Hose Monkey (24 page)

“Maria, let the detective come up.”

Joe looked behind him and saw a tiny camera in the corner of the room just where the mural met the ceiling. Then he peered ahead of him into the receptionist’s office and saw another sleek camera in the corner. Maria reached under her desk and hit a hidden button. There was a click, Joe moved to the glass door and let himself in.

“Take the elevator up to the third floor,” Maria said, going back to her typing.

The elevator was the size of a double-wide coffin, but much better appointed. The walls of the little car were inlaid with angular designs of exotic woods like tiger maple and ebony. The floor was a solid piece of dark red granite. The rich facade, the mural, the opulence of the elevator did not prepare him for the starkness of Levenshtein’s office.

Of course, unlike the very confused Bob Healy, who was seated outside in his car trying to figure out what was going on, Joe Serpe had no idea who Levenshtein was. He had simply heard the receptionist say his name.

All the furnishings were strictly low-end Staples merchandise. The carpeting was industrial and a drab gray. The walls were lined with family photos, and pictures of gas stations, trucks, and what looked to be a small oil terminal. Like in Ken Bergman’s office at the group home, there was a bank of closed circuit monitors over the seated man’s shoulder. The only thing that hinted at Levenshtein’s position was the nameplate on his desk, half-buried beneath a mountain of files.

sha Levenshtein dent and C.E.O

Even Serpe, never much for puzzles, could figure out he’d found the right man. But Levenshtein ignored Joe, continuing to work on the papers before him. Another minute went by before the man behind the desk snapped his files closed and spoke to his guest.

“What can I help you with, Detective?” He pronounced “h” in help as if it were “ch,” not unlike Mr. Kazakstan from the Blue Fountain Motel.

“I’m not sure,” Joe confessed. “But there are bodies piling up in my neighborhood and I think your company’s got something to do with it.”

This got Levenshtein’s attention. “Bodies! You talk nonsense, Detective. What would my company have to do with bodies?”

Instead of concocting some half-assed story out of partial truths and convenience, Joe Serpe sat down across from the old Ukranian Jew and laid out the facts dating back to Valentine’s Day. Through most of it, Levenshtein, a white-haired man in his mid sixties with work-rounded shoulders and cigarette-stained teeth, sat back in his chair and listened impassively. The man simply did not react to anything Serpe said.

Only twice, toward the very end of Joe’s account, did Levenshtein give any indication that he even heard what Serpe was saying. At the mention of the Blue Fountain he fumbled slightly, reaching for a cigarette. And when Joe referred to the law firm that had represented Steve Scanlon during his purchase of Mayday Fuel Oil, Inc., the old man’s lip seemed to quiver ever so briefly. But neither reaction was enough to take to the bank.

When Serpe finished, Levenshtein lit another cigarette, stood up and poured himself two fingers of vodka. He offered some to his guest, but Joe politely refused.

“Listen, Detective—”

“I’m not a detective. I used to be one, but now I don’t even play one on TV.”

“You have balls, Serpe. I give you that. When you come up in the world like I have, you admire balls almost more than any other quality in a person. But balls or no balls, you tell a fanciful story, no? What have you got, a license plate number and the word of a retarded girl?”

“To you, I guess, it might look that way.”

“And to the cops, to the court. Look, Serpe, it is true that we have several Navigators registered to the company and I can look that one of my old partner’s sons drove maybe a little reckless on Long Island and did not report an accident. If that is the case, we will make good on damages, but beyond this, I can say nothing. Black Sea Energy has a spotless record. Check. Go check with any agency we deal with. We can speak for every drop of petroleum product we receive and pump. As for motels, whores, and bookies. This is not the place to find them.”

Serpe stood. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

“As I say, I will look into this matter of the Navigator. Leave your information with the girl, Maria, as you go. Now I have work to do.”

Joe thanked the old man once more and rode the slowly sinking coffin back down to the lobby. He wrote his cell phone number down for Maria and left. He had taken a gamble and lost. As the door closed behind him, Serpe knew he had to find Healy.

Levenshtein sat at his desk watching the monitors. As soon as the front door closed, he got on the intercom.

“Maria, get my son and tell him to come here immediately. Then get Sergei on the phone. Now!”

Joe didn’t have to find Healy, because Healy found him.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” was how he greeted Serpe, as a passing D train raining sparks down on the avenue. The shadows of the El rendered moot by the setting sun.

“What?” Joe shouted above the squeals and rumble.

“Are you nuts?”

“I think I must be. I blew it, Bob.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I needed to shake things up. I just got that old feeling that if we didn’t do something now, it would all slip away. God, Healy, I was buzzing in there. I felt like a cop again, like a man.”

“Who did you see?”

“Some old guy named Levenshtein.”

“Misha Levenshtein?” Healy asked.

“I guess, yeah.”

“What did he say?”

“What you would expect him to say, that his company is clean and that Black Sea leases a lot of black Navigators. He says he doesn’t know anything about motels or whores or bookies.”

“Bookies?”

“Yeah, bookies. It seems Scanlon was a degenerate gambler and owed half the free world money. I thought that’s how they must’ve got their hooks into him.”

“I don’t know anything about bookies, but your friend Levenshtein is full of shit.”

“How’s that?”

“His partner in the business, some guy named Sergei Borofsky, lives out in Setauket and his kids own motels, a limo service, strip clubs, and gyms. Add all that to the trucking and the oil terminal and I’d say your hunch was right on target.”

“Shit!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I gotta get back to the island.”

“Why the hurry?”

“Because if I am right, Levenshtein’s in there calling his partner.”

“Oh crap!”

“That’s right, Healy. There are now people besides you and me walking around with big bull’s-eyes on their backs. I can’t afford to let them get rid of Scanlon and Dixie before I find out what happened to Cain. I know this is crazy, but try and get hold of Scanlon. Tell him anything you have to, but keep that prick alive.”

Serpe was flying past the Flatbush Avenue exit on the Belt Parkway when he got that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. What had he been thinking about? Had he been so intoxicated with his old sense of self that he’d completely lost sight of what he might have set in motion? Scanlon and Dixie were in danger, to be sure, but they had good reason to keep their traps shut. Levenshtein’s words rang in Joe’s head: “What have you got, a license plate number and the word of a retarded girl?” Donna and, by extension, Marla were in far greater danger than Scanlon and Dixie.

Serpe flipped open his cell phone, but was in a dead zone. He tried Marla’s home number and her cell anyway. Neither call connected. He tried dialing 911 and got nothing. As he moved further down the Belt Parkway, he kept trying. Then, finally, passing Kennedy Airport, his phone connected to Marla’s home answering machine.

“You’ve reached Marla Stein, Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology. I’m unavailable to answer your call at the moment. Please listen to the following menu and I will get back to you as soon as possible. If this a therapy matter, press one. For all other matters, press two.”

“Marla, this is Joe. Stay calm, but call 911 immediately. Get the cops over to the group home. You and Donna are in real danger. When the uniforms get to you, ask to speak to Detective Hoskins or Detective Kramer. Do it now! I’ll call back in a few minutes to check.”

He tried her cell phone, again getting her voice mail, and leaving a similar, if more urgent, message. What an idiot, he’d been. She wasn’t home, she was staying at her parents’ house, following Joe’s own instructions. Shit, what was that number? He had it written down in the apartment, but … Joe thought about calling the group home but had no clue how it would be listed, nor did he have the exact address. He dialed 911, but got the NYPD. More accurately, he was put on hold and got a recording. When the operator came on, he tried to remain as calm as possible.

“Listen carefully, operator, my name is Joseph Serpe, I’m a retired NYPD detective,” he lied. “There’s an emergency in Suffolk County, can you either pass on a message or patch me through to Suffolk 911?”

“Detective Serpe, did you say you are reporting an emergency in Suffolk County and are you presently in Suffolk County?”

“Let’s try this again, there are two women in danger in Suffolk County. I’m currently proceeding to Suffolk County, but I won’t make it there in time.”

“What is the nature of the emergency?”

Good question, Serpe thought. “Kidnapping and homicide.”

“Detective Serpe, do you wish to report a kidnapping and homicide?”

“Yes, for chrissakes!”

“At what address or addresses?”

Joe opened his mouth to answer, but caught sight of something parked on the shoulder, partially hidden by the stone support of the overpass.

“Never mind, operator.”

He snapped his cell phone shut and swerved his rental across two lanes of traffic before bouncing up over the curb onto the grassy shoulder. When the cop came over to his window, Joe showed him his shield and screamed at him to get Suffolk 911 on the phone immediately.

Ken Bergman frequently came in on Saturdays to clear up the past week’s paperwork, to review payroll, and to work on his dissertation. Then he’d shower and head out on a date or hit the clubs in Huntington. Sometimes, during the summer, he’d quit early and drive out to the Hamptons. The truth was, he came in on Saturdays because of blind hope. Marla often came into her office late on Saturday afternoons to clear up paperwork or have a few sessions with residents whose weekly work schedules sometimes interfered with their regular meetings.

So it was that Bergman sat listening to Marla’s voice through the paper thin walls. It wasn’t an especially pretty voice, but there was something so calm, so comforting about it that he longed to have it comfort him, to tell him everything would be okay as Marla herself rocked him in her arms. Ken did all right for himself. He had professorial good looks and had his rap down. But love had long eluded him. Yet from the first day Marla walked into his office, he was certain he would have sacrificed everything for her. He could hear Donna’s nasal voice through the wall as well. Whatever she and Marla had worked on yesterday already had positive results. Donna seemed to be back to her old self.

The group home manager was so pleased, so caught up in his daydream that when the front bell rang, he simply reached back and buzzed whoever it was in. He heard heavy footfalls in the hallway outside his door and looked back at the security monitors. There was an unfamiliar man at the door holding something in his right hand. Christ, Ken thought squinting at the monitor, is that a gun? He picked up the phone, but before he could dial 911, he heard Marla scream.

Bergman burst through his office door, colliding with a larger man. The force of the impact knocked both of men to the floor, the intruder’s head smacking hard into the opposite wall. An automatic pistol, likely jarred loose by the collision, lay on the floor by the big man’s work boots. Bergman began to reach for it when he noticed Marla pulling Donna toward the front door.

“Not that way!” Ken screamed. “There’s another one out there. Go for the back door.”

“You little fuck,” the big man, no longer stunned, growled at Bergman.

His opportunity to disarm the intruder gone, Bergman scrambled to his feet and ran after Marla and Donna.

“Everyone stay in their rooms! Stay in your rooms!” he screamed as his ran. He ran with his arms flailing and his legs far apart so as to keep as much of himself between the armed man and the fleeing women. As he turned the hall corner, he caught sight of Marla and Donna at the opposite end of that hall. One more turn, a few more steps, and they’d be out the backdoor.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Bergman was laying face down on the carpet before he heard the third bullet whistle over his head. He knew he had been shot, but strangely, luckily, he thought, there was no pain. Bergman thought himself lucky until he tried to move and nothing moved except the blood filling his lungs. He waited for the shooter to come up behind him, to feel the cold muzzle against the back of his head, but did not hear his footsteps.

“Pavel,” he heard someone yell as the front door clicked open. “Pavel, boy, go around the back. The back, goddammit!”

Bergman wondered if that was a Georgia or Florida accent. It’s funny what a dying man thinks about. Then his bizarre final thoughts were interrupted by footsteps, but they were coming from the wrong direction and they were far too quiet to be a man’s.

“Kenny, Kenny,” Marla whispered to him, straining to turn him over. She cradled him in her arms, his blood covering the both of them. “Kenny,” she stroked his hair. “Don’t worry, everything will be all right. It’ll be okay.”

He died with a crooked smile on his face that Marla would never quite understand.

“Come on, bitch!”

A huge hand grabbed her by the hair and fairly lifted her out from beneath Bergman’s lifeless torso.

Serpe could see the road flares ahead and that deathly sick feeling returned as he approached the two Suffolk County blue and whites blocking Union Avenue. A bored looking cop tried waving him away, but it would take considerably more than a wave to make him leave. Joe put his car in park and popped out the driver’s side door. If you ever want to get a cop’s attention, challenge his authority.