get his trucks rolling again. It had happened that way after 9/11. Some local oil companies were partially owned and manned by city firemen. Many were completely decimated. No one in the oil business had been wholly untouched by the events of that day. Some had drivers, like Joe Serpe, who’d lost relatives.
Joe went over to the makeshift memorial, kneeling down to try and read some of the cards Cain’s friends and housemates had left behind. He didn’t get the chance.
“Any news?” Steve Scanlon wanted to know.
Scanlon, a retired city fireman, owned Black Gold Oil. It was a smaller operation than Mayday’s and Steve kept his two trucks parked in the next yard over from Frank’s. Though they were competitors, proximity and terrorism had made allies, if not pals, of them. Steve’s partner and several of his friends had fallen victim that terrible day. Frank had volunteered to do all of Black Gold’s stops during the weeks following 9/11. Because of the cold weather and the small size of his fleet, Scanlon had been unable to return the favor this past week.
“No nothing,” Joe said. “The cops have a suspect, but they can’t find him.”
“Hear about the murder over by Babcock last night?” Scanlon asked.
“Another one, huh?”
“Yeah, another kid. Paper don’t say much, no details or anything. You think maybe there’s a connection?”
Joe was unwilling to speculate. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Let’s let the cops do their job and see what they come up with.”
“I guess you’re right,” Scanlon said unconvincingly. “Busy?”
“As a motherfucker.”
“Then I’ll let you get started. Be safe out there.”
“Yeah, you too, Stevie.”
“All right then.”
Scanlon walked quietly away. Joe was glad of it. Not only did he have a crazy day ahead of him, he had decided—in spite of his words to the contrary—that the cops had had enough time to do their work.
Joe was going to stick his nose in where maybe it didn’t belong. He owed Cain that much and, unless some horrible fate suddenly befell Mulligan, he had nothing left to lose.
Bob Healy still wasn’t sleeping very well. It was almost worse now than before he spoke to Joe Serpe. Like his Irish grandma used to say, “Setting things right is God’s work and he seldom sees moved to do it.” But Healy had already tampered with the past and there was no longer any question of leaving things well enough alone. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be an easy way out of his predicament. Unless he called for another oil delivery, which Serpe would certainly avoid, Healy could think of no comfortable way to approach Joe.
Christ, Bob figured, he’d waited all this time. He could be patient a little longer. Something would come up. He only hoped it would be soon. He didn’t know how much longer he could go without sleeping the night and this business of going to Mass was starting to get to him.
He opened the paper. S.O.S.—Same old shit:
IRAQ
IRAQ
IRAQ
MURDER
Murder! While it was surely true that New York City had come a very long way from its ugly streak of 2000 plus homicides per year, murder was still more than a trace element in its chemistry. On Long Island, however, murder was still big news. It was even bigger news when two murders occurred within blocks of each other, in the same town, in a span of eight or so days.
Bob Healy read the story with great interest, though there were few details. The victim was about the same age as Cain Cohen. His name was Jorge Reyes, a nineteen-year-old illegal from El Salvador. Like the Cohen kid, he’d taken a pretty bad beating. The preliminary cause of death, however, seemed to be related to several stab wounds which Reyes received. The cops were very vague about the number of wounds, location of the wounds, etc. In fact, the cops were being rather too coy about everything. Bob Healy could read between the lines. Reyes’ murder was in some way connected to an ongoing
Joe went over to the makeshift memorial, kneeling down to try and read some of the cards Cain’s friends and housemates had left behind. He didn’t get the chance.
“Any news?” Steve Scanlon wanted to know.
Scanlon, a retired city fireman, owned Black Gold Oil. It was a smaller operation than Mayday’s and Steve kept his two trucks parked in the next yard over from Frank’s. Though they were competitors, proximity and terrorism had made allies, if not pals, of them. Steve’s partner and several of his friends had fallen victim that terrible day. Frank had volunteered to do all of Black Gold’s stops during the weeks following 9/11. Because of the cold weather and the small size of his fleet, Scanlon had been unable to return the favor this past week.
“No nothing,” Joe said. “The cops have a suspect, but they can’t find him.”
“Hear about the murder over by Babcock last night?” Scanlon asked.
“Another one, huh?”
“Yeah, another kid. Paper don’t say much, no details or anything. You think maybe there’s a connection?”
Joe was unwilling to speculate. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Let’s let the cops do their job and see what they come up with.”
“I guess you’re right,” Scanlon said unconvincingly. “Busy?”
“As a motherfucker.”
“Then I’ll let you get started. Be safe out there.”
“Yeah, you too, Stevie.”
“All right then.”
Scanlon walked quietly away. Joe was glad of it. Not only did he have a crazy day ahead of him, he had decided—in spite of his words to the contrary—that the cops had had enough time to do their work.
Joe was going to stick his nose in where maybe it didn’t belong. He owed Cain that much and, unless some horrible fate suddenly befell Mulligan, he had nothing left to lose.
Bob Healy still wasn’t sleeping very well. It was almost worse now than before he spoke to Joe Serpe. Like his Irish grandma used to say, “Setting things right is God’s work and he seldom sees moved to do it.” But Healy had already tampered with the past and there was no longer any question of leaving things well enough alone. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be an easy way out of his predicament. Unless he called for another oil delivery, which Serpe would certainly avoid, Healy could think of no comfortable way to approach Joe.
Christ, Bob figured, he’d waited all this time. He could be patient a little longer. Something would come up. He only hoped it would be soon. He didn’t know how much longer he could go without sleeping the night and this business of going to Mass was starting to get to him.
He opened the paper. S.O.S.—Same old shit:
IRAQ
IRAQ
IRAQ
MURDER
Murder! While it was surely true that New York City had come a very long way from its ugly streak of 2000 plus homicides per year, murder was still more than a trace element in its chemistry. On Long Island, however, murder was still big news. It was even bigger news when two murders occurred within blocks of each other, in the same town, in a span of eight or so days.
Bob Healy read the story with great interest, though there were few details. The victim was about the same age as Cain Cohen. His name was Jorge Reyes, a nineteen-year-old illegal from El Salvador. Like the Cohen kid, he’d taken a pretty bad beating. The preliminary cause of death, however, seemed to be related to several stab wounds which Reyes received. The cops were very vague about the number of wounds, location of the wounds, etc. In fact, the cops were being rather too coy about everything. Bob Healy could read between the lines. Reyes’ murder was in some way connected to an ongoing
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