Bullhorn held out his right hand. “Pete Strohmeyer, East Coast organizer for America for Americans.”
Healy took the hand, shook it, but regarded Strohmeyer warily. “Bob Healy,” he said without enthusiasm.
“That was quite a nice little speech you just gave there, Mr. Healy.”
“Ah, I’m just disgusted is all.”
“We’re having a recruitment meeting this evening at the VFW hall in town. Why don’t you come and see what we’re about?”
“Nah,” Bob said, “I’ve never been much of a joiner.”
“Now’s the time to start joining, Bob. We’re being invaded and we could use good men like you, men not afraid to stand up and be counted. Here.” Strohmeyer handed Healy a leaflet and pamphlet. “This will explain some about the problems we face, the lies the media tell about us, and outlines our strategies for victory. But I would really like it if you could come to the meeting.”
“We’ll see,” Healy said, flipping through the pamphlet. “Maybe.”
“Excuse me, but I’ve got to get back to work. It was a pleasure meeting you, Bob. I hope to see you this evening.”
With that, Strohmeyer led his gang of five back to their usual spot and began screaming at the day laborers across Horseblock Road. Healy smiled to himself. Serpe would have been proud.
Joe Serpe knew Healy was right, that he should stay away from the Fourth Precinct, but he was getting antsy, feeling guilty. Calling Tina, Frank’s wife, had only made it worse. She’d picked up the phone, cursing, threatening, begging for the reporter to please just leave them alone. That near ripped Joe in half. It had been the same for his wife. The constant assault by the press had driven her to a nervous breakdown. They don’t call it that anymore, a nervous break down, but it was a perfect description of what his wife had gone through. She was never the same after that.
It had taken a minute for Joe to calm Tina down and convince her that he wasn’t a reporter. When she finally realized it was Joe, she broke down, sobbing loudly into the phone. Crime, he thought, had a lot of unseen victims. They always try to scare kids out of criminal activity by taking them to prison and talking to lifers. He wondered if spending some time with women like Tina and his wife wouldn’t be more effective. His heart ached. And for the first time he understood that Bob Healy was right. All the good deeds he could perform would never make up for the pain he’d caused his wife.
When her sobs slowed to a manageable pace, Tina explained how she’d basically barricaded herself and the kids inside the house. She said that several news trucks had set up shop on the street and the chiming of the front doorbell was constant. Joe could hear the bong bong bong in the background. Nor had the phone stopped ringing, but she was afraid to take it off the hook in case Frank was calling.
Joe distracted Tina by making her write down the names, addresses and phone numbers of several lawyers. He told her to get out of the house, to go to a relative’s or a motel, and that if she got word to him where they were, he’d get word to Frank. When she began to argue, Joe put his foot down.
“Tina, you’ll want to listen to me about this. I lived through it. My family did, anyway. You know Frank didn’t murder anyone and he’ll be back sooner than later. If you want him to have a wife and family to come home to, save yourself and the kids and get away from there.”
“It may already be too late,” she said.
Joe ignored that, chalking it up to Tina’s being distraught and exhausted.
That had been hours ago. He had tried Marla’s cell, but she was working and hadn’t gotten back to him. Healy was off doing whatever it was he was doing to track down leads on the Reyes murder. The only one not doing anything was Joe. Idleness never suited him.
He showered, inspecting the damage to his legs. He was walking a little easier and some of the swelling had gone down. The bruising, however, had spread out from the points of contact and had begun to resemble psychedelic finger paintings. Peter Maxx could probably have sold his legs for a bundle.
Dressed and out the door, he didn’t quite make it to his car.
“Where you goin’ with that limp, Snake?” Detective Lieutenant Hoskins was anxious to know.
Serpe played dumb. “What’s this about?”
“Your boss, he killed the frog nigger.”
Joe must have looked as disgusted as he felt.
“Come on, Snake, what’s a matter? You never heard the word frog before?” Hoskins laughed at his own rapier wit. “You used to be a city cop, so don’t get all squeamish on me. Get a few drinks in Ralphy and every other word out of his mouth was nigger. You gonna tell me a Brooklyn guinea like you never used the N-word?”
Apparently, God had chosen Monday March 1st, 2004 as the day for Joe Serpe to be confronted with the worst aspects of his past life. First it was Tina dredging up what he had made his own wife and son suffer through. Now this.
“You’re not here to discuss the Rainbow Coalition, or Ralphy or whether the greasers in my neighborhood whispered nigger in the schoolyard. And where’s Kramer, anyway?”
“Kramer, maybe he’s home polishing his yarmulke. How the fuck should I know? This is a little unofficial visit, anyways.”
“Unofficial? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Hoskins got up close to Serpe. “Listen, cunt, no one’s here to step between us now. The Heeb ain’t here and neither is that other cunt, Healy. So it’s just you and me, boyo.”
“What about it?”
“How fucking stupid do you think I am, Snake?”
“Got an hour?”
“That’s right, have a laugh, but I know things. Maybe your boss-”
“Ex-boss,” Serpe corrected.
“Whatever. Maybe he did kill the nigger. The evidence sure points that way. Personally, I don’t give a shit-as far as I could tell, he needed killing. But Frank Randazzo didn’t find Toussant on his own, not unless they teach skip-tracing in truck drivers’ school. Do they teach you that there, Snake?”
“I didn’t go to school.”
“Yeah you did, the school of the streets. The best kinda school. The kinda school where you learn to track people down who ain’t interested in being found. So, you gonna let Frankie boy twist in the wind like you let Ralphy twist or, for once in your miserable fucking life, are you gonna stand up and take the rap?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Okay, Serpe. Just like I thought. You’re still a cowardly cunt. Just remember I gave you a chance to do the right thing here. I’m gonna nail your ass to the wall. Remember that.” Hoskins turned to walk away.
“Hey Hoskins,” Joe snapped at him.
“What?”
“I want you to remember something, too.”
“I’m listening.”
“The time’s gonna come when this shit will all be cleared up. And when that happens, I want you to call your dentist.”
“What the fuck you on about now? Why should I call my dentist?”
“Because if you talk to me like that again, I’m gonna kick your teeth out through your ass. Remember that!”
Joe turned, walked back inside his apartment and slammed his door shut.
Monday Evening,March 1st, 2004
H ealy showed up. There was never any doubt that he would. But as he approached the VFW hall, a frail looking woman in her late sixties walked up to him. She handed him a slip of paper with an address on it. “What’s this?”
“I recognize you from this morning,” she said. “You’re the one that got into a shoving match with the wetback.”
“That was me.”
She pointed at the slip of paper. “It’s a precaution against the media. They try to come to our meetings all the time, distort our point of view. You go on over to that address. You’ll be okay.”