It was after the Verner discovery that she started thinking about the Uzi.
While everyone else in the department thinks of the job as little more than a futile effort that brings them a paycheck, Lenore pretends she’s something of a zealot. She’s got everyone convinced that she defines each day as a nonstop conflict between darkness and light, and this is why she’s never been hesitant to draw her piece and fire away. Her fake attitude creates a problem for Zarelli, especially since the night she told him to dig some Lifesavers out of her purse and he saw the vial filled with speed. Now, every once in a while, he throws the speed in her face like it was some moral paradox that she’s not clear on. In those instances, she grabs control of the argument by letting fly a derisive, condescending laugh and explaining, with a show of really strained patience, that there’s no paradox whatsoever, since the issue is one of dominance. She completely dominates the drug and if she ever sees, in the briefest of moments, an erosion of her control, she’ll kick and be as clean as day one. Lenore feels this is the core of truth in her act. She monitors herself. She’d like to do without the drug, but life is so goddamn crazy right now. The hours are unreal, and everyone has their limit.
She puts down the weight, leans forward, turns up the volume of the set. A voice yelps, Get on your knees and give me your money. She turns off the set, gets up, and moves to the bedroom wall. She presses her ear against it. She can hear the radio next door. Ike is up, probably putting the coffee on.
Chapter Three
Ike opens the door with that annoying isn’t-it-a-great-day smile on his face. Lenore walks in nodding and saying, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, just tell me the coffee’s ready.”
She sits down at his butcherblock table and grabs the front section of the newspaper and says, “I don’t have much time. Jesus, did you burn the toast again?”
She doesn’t expect an answer and he doesn’t offer one. Instead he slides a brimming mug of jet-black and steaming hot coffee in front of her. The mug is green and says in bold, black letters: Don’t Speak to Me till This Mug Is Empty. Lenore scans the headlines and mutters, “God, these Muslims are really stepping over the line.”
Ike sits down opposite her, stays silent but drums his fingers on the table in a way he knows upsets her. Lenore knows he knows and so looks up from the paper, head cocked and smiling.
• • •
Yesterday, all day long, Ike had this crazy idea that mushroomed. He’d been thinking about a dinner he’d had with Lenore, American chop suey and garlic bread. And like most of the dinners they shared together, Lenore’s plate had gone cold while she told Ike the details of a recent bust. Lenore could tell a tremendous story. She started slowly and built a solid, well-defined foundation. She gave you a quick rundown on all the key players and, though brief, her descriptions were always so unique you never had any trouble keeping characters straight. She used an impressive array of cop jargon without sounding forced or clichéd, without sounding like some 1970s TV show. She gave you a basic idea of the history of the particular dealers she was after, the cities they were out of, the families they did their bartering with, the prisons they’d done their time in. And then she’d start hitting you with the procedural stuff, how they built a case, who’d gone undercover, who’d applied pressure to whom, who was tailed and who was bugged, and who was roughed up.
But, without a doubt, Lenore’s forte, her real, natural talent, was given full play when she narrated the actual arrest, when her voice would kick into that low, machine-gun rhythm and she’d manage to detail every angle of the climax, the broken-down doors, the screaming in many languages, the drawn weapons and flushing toilets, the cursing and face slapping and biting, and, of course, as dependable as Jack Webb, the reading of the Miranda card, the recitation of civil rights due all in the process of arrest.
Ike loves Lenore’s stories. He could listen for hours. He wishes he had that ability, to create a clear and fluid picture of confusing events. He wishes he had the energy and intelligence and, maybe, confidence to make it exciting but plausible, well paced but detailed.
And then, yesterday, while breaking down a basket of flats by zip code, the thought hit him in one quick burst: he could record Lenore’s voice. He could get her stories down on tape. And, even better, he could transcribe the tapes onto paper, type them up at night. If the stories enthrall him, he’s sure they would grab others. He and Lenore could turn a good buck on them. He ached for the day to go by so he could hit her with the idea and see how she felt. He’d stress that she wouldn’t have to do a thing, just sit and eat and talk like always. He’d take care of the rest. He assured himself that even if she were hesitant for some reason, he’d stress the possibility of big, fast income and the things it could buy: that Porsche she mentions every week, the Soloflex machine she keeps reading about.
• • •
“So,” Ike says.
Lenore raises her eyebrows.
“Well?” he tries.
She shrugs.
“Just tell me. Did you break it off or not?”
She sighs, drops the paper to the table, sinks back into the chair, lets her mouth drop open slightly. They stare at each other until she gives in and says, “Look, Ike, what do you want? I worked eighteen hours straight, okay? There were other people around us most of that time. I couldn’t …”
“C’mon, sis,” Ike says, looking down to the table, shaking his head, “there were people there? The whole time?”
“What I’m saying is, I didn’t get the right opportunity, okay? Hey, believe me, I’ve ended more relationships than you’ve ever started, all right? I want to do this correctly.”
Ike is smiling now, looking up at the ceiling, his head bent all the way back on his neck. “You want to keep him on the line. You want to play with him a little. And …”
He pauses to annoy her, and though she knows that’s the plan, she gives in to it and says, “Yeah, what?”
Ike brings his head up and stares at her, then he shrugs and says, “And you’re not so sure he’ll be that easy to replace down at the Route 61 Motor Lodge …”
There’s a long, weird pause that hangs between them, then Lenore bursts out laughing, shakes the table, spills a little coffee, and says, “Jesus, Ike, who’re you kidding?”
For a second, Ike doesn’t know what to do, then he joins in, spontaneously letting out a squeal, thrilled to hear his sister laugh.
The sound dies out into long, breath-grabbing gasps and then it’s quiet in the kitchen again.
“You want some fruit or something?” Ike asks.
Lenore shakes her head. “No thanks. They’ll have Danish or donuts at the briefing.” She sips at her mug, then asks, “Hey, Ike, I was wondering, you planning on taking any vacation time? You got a lot of vacation time saved up, right?”
“I’ve got, like, four weeks coming.”
“I was thinking, we should hit the Caribbean, you know, some nice island. Or maybe Bermuda or someplace. We should check it out.”
Ike hesitates. “I don’t know, Lenore. We’re talking big dollars for a trip like that. Two or three grand just for a week.”
She shakes her head. “No way. Where did you hear those prices? Shaw was telling me she went to Aruba for under a grand …”
“Yeah, okay,” Ike spits out, “but when did she go? That’s the whole thing. You go in like August or something and it’s a big difference. I mean who wants to go in August?”