“Dad!” the son screamed.
Both Healy and the father turned slightly. Things had changed. Now not only was the son holding a flashlight in one hand, but a nine millimeter of his own in the other.
“Drop it, Dad, please.”
“Son, you’re not supposed to be armed.”
“I wasn’t supposed to be a lot of things. I know I have been a terrible disappointment to you and I am sorry.”
“Son-”
“Please, Dad. I can’t let you do this. I won’t!”
But Peter Strohmeyer Sr. was a stubborn man, a man who thought he always knew the right course. He swung his hands back into firing position.
Bang!
Never in the history of time had a fraction of a second lasted so long. The pain in Healy’s ear vanished. He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in his breath as he waited for the impact. He knew what to expect. He would be knocked back some, then there would a burning, searing pain. If it hit bone and flattened, the bullet would slow down, gouging out piles of flesh as it went. Or if he were lucky it might be a thru and thru, passing in and out before he could let out his breath. But he knew good fortune was not likely to be on his side. Strohmeyer Sr. was not the type of man to fire once and be done. He would finish Healy up with a headshot just to make sure.
Someone was screaming. It wasn’t Healy. Bob exhaled, opened his eyes. Peter Sr. was rolling on the pine needles, his left hand grabbing his right wrist, blood oozing out between the fingers. Healy ran to the father, kicked his automatic into the woods and grabbed the flashlight. He retrieved his. 38.
“I’m sorry for all of this, Mr. Healy,” the kid said. “I just want Cathy to see how much she means to me.”
“It’s okay, Pete,” Healy tried to calm him. “Sometimes things get out of hand and we can’t control them. The jury will understand. Let me call the cops and get an ambulance for your dad.”
Peter Strohmeyer Jr. turned the flashlight up so that it illuminated his face from the chin up. “I am the jury.”
“Take it easy, Pete, I’ll see the cops treat you okay.”
“Mr. Healy, is it true that when cops kill themselves they use only one bullet in the chamber so that if their kids find them, the children can’t hurt themselves?”
“Son!” the father shouted. “Stop this now and hand over your weapon to Healy.”
“Kid, don’t do anything stu-”
Tears were streaming over Pete Jr’s face. “Just answer me, please,” he begged.
“Yes, Pete, that’s how they do it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Healy.”
Before Bob Healy could react, the kid placed the muzzle of the nine millimeter to the underside of his chin, halfway to his Adams apple and blew a hole threw the top of his skull. The night grew even darker, but would never be quite so silent.
Serpe’s eyes fluttered open. His head didn’t feel half bad. Marla had curled herself up in his arms. It felt so natural, her there, almost a part of him. But even new love can’t stand in the way of a man’s bladder. Gently, he slid out from beneath her and answered nature’s call. When he got back, he checked the clock. It was nearly four in the morning, Marla hadn’t stirred, and he didn’t feel much like sleep. He knew he would go back to watching the DVD eventually, but not yet. He paced around her apartment, went into the kitchen, poured himself some orange juice. When he closed the refrigerator, something got his attention. He found himself staring at the Chinese takeout menu Marla had magnetized to the fridge door. “Fuck!”
He ran to the TV and switched it on, got the DVD remote, hit play. The silent version of Frank’s greatest hits started playing once again. Joe was helpless with remotes and couldn’t stomach the thought of watching the whole thing again just to get to the part where Blondie makes her debut.
“Marla,” he whispered, kissed her cheek. “Please get up.”
“What time is it?
“It’s time to get up.”
She sat up, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just need your help with the clicker.”
She sneered, but dutifully took the remote from him. “What?”
He explained about needing to advance through the DVD until Blondie showed up. Within two minutes, Marla had advanced the video to the point Joe wanted and handed the clicker back to him. He hit play. On screen, the two woman were going down on each other, black hair on top. Then they reversed positions.
“There!” Joe said. “Freeze it!”
“There what? All I see is her fat ass.”
“Not her ass. What’s on her ass.”
“A tattoo? What about it?”
“Can you make out what the tattoo is?” he asked. “Writing.”
“Yeah, but it’s not English, is it?”
Marla got up close to the screen. “No, I think it’s Cyrillic.”
“Like Russian?”
“Like Russian,” she agreed. “I could probably get it translated for you by someone in my family. We’re Russian Jews on my mother’s side.”
“What, are you going to bring this video to an old age home? You’d kill half the residents. What would you say: ‘Hey, anybody know what the Russian on the chubby hooker’s ass means?’”
“What am I going to do with you, Joe Serpe?” she wondered, leaning over and kissing his cheek. She got up and went into the bedroom. When she came out, she held a sketch pad and a charcoal pencil.
The cops didn’t have as much trouble finding the spot as Healy anticipated. Within ten minutes of the first blue and white’s arrival, it seemed like half the official vehicles in the county were there. The first cop had a little difficulty grasping what he had walked into and, upon reflection, Healy understood why. Even in New York City, cops don’t usually show up at crime scenes that involve a homicide, a suicide, and two other victims with gunshot wounds.
Healy was forced to repeat his version of the evening’s events so many times to so many people that the story started taking on a life of its own. He felt as if he were repeating folklore and not detailing things to which he had actually been a party. With each telling, the things he described got further and further away. At least the EMT didn’t seem particularly interested in anything other than bandaging his earlobe and raw hands.
Thursday, March 4th, 2004
Marla had never been to a motel so early in the morning, nor had she ever blown off work two days running. She wasn’t quite certain which dubious accomplishment she was most proud of. At the moment she was leaning toward the former, because she had the added honor of being the one to rent the room while Joe kept his head below dashboard level in the front seat of her car. He wasn’t willing to risk being spotted.
“Room 113,” Marla said, tossing the key on his lap. “Great, my lucky number. Can I use your cell phone? I want to check in with Healy and see how last night went.”
“I knew I forgot something. Where’s yours?”
“When I got Tina’s message about Frank, I ran out of my house. Then when the car service came, I just forgot it. I guess I was still a little discombobulated.”
“Whatever happened, I’m sure it can wait.” Marla had actually never been more wrong about anything in her life, but because Healy’s excitement had happened so early in the morning it didn’t make Newsday or any of the city papers. And because Joe wanted to make absolutely certain Marla understood exactly what he was up to, they
