“What happened? How come I never heard of it?”
“It was only there for about a year before the building collapsed during a storm. Your mom said it was Murphy’s Law. Whatever fucked up thing could happen would happen.”
“I never knew that.”
"Your parents never gave up on their dreams. It's one of the things I loved about them." Teddy Sr. pointed a finger at Manny. "All they ever really wanted was for you to have a good life and become something of yourself. Be better than them, they always said to me. That's a tough act to follow, though."
Manny smiled. "Very much so."
“I heard you were going to the police academy soon,” Teddy Sr. said.
“I start Monday morning.”
“Fresh out of high school and already getting on with a career? Impressive.” Teddy Sr. laughed. “Just keep your cop friends away from the new place, will ya?”
Manny laughed. “You’re already opening?”
“Next Monday, as a matter of fact. My boy and I might just throw you a congrats party for the new job.”
Manny held up his hand and in a droll voice said, “I cannot accept a bribe.”
“I like that.” Teddy Sr. extended his hand. “I need to go find my son before he gets into trouble. Keep in touch, and I wasn’t kidding about coming in Monday night.”
As Teddy Sr. walked away, Manny thought that his son was the one who should be worried about his old man getting into trouble. He smiled to himself, remembering all the times that the elder Teddy would be in some hot water, and his son, the same age as Manny, would have to bail him out. Teddy Jr. was a handful on his own, but his antics paled in comparison to his dad. Teddy Sr. was a legend in Long Branch and not only because he owned the strip club. He was often the lively drunk in the Brighton Bar, offering the college girls barely of age a few bucks for their panties or a blowjob in the small bathroom.
Manny took a stroll through the crowd, shaking hands and waving to the many faces that he knew. He put on a good face, not saying much when people told him they were sorry for his loss as if it had just happened. He made sure to laugh and show everyone he was recovering nicely and so he could keep from dwelling on the pain this visit was causing and not begin to tear up.
A lingering smell of smoke was in the air, caught by the few pieces of Murphy’s Law and the strip club that remained. Blackened wood littered the lot, a charred wall still standing where the main stage used to be. The fire had done a pretty decent job of destroying the place, and the firemen trying to control the blaze had finished it off. Nothing of real value had been salvaged from the lot.
“How are you?” a uniformed officer asked Manny. It took him a second to realize that it was Russ Galvin, who used to work security at Murphy’s Law during certain events, especially when a national act was booked.
“I’m doing well.”
“I hear you’re going into the academy next week. Congratulations. You’ll be in with Mike.”
“I know. I saw the list. A couple of us new graduates are going in, mostly going to the Sheriff’s Office.”
Officer Galvin grinned. “You and Mike are the only two going to join me in Long Branch PD?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Well, glad to have you on board. Partner up with Mike when you get there; he’s already psyched to get through this and get cracking.”
“Will do.” Manny moved away, glad the conversation was over. He really had nothing against Mike Galvin, but they didn’t move in the same crowds when they were in school together. Mike was one of the loud kids, the guy that got into fights or said the stupid things in class because his dad was a cop. In elementary school, Mike bragged about becoming a cop and following in his father’s and his grandfather’s footsteps as a Long Branch officer. Mike was in with the burnouts while Manny kept to himself.
Training with Mike Galvin was going to be an adventure. He could only imagine what a badge and service weapon was going to do to his ego. Manny hoped he wasn't going to be in his circle and wouldn't be working directly with him in the future.
As Manny approached the caution tape, he stopped. For the first time, he noticed that the ground was wet. Actually, as he bent down, it looked saturated with water. There were puddles everywhere, and the area where the foundation of the two adjoining buildings used to be looked like a small lake.
It had been almost two weeks since the last rain, and even then, it was a typical short sprinkle, common for this time of year. Manny glanced across the street to the beach, but the four-foot concrete seawall was still intact. No way. Even in a fierce storm, the water could never get over here, he thought. It wasn't like a water line ran through the lot anymore and was busted or the street around the lot was wet at all. Just the lot itself.
He stepped over the yellow tape and felt his sneaker sink half a foot into the mud.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Officer Galvin said behind him. “There are spots in there that are a few feet deep. The whole lot is rutted with sinkholes.”
“Really?” Manny reluctantly stepped back onto the pavement. “Where’d all this water come from?”
“I guess the ocean.” Galvin looked at Manny like he was stupid. “The Fire Chief says that the basement is filled to the top with sea water, and he guesses that the fire and the failing structure created sinkholes and pockets in the ground.”
“Wouldn’t they dry up by now? We haven’t had rain in so long.”
Galvin shrugged his shoulders. “Beats me, kid. All I know is that this area is really dangerous.”
Manny stepped back onto solid ground. Despite the warm air, he got a chill. The water looked dirty, black, and even a bit scary. Manny felt eyes on him from the rotting lot.
“Are you sticking around for the memorial service?” Galvin asked.
Manny shrugged. He felt that he’d already been here too long as it was. Why did I come? "I'm not sure," he stammered. "I don't want to be a distraction, and I think just being here was a mistake. I don't know what I thought was going to happen by me being here."
"Sometimes, you just need closure, but it might not happen in the timeframe you'd like. When my wife passed four years ago, I thought I'd get over it. I was a tough cop, you know? The cancer had ravaged her body for so long it wasn't a surprise." Galvin looked away. "Yet not a day goes by I don't think about her and what we'd be doing right now."
Manny didn't know what to say. This was a mistake.
"Shit, I'm really sorry. How stupid of me to say that to you. Sometimes, the mouth works without benefit of the brain."
"Don't worry about it."
Galvin’s police radio squawked, and he frowned.
“What is it?” Manny asked.
“They found two bodies washed up on the beach in Asbury Park.”
“Are they informing the neighboring municipalities?”
“No.” Officer Galvin pointed across the street to a red Pontiac Trans Am. “The driver of that car is one of the bodies. We ran the plate this morning since it was parked here overnight. I guess the guy and his girlfriend drowned out here. Probably drunk.”
Manny glanced at the car and then down the street where the man in the trench coat had stood a year ago. Only wind-blown sand greeted him.
Chapter 3
July 8th 1989
Manny stared at his cousin’s body, bloated and gray, under the failing sunlight. “Who found him?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Some homeless guy, but he’s as crazy as a loon. They have him around the corner at the deli, giving him some coffee and something to eat. I don’t think he’ll be much help,” his partner Mike Galvin said. “He claims that this dirt bag here killed himself.”
Manny closed his eyes and counted to ten. He wanted nothing more than to punch Galvin in his face right now, as he wanted to do several times a day, it seemed. “This ‘dirt bag’ is my cousin.”
Galvin chuckled. “Sorry about that.”
“Forget it.” Manny walked
away as another unit pulled up, and Detective Vic Tankard stepped out. Tankard was a giant of a man: imposing with broad shoulders that defined his six-foot-six frame. His shaved dark head and steely eyes struck fear in most people.
“What do we have here?” Detective Tankard asked in his deep voice. Despite the heat, he wore a suit jacket and tie. A few drops of perspiration flitted across his temple, but otherwise, he was the definition of cool.
Manny respected the detective. When he’d first gotten onto the Long Branch PD, it was Tankard that went out of his way to be friendly to the rookie although Manny suspected that it had more to do with Tankard’s dislike of the Galvins and the fact that Tankard had actually gone to school with Manny’s father.
“Alberto Santiago, age twenty-three. He apparently drowned.”
Tankard glanced at Manny when he said Santiago. “Drowned here in a puddle?”
Manny shrugged. “It looks that way. They have a homeless guy around the corner who says he saw it or something. I was just about to go over and talk to him.”
Tankard put a large hand on Manny’s shoulder. “Who responded?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s my family; I want this one.”
Tankard smiled. “I’m not going to argue with you; I was just trying to make conversation.”
Manny had to laugh at that. “Bullshit. You never just make conversation."
"Suppan and Pavano got the call,” Galvin said. "They're babysitting him."
“Let them keep it, but I want you to follow along. I know it’s personal, but I need you to back up and let them do their jobs.” Tankard glanced at Galvin and frowned. “And keep Russ Galvin’s brat away from this. Everything that kid touches turns to shit.” Tankard smiled. “Like his old man. What a shame his retirement is coming up soon.”
“I’m sure you’re upset.”
“Of course I am. I’ll be the first one to offer him a handshake, tell him his retirement watch is great, and escort him out the door.”
“I’m sure you will. Let me go and talk to this guy.” Manny shook Tankard’s hand and stopped to stare one last time at his cousin’s body. Alberto was a good guy, a couple of years older than Manny. They’d played stickball together and some football in the dirt lots growing up. Of course, Alberto also worked at Murphy’s Law before the fire, helping the family by wheeling beer kegs from the storage room. They’d drifted after that, and Manny thought that Alberto had gotten married and moved up to Elizabeth and was working at Newark Airport.
Officer Suppan was standing outside of the deli, smoking a cigarette, when Manny approached. Like Manny, Suppan had grown up in Long Branch and had gone directly from high school graduation to the Police Academy. Two years older than Manny, he looked five times that with a leathery face and a protruding gut. But Manny knew better than to let Suppan’s looks deceive: He’d once seen him battle three assailants during a jewelry heist in nearby Avon, and Suppan held his own despite the fact that the robbers brandished knives.
“Sorry to see Alberto like that; he was a good guy. He was my blocker for Long Branch High.” Suppan flicked his cigarette into the street. “Tough bastard.”
“Yeah, he was. I didn’t know he was back down here. I heard he moved.”
“That’s the fucked up part. Pavano called and spoke with his wife, and she thought he was at work. He should be at the job, not here in Newark. We found his car and his work uniform and shit inside. He left for work this morning, as usual, but never got there. It doesn’t make sense. According to his wife and his boss at the airport, he wasn’t depressed, no money problems, no real stress in his life.”
“You think he killed himself?”
“I can’t say. All we have right now is his body with no visible signs of struggle, no attack or defensive wounds, and nothing other than the fact that he was face down in a puddle of water, and it was almost like he tried to drink his way out of it.” Suppan pointed at the deli. “Our only witness is a crazy bastard who says he knows what really happened, but he wants to talk to you in private.”
“Me?” Manny tried to see in through the window but the sun was bouncing off and distorting his view. “Do I know him?”
“Beats the shit out of me. He knows you; he keeps asking for you by name. I knew it was only a matter of time before you got down here.”
Manny reluctantly entered the deli. The place was empty save for Jerry, who owned the place and was currently sitting at the front table reading the newspaper, and three officers surrounding a far table where the witness sat.
“How’s it going, Manny? Sorry about Alberto,” Jerry said as he looked over the paper and at the group at the other end of his place. “Good luck with that nut job.”
Manny laughed and patted Jerry on the arm as he went past. He’d spent many days after school in this deli, playing the Pac Man machine—he still had three top ten scores on it—and hanging out with his friends. Before Jerry closed every late afternoon, his dad would send him over to pick up a couple of subs for dinner to be eaten at Murphy’s Law around the corner.
For some reason, the song “My Hometown” by Springsteen popped into Manny’s head, and he knew that, cliché or not, it was true. Everything he’d ever known or cared about was within a three-mile radius of this spot. He knew the other two cops beside Pavano because they’d all invariably gone to school together or grown up playing ball together. His father always said that you could drive around Long Branch, waving at neighbors and friends, and feel like you were back in the 1950s.
He approached the table, and the cops, looks of amusement on their collective faces, gave him a wide berth.
“Good luck with this one,” Pavano muttered as he walked away.
Manny sat down across from the man, who was entrenched in a half-eaten tuna sub. Three empty Coke cans were crunched on the table before him.
“I’m Manny Santiago.”
The man looked up, his eyes bloodshot and wild. His hair was tied back in a dirty ponytail, thin and dry. His face was unshaven, scraggly fuzz filling in the lines of his face. “I know who you are. He said you’d come.”
“Officer Pavano said that?”
The old man laughed. “He said you would say that as well.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“I speak the truth,” the old man said and jabbed his finger before him for emphasis. “I’ve dreamed about this encounter for two years.”
Something about the way the old man said that and the way he was staring intently at him disturbed Manny, but he shook it off. In his short career, he’d dealt with kooks and drunks, chasing them from the abandoned buildings and off of the beaches.
He’d never dealt with this one, but he’d dealt with his kind. He decided to go the “friendly cop” route. “Can I buy you another Coke?”
The old man nodded and took another bite, once again ignoring Manny.
Manny rose and went to the counter, where Jerry met him. “My friend there needs another Coke.”
“Of course he does. I’ll put it on your tab since your buddies there told me you’d pay for the food.”
Pavano and the rest of the cops were standing around outside, looking casual. Manny knew that at the drop of a hat, they would rush into the deli.
Manny suddenly realized what was going on. “What else is on my tab besides the Cokes and the sub?”
Jerry grinned. “Six more subs and sodas.”
“Bastards.” Manny took another soda can from Jerry. “I’m going to look the other way, so if you accidentally spit on them, I won’t see.”
“You’re the customer; you’re always right.”
“Here you go, buddy. I didn’t catch your name,” Manny said as he sat back down. This was going nowhere fast, and he thought a more traditional approach of dragging this bum into the station for questioning would make more sense.
The old man glanced up, drool and mayonnaise running down the sides of his mouth. “I didn’t tell you my name. That’s not important; what is important
is the dreams and how you interpret them.”
“Really? Hmm.” Manny was getting annoyed now. Someone—most likely this crazy fuck—had killed Alberto, and he was wasting time sitting here. “I sleep well at night. No nightmares here.”
“Who said nightmares? I’m talking about the dreams.” The old man pointed at his head, lettuce and tuna dripping from a dirty finger. “The dreams we’ve all had since that night.”
“Since what night?”
“Since the night of the fire, of course. Manny, when the time comes for you to do what needs to be done, make sure you don’t fail.”
“What?”
“You might not remember them, but sure as shit you’re having them too. We’re all having them. Open your eyes, Manny. You’re involved in this just like the rest. There are eighty-nine in total before the End comes.”
“I’ve had enough of this crazy talk, buddy. Tell me what you know about the drowning, or I’ll haul you into the station where we can continue our chat.”
“Once I leave this sub shop, I will have nothing more to say.” The old man eyed Manny. “Ever. I’ve done what I was supposed to do.” He looked down at the floor. “I did my part of the bargain, didn’t I?”
“Do I know you?”
The old man pulled his face up and grinned. “I don't think we ever actually met, but I know you and your family. Your father was very kind to me, leaving out plates of food and drinks most nights. I lived between the dumpster and Murphy's Law.”
“Really?” Manny didn't remember anyone being out there.
“The night of the fire I was inside the storage room and suffering from too much, uh… drinking. Your father let me sleep it off so I didn't get lost. One time I managed to walk into the surf and drunkenly drown myself before he saved me.”
“I never knew it.” Manny thought back to how many times he'd been about to take the trash out at the end of the night and his father would do it for him. Now, it made sense. “My parents always took care of the neighborhood. I wonder if my mom knew.”
Chelsea Avenue Page 3
