Case, Bob Healy had mangled the rules beyond recognition. By the time Ralph Abruzzi killed himself, there were no rules.
One more day, Healy told himself. One more day. Then he would go find Serpe himself and lay it out for him. It was almost funny, the retired detective thought, that had Serpe not delivered his oil that day, he would have taken this to his grave. During a long, distinguished career, Bob Healy had prided himself on never sinking to the depths the renegade cops he hunted were willing to go. Once, and only once, he had taken the plunge. And that one time had led to suicide and disgrace. He caught sight of himself in the hallway mirror, the ashes on his forehead still fresh. If Bob Healy was ever going to get clean, he would need Joe Serpe’s cooperation.
Black Gold’s offices were in an old construction trailer dumped unceremoniously in one corner of the adjoining yard. You wouldn’t think there could be much difference between rectangular plots of dirt where men parked big trucks, but you’d be wrong. Everything about this yard was second class to the one where Frank kept his trucks. Although he didn’t own the land, Frank had paid for a layer of crushed concrete to be spread and tamped down over the dirt of his yard. This way, the trucks didn’t create ruts in which water could collect. No water, no mud, no big patches of ice.
In summer, Steve Scanlon’s yard looked like something out of the Oklahoma Dust Bowl. In winter it was an obstacle course of mud puddles and black ice. It wasn’t even his yard, really. He was forced to share it with Harry’s Truck Repair and Hot Tar Paving.
“So what is it I can do for you, Steve?” Joe wanted to know.
“It’s the other way around, Joe. It’s what I can do for you.”
“Yeah.”
“I saw what just happened.”
“You and half the population of Ronkonkoma,” Joe said. “How’d you like to come drive for me?”
“Thanks, Steve, but I-”
“No, Joe, hear me out, okay? I’m thinking of expanding my operations. I’ve had two solid years and, truth be told, I need a guy who isn’t constantly working around his firehouse schedule like my other drivers.”
Joe understood. Steve made no secret of his distaste for the driving aspects of the business. He’d done his twenty years in the fire department, built Black Gold up, and didn’t want to work as hard anymore. And since 9/11, he had never been completely thrilled with the drivers he had recruited from his old firehouses. Nearly all New York City firemen, because of their flexible schedules, have second jobs. Flexible or not, there were just too many times Steve was stuck with driving chores.
“I’m listening.”
“Like I said, I’ve had some good years. I’m gonna invest in some new equipment. You and me both know my old Fords are falling apart. I’ve already got orders in for three new Sterling automatics. I’m gonna buy a piece of land with a building on it. I’m sick of this paying rent bullshit. If I could have a solid driver like you on board, it would free me up to work on my expansion. I’ll give you twelve bucks a stop and load, plus an extra fifty bucks a day if you route the other drivers for me. I would also think about getting you some health in-”
“Let me think about it, okay?” Joe cut him off.
It was a very tempting offer and one, if only for appearance sake, Joe couldn’t afford to dismiss out of hand. He couldn’t risk raising suspicions that his firing had been a sham.
“I really wish you’d take it.”
“I’m still taking in getting fired, Steve. Besides, I’ve been working six days a week, fifty weeks a year for the last three years running. Gimme a few weeks. Fair?”
“Fair enough. I’m telling you, Joe, I’m gonna be big. No reason you can’t come along for the ride.”
“We’ll see.”
They shook hands. As they did, Joe got an idea almost as crazy as the one he’d had the previous evening. He was so taken with it he neglected to let go of Scanlon’s mitt.
“Everything okay with you?”
“What? Oh!” Joe let go. “Steve, in the city, can the fire department do building inspections without prior notice? Like in an after hours club or something?”
“Shit yeah. Especially in those joints. They do all sorts of illegal crap like blocking exits, barring windows… All kindsa stuff that’ll get people killed. Remember that fire killed all them Salvadorans? Why you ask?”
Joe reached into his wallet and removed a scrap of paper. There was an address scrawled on the paper. He handed it to Scanlon.
“You still know anybody in the house that covers that neighborhood?” Joe asked.
“Of course,” Steve said. “My last firehouse was in Coney. The captain over in Flatbush’s a good buddy a mine. But that still don’t answer my question.”
“Steve, how would you like to gimme real incentive to come work for you?”
“What’s one thing got to do with the other?”
“I was just getting to that.”
Bob Healy had fallen asleep, the clicker wedged under his chin. He was never the type of man to nap, but since Mary’s passing he found rare comfort in the occasional afternoon snooze. Now that he wasn’t sleeping well at night, Healy was nodding off with far greater regularity. Unfortunately, he’d usually startle awake. He hadn’t startled awake this time. No, this time, it was the doorbell.
He let the clicker fall to the floor, rubbed his stiff neck, wiped the drool off his chin with the sleeve of his shirt. The bell demanded his attention. He started for the door, but went back to shut off “General Hospital.” It wouldn’t do, having to explain his new addiction.
“For chrissakes! I’m coming. I’m coming,” he screamed.
When he pulled back the door, he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. It was Joe Serpe. And before Healy could invite him in, Serpe said, “I need your help.”
Thursday, February 26th, 2004
February was back to prove spring would never come. One of the great advantages of sub-freezing cold is that it keeps the stink of garbage to a manageable level. Both men were thankful for that much as they crouched near the dumpsters in the alleyway behind Jerk-It-Out Caribbean Palace. Buzzed as they were with a potent mixture of fear and vengeance, neither’s stomach would have held up to the stench of rotting goat.
Still, they were getting impatient for their cue, dressed in their Halloween costume versions of firemen’s uniforms. It wasn’t the restaurant they were interested in, but the adjoining business. From Flatbush Avenue it seemed harmless enough-just another storefront with its front window and door blacked out. Maybe it was vacant and the “To Rent” sign had fallen away. Could be the windows were blacked out because there was construction going on and the owners didn’t want the public to get a peek until grand opening day. Could have been a lot of things that it wasn’t.
Joe Serpe knew exactly what it was and who was occupying the apartment above. Once Healy had agreed to help, Joe drove into Brooklyn and spent the better part of the evening parked across the street from the little storefront. Around 1:00 AM, a man fitting Cain’s description of Mr. French strolled out the front door of the club. If Joe had any doubts about his identity, the man’s nervous behavior gave him away. Joe followed him from across Flatbush Avenue. As the big man walked, he constantly checked behind him. He ducked into a doorway when he heard a siren. Walking back from the bodega, he kept in the shadows.
Click.
There it was. The lock release bar to the rear exit door of Rien had been pressed. Healy got out of his crouch, but Serpe held him back.
“Easy. We don’t want anyone to see us if we can avoid it. Especially not the firemen.”
“Right.”
Joe counted backwards from ten. “Let’s go!”
They walked quickly across the alleyway, Healy’s Glock at his side. It galled Joe more than he would have
