Ocean Park Read online

  “That guy is one grade A fucking asshole.”

  “But he does have style,” Stefanos answered.

  ****

  The snow squall had ended and the sun was shining when Conley parked in front of the condo he and his wife shared—used to share. Hard to think of it as theirs anymore since they’d been living apart. For five weeks now he’d been living a Spartan existence on their cabin cruiser, in the middle of winter no less.

  He buzzed in with his keycard and rode the elevator to their place. When Lisa opened the door her eyes went wide.

  “Matt, what happened?”

  “Reluctant witnesses. Very reluctant.”

  The dining room table was covered with paper—election speeches, campaign strategy, posters. He saw a memo from Bill McNulty, her campaign manager. Triple exclamation points, quadruple question marks, words in caps, words double-underlined. The guy was even annoying on paper.

  He sank into the couch. She went to the kitchen, silk robe swishing.

  “Did you go to the hospital?”

  “No. A doctor stitched me on her lunch hour.”

  Lisa came back with a warm facecloth. She washed his face gently, dabbed the blue skin, used her finger to work the cloth around the outside of cuts. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the steamy, healing cloth—or was it the warm hand behind it?

  “I can’t stay long. We got a lead on the Rodriguez murder.”

  “That’s great, Matt.ˮ Her voice hitched. “Honey, I’m so proud of you.” Breathing harder now. “So proud.”

  She drew the facecloth behind his ear and worked it down his neck. She unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

  “Where’s it hurt?”

  “Everywhere.”

  She smiled. “Really?”

  She undressed him as she washed his bruised body. She dropped the facecloth, shrugged her robe off, and lay on him.

  Serenity

  Was it finally over? Living on the boat, nights falling asleep alone in front of the TV, bizarre counseling sessions with Doctor Larkin?

  He hugged her and stared at the vaulted ceiling.

  Yellow water stain was still there, souvenir from last fall’s Nor’easter. Needed primer and paint.

  Lisa lifted her head and her warm breath was on his face.

  Refrigerator was awful noisy.

  She kissed him, her wet hair clinging to the sides of his face.

  A faucet dripped. Somewhere.

  Thank God for small problems Father McCarrick had always told him.

  Excellent advice.

  Chapter 12

  Channary looked up from her book. The boys were filing past, feet shuffling, voices silent. Two of them—Vithu and Samay—stopped in the doorway, looking at her and whispering. When Sheila arrived, they hurried away with the rest of their friends. Sheila set an armful of books on the end table and Channary sorted through.

  “Sheila, will the policemen ask me more questions about the church?” she asked in Khmer.

  “Probably. I’m afraid so. Why?”

  “Because there’s one question they did not ask.”

  The basement door at the end of the hall slammed shut. Voices carried from downstairs. Sheila closed the book. “What question?”

  “They didn’t ask if I prayed. That’s what’s done in church.”

  The Aunties passed by on their way to the kitchen. They glanced into the room.

  “I’m asking, Channary. Did you pray that night?”

  “I did.”

  The house was silent, except for the murmur from downstairs.

  “What did you pray for, Channary?”

  Tears formed in Channary’s eyes.

  “I prayed to be with my family again. I miss Cambodia.” She held up a picture book with a cartoon family posing in front of a house. “Like them. Will God answer me, Sheila?”

  Thompson took the book from Channary’s hands, buried her tears in her shoulder, and took a very long time to answer.

  “He will, Channary. I’m sure He will.”

  ****

  A grimy basement window was tinged by the setting sun. It cast an eerie orange glow on the shiny black eels that hung from the cellar rafters, waiting to be skinned. Samay thought the light show and the briny smell of the freshly-caught eels formed a strange welcome for this very special Monday night—Pon had finally arrived.

  He didn’t look like much. Young and thin, with long hair like a girl’s. He moved deliberately, like a cat. Face was clean-shaven—perfect skin except for an inch-long crescent-shaped scar across the jut of his chin. The few words he’d uttered so far hadn’t been spoken. They’d been purred.

  Purred to Samay and Vithu at the bottom of the basement steps as the Asian Boyz passed.

  “We robbed Tommy Lopez, the drug dealer,” Vithu told Pon breathlessly. “We killed him and destroyed the Latin Kings’ club. Ocean Park is ours.”

  Pon’s eyes glittered. “Well done. We’ll kill the next drug dealer together.”

  Vithu froze. Samay caught his breath.

  Is Pon a fool? Vithu is Tommy Lopez’s replacement. Vithu is the next drug dealer.

  Samay filled the growing silence.

  “The Latin Kings threatened a Cambodian girl. She’s upstairs. Her name is Channary.”

  Pon’s eyebrow rose. “Sounds like something to fight for.”

  When the gang had finally gathered, Pon broke away and sat in their middle on an oriental rug so faded from age it was no longer a color. Samay squatted across from him, knees almost to his face, arms wrapped around his calves. The basement was musty even though the nearby furnace labored loudly. Pipes and vents crisscrossed the ceiling, knocking and pinging. Occasionally a swoosh sounded from the thick black soil pipe, or a whoosh from the ancient oil burner.

  They were in an open space, but the rest of the basement contained makeshift rooms whose walls were flimsy partitions of two-by-fours and paneling. Thin mattresses lay in the alcoves they formed, along with hotplates, canned food, dishes, and utensils. Burning incense from one of the open rooms mixed with the wetness in the air and smelled like a doused campfire.

  Vithu stood guard at the foot of the dark steps, worrying a leather sap. The black weapon seemed to pulse and bulge like it was alive and ready to jump from his hand.

  Those in the circle were quiet and still, waiting. The only noise came from overhead—the old women preparing dinner, children playing around them on the kitchen floor. The cellar door creaked open and feet tapped down the stairs. Sleepy had arrived, late as usual, wrinkled clothes hanging on his skinny body. He smiled.

  Vithu swung his empty hand in a roundhouse and clapped the newcomer on the side of the face with a sharp slap that hung in the humid air. Vithu then grabbed the boy’s collar and flung him toward the open space in the circle beside Samay.

  Sleepy dropped to the floor and crossed his legs, the happy smile melting into a frown. A red picture of Vithu’s hand covered his cheek. Hair and clothes smelled smoky, like burning leaves. Sleepy was stoned.

  Pon nodded, an appraisal and greeting, and scanned the circle one way, then the other. He opened a box, reached inside, and drew out a snake, its wide neck swelled like a vampire’s cape. White fangs flashed.

  Samay gasped. He’d never seen a snake like this. He’d caught eels in the river—fat, slimy, stupid creatures, but this snake’s eyes glowed with intelligence, and seemed to assess them all the same way Pon did.

  Vithu prowled outside the circle, the sap squeaking in his hand like a trapped animal. All eyes were on Pon. Looking at Vithu was far too dangerous.

  Pon raised a knife in front of the snake’s face so that its flickering tongue tapped the metal.

  Sleepy giggled. Maybe no one heard. The snake’s tongue flared.

  “A snake questions with its tongue and tastes the air,” Pon said. His voice was steady as he turned toward Sleepyʼs mirth, then nodded.

  Suddenly Sleepy was gone. He’d been removed, pulled back fast, as if tethered on a bungee
cord.

  Samay chanced a look behind. Vithu was dragging Sleepy along the cement floor, arms and legs flailing. They disappeared into a cubicle.

  Pon tapped the top of the snake’s head. Its mouth opened and hissed wetly—the promise of venom.

  “Well armed, but harmless if contained,” he said, tapping again, with the same response.

  A sharp thwack sounded in the cubicle, and a muffled cry—or had the sound come from above?

  Fear brought on denial. Maybe footsteps of the old women working in the kitchen, maybe a finger burned on a hot stove?

  Pon raised the snake and stroked its underbelly with the dull edge of the knife. The snake’s tongue slowed.

  “He wants safety and pleasure. Comfort.”

  More sounds from the cubicle, thuds and bangs. A groan followed.

  Maybe not from behind. Maybe the children upstairs, wrestling on the kitchen floor, scuffling.

  Pon turned the knife suddenly, so quickly the blade seemed part of his hand. He cut the snake’s head off with a blinding flick and threw the writhing, bleeding body into the box. The head tumbled onto the rug and landed in the middle of the circle. Its mouth opened and closed. The boys stared.

  Vithu returned and sat next to Samay, his chest heaving. The veins in his muscular neck and on the backs of his bony, tattooed hands were dark and full, as if they lay on his skin instead of under it.

  “Snakes are brave warriors,” Pon said. “Even after they die, they fight. Their poison lives.”

  The others stared, transfixed. Vithu’s heavy breath warmed Samay’s neck. Sleepy whimpered in the cubicle. But when Pon cast his unblinking cat eyes on Samay it felt as if they were the only ones in the room.

  “We must prepare,” Pon said to him, his voice as smooth as the downy cheeks it came from. “Snakes are coming.”

  Chapter 13

  March felt like February. The frosted windows in the squad room radiated an icy draft. On Tuesday morning Conley flipped to a new page in his notebook and waited for the daily brief to begin.

  “Arson,” Mazzarelli said, pushing his glasses with an index finger and stretching his arms. “According to the Fire Marshal, there’s no doubt. The Hispanic Social Club was destroyed intentionally. Utility company showed a 10-minute spike in demand for no good reason, which means the gas line was cut. Neighbors heard a gunshot that probably ignited the gas. Must have been an incendiary round.”

  “What’s the link to this investigation?” Stefanos asked.

  “Unclear, maybe nothing. Maybe coincidence. Victor Rodriguez was a founder of the club, helped fund its construction. By the way, the building was underinsured. Never had an inflation rider. Rebuilding would cost twice the payout.”

  “Wasn’t he an insurance man?” one of the other detectives asked.

  “Barber always needs a haircut,” Stefanos answered. “What else do we have?”

  “Substance on the statue was blood—bovine.”

  “Cow?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kendricks leaned toward him. “We need to be questioning cows, Captain?”

  The other cops snickered.

  “Keep going, Mazzarelli.”

  “Detective Conley has been cleared of wrongdoing at the Rodriguez murder scene. Police union got involved and negotiated a confession from Detective Jackson in exchange for an early retirement package.”

  “So we paid a policeman to tell the truth,” Stefanos said. “That’s wonderful.”

  Mazzarelli handed a sheaf of stapled pages to Conley. “You need to sign these. Confirmation of the story you told, releases to Detective Jackson from recourse.”

  Conley nodded, fished in his jacket for a pen, and read the top page of the report. Blocks of legal text cascaded under the Ocean Park Police logo, and Jackson’s name appeared about a hundred times in bold caps.

  “Open items, Mazzarelli?”

  “I’m researching Conley’s story about the Paladin sex club. Nothing yet. No hits in our database.”

  “Sex club?” Kendricks asked, giving Conley the stink eye. “Sounds like bullshit.”

  “Primary meaning of the word paladin is a heroic champion,” Mazzarelli said. “We think this one is the secondary meaning—stately mansion.”

  “What else?”

  “Lots of leads, Captain. I made a list.”

  Stefanos laid his pen down.

  “Kendricks. You pair up with Conley and see Channary and the social worker. Bring Conley up to speed on the investigation while you’re at it.”

  Mazzarelli’s pen was poised like a dart.

  Kendricks looked up from his notepad.

  “Not a good idea, sir.”

  “I didn’t ask if it was.”

  But Kendricks was undaunted. “Better I go see the girl alone, one on one, y’know, less intimidating.”

  Stefanosʼ voice took on a steely edge. “I gave you an order, Detective.” He cast a long stare at Kendricks, who ran his open hand down his face.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mazzarelli lowered his Bic and recorded the assignment.

  ****

  Kendricks walked fast through the parking lot. Conley was right behind. He pointed at his BMW, black paint gleaming.

  “We can take my car.”

  “Not an option.”

  They reached Kendricks’ sedan and he unlocked the doors with his key fob, pressing the button hard, before he yanked open the driverʼs door and hauled himself inside.

  “I guess you’re driving, then,” Conley said amicably, opening the passenger door and leaning in as Kendricks fastened his seat belt.

  “And if your ass ain’t buckled into that seat in three seconds, you won’t be ridin’.”

  “Iʼm all for personal safety. Mind if we make a stop?”

  “No. I’m pointing the fuckin’ car, I’m deciding where to go, and you’re along to waste gas and breathin’ air.”

  “I’m just trying to get along here, Kendricks.”

  “Detective Kendricks is the name, and you can try whatever you want, motherfucker. But I ain’t stopping this bus until we get where the captain said to go.”

  Conley grabbed the steering wheel at the three o’clock position and held tight.

  “One stop on the way.”

  Seconds ticked by. A pedestrian passed in front of them, the click of his shoes like a metronome. The sun’s fading light shone through the grimy windshield.

  Kendricksʼ voice was low with fury, each word pronounced separately. “Take your hand off my wheel.ˮ

  “Listen to me, Kendricks. This is my home, my town. A man was killed in my church, and the city I’ve loved and lived in my whole life is disintegrating right in front of me. Know this: I’m going to find Victor Rodriguez’s killer—and the Hispanic Club’s arsonist—with or without your help.”

  Kendricks gave a long stare. Conley took his hand off the wheel.

  “One stop.ˮ Kendricks started the car.

  “That’s right.”

  “Just the one.ˮ

  Kendricks spun the wheel and aimed toward the parking lot exit. “Better not be no Starbucks, Mr. BMW. Ain’t never been there and don’t plan on startinʼ up.”

  “Nope.”

  They reached the exit. “Then mind telling me which way weʼre going?”

  “Straight to hell. Morgan’s Tap.”

  “Morgan’s Tap?” Kendricks closed his eyes and flexed his hands. “Shee-it.ˮ

  ****

  Morgan’s was crowded. The fat tires of a long line of gleaming Harleys kissed the curb. The Tap’s tattered front door was working hard, swallowing bikers and barflies.

  Kendricks parked across the street and reached for the police microphone.

  “What are you doing?” Conley asked.

  “Calling for backup. Even then I ain’t sure this is a good idea.”

  Conley placed his hand over the mic. “We don’t need it here. Trust me.” He hopped out of the car and headed past the fleet of gleaming chrome and
rubber. Kendricks hustled to catch up.

  They opened the door and walked into smoke and noise. The sweet smell of marijuana mixed with the too-loud sound of heavy metal rock. All was well in the Tap. Donna sat at her video game, cigarette between her lips, beer mug balanced on her lap. Rocco was on his stool, wide awake, hands working as he spoke at patrons on both sides. Teddy was busy serving, his face sweating.

  Kendricks caught Conley by the arm. “We’re out of here. Now. I already counted three of the most wanted guys in the state, one of them suspected in a triple homicide.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s safe.”

  “Christ. You got some kind of fucked up suicide wish?” He reached into his jacket and kept his hand on his holster. “Death by biker mob wasn’t on my dance card today.”

  There it is again. Prove yourself. Show me. Convince me you’re not the fuck-up everyone says you are.

  “So be it.ˮ

  Conley walked over to big Tony just as Teddy was delivering a beer, and elbowed the biker so hard he almost fell off the stool.

  “Yep,” Kendricks muttered under his breath, “that’s the triple homicide.”

  Conley reached in front of Tony and slid three fingers into the mug handle. He lifted the beer, drank, and slammed the half-empty glass down so hard the rest of the brew splashed onto the front of the biker’s T-shirt.

  Tony never moved.

  “What the—?ˮ

  “Told you, Kendricks. It’s safe.”

  With that, Conley headed toward William O’Neil’s office. Halfway there, he looked back over his shoulder. Kendricks was following—tentatively—hand on his service pistol, one eye on the patrons at the bar, one eye on his crazy new partner.

  Chapter 14

  On Wednesday Father McCarrick climbed the steps to the landing in front of the church. He smoothed his cassock, not that it had wrinkles. Mrs. Blodgett didn’t allow them. His housekeeper pressed clothes as well as she cooked. She worked an iron strong and fast, steam puffing from the machine that breathed as hard as she did.

  A car pulled in front of the Church of St. Ambrose, a little foreign job with a donut replacement for a front wheel and a plastic flower atop the antenna. A girl got out, supersized pocketbook slung over one arm, camera dangling from a lanyard around her neck. She dropped keys into the big bag, and fished out pad and pen as she climbed the concrete steps. She offered a limp hand and they shook.