Joe Serpe hesitated. Experience had been a hard teacher. Frank was a tough guy, but not a violent man. Then again, if six years ago you’d’ve asked Joe if he would have suspected Ralphy of being a thief and a cokehead… Joe had worked for Frank for three years, considered him a close friend, but never knew he had a gun and a carry permit. And Joe understood just how deeply Frank felt about Cain. There was a special bond between them. He’d known people to kill for less, a lot less. The bottom line was, you could never know someone well enough or closely enough to rule them out. You couldn’t know yourself that well.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I wanna believe he didn’t have it in him, but I guess maybe he did.”
Bob Healy strolled down Horseblock Road with a purpose. He knew Joe Serpe would have been much better suited to the dog and pony show he was about to perform, but that just wasn’t the way things had shaken out. Though Serpe had once been a department legend for his undercover work-they didn’t call him Snake simply because of his name-it wasn’t as if Healy was completely inexperienced in going this route.
Early on in his career at I.A., he’d worked a big case against a cop believed to be selling intelligence, uniforms, and radios to the Westies. Healy had set himself up as a rogue IRA man who’d come over to the states to start a new criminal enterprise. It was a way, he told the bad cop, to fund activities in the North and pocket a little change for himself. In the end, Healy had been so convincing that the bad cop introduced him to several of his underworld associates. The sting led to a truckload of indictments. The case helped make Healy’s reputation. But that was two decades past and this time there would be no backup, no safety net. He would be truly on his own.
Healy was no more than five feet from the protesters when a young Hispanic man, another of the anonymous day laborers, stepped into his path. Both men went down in a heap. The protesters took notice. Even the nasty- faced man with the bullhorn turned to look.
“Lo siento,” the Hispanic man said, getting quickly to his feet. “Speak English,” Healy barked back.
The young man offered Healy a hand to help him stand. Healy slapped it away.
“I don’t need your kinda help.” Healy struggled to his feet. “Permiso, senor. Lo siento.”
“Fuck you, Pedro. Go the fuck back to Mexico or wherever it is you came from.”
Fuck and fuck you were universal, requiring no translation, and the young man shoved Healy. That really got the protesters attention. At least five of them, led by Bullhorn, came to Healy’s aid. But before they could reach him, Healy lifted his pant leg to show the young man the short barrel. 38 strapped to his ankle.
“Come here and shove me again, ya fuckin’ wetback. I’ll stick this gun up your ass.”
The day laborer knew when to run and took off across Horseblock, nearly getting whacked by, of all things, an oil truck. Out of the corner of his eye, Healy could see the protesters focus on his revolver.
“You all right?” asked Bullhorn in an accent that was definitely more Phoenix than Flushing.
“Yeah,” Healy said, brushing off his pants. “Can you believe the balls on that guy? Government’s a damn joke. You build your fence an inch too high and they’re all over you with fines and penalties. These jokers here,” he pointed across the street, “they come here illegally and they wanna use my tax money to build them a hiring hall. I’ll tell ya, the world’s upside down. I’m only glad my dad isn’t alive to see it.”
Bullhorn held out his right hand. “Pete Strohmeyer, East Coast organizer for America for Americans.”
Healy took the hand, shook it, but regarded Strohmeyer warily. “Bob Healy,” he said without enthusiasm.
“That was quite a nice little speech you just gave there, Mr. Healy.”
“Ah, I’m just disgusted is all.”
“We’re having a recruitment meeting this evening at the VFW hall in town. Why don’t you come and see what we’re about?”
“Nah,” Bob said, “I’ve never been much of a joiner.”
“Now’s the time to start joining, Bob. We’re being invaded and we could use good men like you, men not afraid to stand up and be counted. Here.” Strohmeyer handed Healy a leaflet and pamphlet. “This will explain some about the problems we face, the lies the media tell about us, and outlines our strategies for victory. But I would really like it if you could come to the meeting.”
“We’ll see,” Healy said, flipping through the pamphlet. “Maybe.”
“Excuse me, but I’ve got to get back to work. It was a pleasure meeting you, Bob. I hope to see you this evening.”
With that, Strohmeyer led his gang of five back to their usual spot and began screaming at the day laborers across Horseblock Road. Healy smiled to himself. Serpe would have been proud.
Joe Serpe knew Healy was right, that he should stay away from the Fourth Precinct, but he was getting antsy, feeling guilty. Calling Tina, Frank’s wife, had only made it worse. She’d picked up the phone, cursing, threatening, begging for the reporter to please just leave them alone. That near ripped Joe in half. It had been the same for his wife. The constant assault by the press had driven her to a nervous breakdown. They don’t call it that anymore, a nervous break down, but it was a perfect description of what his wife had gone through. She was never the same after that.
It had taken a minute for Joe to calm Tina down and convince her that he wasn’t a reporter. When she finally realized it was Joe, she broke down, sobbing loudly into the phone. Crime, he thought, had a lot of unseen victims. They always try to scare kids out of criminal activity by taking them to prison and talking to lifers. He wondered if spending some time with women like Tina and his wife wouldn’t be more effective. His heart ached. And for the first time he understood that Bob Healy was right. All the good deeds he could perform would never make up for the pain he’d caused his wife.
When her sobs slowed to a manageable pace, Tina explained how she’d basically barricaded herself and the kids inside the house. She said that several news trucks had set up shop on the street and the chiming of the front doorbell was constant. Joe could hear the bong bong bong in the background. Nor had the phone stopped ringing, but she was afraid to take it off the hook in case Frank was calling.
Joe distracted Tina by making her write down the names, addresses and phone numbers of several lawyers. He told her to get out of the house, to go to a relative’s or a motel, and that if she got word to him where they were, he’d get word to Frank. When she began to argue, Joe put his foot down.
“Tina, you’ll want to listen to me about this. I lived through it. My family did, anyway. You know Frank didn’t murder anyone and he’ll be back sooner than later. If you want him to have a wife and family to come home to, save yourself and the kids and get away from there.”
“It may already be too late,” she said.
Joe ignored that, chalking it up to Tina’s being distraught and exhausted.
That had been hours ago. He had tried Marla’s cell, but she was working and hadn’t gotten back to him. Healy was off doing whatever it was he was doing to track down leads on the Reyes murder. The only one not doing anything was Joe. Idleness never suited him.
He showered, inspecting the damage to his legs. He was walking a little easier and some of the swelling had gone down. The bruising, however, had spread out from the points of contact and had begun to resemble psychedelic finger paintings. Peter Maxx could probably have sold his legs for a bundle.
Dressed and out the door, he didn’t quite make it to his car.
“Where you goin’ with that limp, Snake?” Detective Lieutenant Hoskins was anxious to know.
Serpe played dumb. “What’s this about?”
“Your boss, he killed the frog nigger.”
Joe must have looked as disgusted as he felt.
“Come on, Snake, what’s a matter? You never heard the word frog before?” Hoskins laughed at his own rapier wit. “You used to be a city cop, so don’t get all squeamish on me. Get a few drinks in Ralphy and every other word out of his mouth was nigger. You gonna tell me a Brooklyn guinea like you never used the N-word?”
Apparently, God had chosen Monday March 1st, 2004 as the day for Joe Serpe to be confronted with the worst aspects of his past life. First it was Tina dredging up what he had made his own wife and son suffer through. Now this.
“You’re not here to discuss the Rainbow Coalition, or Ralphy or whether the greasers in my neighborhood whispered nigger in the schoolyard. And where’s Kramer, anyway?”
“Kramer, maybe he’s home polishing his yarmulke. How the fuck should I know? This is a little unofficial visit, anyways.”
“Unofficial? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
