turn, handed it to Kramer.
Kramer smirked, nodded and began strolling around the truck.
“Gotta love Suffolk County, they even make Homicide detectives do traffic stops. I guess they want you to earn that hundred grand plus, huh?”
Serpe knew he should just keep his yap shut, but couldn’t resist. The disparity in pay between city cops and Suffolk cops was a real sore point. Though it was only about thirty miles from the Queens border east across Nassau to the border of Suffolk Count-they might as well have been light years apart. They call the NYPD “New York’s Finest,” but they’re paid like New York’s finest migrant workers. Suffolk cops, on the other hand, were the highest paid police force in the state, maybe in the nation. It was perverse, almost inversely proportional to the threat level faced by the members of each force.
“It’s bad enough that I have to listen to that horseshit from my neighbors on the job in the city, but at least they’re cops,” Hoskins barked. “From the likes of you…” He spit on Joe’s boots.
Joe was tempted to wipe the spit off on Hoskins’ polyester pants by thrusting his boot into the detective’s groin. He couldn’t afford to be weak, not this time. Serpe didn’t need to be a theoretical physicist to figure out the mechanics of what was going on, that Ken Bergman from the group home had dropped a dime on him.
Joe knew he was taking a risk by freelancing, but he didn’t figure he’d get ratted out in less than twelve hours. It dawned on him that if he intended to take this thing any further, he was going to have to be more cautious, maybe even get a little backup.
“All right, guys, I get the point,” Joe surrendered, figuring to speed up the process of intimidation. “I fucked up. I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in.”
“What the hell you talkin’ about, Snake?” Hoskins chided. “Hey, Kramer, you know what this guy’s talkin’ about? We’re stoppin’ you for violations. Then, when we’re done writin’ you up, we’re gonna give you a police escort over to the D.O.T. checkpoint on Wicks Road. Over there, they’re gonna write you so many violations on this piece a shit you call a truck, both you and your boss are gonna have to take out second mortgages.”
The D.O.T., a trucker’s worst nightmare. The cops were hairy enough, but getting stopped by the Department of Transportation was the ultimate bureaucratic cluster fuck. They went over every inch of your vehicle: from tire tread to turn signals, from air horn to air brakes, from mirrors to manifolds. Then they ran your license, inspected your paperwork, matched your trip sheet against your bills of lading. Since 9/11 it had only gotten worse. The government had made a point of cracking down not only on vehicles that carried hazardous materials, but also on the men and women licensed to drive them.
“What you got, Kramer?” Hoskins was getting impatient. “Big stuff, Tim,” Detective Kramer called back to his partner. “Oh yeah, like what?”
“Better come see for yourself.”
When Hoskins and Joe Serpe got to the back of the truck, Kramer was fanning himself with three tickets.
“These are for you,” Kramer said, handing the three citations over to Serpe.
Joe scanned them and laughed. They were all trumped up bullshit, but he found one of the alleged violations particularly amusing. “Dirty taillights, huh?”
“Yup,” Kramer answered trying hard to keep a straight face. The detective walked up and wiped his fingers across the taillights on the rear of the tank. “Filthy,” he said, showing Joe his dirty fingers. “How’s a vehicle following close behind you going to see if you’re turning or coming to a full stop? We must endeavor to keep our truck clean, Mr. Serpe.”
Joe saluted. “Aye, aye. Now can we stop it here?” he urged Kramer. “I get that I stepped on your toes last night and I was outta line. I’m sorry. I really liked the kid and-”
“You’re not listening, Snake,” Hoskins interrupted. “Seems like a problem for you, listening. This got nothing to do with anything but your shitty truck. Kramer, give the man back his paperwork and let’s you and me escort him over to the D.O.T. Then maybe after them guys write his boss a few thousand bucks in tickets, Snake will learn to listen better when Detective Lieutenant Hoskins talks to him.”
Joe looked over to Kramer for a helping hand. Kramer shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Hey, I think Hoskins is a dick, too, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Next time, just do as the man says.”
“Follow us,” is what Kramer actually said.
Joe got back in the tugboat hoping that the detectives were satisfied they’d made their point and would just speed off. It was too much to hope for. Hoskins wasn’t a second chance kind of guy. It was time for the Christmas in February motorcade to begin. Kramer turned his siren on full bore and put on a dazzling display of lights. Too bad Joe left his Santa suit at home.
Maybe because the D.O.T. inspector resented being used by the Suffolk cops to make a point, he took some pity on Joe. The truth is, almost every truck on the road is in violation of one or more local, state or federal statute. Sometimes it’s major stuff, but mostly it’s minor crap. Between the Suffolk cops and the D.O.T., Mayday Fuel Oil, Inc. was in the hole for about a thousand bucks in tickets. That wasn’t the half of it. Between the downtime caused by having to yank the tugboat off the road to repair the violations and the cost of those repairs, Frank was going to be out another grand. Add this to the fact that it was now too late for Joe to finish his route, and the day was shaping up as a financial disaster.
Kramer and Hoskins were waiting for Joe as he pulled onto the south service road of the Long Island Expressway. They were a little less dramatic this time, Kramer signaling to Joe to come have a private word. Hoskins stayed in the Crown Vic.
“What now?” Joe wondered.
“I’m the junior partner here,” he explained. “Look, I don’t know if what Tim says about you is true or not. It’s not my business, but he got a hard-on for you like nobody’s business. And to tell you the truth, this case is none of your affair. Keep a low profile and we won’t have to see each other again. You keep poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, Hoskins is gonna have your balls on a plate. Trust me on this, he’ll pull your ass over every day and then he’ll start on your boss’ other trucks. He’s a slash and burn kinda guy, Serpe, and he gets results. He’ll take your boss down just to prove a point. Consider yourself warned.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Just stay the fuck outta this. I don’t enjoy this bullshit.”
“One more thing.”
“Yeah, what?” Kramer asked.
“Your taillights are filthy.”
A smile flashed across Kramer’s face. When he got back to the car, he didn’t linger. The rear wheels of the Crown Vic kicked up road sand and pebbles as it fish-tailed away. Joe Serpe watched the Ford disappear into the rush hour traffic. Now there was little doubt about what he would have to do.
“What did you just say?”
“I said, I quit, Frank.
“What the fuck for? We got your last stops covered.” Joe pointed to the array of tickets spread across his boss’ desk. “You didn’t do nothing wrong, Joe. I can’t let you do this.”
“It’s not up to you. And it’s not gonna stop here. Dixie’ll pick up the slack. He’ll like the extra money from the full time gig.”
“But-”
“But nothing, Frank. You saved me, buddy, and I’m not taking you down with me. I’ve known too many cops like this asshole Hoskins. I’ll be like a cancer to you.”
“I hate this shit.”
“Don’t worry,” Joe said, resting his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Maybe it’ll be just temporary.”
“You can’t just leave this thing with the kid alone?”
“Maybe if he hadn’t died in our yard, in your truck. Maybe if the cops could find this guy Toussant. Anyway, do you really want me to let it lie?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a bad liar, boss. Besides, I’m doing it for me, really. I figure I got debts to pay.”
“If that’s the way you want it…”
“Sometimes it’s not about wanting, but about the way it is. This is one of those times.” Joe cleared his throat. “One more thing…”
