“I never got a chance to thank you for calling me,” she said.
“No problem. He asked me to call before he conked out.”
“Are you a friend of Joe’s?”
Healy laughed. “I’ve got a very simple answer to a complex question. I don’t know what I am to Joe.”
Now she laughed. “I guess that makes two of us. How do you guys know each other?”
“We were both city cops once.”
“Were you a detective like Joe?”
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“I was a detective, but not one like Joe.”
Marla opened her mouth to ask another question, but Healy cut her off.
“Listen, can you handle it from here? I’ve got somewhere I really have to be.”
“Sure. And thanks again, Mr. Healy.”
“Bob.”
“Bob,” she repeated, smiling. “I don’t know Joe very well, but I know him well enough to say you must mean something to him for him to call you first.”
“Thank you, Marla.” He offered her his hand. “Joe’s lucky to have you.”
She took his hand. “I think I’m lucky to have him.”
“I think you are, too.”
They met in front of Jerry’s Joint. Strohmeyer the Younger suggested they take his car the first few nights out so he could show Bob the routes he and his teams of vigilantes took. Healy agreed without complaint. Bob had already done enough driving for one day and his car smelled a little like vomit, courtesy of Joe Serpe.
They were into Farmingville within ten minutes. As he drove, Strohmeyer Jr., parroting his father, explained that their patrols served several purposes, only one of which was to bolster the citizenry’s-read that, white citizenry’s-morale, to set an example of how they could stand up for themselves. The other goals of these patrols were symbolized by what Pete Jr. called the three Ps: Protection.
Preemption. Prevention. It was all very lofty stuff that meant nothing. Healy didn’t really expect the kid to admit that the actual purpose of these patrols was probably provocation and violence.
He took a very circuitous route through town and into Ronkonkoma and back again. As he went, Pete Jr. pointed out what he called “trouble spots” to Healy. These were places known to be frequented by the “rice and bean” crowd. The trouble spots ranged in nature from bars and restaurants to churches and clinics.
Strohmeyer Jr. went on to say that at least three cars, two men in each, were out at any one time and that they patrolled the streets from sunset till about two in the morning. The AFA’s goal was to have at least eight cars on the streets and to extend the patrols until the groups for the shape-ups began forming at around six AM. Healy barely spoke, waiting for the right opportunity to begin broaching the subject of Reyes’ murder. Something he figured he’d have to do in small increments over the course of several nights.
“You’ll have to get a Nextel phone,” the kid said. “This way we’re all on one network and can communicate from car to car. We can help you with the cost of that. It’s one of the things we raise money for.”
“Great,” Bob said. “You don’t really expect much trouble on a night like this.”
“No, sir. The brown tide recedes in the cold and snow.”
Healy felt like he had his opening. “So when do you get your most action?”
The kid may have been built like a linebacker and not been very eloquent, but he was no fool either.
“Action? Look, Bob, like I said before, action is not what we’re about. We’re about-”
“I’m sorry, Pete.”
“That’s okay. My father warned me when we first started these patrols that some people would join in the hope of getting into fights. There’s a lot of pent up anger in this town and it only hurts our cause when people act stupidly.”
“I never used my weapon in anger in twenty years on the job. I guess I was a little careless in how I worded what I was saying before,” Healy explained.
“My father didn’t figure you were a hothead.”
“How’s the hand? Looks painful.”
“I can handle pain.”
“Learn that playing football?”
A prideful smile lit up Pete Jr.’s face. “Four years at Arizona.”
“Go Wildcats. You play linebacker?”
“Standup defensive end, but special teams mostly.”
“Special teams, yeah, that would explain learning to deal with pain.”
That did the trick. The younger Strohmeyer was glad to meet a New Yorker who knew college football. They discussed the bowl games and the unfairness of the BCS ratings. They talked about the draft and how little money professional football players made compared to baseball and basketball players.
“It’s not right,” Bob said.
“No, and none of the money except your signing bonus is guaranteed.”
The kid seemed all right, Healy thought. His head seemed to be screwed on straight and he was not unsympathetic toward nor unaware of the plight of the less fortunate.
“The black guys really get a bad deal,” Pete Jr. complained. “When they’re recruited they get promised a pro career, but they usually just get chewed up and spit out without really getting an education. I think if a college recruits you, they should either fund your education no matter how long it takes or compensate you, even if you get hurt or cut from the squad. Maybe then the recruiters would be more up front.”
It was not an unreasonable point of view. But Healy knew better than to make judgements based on simply liking a guy. Christ, he’d always liked and respected Joe Serpe, but he never let that effect the way he built his case against him or his partner. He remembered that he had once had a fierce argument with his dad about the trustworthiness of a neighborhood kid. His dad warned him off the kid. Bob argued that the kid was really nice and he was always respectful of his elders.
“Yeah,” his dad said, “and the English cocksuckers that tried to tear the guts out of Ireland loved their children. Didn’t make them good neighbors.”
Bob tried to take advantage of the newly established bond between him and the boy.
“So I get that we’re out here trying to protect, preempt and prevent, but there’ve been two murders around here recently.”
“The retarded man was killed in a dark oil yard. What can we do about that? Besides, I don’t think we even patrol down that far. We don’t. I’m sure we don’t. The Reyes guy… Hey, if these wetbacks want to kill each other, they’re going to kill each other. Believe me, Bob, you’ve got no idea what it’s like in southern Arizona. You don’t want to get into the middle of that shit.”
“No, I suppose not. Watch it!” Healy screamed.
Strohmeyer Jr. still had his game reflexes and jerked the wheel just in time to avoid the man stumbling out in front of his car. He slammed on his brakes and was out of the car before Bob had even unlatched his seatbelt. Healy couldn’t believe they’d missed him. If manner of dress was any indicator, the guy lying face down in the slush was a day laborer. He sported the standard uniform of a hooded sweatshirt, denim jacket, dirty jeans and work boots.
Here it was, Healy thought, a test.
“Hey, Bob, help me turn this guy over.”
Healy knelt down opposite Pete Jr.
“Okay, slowly. I’ll stabilize his neck. If he’s badly injured we don’t want to make it worse. On the count of three. One. Two. Three.”
They rolled him gently over onto his back. His face was puffy and bruised. He was bleeding from his nose, his mouth and cuts on his cheek and above the eyes. His breath stank of alcohol.
“Bar fight,” Strohmeyer Jr. said.
Healy agreed.
Then Pete Jr. started asking questions of the injured man in remarkably fluent Spanish. As the man’s eyes were almost swollen shut, it was difficult to see if he was as surprised by this as Healy. The laborer’s answers were slurred and, from the puzzlement on Pete’s face Healy surmised, incoherent.