told her to go upstairs.
Joe tested the basement door. It wouldn’t budge. He pressed his shoulder to it. It was barricaded. He didn’t bother calling to Ralph. In the garage, he found the pump action shotgun clipped beneath the workbench. Ralphy kept it just in case. Joe kept one in his garage as well. Along the way, most cops get threatened with this or that. In Narcotics, you take those threats more seriously.
Joe aimed the shotgun at where he guessed the hinges on the other side of the door would be.
Cha-ching. Bang! Cha-ching. Bang!
The door did not fall immediately away. He put the shotgun down and pressed his palms against the top of the door and pushed. The door swung up and smacked into his shins.
Christ!
Ralphy had moved the pool table against the door. Joe pushed the door onto the pool table slate and climbed over it. Ralphy was in his favorite recliner, the back of his head spread over the chair and the wall behind.
Remembering that day he found Ralphy was like a shiv in the back, and he let Healy know he wasn’t pleased.
“Why, goddammit?” he barked.
“Why what?” Healy asked.
“Why now, after all these years? Why tell me this?”
“My wife died six months ago.”
“That’s too bad, but what’s that got to do with—”
“Makes you rethink things,” Healy admitted, “when you lose somebody close.”
Joe thought of Vinny. “What happened?”
“Pancreatic cancer. She went quick.”
“Sorry.”
“Mary, that was her name. She was brave about it, but I could see in her eyes she felt it was so unfair. I wished she would have said it just once. Then maybe.”
“You’d be able to live with it.”
“Exactly.”
“My brother, Vinny—”
“The fireman?” Healy remembered him from court. A big, quiet fellow, but always there.
“Yeah, he died at Ground Zero.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I guess there’s a lot of shit we carry around with us,” Joe said.
The awkward silence returned, but it was worse now. What was the protocol? Who would leave first? Was there anything more that needed to be said? Joe Serpe made the first move. He threw a five dollar bill on the table and stood to go.
“I guess I appreciate your telling me,” he said, unable to look Healy in the eye.
“Thanks for hearing me out.”
“Should we shake hands?”
Healy smiled up at Joe. “I don’t suppose it would kill us.”
They shook, but to Joe it still felt slightly like treason. Scars may lighten, but never vanish. Healy lingered. He knew there was one more thing he should have said, that he would someday have to say to Joe Serpe, but the talk had turned to Mary and Vinny Serpe. He had missed his moment. Still, he hoped he would be able to sleep a bit better tonight.
Monday
February 23rd, 2004
TRIPLE D CLUB
T he flowers had turned black with truck soot, withered or frozen in the corner of the oil yard. The people from the group home had come the day after the kid’s funeral and laid them out as a memorial to Cain. It was a recent phenomenon, this building of makeshift memorials—flowers and crosses at the roadside wherever an icy patch and oak tree had conspired to introduce an immortal teenager to his Maker. To Joe Serpe’s way of thinking, a memorial was no more out of place at the scene of a murder than at the scene of an accident. They were equal wastes of time. He was quite sure God paid them little mind.
Even the bits and strands of yellow crime scene tape that remained had aged years in the week gone by since he and Frank had climbed into the tank and found Cain’s body. The cops had impounded the International and it was unclear when it would be returned. In a bizarre twist that only modern life can produce, Frank now needed that truck more than ever. Mayday Fuel was benefiting from what politicians would call the “sympathy vote.” The company’s phone was ringing off the hook.
Neighboring oil companies had picked up the slack, making Mayday’s deliveries until Frank could
Joe tested the basement door. It wouldn’t budge. He pressed his shoulder to it. It was barricaded. He didn’t bother calling to Ralph. In the garage, he found the pump action shotgun clipped beneath the workbench. Ralphy kept it just in case. Joe kept one in his garage as well. Along the way, most cops get threatened with this or that. In Narcotics, you take those threats more seriously.
Joe aimed the shotgun at where he guessed the hinges on the other side of the door would be.
Cha-ching. Bang! Cha-ching. Bang!
The door did not fall immediately away. He put the shotgun down and pressed his palms against the top of the door and pushed. The door swung up and smacked into his shins.
Christ!
Ralphy had moved the pool table against the door. Joe pushed the door onto the pool table slate and climbed over it. Ralphy was in his favorite recliner, the back of his head spread over the chair and the wall behind.
Remembering that day he found Ralphy was like a shiv in the back, and he let Healy know he wasn’t pleased.
“Why, goddammit?” he barked.
“Why what?” Healy asked.
“Why now, after all these years? Why tell me this?”
“My wife died six months ago.”
“That’s too bad, but what’s that got to do with—”
“Makes you rethink things,” Healy admitted, “when you lose somebody close.”
Joe thought of Vinny. “What happened?”
“Pancreatic cancer. She went quick.”
“Sorry.”
“Mary, that was her name. She was brave about it, but I could see in her eyes she felt it was so unfair. I wished she would have said it just once. Then maybe.”
“You’d be able to live with it.”
“Exactly.”
“My brother, Vinny—”
“The fireman?” Healy remembered him from court. A big, quiet fellow, but always there.
“Yeah, he died at Ground Zero.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I guess there’s a lot of shit we carry around with us,” Joe said.
The awkward silence returned, but it was worse now. What was the protocol? Who would leave first? Was there anything more that needed to be said? Joe Serpe made the first move. He threw a five dollar bill on the table and stood to go.
“I guess I appreciate your telling me,” he said, unable to look Healy in the eye.
“Thanks for hearing me out.”
“Should we shake hands?”
Healy smiled up at Joe. “I don’t suppose it would kill us.”
They shook, but to Joe it still felt slightly like treason. Scars may lighten, but never vanish. Healy lingered. He knew there was one more thing he should have said, that he would someday have to say to Joe Serpe, but the talk had turned to Mary and Vinny Serpe. He had missed his moment. Still, he hoped he would be able to sleep a bit better tonight.
Monday
February 23rd, 2004
TRIPLE D CLUB
T he flowers had turned black with truck soot, withered or frozen in the corner of the oil yard. The people from the group home had come the day after the kid’s funeral and laid them out as a memorial to Cain. It was a recent phenomenon, this building of makeshift memorials—flowers and crosses at the roadside wherever an icy patch and oak tree had conspired to introduce an immortal teenager to his Maker. To Joe Serpe’s way of thinking, a memorial was no more out of place at the scene of a murder than at the scene of an accident. They were equal wastes of time. He was quite sure God paid them little mind.
Even the bits and strands of yellow crime scene tape that remained had aged years in the week gone by since he and Frank had climbed into the tank and found Cain’s body. The cops had impounded the International and it was unclear when it would be returned. In a bizarre twist that only modern life can produce, Frank now needed that truck more than ever. Mayday Fuel was benefiting from what politicians would call the “sympathy vote.” The company’s phone was ringing off the hook.
Neighboring oil companies had picked up the slack, making Mayday’s deliveries until Frank could
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