said, “Fuck if it isn’t Joe ‘the Snake’ Serpe.” Not exactly the stuff friendships are made of.
Who knows? Maybe if the hose monkey hadn’t been murdered that same night or if Healy—long guilt-ridden over evidence he had kept from Serpe about the case against him—hadn’t showed up at the kid’s funeral service to talk to Joe, they would have stayed enemies forever. In a weird way, Joe and Bob owed Tim Hoskins a thank you, because when the detective showed up at the funeral too, he made himself their common enemy. As the old proverb goes: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Generally, Joe tried not to focus on the past. Loss had taught him to look ahead, but he guessed it was sort of inevitable that he should think about Healy as he drove into Kings Park, taking the same route he had on that miserable, snowy Valentine’s Day.
Serpe knew even less about Epsilon Energy than he had known about Armor Oil. He had seen their trucks on the road every now and again, but there were only a very few areas where Mayday and Epsilon territories overlapped. Epsilon rarely ventured south of the LIE to make stops nor did they deliver east of Setauket. Like Armor, Epsilon didn’t load at the big Holtsville terminal. They filled up their trucks at a tiny satellite terminal by the Long Island Railroad station in Kings Park. The one tank terminal was owned by a consortium of full service companies who used the location to refill their trucks that were too far north to drive back and forth to Holtsville. As Epsilon’s yard was located very near the terminal and Healy’s home, it was probably the one oil company in Suffolk County Bob was more familiar with than Joe. Oddly enough, Healy’s house was Mayday Fuel’s only remaining stop in King’s Park. In a push to maximize profits and limit costs, Joe and Bob had given up most of their North Shore stops west of St. James in order to develop their routes further south and east. Good thing for them Frank Randazzo hadn’t had that same idea the year before.
Epsilon Energy, it turned out, didn’t even have a yard of its own. The company parked its trucks in the back of a body shop across the road from the Kings Park Fire Department. When Joe went inside the shop to ask about where he could find Epsilon’s offices, he was greeted by a young woman who couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of her teens. She was cute, on the heavy side, but had a great smile.
“What can I do for you, mister?”
“I see Epsilon Energy parks their trucks here.”
That knocked the greatness right out of her smile and she began nervously combing back the right side of her long blond hair. Serpe couldn’t help but notice the splint on her index finger.
“What happened to your hand?” Joe asked.
She hesitated as if not understanding the question. “Oh, this,” she said finally, letting go of her hair and looking at her hand. “Can you believe it, I slammed it in my car door?”
Serpe didn’t, but he acted as if he did. “Amazing the clutzy things we do to ourselves, right? So about Epsilon.”
“What about ‘em?”
“Shame about their driver getting killed.”
“I don’t know their drivers and I don’t know anything about what happened.”
“You knew he was murdered, didn’t you?”
“I guess, but look, I’m not even here when they come to pick up their trucks or nothing and I’m almost always gone when they get back.”
“But not always?”
“What?”
“You’re here sometimes when their trucks come back in,” Joe pressed.
“I guess.”
“Where’d you hear about Alberto getting killed?” “The paper.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know their drivers.”
She didn’t say anything, but fumbled through the top drawer of her desk and came out with a refrigerator magnet shaped like a tanker truck. “Here’s how to get in touch with Epsilon,” she said, handing the magnet to Joe. Her hand was shaking more than just a little bit.
“Thanks.
Who knows? Maybe if the hose monkey hadn’t been murdered that same night or if Healy—long guilt-ridden over evidence he had kept from Serpe about the case against him—hadn’t showed up at the kid’s funeral service to talk to Joe, they would have stayed enemies forever. In a weird way, Joe and Bob owed Tim Hoskins a thank you, because when the detective showed up at the funeral too, he made himself their common enemy. As the old proverb goes: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Generally, Joe tried not to focus on the past. Loss had taught him to look ahead, but he guessed it was sort of inevitable that he should think about Healy as he drove into Kings Park, taking the same route he had on that miserable, snowy Valentine’s Day.
Serpe knew even less about Epsilon Energy than he had known about Armor Oil. He had seen their trucks on the road every now and again, but there were only a very few areas where Mayday and Epsilon territories overlapped. Epsilon rarely ventured south of the LIE to make stops nor did they deliver east of Setauket. Like Armor, Epsilon didn’t load at the big Holtsville terminal. They filled up their trucks at a tiny satellite terminal by the Long Island Railroad station in Kings Park. The one tank terminal was owned by a consortium of full service companies who used the location to refill their trucks that were too far north to drive back and forth to Holtsville. As Epsilon’s yard was located very near the terminal and Healy’s home, it was probably the one oil company in Suffolk County Bob was more familiar with than Joe. Oddly enough, Healy’s house was Mayday Fuel’s only remaining stop in King’s Park. In a push to maximize profits and limit costs, Joe and Bob had given up most of their North Shore stops west of St. James in order to develop their routes further south and east. Good thing for them Frank Randazzo hadn’t had that same idea the year before.
Epsilon Energy, it turned out, didn’t even have a yard of its own. The company parked its trucks in the back of a body shop across the road from the Kings Park Fire Department. When Joe went inside the shop to ask about where he could find Epsilon’s offices, he was greeted by a young woman who couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of her teens. She was cute, on the heavy side, but had a great smile.
“What can I do for you, mister?”
“I see Epsilon Energy parks their trucks here.”
That knocked the greatness right out of her smile and she began nervously combing back the right side of her long blond hair. Serpe couldn’t help but notice the splint on her index finger.
“What happened to your hand?” Joe asked.
She hesitated as if not understanding the question. “Oh, this,” she said finally, letting go of her hair and looking at her hand. “Can you believe it, I slammed it in my car door?”
Serpe didn’t, but he acted as if he did. “Amazing the clutzy things we do to ourselves, right? So about Epsilon.”
“What about ‘em?”
“Shame about their driver getting killed.”
“I don’t know their drivers and I don’t know anything about what happened.”
“You knew he was murdered, didn’t you?”
“I guess, but look, I’m not even here when they come to pick up their trucks or nothing and I’m almost always gone when they get back.”
“But not always?”
“What?”
“You’re here sometimes when their trucks come back in,” Joe pressed.
“I guess.”
“Where’d you hear about Alberto getting killed?” “The paper.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know their drivers.”
She didn’t say anything, but fumbled through the top drawer of her desk and came out with a refrigerator magnet shaped like a tanker truck. “Here’s how to get in touch with Epsilon,” she said, handing the magnet to Joe. Her hand was shaking more than just a little bit.
“Thanks.
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