“But this could clear more than one case,” Bob said. “Couldn’t hurt to put a few feathers in your own cap.”
“My cap’s just fine the way it is, bro. Besides, neither this, Toussant or that retarded guy’s case has anything to do with me. The D.A.’s going to start wondering why I’ve got my fingers up everyone else’s ass.”
“Because you’re ambitious, little baby brother.”
“Fuck you, dickhead.”
That was more like it, Bob thought. That was the George he knew.
“Try and get them to test the samples,” Bob urged. “Like Uncle Mick used to say, ‘I got a feelin’ in me gut.’”
“That was gas. Uncle Mickey was a drunk.” There was no arguing that.
The snow was falling at a pretty steady clip as Joe drove away from the jail complex and headed toward the Long Island Expressway. It was one of the great contradictions of the island that this far east the L.I.E. was anything but the world’s biggest parking lot. The only time it got real heavy out this way was when most of Manhattan moved to the Hamptons for the summer. Then, on Friday nights heading east and on Sunday nights heading west, the expressway was as ridiculously crowded as those sections closer to the city.
Joe pulled onto the expressway completely unchallenged by other traffic. There were a few red taillights visible in front of him, but they were almost a full exit ahead. Accustomed as he was to driving in this weather, Serpe enjoyed the solitude and peacefulness it afforded him. It was one of the things he liked most about driving the tugboat, his time alone. So with the Moody Blues proclaiming Timothy Leary’s death and Joe feeling he had the world to himself, he moved into the center lane.
He tried to think of who Frank was protecting. He had to be covering for someone. Short of actually having executed Toussant, it was the only explanation for Frank’s self-destructive bent. Clearly, Frank was scared and not for himself. It couldn’t be Tina and the kids, he thought. You’d really have to take liberties with the word protection to consider the hell Frank was putting them through a good thing. No, it had to be-
Bang!
Joe’s car fish-tailed wildly. He fought hard to steady the car, his heart pounding, adrenaline pumping. A blow out? He didn’t think so. He had the car just back under control when-
Bang!
This time he felt it coming, caught a streak of black in his side view mirror. A Lincoln Navigator with deeply- tinted windows slammed into his rear passenger side quarter panel, causing the fish-tailing to start all over again. Christ, had he been that far lost in his own thoughts that he was unaware of another vehicle so close to him? You had to love these assholes in their fucking SUV’s. Just because the damned thing had four-wheel drive and weighed more than a tank, didn’t mean you could drive it like one.
Joe righted the ship once more. He slowed to allow room for the Navigator’s driver to regain control of his vehicle and pull to the shoulder. But Serpe had misread the situation. The Navigator hadn’t accidentally slid into him. As Joe slowed, the Navigator swung out right and turned sharply back left, its nose smacking hard into the rear wheel well of the Accord. There was no controlling the car now. It spun out, turning circles on the slippery road surface before riding onto the grass that divided the east and westbound lanes. Oddly, that seemed to help Joe get the car back under his command.
He hit the gas, shot off the grass back up onto the roadway, and got it up to eighty-five, but the Navigator was a brute and was back at his side within seconds. Joe’s only hope was to try to buy some time until he got to an exit or to a more crowded area of the expressway where the Navigator’s actions would be restricted by the presence of other vehicles. Problem was, any delaying tactics he might use were nearly as dangerous as the Navigator. The road surface was so slick that he couldn’t afford to push the speed much more, nor could he bob and weave. He waited. When he saw the Navigator swing out wide right once again, preparing to go for his wheel well, he slammed on his brakes.
Unfortunately, the car did not stop. Instead it skidded uncontrollably, but all was not lost. Because the Accord’s rear end swung left just as the Navigator gored it, the big Lincoln’s hit was off target, barely clipping the Honda. Now it was the Navigator that was out of control, spinning, nearly tipping over on its side, sliding into the grass. When Joe came out of his skid, he raced to the approaching exit. He sped off the road, around one curve and then another. The big Lincoln was nowhere in sight, but Joe was paying too much attention to what was not behind him at the cost of missing what lay ahead. The Honda hopped the curb and slammed into a clump of trees. Bang!
This time it was the air bag. But because of the angle at which the car had jumped the curb, Joe’s head snapped sideways and thumped against the door glass. At first he just felt sort of disconnected, more an observer of what was going on than a participant. Then came the pain. It didn’t last long. Blackness fell down on him, and he had no weapons to fight it.
Healy had gotten a call, but not from Serpe. It was Strohmeyer Jr., calling on the cell to let him know where to meet tonight. Healy had been purposefully vague about his address and had made sure to give out only his cell number as the exchange wasn’t traceable to a particular town. He was under no illusion that he’d be able to hide the fact that he didn’t live anywhere near Farmingville or Ronkonkoma. He had already worked out a cover story to tell if need be. In any case, he didn’t figure the AFA was real choosy about where their recruits came from. He was white, had half a brain, and carried a gun. What else did they need?
The house phone rang.
“Healy,” he said.
There was an unnatural silence on the other end. Healy thought he could hear labored breathing and some sort of movement. “Hello,” he shouted.
“Healy?”
“Serpe, is that you? Are you drunk?”
“Healy,” the voice repeated. “Where are you, Joe?”
“I’m not sure. I smacked up my brother’s car.”
“Are you okay?”
“My head’s all foggy and I’m bleeding a little. Come and get me.”
“Where are you?”
“I remember leaving the Suffolk County Jail and it was snowing pretty bad. Frank’s scared. He’s protecting somebody, but I don’t think it’s-”
“Okay, Joe, let’s stay on point here. Try to remember where you are.”
“I guess I’m near the L.I.E.”
“That’s something,” Healy said. “You were headed west on the L.I.E. from Riverhead. We can work with that. How bad are you bleeding?”
“Not bad. I got a bad headache and-”
Healy thought he heard Joe puking up his guts. “Should I call the cops?”
“Just come get me.”
After he hung up with Healy, Joe tried Marla’s number and got her machine. This is the message he left: “It’s me. I love you. Don’t be mad.” He snapped the phone shut, knelt over, and emptied out the remainder of his breakfast and lunch.
An hour after putting down his house phone, Bob Healy pulled up to what was left of Vinny Serpe’s 2000 Honda Accord. He couldn’t believe what bad shape the car was in for what looked to be a low speed run-in was some scrub pines. When he clicked his flashlight on, Bob noticed streaks of black paint all across the crushed passenger side of the Honda. Well, that explained it, Healy thought. There had been an impact with a black vehicle that launched Serpe’s Honda over the curb. If there were skid marks, they were obscured by the snow and there was no black car in sight.
“Come on, Joe,” Healy said, pulling Serpe out of the driver’s seat. The stink of vomit was intense.
“Bob?” Joe asked, voice thick, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Yeah, it’s me. Let me have a look at your cut.”
It was hard enough to see anything through Joe’s thick hair, and the darkness wasn’t helping any. The flashlight wasn’t of much use either as the blood had dried and caked up.
“Okay, I’m taking you to the ER at Stony Brook. I don’t think you’re bleeding anymore, but I think you’ve got a concussion.”
