“The only thing I can think of in Rusty Monaco’s jacket that could spark all this cloak and dagger bullshit is that thing in the projects with the kid taking the leap off the roof,” Healy said. “But that was almost four years ago and while we didn’t exactly clear Monaco, there just wasn’t enough evidence to go anywhere with it. The Brooklyn DA couldn’t even get a grand jury indictment. And that’s saying something.”
“You are good. Skip was right.”
“Fuck Skip and tell me what’s going on.”
“The Reverend James Burgess.”
“What about Reverend Righteousness, Justice, and Hypocrisy?” Healy sneered, unable to hide his contempt. “All I know is that he made it nearly impossible for me to do my job when I was looking into the incident. He held rallies and marches and got his face in front of every TV camera and microphone in the free world after the kid took the dive. He talked a lot, but I couldn’t get anybody in the projects to talk to me because of him. He sucked all the air out of things. It was like on the one hand he told people not to talk to us and on the other he bitched about us covering shit up.”
“You don’t blame African-Americans for distrusting cops, do you?”
“I’m not blind, Blades, and my parents didn’t have stupid children, but I don’t get that people would follow a guy like Burgess.”
“He gets stuff done.”
“For himself, yeah. The man espouses every crackpot idea and conspiracy theory like AIDS being a plot by white scientists against the black race.”
“Oh, you mean like the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiments?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Not for us, Healy. For us, that was last week. That’s like saying to Jews that the Holocaust was sixty years ago, get over it. I don’t think much of Burgess myself, but I understand why he appeals to people. He’s sharp and he knows what buttons to push.”
“Yeah well, if he wanted to find out what really happened to that poor kid, he musta gotten his buttons all confused.”
A broad that-canary-was-delicious grin broke out on Detective Hines’ face.
“What are you smiling at?” Healy demanded.
“I thought you said your parents didn’t have stupid children.”
“They didn’t.”
“Maybe not, but it seems one of their boys can’t do simple math.”
“Holy shit!” Healy slapped his forehead.
“That’s right, Detective Healy, guess what name came up when I had a long talk with my friend over there at DOI?”
“The Reverend James Burgess.”
“You just upped your math grade from a D to a C-plus.”
“But did this friend of yours give you anything more than Burgess’s name?” Healy asked.
“It was hard enough getting that and that’s all I’m gonna get. My friend made it pretty clear that I could offer him the whole candy store and that he wouldn’t be able to help me anymore. And trust me, he’s been wanting the key to the candy store for quite some time, if you hear what I’m saying.”
“I hear. There’s something I don’t get, Blades.”
“What?”
“The DOI aren’t the police. From what I understand, they’re only supposed to look into people and companies that either work for the city or are contracted to do work for the city. Burgess’s a private citizen. He’s got a church, but—”
“I thought that too, so I did some scratching around. Seems like the Reverend Mister Burgess does do work for the city, a lot of work.”
“What’s a lot of work?”
Detective Hines put her drink down on the bench, stood, reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper. She handed it to Healy.
He put his drink down, unfolded the paper, read. His eyes got big and his jaw actually dropped.
“What’s Amble Services, Inc.?” Healy wondered.
“It’s a company that supplies transportation to and from hospitals, clinics, and other medical facilities. Its two biggest clients are the New York City Department of Social Services and New York City Department of Health. It’s third and fourth biggest clients are other city departments too.”
“TempMedico, Inc.?”
“Supplies visiting nurse and therapeutic services to homebound patients.”
“Let me guess,” said Healy. “Biggest client is the City of New York.”
“That math grade is climbing ever higher. Your moms would be so proud.”
“So would Sister O’Steen.”
“Who was that?”
“My seventh grade math teacher.”
“And I’m the wiseass, huh, Healy?”
“I have my moments. I take it that every one of these companies does major business with the city.”
“That’s right. And James Burgess is the part owner of every one of those firms. The Rev got some deep pockets, some mighty deep pockets these days.”
“Still, I wonder what it is the DOI is looking into exactly.”
“Me too, but like I said before, I got all the help on that front I’m gonna get.”
“And what the hell could they be looking at Rusty Monaco for? Unless there’s a connection with Burgess that goes beyond the kid’s death.”
“I suppose we got our work cut out for us,” Blades said. “You up for a trip down memory lane?”
“The Nellie Bly Houses you mean? Shit, I guess so. Those files still available to you or did the DOI close the door on them too?”
“No, I got copies of those files. So, when do we start?”
“Tomorrow’s out. Saturday’s our busy day in the oil business,” Healy said. “How about we get together Sunday and go over the files? I don’t want to just walk back into the projects blind. If there’s something to find out, I don’t wanna scare anybody away.”
“Sunday! I’m not a convenience store, you know.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’m not open twenty-four/seven. I got a life outside the job, though you’d never know it by how Skip treats me.”
“My bad. Sorry, Blades.”
“Forget it. What time Sunday?” she asked. “Hey, you tell me.”
“Meals all on you?”
“All expenses are on me,” he said. “Good. I need a new car.”
“Nice try.”
“Figured it was worth a shot. How about you meet me out front of here at ten on Sunday. There’s a nice place for breakfast near here and we can go over the files.”
“It’s a date.”
“No it ain’t neither,” she said, winking at Healy. “Sunday at ten.”
Serpe drove around trying to make sense of things. The uneaten pizza on the seat next to him was now utterly cold, the oil from the slice having long ago seeped through the white bag that held it. He finally pulled over and threw the bag down a sewer. As he pulled away, Joe tried to ignore the symbolism and hoped that his life wouldn’t follow suit. He’d seen the inside of the sewer before and wasn’t anxious to climb back in again.
At first, he considered making another anonymous 9-1-1 call, but decided it was best to let things play out as they would have had he not stumbled across Stanfill’s body. Although he couldn’t quite yet figure out how, Serpe thought his knowing about the lawyer’s murder before anyone else except the killer might turn out to be an advantage. He knew that was a reach. He tried calling Gigi Monaco to give her a heads up about Stanfill, but got her answering machine. He started to leave a message, then clicked the phone shut. He didn’t want to scare her.
He’d driven halfway up to Kings Park before remembering that Healy had called to tell him he was meeting Detective Hines in the city. Even so, he thought he might drive there and wait. Last year, before the hose monkey was murdered, before he met Marla and he and Healy reconnected, Joe Serpe was used to being alone. After his brother died, nothing much happened in Joe’s atrophied, empty life worth sharing. For him, the world consisted of three places: the cab of the tugboat, his basement
apartment, and the anonymous beds of women as hungry for a little comfort as was he. His cat Mulligan, Frank Randazzo, and a changeable cast of vodka bottles were his only constant companions. Mulligan and Frank were dead, Marla was gone, the vodka and the women at Lugo’s were no longer options. The fact was, Bob Healy was pretty much all he had.
That notion just pissed Joe off.
He turned around and drove over to Marla’s parents’ house. He parked in the shadows across the street. Maybe, he thought, she had lied to him—she lied to him a lot before she moved out—about leaving Long Island. But what would he say to her if she did step out? What good would it do him to catch a glimpse of her walking past a window? He had punished himself enough. He had punished her enough.
Serpe drove into Islip to Gigi’s apartment. He felt like she should know about Stanfill and he felt like holding her again. He hadn’t called because he didn’t want to be disappointed. It was stupid, he knew, childish, but there it was. He parked, strolled up the driveway of the split-ranch, through the gate, around back to the short flight of concrete steps leading down to Gigi’s door. It wasn’t until he went to knock that Serpe noticed something was wrong. The door was ajar and the lights were off.
Joe didn’t announce his arrival like he had at Stanfill’s office. Instead, he slipped off his shoes, pulled his gun, and gently pushed open the door. He swung the Glock to the back of the door as he stepped silently inside the little apartment. Nothing. It was impossibly dark, much darker than in Stanfill’s office, and Serpe realized that he had only seen two tiny windows when he was here before. He tried picturing the floorplan in his head as he fought to push down flashes of Gigi laying dead in a pool of her own blood somewhere. His mind was racing with a flurry of images, a jumble of Gigi, Stanfill, Marla, and Debbie Hanlon; of blood, bullet holes, and broken teeth; of bound hands and feet. His heart was pummeling his chest wall, sweat soaking through his shirt, but he held the panic back.
The only sound beside the rushing blood in his ears was the hum and muted rumble of the furnace and he noticed the faint smell of heating oil in the musty basement air. There was, he thought, no escape from that smell. As he moved toward the bedroom, his foot knocked into something hard on the floor. His mind raced. The coffee table. With his next step, something else, softer this time. Foam from a chair. With every step, something new: glass, pieces of wood, clothing. The apartment had been ransacked and any hope he had of stealth or surprise vanished when he stumbled over a fallen kitchen chair. Bracing himself against a wall, he reached for the light switch. As the lights came on, his went out.
His head ached and felt like a water bucket stuck at the bottom of a well, but it wasn’t as bad as when he’d been run off the road last year and smacked his car into a stand of trees. The concussion back then was a bad one and he had lost all memory of the incident itself. Even after he and Healy had pieced it all back together, Serpe could never actually recall the event itself.
“Jesus, Joe, don’t try and get up.”
It was Gigi Monaco and though she didn’t have a particularly pleasant voice, Serpe was happy to hear it.
“What the …” he reached a hand up to wipe away the drip of icy water running down his cheek. Then he felt the ice and water-filled plastic bag stuck on the side of his neck.
“I know I’m a good fuck, but if you wanted a souvenir thong, you coulda just asked.”
“I didn’t do—”
“I know. I didn’t think you turned my place inside out and then banged yourself on the head just to make it look good. Did you see who smacked you?”
“No. What time is it?”
“About one.”
“Is anything missing?”
“Nah,” she said, “but everything’s fucked up. The motherfucker even cut up my chairs and mattress.”
“He was looking for something.”
“No kidding?”
“I’m not fucking around here, Gigi. Stanfill’s dead. He was murdered. That’s what I came over here for, to tell you.”
Serpe removed the makeshift icebag and sat up, slowly. He was still half on the kitchen floor, half on the living room floor. That made sense. Gigi was powerfully built, but moving dead weight is challenging for anyone. He saw that Gigi was more nervous than her voice had indicated. She was pacing, smoking a cigarette, drinking a glass of some amber colored alcohol, a large glass. She swallowed the contents of the glass in a swig, tamped the cigarette out on the kitchen floor, and knelt down beside Joe.
“Are you okay?”
“It’s not so bad. You got some aspirin or something?”
“In a second. What about Stanfill?” Serpe explained about what he found.
“I told you he was slimy,” she said, stepping into the bathroom. “Maybe his murder’s got nothing to do with—”
“Stop it, Gigi! He wasn’t just murdered. He was tortured to death. People are tortured for only two reasons I can think of: vengeance or information. Take a good look around. Somehow I don’t think this is about vengeance. Someone thinks either you or Stanfill has what they want or know how to get it.”
“The money?” She handed him three tablets and a glass of water.
“Maybe.”
“Fuck!”
“Get some things together and put ‘em in a suitcase or gym bag,” he said. “You can’t stay here.”
She didn’t argue the point. Gigi was a woman who could take care of herself, one, Joe was certain, who didn’t scare easy, but she was street smart and knew she was overmatched.
“I’m ready. Here, I found these outside and this on the floor.” She gave Joe his Glock and his shoes.
He was surprised the guy had left the gun. “Okay, you take your car and follow me.”
“Can you drive?”
“I guess we’re about to find out.”
[The Unfortunate Truth]
SATURDAY, JANUARY 15TH, 2005
He was already pacing when Gigi opened her eyes. They were both up before the sun. His head was achy, but he’d survived much worse, certainly worse hangovers, and still managed a day’s work. On the morning he’d discovered the hose monkey’s body in the tank of the truck that now held Gigi’s money, Joe was suffering from the aftermath of a two day vodka bender. On a scale of bad days, this one barely registered.
Gigi propped herself up on one elbow, her bare breasts doing fair battle with gravity. Neither she nor Joe had slept very deeply or for more than a few minutes at a clip. Sometime during the wee hours, they made a half-hearted stab at fucking. It ended without orgasms, tears or angry words. They spent most of the night just holding each other, which is all either one really wanted to begin with. There is a primal sort of comfort in the warmth and touch of bare skin against bare skin.
“We’ve gotta go in about a half hour,” he said.
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m not leaving you alone today or tomorrow. We’ll see about Monday.”
Like the night before, she didn’t argue, but she was a little less willing to do as told now that she’d put a few hours and a few miles between herself and her trashed apartment. She hadn’t seen Stanfill’s body. Serpe could see it Gigi’s eyes that he was only going to be able to go just so far to protect her. He was pretty sure she’d tow the line for the weekend. After that … Well, he’d worry about it when the time came. For now, he would concern himself with getting showered and dressed.
This time Gigi followed him into the shower and the sex was anything but half-hearted. It was rough and angry and it was a miracle neither of them slipped in or fell out of the shower. Just like that primal touching thing, there’s something about danger that kicks sex up a few notches. Sex always energized Serpe, but he knew he’d be paying a big price for it sometime between noon and one, when he had ten or twelve stops under his belt and grabbed a bite to eat. Between his worries, the welt on his head, lack of sleep, and the sex, he was bound to be worn to the bone by day’s end.
It was at times like t
hese that he regretted his decision to not train Healy for his Commercial Class B license. Healy wanted to do it and was a smart guy. He would have passed the written endorsement tests for hazardous materials, air brakes, and tank with ease, but Joe didn’t want to spend the time. Serpe, street savy, but no genius, had passed all the tests. He remembered that he was so intimidated by the idea of all those tests that he planned to take them one at a time. Then the woman at the counter of the Department of Motor Vehicles practically forced him to take all the tests at once.
“For chrissakes, son,” she said, “have you taken a good look at who else drives trucks? You seen any Einsteins out there? Half of ‘em can’t even read English. Now get your ass back here and sign up for the other tests.”
It was too late to worry over his bad decision about training Healy. In the scheme of things, it was a small mistake.
Healy and Gigi had mostly grunted at each other since Joe had left on the tugboat to do his deliveries. Healy had other things on his mind and didn’t exactly enjoy babysitting duty. His only consolation was Gigi enjoyed playing the role of the baby even less. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Gigi. He didn’t know her and she didn’t seem anxious to make friends. She was all right, he guessed; cute, if a little rough around the edges. The thing was, Healy wasn’t pleased about how far Joe was sticking his neck out and, by extention, Bob’s, for this woman.
He was beginning to think that maybe Joe was right the other day. That they were getting in too deep and off the point. What had started out as a debt of honor for Serpe was turning into something else, something very different and much more dangerous. It was pretty evident that Stanfill’s murder and the ransacking of Gigi’s apartment were not coincidental. Healy couldn’t help thinking that maybe Joe was trying to protect Gigi out of guilt over Debbie Hanlon. Then he realized it might not be guilt over Debbie at all. Healy liked that idea even less. He didn’t think Serpe had it in him to lose another person close to him.
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