After a round of goodbyes and thank yous, Joe Serpe walked out of the firehouse. He had his answers. Most men’s souls are for sale, some at higher prices than others. Gamblers’ souls come cheaply. You’ll find them on the discount rack between crackheads and tweakers.
Back in his car, Joe Serpe took Lieutenant Santucci’s suggestion… sort of. He made a U turn on West 8th, turned left onto Surf Avenue and then made a right under the elevated subway onto Brighton Beach Avenue.
Bob Healy sat in his car across the street from 2243 Brighton Beach Avenue. He wasn’t exactly sure what he expected to see. There was a flurry of activity on the avenue, many people passing back and forth beneath the perpetual dusk of the El, but no one seemed to enter the refurbished building that housed Black Sea Energy, Inc. Like all the other buildings along the way, 2243 was what used to be known as a taxpayer. There was a storefront at street level and a two-story brick building above. Healy had grown up in the third floor apartment of a taxpayer in Red Hook.
Unlike the buildings to either side of it, 2243 had a beautiful, if completely incongruous, green-tinted glass block and green-flecked granite entryway. The pitted and painted-over brick face of the surrounding taxpayers was not evident on the Black Sea building. Its upper floors had been resurfaced with a smooth coating of beige-colored concrete. Green-flecked granite inlays shaped like tanker trucks were embedded in the concrete. The old apartment windows had been replaced with deeply smoked rectangular glass panels that stretched nearly the entire width of the building. The structure was made to look even more out of place by the fact that at street level it was flanked by a butcher shop and a fruit stand.
One thing Healy did see was the shiny new, black Lincoln Navigator parked right out front of 2243. He noticed too that the parking meter was expired and that the scooter cop on ticket patrol completely ignored the violation. Corruption, the ex-detective thought, rarely starts big. Many of the cops he’d busted had started down the slippery slope by doing just the sort of thing the scooter cop had just done. Maybe if the damn city paid cops a living wage, they might not be tempted to compromise their futures for a bottle of vodka and a few hundred bucks at Christmas.
During the five or six seconds Healy looked away from the Black Sea Energy Building in order to scribble down the Lincoln’s tag number, things took a decided turn toward the surreal. Because when he picked his head back up, Healy saw Joe Serpe strolling across Brighton Beach Avenue and through the front doors of 2243 Brighton Beach Avenue.
During his career on the cops, Joe Serpe was perhaps best known for the wild chances he took. No one believed more strongly that the best defense was an aggressive, attacking offense. He was never a fly on the wall. He wanted to push the buttons, to take the first swing. He had almost forgotten what it was like, the rush of being first in. But like an alcoholic sober for years, Serpe was drunk with his first sip. Even as he strode through the doors at Black Sea Energy, he was buzzed.
Joe had decided the time had come to shake the tree and see what fell out. He knew he was right. Cain, Reyes, even Toussant, all their murders pointed him in this direction. He could feel it, could taste it. He was so close to getting to the bottom of things, but just as close to losing it all. He had to take his shot before conceding that Healy was right, that the time had come to step back and turn things over to the law.
The interiors of the Black Sea Energy Building continued the themes established on its facade. The lobby floor was made up of six by six tiles of the green-flecked granite. Three walls were covered by one continuous mural in the style of Diego Rivera. From Joe’s left, behind him to his right, the mural featured every aspect of the petroleum business: Arab men working in oil fields, hard hats at a refinery, a mighty tanker crossing a deep blue ocean, pipelines, storage tanks, trucks at the rack, gas stations, an oil truck making a delivery to a snow covered house as a happy family looked on. The mural began at the edge of a wall of green-tinted glass cubes and ended at the opposite edge of the same glass wall. There was a small sliding glass portal and a thick glass door cut into the cube wall.
Joe stepped up to the portal. A heavyset woman with big black hair sat at a black mica desk, answering phones and pecking at the keyboard of a PC. He was surprised to hear her accent, which was decidedly more Bay Ridge than Belarus. Serpe listened, not wanting to attract the receptionist’s attention until he at least figured out why he thought this was a good plan of action.
“Black Sea Energy, how may I direct your cawl? Please hold.”
“Black Sea Energy, how may I direct your cawl? Mista Levenshtein isn’t taking cawls right now. Do you wish to leave a message?”
Joe Serpe’s heart was beating out of his chest. He was thinking about what Healy had said about redemption, that all the good deeds he could do would never undo his past mistakes. He knew Christ would forgive him. Maybe he already had. Christ wasn’t the issue. Joe Serpe needed to forgive himself and there would be no forgiveness if he didn’t find the people who had murdered Cain.
He rapped on the glass with the replica detective’s shield he had made the year before his troubles began. The receptionist looked surprised as Joe pressed the blue and gold shield against the glass. She actually got up and strolled to the window. Though heavy, she had a pleasing shape and moved with unexpected grace.
“Can I help you?”
“Tell Mr. Levenshtein I’d like a few minutes of his time.”
“Name?”
“Detective Serpe.”
“Serpe,” she said licking her red lips, “that means snake, right?”
He winked at her. “For today it means detective. Let Mr. Levenshtein know I’m here, okay?”
“One minute.”
Serpe watched her make her way to a door at the rear of her office and press what looked to be an up elevator button. Joe could feel he was shaking and wondered if it would be as obvious to someone standing in the same room as him. Just as the receptionist pressed the up button, a voice came over the intercom.
“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.