Albie.”

  The man put the. 38 at his side. “Sorry about the gun, but I’m a little nervous these days.”

  “You’ve got cause. I’m Bob Healy from Mayday Fuel. You talked to my partner on the phone yester—”

  “Joe Serpe. Seemed like a nice enough guy.”

  “I’ll tell him you say so. I live in town and, like I said, I just wanted to come over and express my condolensces.”

  The man rushed back to the truck, put the revolver away, and came back to Healy with his right hand extended. “Jack Peterson. Again, sorry about the gun.”

  “No problem.” Bob shook his hand. “You talked to Joe so you understand that we’re looking into what’s been going on with these murders. We both knew the fourth victim from the job.”

  “Good. The asshole the Suffolk PD’s got in charge didn’t exactly inspire my confidence. Didn’t strike me as a man who could find his own dick to piss with.”

  “Hoskins is an asshole, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t cooperate with him.”

  “There wasn’t much I could tell him anyway. Albie was a great guy. Had no enemies that I knew of, not that I knew many of his amigos. We deliver only on the North Shore, so I didn’t figure anything like this was gonna happen to him. I mean, all of my stops are in good areas and all my customers are good people.”

  “You mean white people.”

  “You wanna put it like that, okay, yeah, white people. I got nothing against nobody, but look for yourself where these murders happened. C’mon, you think a Jewish doctor from Commack and the guy that owns the Italian restaurant from Smithtown are kil
ling these drivers? You know how many times some crackhead nigger stuck a gun in my face when I was delivering down in Bay Shore in the eighties?”

  “Not much fun getting a gun stuck in your face, no matter who’s doing it.”

  “Sorry again about the gun.”

  “I’m not judging you, Jack. I just wanna stop the killing.”

  “Okay.”

  “One question about Albie. You said he was paying to bring his family up from Mexico, that he put money down on a house, and that you were looking to sell him the business. That’s a big nut to carry for an oil man, any oil man, even for a hard working one. You sure he wasn’t going down the South Shore or out east doing some deliveries for cash? They did find him in Mastic.”

  “Look, even if I didn’t trust Albie—which I did—I’m a meticulous person. What, you think only my trucks are clean? Look at my coveralls, for goodness sake; clean like new. From the day I started as an owner, I’ve been a hard-on about paperwork. I made my guys keep mileage logs. I check the odometers every night. I keep records of every gallon of number two oil bought, pumped, and spilled and of every gallon of diesel used to run the trucks. Since the cops impounded Albie’s truck, that’s the most time that rig has spent out of my sight since I bought her. Whoever buys my equipment from me will know everything about it. So if Albie was running side jobs and stealing my oil to do it, he was either a magician or a criminal genius.”

  “Fair enough,” Healy said. “I guess you better get on the road. Glad we met and, again, too bad about Albie.”

  “No sweat.” Peterson turned to go back to his truck.

  “Jack,” Healy called after him.

  “What?”

  “I’m looking to get my daughter’s fender fixed. Noonan’s Collision any good?”

  “Used to be before the father moved to Ft. Myers last year. Now his kid runs it.”

  “What’s wrong with the kid?”

  “Take a look inside the shop. I gotta go.” With that, Jack Peterson closed the cab door, put the Mack in gear, and rumbled by.

  When the truck was gone, Healy walked around front and took a look through the glass of the shop doors. The reasons behind Peterson’s less than ringing endorsement of the body shop were painfully evident. Loose tools, uncovered paint cans, body filler cans were all over the place. The tape job on the Subaru in one of the bays was careless and uneven. Very sloppy.