wished she would have said it just once. Then maybe.”
“You’d be able to live with it.”
“Exactly.”
“My brother, Vinny-”
“The fireman?” Healy remembered him from court. A big, quiet fellow, but always there.
“Yeah, he died at Ground Zero.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I guess there’s a lot of shit we carry around with us,” Joe said.
The awkward silence returned, but it was worse now. What was the protocol? Who would leave first? Was there anything more that needed to be said? Joe Serpe made the first move. He threw a five dollar bill on the table and stood to go.
“I guess I appreciate your telling me,” he said, unable to look Healy in the eye.
“Thanks for hearing me out.”
“Should we shake hands?”
Healy smiled up at Joe. “I don’t suppose it would kill us.”
They shook, but to Joe it still felt slightly like treason. Scars may lighten, but never vanish. Healy lingered. He knew there was one more thing he should have said, that he would someday have to say to Joe Serpe, but the talk had turned to Mary and Vinny Serpe. He had missed his moment. Still, he hoped he would be able to sleep a bit better tonight.
Monday, February 23rd, 2004
T he flowers had turned black with truck soot, withered or frozen in the corner of the oil yard. The people from the group home had come the day after the kid’s funeral and laid them out as a memorial to Cain. It was a recent phenomenon, this building of makeshift memorials-flowers and crosses at the roadside wherever an icy patch and oak tree had conspired to introduce an immortal teenager to his Maker. To Joe Serpe’s way of thinking, a memorial was no more out of place at the scene of a murder than at the scene of an accident. They were equal wastes of time. He was quite sure God paid them little mind.
Even the bits and strands of yellow crime scene tape that remained had aged years in the week gone by since he and Frank had climbed into the tank and found Cain’s body. The cops had impounded the International and it was unclear when it would be returned. In a bizarre twist that only modern life can produce, Frank now needed that truck more than ever. Mayday Fuel was benefiting from what politicians would call the “sympathy vote.” The company’s phone was ringing off the hook.
Neighboring oil companies had picked up the slack, making Mayday’s deliveries until Frank could get his trucks rolling again. It had happened that way after 9/11. Some local oil companies were partially owned and manned by city firemen. Many were completely decimated. No one in the oil business had been wholly untouched by the events of that day. Some had drivers, like Joe Serpe, who’d lost relatives.
Joe went over to the makeshift memorial, kneeling down to try and read some of the cards Cain’s friends and housemates had left behind. He didn’t get the chance.
“Any news?” Steve Scanlon wanted to know.
Scanlon, a retired city fireman, owned Black Gold Oil. It was a smaller operation than Mayday’s and Steve kept his two trucks parked in the next yard over from Frank’s. Though they were competitors, proximity and terrorism had made allies, if not pals, of them. Steve’s partner and several of his friends had fallen victim that terrible day. Frank had volunteered to do all of Black Gold’s stops during the weeks following 9/11. Because of the cold weather and the small size of his fleet, Scanlon had been unable to return the favor this past week.
“No nothing,” Joe said. “The cops have a suspect, but they can’t find him.”
“Hear about the murder over by Babcock last night?” Scanlon asked.
“Another one, huh?”
“Yeah, another kid. Paper don’t say much, no details or anything. You think maybe there’s a connection?”
Joe was unwilling to speculate. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Let’s let the cops do their job and see what they come up with.”
“I guess you’re right,” Scanlon said unconvincingly. “Busy?”
“As a motherfucker.”
“Then I’ll let you get started. Be safe out there.”
“Yeah, you too, Stevie.”
“All right then.”
Scanlon walked quietly away. Joe was glad of it. Not only did he have a crazy day ahead of him, he had decided-in spite of his words to the contrary-that the cops had had enough time to do their work.
Joe was going to stick his nose in where maybe it didn’t belong. He owed Cain that much and, unless some horrible fate suddenly befell Mulligan, he had nothing left to lose.
Bob Healy still wasn’t sleeping very well. It was almost worse now than before he spoke to Joe Serpe. Like his Irish grandma used to say, “Setting things right is God’s work and he seldom sees moved to do it.” But Healy had already tampered with the past and there was no longer any question of leaving things well enough alone. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be an easy way out of his predicament. Unless he called for another oil delivery, which Serpe would certainly avoid, Healy could think of no comfortable way to approach Joe.
Christ, Bob figured, he’d waited all this time. He could be patient a little longer. Something would come up. He only hoped it would be soon. He didn’t know how much longer he could go without sleeping the night and this business of going to Mass was starting to get to him.
He opened the paper. S.O.S.-Same old shit:
IRAQ
IRAQ
IRAQ
MURDER
Murder! While it was surely true that New York City had come a very long way from its ugly streak of 2000 plus homicides per year, murder was still more than a trace element in its chemistry. On Long Island, however, murder was still big news. It was even bigger news when two murders occurred within blocks of each other, in the same town, in a span of eight or so days.
Bob Healy read the story with great interest, though there were few details. The victim was about the same age as Cain Cohen. His name was Jorge Reyes, a nineteen-year-old illegal from El Salvador. Like the Cohen kid, he’d taken a pretty bad beating. The preliminary cause of death, however, seemed to be related to several stab wounds which Reyes received. The cops were very vague about the number of wounds, location of the wounds, etc. In fact, the cops were being rather too coy about everything. Bob Healy could read between the lines. Reyes’ murder was in some way connected to an ongoing investigation. Gangs, he thought.
With newspaper still in hand, Healy walked over to the phone and dialed. It was a long shot, but when a long shot is all you have, you play it.
Joe had done thirty stops, loaded twice and wanted nothing more than to try to meld his molecules with those of his fold-out couch. In order to resist that temptation, he had been feeding himself a steady diet of caffeine in the forms of coffee and Coke. He’d gone home, showered, shaved around his salt and pepper goatee, brushed his teeth and put on some clean jeans, running shoes, and a sweater. His hair was still wet when he rang the bell at the group home.
Only about half a mile east of the oil yard, and a few blocks west of where the Reyes kid’s body was discovered, the group home looked like any of the other houses in the neighborhood. It had once been a large L- shaped ranch to which the previous owners had added a full second floor. That same owner had also converted the garage into living space. Joe had driven by this place dozens of times over the last three years and only once, when
