“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.