Uncle Janice (38 page)

“That fucking asshole!” said Sergeant McCarthy.

“That
stupid
fucking asshole!” said Detective Duckenfield, happy to have another reason to hate Gonz, but even happier for the excuse to break some more shit. He rolled cricks from his neck. His knees bent down into the power lifter’s position. With a quick exhale of breath, he hit the door above the lock then dropped the ram real quick before its momentum could toss him into the lobby. Half a dozen floor tiles shattered. “It’s called expertise,” he said, flexing his biceps. “It’s called historical motherfucking precedent.”

If everything went right, the building’s superintendent would send a bill to Martin N. Snyder, c/o the New York State Department of Corrections.

The investigators rode up in the elevator. All of them together: nine men, one woman, four nooses, two body shields, a battering ram, a fire extinguisher, a signed no-knock warrant, and ten raid jackets with
POLICE
in bright letters across the front. “That’s gotta be some cockroach,” said a nervous, claustrophobic Detective Itwaru, quoting
Ghostbusters
, but no one seemed to get it. Cataroni’s blue eyes goggled at her
from behind the skinny viewfinder of his body shield. She knew that any one of her former uncle colleagues would’ve immediately answered back with, “Bite your head off, man.” Bill Murray, guys? Ever heard of him? She was chewing on the insides of her cheeks. Full of adrenaline, at last allowing the raid’s anticipation to rush through her, she’d given herself an ill-timed case of the giggles.

Off the elevator, the investigators crept down the hall. It was early afternoon. Most people were at work, or at least should’ve been at work, but some had stayed behind to cook what smelled like curry and watch what sounded like courtroom shows. A television in one apartment and a television in another were apparently tuned to the same station, with a slight delay between them. This, too, Detective Itwaru found inexplicably hilarious. The investigators kept creeping. When they reached Marty’s door, a middle-aged white woman came out of the apartment across the hall. She wore a granny housecoat, as if she intended only to go down into the lobby to collect her mail, but she froze at the sight of all those black jackets and body shields. She ran back into her apartment. Detective Itwaru thought she’d gone to hide, but the woman returned a moment later, holding a horizontally positioned smartphone, its small crystal light glowing red like a dragon’s eye. Her finger manipulated what appeared to be a zoom button. Detective Itwaru imagined getting shot in the head, her mother falling down stairs, a dog’s gnashing teeth, Jimmy Gellar with a heroin needle in his arm, the little black girl from LeFrak with the paring knife bobbing in her throat, whatever horrible thing she could think of to keep these giggles from jumping out of her. Her shoulders were shaking. Briefly she considered biting the fire extinguisher’s hose.

“Return to your residence,” Sergeant McCarthy whispered.

“You are on
my
property,” the woman said, staring at them through her camera phone. “And I am within my rights to film civil servants on my property. And to post it online if I so please.”

“You are obstructing government administration,” McCarthy hissed.

“I know my rights!”

Whereas Hart would have tossed the woman down the stairs, McCarthy
instead threw up his arms, defeated. “Hit the fucking door already!” he yelled at Duckenfield.

“This one?” Duckenfield asked, pointing to Marty’s.

“Oh my God,” Cataroni mumbled. “This is totally why I should be the ram.”

A hurried Duckenfield rolled his neck, flexed his knees, and started his swing, all at the same time, which happened to be the very worst time, for Marty was opening his door to investigate the hullabaloo out in his hallway. Without anything to stop it, the battering ram rocketed Duckenfield into the apartment. His two hundred and fifty-something pounds, plus the ram’s thirty-five, caught Marty center mass in the chest. Cataroni, unable to see clearly through the shield’s viewfinder, rushed in and tripped over their bodies. The other strongman with the other shield vaulted in after him. The pit bulls started barking, their voices echoing as if already kenneled. Two investigators went to cuff a purpled Marty on the welcome mat, followed by two more investigators to search the apartment, followed by the nervous newbie investigator with the perspiration mustache and wire nooses. Behind them all, safe at the rear, Detective Itwaru ran in laughing.