Cain pointed it out to him, did he ever take notice.
“Who’s there?” a fuzzy male voice wanted to know.
“Joe Serpe. I worked with Cain and…”
A buzzer sounded. A lock clicked.
“Come ahead.”
Joe walked down a short hallway to a small office. The two cheap plastic plaques on the door read: Kenny Bergman Home Manager
Joe knocked and let himself in. Bergman was seated behind a typical state-issue metal desk. The whole office was filled with what looked like used public school furniture. Dented aluminum and scratched wood seemed to be the unifying design elements. The wood-paneled walls were covered in diplomas, certificates and pictures. Bergman’s desk was covered with stacks of paper, an outmoded computer and a phone. The only up-to-date thing in the office was the row of closed-circuit monitors on the shelf over the manager’s left shoulder. Serpe recognized Bergman from the funeral chapel. He was a relatively young man-in his early thirties, maybe younger. He had a mop of curly brown hair and a full beard in desperate need of trimming, but Joe guessed Bergman did all right with women. If they were his pleasure. He had a straight nose, a bright friendly smile and big hazel eyes. But strain showed at the corners of his mouth, the creases in his eyes, the folds of his brow. The look of Bergman almost made Joe guilty for feeling tired.
Bergman followed Joe’s eyes to the row of monitors.
“We had a security system put in a few months ago. It’s weird. We never had any problems in the neighborhood and then word got out that a private agency was looking at the area as a site for another group home. Suddenly, we became targets of vandalism. People worry about their neighborhoods becoming warehouses for the unwanted. It’s a shame.”
Long Island is the NIMBY capital of North America. Not In My Backyard. You can’t even fart on Long Island without doing an environmental impact study. Any proposal to build public works, power plants, highways, treatment centers, community centers, schools, even parks and hospitals comes under intense scrutiny and attack. If there was the slightest chance property values would be negatively impacted, forget it. The thing wasn’t getting built. Offer to build a golf course, on the other hand…
Joe held his hand out to Bergman. The manager stood and took it. Joe thought it a solid, honest shake. Serpe had never gotten over his belief in judging people by the little things they did. Handshakes were important to him.
“You were at the funeral,” Bergman said. “Cain’s mom went a little crazy on your friend. That was Frank Randazzo, the owner of Mayday, right? I met with him a few times. Good man. Good heart.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“So what is it we can do for you, Joe?”
Serpe collected his thoughts. He knew he had no official standing to be doing what he was doing. He tried the truth.
“The cops have a suspect in Cain’s murder.”
“Yes, Jean Michel Toussant. He was employed here as mental health therapy aide.”
“You know Cain told me he got rough with some of the residents.”
Bergman snapped. “Look, Mr. Serpe, is this about a lawsuit or something? Are you trying to put the squeeze on us? We’re a state-run agency. We hire people, and if we get complaints, we have to follow union procedures. I’m sorry if-”
“Calm down, calm down!” Joe held his palms up. “You’re reading this all wrong.”
Bergman sat back down, but his face was still red. “Then what is it you want?”
“I used to be a cop.”
“Cain told us. He told everyone. So…”
“I want to find this Toussant. The Suffolk County cops can’t seem to do it.”
“What do you expect me to do?” Bergman puzzled, his tone far from accommodating.
“That’s a good question.” Joe let his honesty show. “I was hoping I could talk to the staff, maybe some of the residents. Maybe Mr. Fren-I mean, Toussant, said something to one of them that would help.”
“We all really liked Cain a lot, Mr. Serpe, but I couldn’t possibly let you upset the residents or involve this home in any vigilantism. Besides, the police have already interviewed everyone here. I don’t see what you’d be able to find that they weren’t.”
“Okay,” Joe relented. “I understand you wouldn’t want me upsetting the residents. How about the staff?”
“Like I said, Mr. Serpe, I’m afraid not, but I understand your impulse to help. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been working crazy hours since-”
Bergman was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Come.”
It was her, the woman who had comforted the Down’s girl at Cain’s funeral. She strolled right past Joe over to Bergman’s desk and handed him a manila folder.
“These are the assessments you asked for, Ken,” she said in a very businesslike tone.
“Marla Stein.” Bergman gestured at Joe. “Meet Joe Serpe. He worked with Cain at the oil company.”
Joe was already standing, hand extended. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Joe Serpe, the ex-cop, Snake,” Marla said, a crooked smile on her face. “Cain was a big fan of yours, Joe.”
“Marla is our staff psychologist,” Bergman explained. “She works at many of our area homes, but has put in extra time since Cain’s… I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course, like grief counseling at a school when something goes wrong,” Joe said, letting go of her delicate hand.
Bergman wasn’t finished. “Joe was offering to help find Jean Michel, but I explained to him that we couldn’t possibly help him.”
“That was very generous of you, Joe.”
“Thanks.”
“Ken, I’m heading out,” she said. “I’ll be in Riverhead tomorrow morning, Patchogue in the afternoon. I’ll be on call for you guys tomorrow night after seven.”
“Great, Marla. Thank you.”
Joe saw his opportunity. “I’ll walk you to your car. If that’s okay?”
“Fine,” she said, smiling slightly and so Bergman couldn’t see. “Just let me go to my office and I’ll meet you out front.”
The home manager didn’t look pleased, but there was nothing he could do about it. Joe thanked him for his time.
Joe barely noticed it had started snowing. He was light-headed, his heart racing. He felt nervous, his bare palms moist, his throat dry. It wasn’t as if Joe had abstained since his wife had packed up Joseph Jr. and headed to the Sunshine State. On the contrary, he’d been very popular with the Triple D Club at Lugo’s. Triple D: Divorced, Drunk, and Desperate. That’s what the drivers called the large group of women who made Lugo’s their home away from home. Some were there so frequently, their real homes were in danger of becoming homes away from home.
Joe felt no guilt over his exploits with club members. He was as divorced and drunk as any of them and maybe a little more desperate. He had come to think of his nights with these women as an odd mixture of necessary pleasure and mutual short term punishment. Not that he was complaining about the sex. Desperation is like a jet engine afterburner. It kicks things up a few notches. No, it was the mornings after that did it; the hangovers, awkward goodbyes, and the lies of possibility.
Occasionally, Joe would break the unwritten club rules and date one of the members. It never lasted. Five weeks had been the limit. There was just too much baggage to deal with. The thing about it was, there were no recriminations after the parting of ways. Two nights later, Joe’d be seated across Lugo’s bar raising his glass to the woman he’d just broken up with while buying a drink for the woman to her right. Just lately though, he had been avoiding the Triple Ds. He had grown weary of hopelessness.
“Hey,” Marla said, walking up to the sidewalk where Joe was waiting. “My car’s across the street.
