You play much poker?”
“What? I don’t get—”
Just then, the side door that led from the shop to the office swung open. A thirty-something biker type in coveralls and paint spray strolled in. He had a few days worth of black stubble on his cheeks, a badass Fu Manchu mustache on his lip, goggles on his forehead, and a respirator mask slung around his neck. He shot a quick look at Serpe and took a much longer one at the blond behind the desk. His expression made it plain that he didn’t much like Joe’s being there, but that he liked the blond’s harried and confused demeanor even less.
“Anything the matter?”
“No, this guy was just asking about how to get in touch with the oil company.”
Fu Manchu was skeptical. “Then why you look so upset?”
“That’s my fault,” Joe said. “I was talking about their driver getting murdered and I guess it kinda upset the young woman. I’m very sorry about that, miss. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“That’s okay, mister.” Her smile returned, but it now had a twitchy quality to it.
“They just pay the owner of the property to park their two trucks here. We got no connection to them at all,” Fu Manchu said to Joe, his tone making it clear that the discussion was at end.
“Well, thanks for the help,” Serpe said, waving the magnet at the blond and the tough guy. “Again, I’m sorry for upsetting you.” “Have a good day,” she said.
“Yeah,” Fu Manchu agreed, and when the door closed behind Joe added, “have a great fucking day, asshole.”
When Serpe got back into his car, he considered staking out the place. He might have been off the job for seven years, but wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t spot amateurs or catch the telltale odor of guilt. And the stink of guilt in that office easily overwhelmed the paint and body filler fumes. Guilt over what, was the question. Serpe dialed the number on the magnet and pulled away from the curb.
[Preferences]
F RIDAY, J ANUARY 7TH, 2005—EVENING
T hey started their evening as they had started their morning, seated across the office desk from each other in the Mayday trailer. They both looked a little worse for wear, but the day seemed to have played out tougher for Joe Serpe. He still felt awful about what had happened to Cameron Wilkes. The image of the dead man’s truck sitting out in front of the abandoned yard was stuck in his head nor was his mood much improved when he got in touch with the owner of Epsilon Energy. It seemed the dead driver, Albie, the man called him, had gotten murdered before he got to realize his American dream.
“Albie had a wife and boy he was saving to bring up from Mexico,” the owner said. “Also had put a binder down on a house in Brentwood. Fucking pity. Great guy and the hardest working driver I ever had. Woulda sold him the company someday too. I’m moving down to North Carolina with the wife in a few years. This isn’t a business for old men.”
No it wasn’t. It didn’t burn you out like cop work, but it was pretty rough on your body if not on your soul. Serpe sat and listened as Healy explained about how he had gotten back to the office in time to cash the drivers out and set things up for Saturday, their busy day. He listened with a little more interest when Healy described his meeting with Raiza Hines. “She cute?”
“I tell you that someone else’s been sniffing around about Rusty Monaco even before he was killed, that all computer access to his files has been blocked, and that’s what you’re gonna ask me: Is she cute? Yeah, Joe, she’s cute and twenty years younger than me and black.”
“Racist!”
“Fuck you, Serpe!”
“All right, forget her for now. Any idea why the cops are curious about a guy who’s been off the job for two years, a guy they were happy to see go?”
“Thing is, Joe, we can’t even be sure it
is
the cops looking at Monaco. Weird, huh?” “Worth looking into.” “That’s what Blades is
“What? I don’t get—”
Just then, the side door that led from the shop to the office swung open. A thirty-something biker type in coveralls and paint spray strolled in. He had a few days worth of black stubble on his cheeks, a badass Fu Manchu mustache on his lip, goggles on his forehead, and a respirator mask slung around his neck. He shot a quick look at Serpe and took a much longer one at the blond behind the desk. His expression made it plain that he didn’t much like Joe’s being there, but that he liked the blond’s harried and confused demeanor even less.
“Anything the matter?”
“No, this guy was just asking about how to get in touch with the oil company.”
Fu Manchu was skeptical. “Then why you look so upset?”
“That’s my fault,” Joe said. “I was talking about their driver getting murdered and I guess it kinda upset the young woman. I’m very sorry about that, miss. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“That’s okay, mister.” Her smile returned, but it now had a twitchy quality to it.
“They just pay the owner of the property to park their two trucks here. We got no connection to them at all,” Fu Manchu said to Joe, his tone making it clear that the discussion was at end.
“Well, thanks for the help,” Serpe said, waving the magnet at the blond and the tough guy. “Again, I’m sorry for upsetting you.” “Have a good day,” she said.
“Yeah,” Fu Manchu agreed, and when the door closed behind Joe added, “have a great fucking day, asshole.”
When Serpe got back into his car, he considered staking out the place. He might have been off the job for seven years, but wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t spot amateurs or catch the telltale odor of guilt. And the stink of guilt in that office easily overwhelmed the paint and body filler fumes. Guilt over what, was the question. Serpe dialed the number on the magnet and pulled away from the curb.
[Preferences]
F RIDAY, J ANUARY 7TH, 2005—EVENING
T hey started their evening as they had started their morning, seated across the office desk from each other in the Mayday trailer. They both looked a little worse for wear, but the day seemed to have played out tougher for Joe Serpe. He still felt awful about what had happened to Cameron Wilkes. The image of the dead man’s truck sitting out in front of the abandoned yard was stuck in his head nor was his mood much improved when he got in touch with the owner of Epsilon Energy. It seemed the dead driver, Albie, the man called him, had gotten murdered before he got to realize his American dream.
“Albie had a wife and boy he was saving to bring up from Mexico,” the owner said. “Also had put a binder down on a house in Brentwood. Fucking pity. Great guy and the hardest working driver I ever had. Woulda sold him the company someday too. I’m moving down to North Carolina with the wife in a few years. This isn’t a business for old men.”
No it wasn’t. It didn’t burn you out like cop work, but it was pretty rough on your body if not on your soul. Serpe sat and listened as Healy explained about how he had gotten back to the office in time to cash the drivers out and set things up for Saturday, their busy day. He listened with a little more interest when Healy described his meeting with Raiza Hines. “She cute?”
“I tell you that someone else’s been sniffing around about Rusty Monaco even before he was killed, that all computer access to his files has been blocked, and that’s what you’re gonna ask me: Is she cute? Yeah, Joe, she’s cute and twenty years younger than me and black.”
“Racist!”
“Fuck you, Serpe!”
“All right, forget her for now. Any idea why the cops are curious about a guy who’s been off the job for two years, a guy they were happy to see go?”
“Thing is, Joe, we can’t even be sure it
is
the cops looking at Monaco. Weird, huh?” “Worth looking into.” “That’s what Blades is
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