Uncle Janice (33 page)

With IA’s digital recorder silently running in her purse, she said, “It was fine. How about you?”

The ex-wife hadn’t let him see his kids, he told her. When he’d rung the bell on Saturday morning to pick them up for his weekend visit, no one had come to the door. Plastic-bagged newspapers covered the welcome mat, an invitation to every B&E man in the neighborhood. He rattled the doorknocker, admittedly a little harder than he should’ve, and it came off in his hand. He flung it into the neighbor’s yard. Then he threw the newspapers off the porch, and then some potted plants, and then a loose brick, and then the welcome mat itself, and then when he thought he’d run out of things to throw, here comes the ex-wife. Stomping down the hallway in a towel to curse him out like in the bad old days. Asking him if he was drunk. Asking him who was going to clean up this mess, as if it weren’t
already
a mess with stacks of unread newspapers piled in front of the door. She told him the girls were at a sleepover and that she’d left him a voice mail to that effect, which was absolute balderdash, but she did later send him a text saying,
NOT SURE I CAN HAVE YOU AROUND THE GIRLS WITH UR TEMPER ISSUES
, in all caps just like that. Give him a break. Sunday he spent alone in his apartment drinking whiskey and listening to a boxed set of Bill Withers CDs. Monday he baked and devoured a coconut cream pie.

Janice, who to her shame couldn’t even remember his daughters’ names, said, “Oh, Tevis, I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” he asked. “It’s not like it’s your fault.”

Her head turned to watch Sergeant Hart swish and rattle past her on his way toward the bathroom. She didn’t follow him. Obviously. But when he returned to his desk, she didn’t approach him there, either, because she doubted she could get him to say anything incriminating
with all those other investigators from all those other precincts sitting nearby. What she needed to do was get him alone, or at least relatively alone. She maybe had a chance when he went to the copy room, but she thought she’d look too suspicious standing there inexplicably holding her purse up to his mouth. Right? No, not right. She of course knew she was just being a total wuss. After another hour of sitting still, she hid up in her secret third-floor bathroom, where she sat on the toilet and turned the digital recorder over in her hands. So far she’d only managed to record Tevis humming “Ain’t No Sunshine.” Come on, Janice! Come on! Let’s try this again, and remember: you do this for a living; the only difference now is that the microphone actually works.

Back down in the rumpus, she followed Hart into the kitchenette. Even there, though, she couldn’t get him alone. Gonz was sitting at the high top with the day’s
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spread out in front of him. “Shoot or Die” said the headline. “Bell Cop Tells: Why I Had to Fire 31 Bullets.” His desk—the cop’s, Michael Oliver’s—remained empty over on the far side of the rumpus, but every narco uncle and investigator had already talked the topic into the ground months ago, and Gonz seemed far more interested in the sports section. His head popped up, though, when he heard Hart come into the kitchen.

“Hey, how are ya, Sarge? You see the game last night?”

“Nope.”

“No?” Gonz asked. “Isles–Pens? It was a barn burner.”

“Still didn’t see it,” Hart said.

Poor Gonz, she almost felt sorry for him. She must’ve looked almost sorry for him, too, because he was mean-mugging her now, stink-eyeing her. She set her purse down on the high top. For something to munch on, an excuse to be in here at all, she reached for a huge plastic tub of pretzel rods while over on the other end of the kitchen Hart reached for an even bigger plastic tub of muscle powder, collectively purchased by the 115 investigators.

“What’s that, Sarge? The MET-Rx?”

Rather than answer Gonz directly, Hart showed him the label, which guaranteed an “xtreme blast” and reassured potential users with a promise
of hard-core laboratory testing. Red and yellow lightning bolts, or maybe veins, exploded across the background.

“That stuff makes me all bloated,” Gonz said.

“That’s the point.”

“Oh yeah, I know, but it makes me all mushy.”

“When the amino acids hydrate themselves, they’re going to draw in water and increase volume. That is their purpose, Gonz. To turn them into muscle fibers, you have to actually work out.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What is it?” Janice asked. “Steroids?”

“Why?” Hart said. “You trying to build up some muscle mass?”

“Aren’t you worried it’ll shrink your dick?” Gonz asked her.

Grimes puttered into the kitchenette, barefoot and yawning, in his white pajamas and droopy sleeping cap. His eyes were half closed. He found a dirty mug in the sink, gave it a quick rinse, and shook the water droplets out onto the floor. Like the pretzel rods, fancy single-serving French vanilla creamers had materialized in the kitchen somewhere around November, shortly after Richie had taken over reception duties. Grimes poured nine of those creamers,
nine
—Janice counted—into his mug, which he then put in the microwave for exactly twenty-one seconds.

When his eyes widened enough to notice everyone looking at him, he said, “What time is it?”

According to the clock on the microwave, it was eleven seconds, ten seconds … After the ding, he took his mug and puttered out of the kitchenette, back toward his thin mattress in the cot room.

“We sure do work with a bunch of assholes, huh, Sarge?” Gonz asked.

“Don’t be such a grump,” Hart told him.

Later that afternoon, Puffy surprised everyone by showing up at the rumpus. He said he’d come by only to clear out his desk. Nothing to get excited about. With his undercover career over, or at least on hold, he’d
shaved the beard off his face, his bare cheeks plumper than she would’ve imagined, as if maybe he’d been eating better since leaving Narcotics—less junk food, fewer taco carts—or maybe, without any buy stressors chewing up his insides, he’d filled out to his more natural weight. A blue cast, thick as bark, spread down his forearm to his fingertips. Only five days had passed since the uncles had last seen him, but they all swarmed around him, everyone but Gonz of course, and Fiorella, whose son was off from school on spring break. James Chan, flitting over Puffy’s shoulder, looked particularly happy to have him back.

“So where you been?” Morris said.

“Are you serious?” Klondike asked him. “Do you not remember? The big fight? Sticking up for Itwaru’s honor?”

“Now, hold on,” Janice said.

“No, yeah, I remember,” Morris said. “Jesus, you kidding? I’m asking where he’s been
since
.”

“Medical leave,” Puffy told them. He held up his cast, the cotton webbing around his thumb already pearl gray with dirt. “Next week I’m taking a psych eval, which I’m pretty sure I’ll fail. And after that, I’m guessing I’ll end up in a Viper room, listening to wiretaps all day.”

Pablo Rivera said, “You better be careful. I heard IA keeps secret cameras in them rooms to make sure you don’t fall asleep.”

“I’m not going to be there very long,” Puffy said. “My plan is to put in a request for one of those ergonomic chairs? On account of my back?”

“They’ll
never
give you one,” Tevis said.

“Exactly. I’ll put in a couple more written requests, leave a paper trail, and when nothing shows up I’ll sue the department for disability. I pretty much got it all figured out.”

The other uncles nodded, smiling their big smiles, pleased and impressed, but a little resentful, too, a little disappointed in him, as if he were a combat soldier who’d shot off his own toe. Or maybe it was just Janice who felt all those things. She sat in his chair as he cleaned out his desk. Richie brought over a big black garbage bag so he could take home the things he wanted to keep: his clock radio, Ping-Pong balls, crossword puzzle dictionary, teakettle, Andrew Wyeth print, and the potted philodendron plant that to the uncles’ collective embarrassment
had died without anyone noticing. He assured them he could revive it. He gave Richie a postage meter that for some reason had been stashed in one of Puffy’s drawers. Grimes got a pair of electric socks. No one wanted Puffy’s autographed picture of Tiny Tim the ukulele player, but okay, no problem: he stuffed it into the black garbage bag. His flask, waffle iron, and knockoff colognes purchased from the old Korean lady at A.R.’s Tavern: into the bag. He kept his EpiPens, too, because apparently Puffy was called Puffy because he was allergic to peanuts. Who knew? When he found a Sharpie in a bottom drawer, he asked everyone to sign his cast. He put a pair of wading boots in James Chan’s arms. He even went over to Gonz to try to give him a silver candlestick, but Gonz handed it back to him without a word. Later the uncles wondered if Puffy had wanted only to get Gonz’s fingerprints on a weapon-like object. Either way, it went into the bag. So did his photo albums. His Nerf basketball net. His books:
How to Win Friends and Influence People
,
Mind over Back Pain
, and
Rip Off: A Guide to Crimes of Deception
, a manual her father could have written. Klondike and Morris each wanted Puffy’s dominoes, so he gave his set to both of them and told them to share. Yeah right. He gave Tevis his CB radio so he’d always have someone to tell stories to. The mood was turning sentimental. With his desk almost halfway cleaned out, he bequeathed the pipe and deerstalker hat to Janice, who was of course next in line to make detective.

“I can’t,” she said.

“What’s the matter? You haven’t made your four buys yet?” He took the deerstalker from her and put it on her head. “Don’t worry so much, Jan. You’re a lock—it’s in the bag.”

She wished he meant this bag, this big black garbage bag, that he had a detective shield down there for her, or a doctor’s note excusing her from participating in activities related to Internal Affairs. She stuck the pipe in her mouth. Her signature on his cast looked pathetically small. She wanted to ask him if he’d punched Gonz for her or to get himself out of Narcotics, but she didn’t know which answer she’d rather hear. Probably neither. Before she could even thank him for the bequest, Lieutenant Prondzinski came over to tell him he had to leave.

“I’m just cleaning out my desk,” he said.

“Believe me, I can see that,” she told him. “But you’re not allowed to be on the premises while off duty. It’s an insurance issue.”

He could’ve pointed out that Grimes, by living here, was off duty and on the premises for at least two-thirds of every day, but instead, no rat, Puffy honorably kept the dispute focused on himself: “So when can I come by and get the rest of my stuff then?”

“Well,” Prondzinski said, “if you were reinstated in Narcotics? And you happened to be on duty at the time, then you would absolutely be allowed on the premises, no problem.”

“So only if I was still working here,” Puffy said.

“And on duty.”

“But if I was still working here—”

“And on duty,” Prondzinski added.

“Right,” Puffy said. “But if I was still working here and on duty, why would I need to clean out my desk?”

“It is what it is,” Prondzinski replied.

All the uncles—minus Gonz, minus Fiorella—followed Puffy to the stairwell. Richie, now that he had a working postage meter, promised to ship the rest of his stuff through the mail. Catch you later, Puffy! Because of the cast, no one could shake his hand, so they took turns patting his arm and squeezing his shoulder. Keep in touch! The uncles lost sight of him when he went into the stairwell, which seemed to swallow him into its darkness, but they continued to hear his giant black garbage bag thumping every step on the way down. Janice wished she’d gone in for a hug. She imagined he would walk out of the lobby and into a claustrophobic Viper room, a five-by-seven closet full of stultifying surveillance tapes. Eight-hour days, five days a week, headphones piping background chatter directly into his brain. It was crazy. Crazy-making. When she pulled the Sherlock Holmes pipe out of her mouth, she saw that she’d left deep bite marks in the stem.

Over the next few hours, Hart made almost a dozen trips to the bathroom. Maybe to snort coke bumps off his Altoids tin. More likely to
drain some of the water he drank by the gallon. She wouldn’t know. She went the rest of her shift without going near him.

Back at home, before going to sleep, or rather before attempting to go to sleep, she left a voice mail on Lieutenant Lenox’s work phone saying that she had failed to collect anything good. As the Spy Tech manual would’ve suggested—if it had included a chapter on intradepartmental communication—she chose only vague words for her message and did not refer to Sergeant Hart either by name or by rank. She said she hoped to deliver better results before the end of the workweek. But what she
really
hoped for? She didn’t know. She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what she even wanted to do.

As an afterthought, before hanging up the phone, she added, “By the way, this is Janice Itwaru.”

Early the next day, too early, hours before she needed to get out of bed, a pack of sports-talk hyenas raided her kitchen. Her eyes snapped open into darkness, always a panic-struck starter to her day. She tore off the sleep mask. Her legs kicked away sheets. At a volume she did not think possible, the tiny kitchen radio blared an argument, literally a screaming argument, over how long it takes to go to the bathroom at Yankee Stadium. She recognized the hyenas’ voices from occasional drives with the 115 investigators, but when she hurried down the stairs in what used to be her mother’s robe, she saw not Sergeant Hart, as her nightmare logic had expected, but Brother Itwaru, alone at the kitchen table and reading the
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. Hillary Clinton’s lies about facing down a Bosnian sniper had kicked Sean Bell’s shooter off the front page. On the back, the Yankees’ Alex Rodriguez denied steroid allegations. As if in solidarity, Brother wore a black-and-white pin-striped tracksuit, probably a Father’s Day present from his number one daughter. Not that he rooted for the Yankees, or was even a baseball fan. Too close to cricket, he always said. The most boring game on earth. Scattered across the kitchen table was a small heap of Wednesday’s mail, which he’d surely picked through already, just as he’d surely cranked the radio’s volume to get her out of bed. He put down the paper to ask her if she had remembered any of her dreams.