Hungry?”
Not really. “Very.”
“Come on. Dinner’s on me.”
The Seaside Grill was a cozy restaurant on Portion Road just around the corner from Lugo’s. Joe Serpe didn’t know it existed until the moment he walked in. For the second time in less than a week, he found himself steeped in one of those awkward silences.
“Psychologists are trained to be very patient, Joe, but if you don’t say something soon I’m going to scream.”
Joe took his face out of his menu. “Sorry.”
“It’s not the Gettysburg address, but it’s a start.”
The waiter came to the rescue. Marla ordered a Cosmo. Joe a pint of Blue Point lager.
“I remember you from the funeral,” Marla tried again.
“Helluva line, that. I’ve said it a couple of times myself in the last few days.”
“It’s weird, isn’t it? It’s like running into someone at the hospital and saying, ‘Hey, she’s my oncologist, too.’ It’s sad, but it’s common ground. People search for it all the time, common ground.”
“I guess.”
“For a handsome man, you seem awfully uncomfortable around women.”
The waiter gave Joe a brief reprieve by bringing their drinks. “Cheers,” she said. They clinked glasses. “Not all women,” Joe said. “Gee, you’re a real charmer.”
He was flustered. Marla reached across the table and put a calming hand atop his.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” she said, giggling. “I’m sorry. Tell me what you meant.”
“I meant that I’ve been on the sidelines for a long time and I’m unaccustomed to game speed.”
“Christ, men and sports analogies.”
“Yeah, that was pretty dumb, huh?” He felt himself breath normally.
She asked him to just come out and say what was on his mind. To his surprise, that’s exactly what he did. He confessed that he’d thought about her ever since seeing her at Cain’s funeral, but that he never really expected to see her again.
“I came to the group home hoping to get a lead on Mr. French.”
“What an asshole that guy was. Hit on anything in a skirt with an IQ over ninety.”
“I heard he hit anything with an IQ under ninety,” Joe said, the bite of criticism flavoring his words.
Marla didn’t take shit. “Hey, Joe, you ever work with bad cops? You report all of them? Any of them?”
He took that one full in the belly. “You got me there.”
“Look, the office walls are paper thin at the home and I heard almost every word of your conversation with Ken. I’ve got my issues with Bergman, but he wasn’t lying to you about Jean Michel. We work for the state. Disliking someone or even suspecting someone of misconduct isn’t grounds for a firing squad. The mental health therapy aides are part of a union and there are procedures.”
“You’re right.”
“So, aren’t you going to ask me if I know anything about Mr. French?”
Joe obliged. “Do you?”
“No, but I’ll ask around. Professional ethics don’t allow me to question any of the residents, and I wouldn’t in any case. But…” Marla smiled that infectious crooked smile, her eyes lighting up. “Gossip among the staff at these homes is what keeps people coming to work day after day. A lot of the staff has worked in other places, worked for different agencies. Many times they’ve crossed paths before. Maybe some of them have been on staff with Jean Michel somewhere else. Have you got a card?”
Joe laughed. “Oil drivers give out refrigerator magnets, not cards.”
Marla slid a pen and her drink napkin across the table to Joe. “Write down the numbers where I can reach you.”
He hesitated, then felt compelled to explain about Vinny’s voice on the answering machine.
“You probably think I’m nuts,” he said, sliding the pen and napkin back her way.
“No,” she said, “I think you’re mourning. There’s no twenty-four second clock for grief.”
“Christ, women and sports analogies,” he chided. “I deserved that.”
They never ordered dinner. Two rounds of drinks later, they were standing in the parking lot. The snow had stopped, but had left a thin white blanket in its wake.
“You haven’t asked to see me again,” Marla said, writing her name in the snow on the hood of the car. “I know you want to.”
“Pretty confident, aren’t you?”
“It’s not like reading tea leaves, Joe. If you’re trying to hide your attraction, you’re doing a shitty job of it.”
“I’m not trying to hide anything, but-”
“I get that this is the part where you try to push me away,” she said.
“I just come with a lot of baggage is all.”
“We all do.”
“Some more than others. I’m pretty well damaged goods and-”
“Shhh.” Marla pressed her index finger across his lips. “Damage is a two-way street, Joe.” She stood on her toes and placed her lips softly against his. Just as quickly, she pulled back. “My career is all about damage. I’m not afraid of it.”
“You can’t fix me,” he heard himself say.
“I don’t know you. And I couldn’t fix you even if I wanted to. For now, I’d just like it if you’d kiss me.”
Tuesday, February 24th, 2004
T he tugboat seemed to glide. The stops came easy, went fast. Joe smiled when passing drivers, stuck for several minutes behind his soot belching truck, gave him the finger as they passed. And all because he’d kissed a girl. That’s as far as it had gone, as far as he was willing to let it go. They’d stood there for an hour talking, kissing again, talking some more. She thought he looked like De Niro.
“You talkin’ ta me?”
“Not ‘Taxi Driver,’ De Niro. Ich! ‘Heat’ De Niro.”
That’s what she’d thought when she looked back and noticed him at the chapel. He wasn’t about to argue the point, though he didn’t see it himself. Frankly, he didn’t care if Marla thought he was a dead ringer for a horse’s ass, as long as she was partial to horses asses.
It was about 3:00 PM. Joe had seventeen stops behind him with another seven to go. He was heading up to Commack from Bayshore along Crooked Hill Road when, just south of Suffolk County Community College, his winning streak came to an abrupt end. He had seen the unmarked Crown Vic in his sideview mirror when he passed St. Andrew, but paid it little mind. The tugboat could barely make the speed limit, let alone speed. Besides, he just figured it was an unmarked trooper on his way to the barracks along the Sagtikos Parkway.
The siren broke Joe’s reverie and the display of lights were several months too late for Christmas. Serpe pulled over to let the Crown Vic by. The Vic wasn’t having any. The cop at the wheel did a rather too dramatic skid in front of the tugboat.
“Asshole,” Joe muttered, already scrambling to get his license, the truck registration and insurance, and bills of lading to account for all the oil he had on board.
By the time he had collected his paperwork, the two cops were almost to the driver’s side door of the old Mack. Their faces were familiar and definitely unwelcome.
Detective Hoskins pounded on the door. “Outta the truck, shithead.”
Joe complied, full documentation in hand. “What the fuck?” He handed the paperwork to the detective who, in
