“I’m all right.”
“You probably will be, but you’re not now. Come on.” Healy walked Joe back to his car and help fold him into the front seat. He reached over him and put his shoulder belt on.
“Stay here. I’ve got to make some calls and get your car picked up.”
When he got back into the car, Joe seemed agitated.
“Frank’s protecting someone!”
“Yeah, you said that before.”
“I did? When? I don’t remember.”
“Try and keep calm, Joe. You got a nasty knock.”
“What happened to me?”
“You had a car accident.”
“I know that.”
“But do you remember the actual accident itself? You don’t remember a black car hitting you?” Healy asked.
“A black car? I remember leaving the jail and then… There’s like a jumble of stuff that doesn’t make any sense. What’s this about a black car?”
“You got black paint all over the passenger side of your car.” Suddenly, Joe was agitated once again. “Call Marla! Did you call Marla?”
“Marla?”
“A woman.”
“I figured that one out, but who is she, someone you’re dating?”
“Dating, yeah.”
“What’s her number?” Healy asked.
Joe handed Healy his cell phone and passed out.
When he came to, he was on a gurney being wheeled into an examining room. The lights hurt his eyes and he felt the world spinning. When he shut his eyes and the gurney came to a full stop, the spinning of the planet stopped as well. He could hear people speaking, thought he recognized Healy’s voice, Marla’s too, and a stranger’s. All he wanted was to be unconscious.
“Mr. Serpe. Mr. Serpe,” the strange voice called to him. “That’s it Mr. Serpe. Can you please sit up. Good. Good. Take it slowly. Slow.”
When he opened his eyes, he could make out Marla’s face, Healy’s and the stranger’s, a doctor, Joe guessed. But Joe had that disconnected feeling again, like he was locked away in a bunker in his own head watching himself watching. He could feel one eyelid being pulled back, his eye forced to follow a beam of light. Then the same routine was followed with his other eye. He was poked and prodded for a good ten minutes and then sent to X-ray.
“Is he all right, doc?” Healy asked. “His memory keeps going in and out.”
“Well, he’s got a concussion, but I suppose that’s no revelation to you. I’m just having x-rays taken as a precaution. I don’t really think he’s got a skull fracture. The cut is relatively minor. His memory. Let’s just say it’s not uncommon for there to be some measure of memory loss with this type of head trauma. His brain got thumped up against his skull pretty hard. He’s a little disoriented, but it’s nothing that rest shouldn’t take care of. I’ll prescribe some stuff for the pain and I’ll schedule him to either come back for a follow up visit with me or another physician.”
“As he heals, will any of his memory return?”
“I’ve got a very simple answer to a very complicated question. I don’t know. The brain isn’t like any other organ. He might regain some, but the closer you get to the actual impact, the less likely he is to recover those memories. This isn’t like TV or the movies. You don’t get whacked on the side of your head and wake up perfectly oriented and remembering everything clearly.” The doctor regarded Healy with suspicion. “Why are a few minutes of memory loss so important? It says here that Mr. Serpe received his injuries in a routine traffic accident.”
“Exactly,” Healy said. “He smacked his car into some trees and it’s probably not important. I was just wondering if maybe another car was involved that might have left the scene. That’s all.”
The doctor seemed satisfied with that explanation and excused himself, saying he’d check up on Joe when he came back from X-ray. Marla, who had sat quietly as Healy questioned the doctor, approached Bob. They had shared only a few words before Joe was brought in to be examined.
“I never got a chance to thank you for calling me,” she said.
“No problem. He asked me to call before he conked out.”
“Are you a friend of Joe’s?”
Healy laughed. “I’ve got a very simple answer to a complex question. I don’t know what I am to Joe.”
Now she laughed. “I guess that makes two of us. How do you guys know each other?”
“We were both city cops once.”
“Were you a detective like Joe?”
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“I was a detective, but not one like Joe.”
Marla opened her mouth to ask another question, but Healy cut her off.
“Listen, can you handle it from here? I’ve got somewhere I really have to be.”
“Sure. And thanks again, Mr. Healy.”
“Bob.”
“Bob,” she repeated, smiling. “I don’t know Joe very well, but I know him well enough to say you must mean something to him for him to call you first.”
“Thank you, Marla.” He offered her his hand. “Joe’s lucky to have you.”
She took his hand. “I think I’m lucky to have him.”
“I think you are, too.”
They met in front of Jerry’s Joint. Strohmeyer the Younger suggested they take his car the first few nights out so he could show Bob the routes he and his teams of vigilantes took. Healy agreed without complaint. Bob had already done enough driving for one day and his car smelled a little like vomit, courtesy of Joe Serpe.
They were into Farmingville within ten minutes. As he drove, Strohmeyer Jr., parroting his father, explained that their patrols served several purposes, only one of which was to bolster the citizenry’s-read that, white citizenry’s-morale, to set an example of how they could stand up for themselves. The other goals of these patrols were symbolized by what Pete Jr. called the three Ps: Protection.
Preemption. Prevention. It was all very lofty stuff that meant nothing. Healy didn’t really expect the kid to admit that the actual purpose of these patrols was probably provocation and violence.
He took a very circuitous route through town and into Ronkonkoma and back again. As he went, Pete Jr. pointed out what he called “trouble spots” to Healy. These were places known to be frequented by the “rice and bean” crowd. The trouble spots ranged in nature from bars and restaurants to churches and clinics.
Strohmeyer Jr. went on to say that at least three cars, two men in each, were out at any one time and that they patrolled the streets from sunset till about two in the morning. The AFA’s goal was to have at least eight cars on the streets and to extend the patrols until the groups for the shape-ups began forming at around six AM. Healy barely spoke, waiting for the right opportunity to begin broaching the subject of Reyes’ murder. Something he figured he’d have to do in small increments over the course of several nights.
“You’ll have to get a Nextel phone,” the kid said. “This way we’re all on one network and can communicate from car to car. We can help you with the cost of that. It’s one of the things we raise money for.”
“Great,” Bob said. “You don’t really expect much trouble on a night like this.”
“No, sir. The brown tide recedes in the cold and snow.”
Healy felt like he had his opening. “So when do you get your most action?”
The kid may have been built like a linebacker and not been very eloquent, but he was no fool either.
“Action? Look, Bob, like I said before, action is not what we’re about. We’re about-”
“I’m sorry, Pete.”
“That’s okay. My father warned me when we first started these patrols that some people would join in the hope of getting into fights. There’s a lot of pent up anger in this town and it only hurts our cause when people act stupidly.”
