pipelines, storage tanks, trucks at the rack, gas stations, an oil truck making a delivery to a snow covered house as a happy family looked on. The mural began at the edge of a wall of green-tinted glass cubes and ended at the opposite edge of the same glass wall. There was a small sliding glass portal and a thick glass door cut into the cube wall.
Joe stepped up to the portal. A heavyset woman with big black hair sat at a black mica desk, answering phones and pecking at the keyboard of a PC. He was surprised to hear her accent, which was decidedly more Bay Ridge than Belarus. Serpe listened, not wanting to attract the receptionist’s attention until he at least figured out why he thought this was a good plan of action.
“Black Sea Energy, how may I direct your cawl? Please hold.”
“Black Sea Energy, how may I direct your cawl? Mista Levenshtein isn’t taking cawls right now. Do you wish to leave a message?”
Joe Serpe’s heart was beating out of his chest. He was thinking about what Healy had said about redemption, that all the good deeds he could do would never undo his past mistakes. He knew Christ would forgive him. Maybe he already had. Christ wasn’t the issue. Joe Serpe needed to forgive himself and there would be no forgiveness if he didn’t find the people who had murdered Cain.
He rapped on the glass with the replica detective’s shield he had made the year before his troubles began. The receptionist looked surprised as Joe pressed the blue and gold shield against the glass. She actually got up and strolled to the window. Though heavy, she had a pleasing shape and moved with unexpected grace.
“Can I help you?”
“Tell Mr. Levenshtein I’d like a few minutes of his time.”
“Name?”
“Detective Serpe.”
“Serpe,” she said licking her red lips, “that means snake, right?”
He winked at her. “For today it means detective. Let Mr. Levenshtein know I’m here, okay?”
“One minute.”
Serpe watched her make her way to a door at the rear of her office and press what looked to be an up elevator button. Joe could feel he was shaking and wondered if it would be as obvious to someone standing in the same room as him. Just as the receptionist pressed the up button, a voice came over the intercom.
“Maria, let the detective come up.”
Joe looked behind him and saw a tiny camera in the corner of the room just where the mural met the ceiling. Then he peered ahead of him into the receptionist’s office and saw another sleek camera in the corner. Maria reached under her desk and hit a hidden button. There was a click, Joe moved to the glass door and let himself in.
“Take the elevator up to the third floor,” Maria said, going back to her typing.
The elevator was the size of a double-wide coffin, but much better appointed. The walls of the little car were inlaid with angular designs of exotic woods like tiger maple and ebony. The floor was a solid piece of dark red granite. The rich facade, the mural, the opulence of the elevator did not prepare him for the starkness of Levenshtein’s office.
Of course, unlike the very confused Bob Healy, who was seated outside in his car trying to figure out what was going on, Joe Serpe had no idea who Levenshtein was. He had simply heard the receptionist say his name.
All the furnishings were strictly low-end Staples merchandise. The carpeting was industrial and a drab gray. The walls were lined with family photos, and pictures of gas stations, trucks, and what looked to be a small oil terminal. Like in Ken Bergman’s office at the group home, there was a bank of closed circuit monitors over the seated man’s shoulder. The only thing that hinted at Levenshtein’s position was the nameplate on his desk, half- buried beneath a mountain of files. sha Levenshtein dent and C.E. O
Even Serpe, never much for puzzles, could figure out he’d found the right man. But Levenshtein ignored Joe, continuing to work on the papers before him. Another minute went by before the man behind the desk snapped his files closed and spoke to his guest.
“What can I help you with, Detective?” He pronounced “h” in help as if it were “ch,” not unlike Mr. Kazakstan from the Blue Fountain Motel.
“I’m not sure,” Joe confessed. “But there are bodies piling up in my neighborhood and I think your company’s got something to do with it.”
This got Levenshtein’s attention. “Bodies! You talk nonsense, Detective. What would my company have to do with bodies?”
Instead of concocting some half-assed story out of partial truths and convenience, Joe Serpe sat down across from the old Ukranian Jew and laid out the facts dating back to Valentine’s Day. Through most of it, Levenshtein, a white-haired man in his mid sixties with work-rounded shoulders and cigarette-stained teeth, sat back in his chair and listened impassively. The man simply did not react to anything Serpe said.
Only twice, toward the very end of Joe’s account, did Levenshtein give any indication that he even heard what Serpe was saying. At the mention of the Blue Fountain he fumbled slightly, reaching for a cigarette. And when Joe referred to the law firm that had represented Steve Scanlon during his purchase of Mayday Fuel Oil, Inc., the old man’s lip seemed to quiver ever so briefly. But neither reaction was enough to take to the bank.
When Serpe finished, Levenshtein lit another cigarette, stood up and poured himself two fingers of vodka. He offered some to his guest, but Joe politely refused.
“Listen, Detective-”
“I’m not a detective. I used to be one, but now I don’t even play one on TV.”
“You have balls, Serpe. I give you that. When you come up in the world like I have, you admire balls almost more than any other quality in a person. But balls or no balls, you tell a fanciful story, no? What have you got, a license plate number and the word of a retarded girl?”
“To you, I guess, it might look that way.”
“And to the cops, to the court. Look, Serpe, it is true that we have several Navigators registered to the company and I can look that one of my old partner’s sons drove maybe a little reckless on Long Island and did not report an accident. If that is the case, we will make good on damages, but beyond this, I can say nothing. Black Sea Energy has a spotless record. Check. Go check with any agency we deal with. We can speak for every drop of petroleum product we receive and pump. As for motels, whores, and bookies. This is not the place to find them.”
Serpe stood. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
“As I say, I will look into this matter of the Navigator. Leave your information with the girl, Maria, as you go. Now I have work to do.”
Joe thanked the old man once more and rode the slowly sinking coffin back down to the lobby. He wrote his cell phone number down for Maria and left. He had taken a gamble and lost. As the door closed behind him, Serpe knew he had to find Healy.
Levenshtein sat at his desk watching the monitors. As soon as the front door closed, he got on the intercom.
“Maria, get my son and tell him to come here immediately. Then get Sergei on the phone. Now!”
Joe didn’t have to find Healy, because Healy found him.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” was how he greeted Serpe, as a passing D train raining sparks down on the avenue. The shadows of the El rendered moot by the setting sun.
“What?” Joe shouted above the squeals and rumble.
“Are you nuts?”
“I think I must be. I blew it, Bob.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I needed to shake things up. I just got that old feeling that if we didn’t do something now, it would all slip away. God, Healy, I was buzzing in there. I felt like a cop again, like a man.”
“Who did you see?”
“Some old guy named Levenshtein.”
“Misha Levenshtein?” Healy asked.
“I guess, yeah.”
