Box Nine (4 page)

“I didn't say—” she interrupts.

“No, no,” he interrupts, “you're right. I mean, you might be a little, I don't know, impractical. But I'm just way too cautious. It's the truth. I mean, even at work, you know, it's a problem. It can be annoying.”

“You're just a little too …” She looks for the word. “Conservative. Restrained.”

“No, it's the truth. I admit it. On the money.”

“You've just got to loosen up a little, Ike. For your own good.”

“Absolutely right,” he says.

They stare at each other, silent, Ike's head sort of bobbing nervously inside the collar of his powder-blue shirt. He runs a finger around his lips, as if he were some skier applying antichapping gel. He says, “No, you're right. I've been thinking about this. Got to open up more, right? And I was thinking, you could help me on this, Lenore. And it could prove pretty beneficial to you as a bonus.”

She gives him the same look she uses on informants when she hates their story.

“What I was thinking, you know, there are ways of supplementing your income, okay, there are things we could do. Together.”

Lenore pulls her mug from her lips and spills a big puddle of it onto the table. She's laughing again, shaking her head, holding up her right hand in a “stop” sign, trying to swallow, breathe, and talk at the same time.

“Oh no,” she finally manages. “What? Tell me. Amway? I'm not selling Amway, Ike. No way. You'd be hiding in the other room watching TV while I was writing up orders for discount soap, right? Unh-uh.”

Ike gets a dishrag from the sink and slowly mops up her coffee.

“It's not Amway,” he says very slowly, letting her know he's a little hurt.

“Okay, good,” Lenore says. “So what, then? You've been staying up late watching those guys in the polyester suits on those weird cable stations?”

“What guys?”

“You know. Those guys. There're all those guys. And they buy all this time on cable at like three
A.M.,
right? They list them as ‘paid commercial announcements' in
TV Guide.
They've all got a gimmick and usually it's got to do with real estate. Like buying up foreclosed properties at government auctions and stuff. Though I guess they're branching out, 'cause I've seen them do shows on like getting fifty credit cards and tapping them all for cash advances …”

“You watch this stuff,” Ike says, straightening up from the table, incredulous, the dishrag hanging from his hand.

Lenore hesitates, then says, “Well, if I can't sleep …”

Ike interrupts. “Lenore,” he says, genuinely astounded by her, “you get like twenty hours' sleep a week, you know. I mean, you work ridiculous hours. So when you get to come home, I can't believe …”

She's defensive. She says, “Yeah, well, it's not always so easy to fall off, Ike. I mean, I'm not like you …”

“I don't sleep that great, believe me,” he says.

There's quiet again. They both stare at the floor until Ike says, “I still don't get the credit card thing. I mean, you've got to pay all the cash advances back, right? So how does that put money in your pocket?”

“I think it's what you do with the money before the bill comes. It's like some fast turnover, some quick thirty-day investment or something. I don't know. It's not like I pay attention.”

Ike considers this, then says, “It's just, I think you could find a cooking show or something. Even the religious channels …”

Lenore rolls her eyes. “Oh, for Christ sake, Ike, I'd rather watch a nature show on snakes or rats. The religious channels, Jesus.”

“They can be pretty interesting,” Ike says, “you pick the right one …”

Lenore's not about to give on this point. “They're all scumbags,” she says. “Every one.”

“I guess,” Ike says. He knows that now it'll be close to impossible to sell her on the crime-novel idea.

“What day are you off this week?” Lenore asks.

“Don't know yet. Ms. Barnes hasn't done the schedule yet.”

Lenore's eyes bug out of her head.
“Ms. Barnes,”
she repeats, making the name sound ridiculous.

“Give me a break,” Ike says, walking to the sink to wash out the rag.

“Ms. Barnes?”
Lenore says louder, more sarcastic.

Ike turns around and folds his arms across his chest. “Well, what the hell should I call her?”

“Well, God, Ike,” she says, “it sounds like she's your third-grade teacher, c'mon. Jees, it sounds worse than that. It sounds like she's your third-grade teacher and you've got a crush on her, you know.”

Ike breathes in and out through his nose and says, “Yeah, well, it's getting late, okay?”

“Okay, all right,” Lenore says, smiling, pleased with herself. “I'm sorry. But you've got to admit … Ms. Barnes. C'mon, Ike.”

“So what do I say, ‘the supervisor'? ‘My supervisor'? That sounds worse.”

“No,” says Lenore, “it doesn't sound worse. What's her first name?”

Ike clears his throat and says, “Eva.”

“Eva,” Lenore repeats. “I like that. Why wouldn't you call her Eva?”

“Yeah,” Ike says, “why don't you just call Miskewitz Henry, right? You just don't. God, Lenore, why don't you call Zarelli Franny? That's his name, right? But you don't.”

“I call Miskewitz Lieutenant,” Lenore says.

“Well, we don't have ranks, you know.”

“I guess,” Lenore says. She'd like to press this Eva thing, dig a little and find out what makes Ike so touchy on the subject. But it's getting late and she wants to choose her seat at the conference table before the rest sit down.

“Listen, Lenore,” Ike says, “about this extra-income thing …”

She waves him off and gulps down the rest of her coffee. “Save it for dinner, okay? I'm running late.”

She jumps up from the table like someone had sent a jolt of electricity through her spine. She moves toward the back door like her feet were on fire, kisses Ike on the forehead, pulls open the door, and steps outside. She starts to walk around the house to her car, then stops for a second.

Inside, Ike hears her yell, “Say hi to
Ms. Barnes
for me,” in a sing-song, laugh-choked voice.

He whispers to himself, “How can we possibly be related?” and pushes the back door closed with his foot.

He moves to the counter, bobs his tea bag. He thinks it wasn't that long ago that Lenore felt like a real twin. Someone must have really known who was older, who came out first. But Ma would never tell, always pleading ignorance. Knowing always mattered more to Lenore anyway. Ike was content, happy even, being half of a set. And he liked the paradox, even as a kid, instinctively, so connected, but so tremendously different. Not in the classic sense, not any light or dark deal, where one of them was the evil twin. That'd be too easy. It was more like a division of qualities. Lenore, Ike thought, came into the world, for whatever reason, with strength, power, conviction. Ike always thought her abundance of these traits derived from his lack of them. She got his share. But in their wake there were other things. Some awful, like chronic doubt and indecisiveness, but others desirable, like an easy ability to listen and observe. In some ways, Ike thinks, he's a perfect spy. He's almost invisible to most people, but he hears every word they speak, sees every muscle contract or expand. And he can remember it all. He's got a memory like some flawless Japanese camcorder. Both auditory and visual.

Ike thinks suddenly of how many people must fear Lenore. Probably more people fear his sister than Eva, his supervisor. Lenore comes into contact with more people than Eva. She touches more lives and in a much rougher way. And Lenore carries a huge weapon with her, day and night, that could blow pieces of your anatomy into dust. She carries a badge that enables her to pull you off any street in the city, slap you on the hood of a car, turn all your pockets inside out, run her hands over every inch of your body, insult your heritage or looks, and ask questions about your habits and whereabouts on any given night. Ike realizes that, to someone she doesn't love, Lenore could be the nightmare that never ends.

Ike fishes his tea bag out of his mug, squeezes it dry against the side of the mug, then dumps it in the basket. He gets the milk from the refrigerator, empties the last of it into the tea, and tosses the carton. He brings the mug to his lips, blows over the surface of the tea for a few seconds, then sips and burns his tongue. He puts the mug down on the table to cool, and wonders who would come out on top in a matchup between Eva and Lenore. Who would he bet on? They have such different methods. Eva is so cool and controlled, she's like a machine that was built with care and intelligence, made to give the maximum work, at the maximum efficiency, and to last for years to come. Lenore, on the other hand, is all fireworks, all noise and light. She's perpetually explosive. She makes every decision on the verge of violence. Just watching TV with her can be a draining, punishing experience. Once they watched
The Exorcist
together, late on a Saturday night. Ike was a lot more afraid of his twin sister than he was of any demon. She spent two hours snarling right back at the screen, warning Satan to leave poor little Linda Blair alone or she'd “waste his pathetic ass back to hell.” Toward the end, Ike prayed that she wouldn't go next door and come back with her Magnum, pull an Elvis, and blow his Sony into hundreds of pieces.

Chapter Four

L
enore grabs a black coffee in a small white Styrofoam cup. She walks over to the window side of the conference room and looks out over the highway. The speed is bothering her a little today, making her feel slightly claustrophobic. To take her mind off this trapped, breathless feeling, she thinks about how much she despises the architecture of the police station.

The biggest problem is the windows. Back when headquarters was down on Kristie Place, there were these gorgeous old floor-to-ceiling windows with arched tops. During the May riots of'69, someone lobbed a bomb through one. It happened to land on the dispatch board. No one was seriously hurt, but radio contact with all the cruisers was lost for days. With that incident in mind, and combined with the energy crisis of the late seventies, when they finally built the new building at Tubman Square, they brought in these bizarre skinny strips of windows, maybe only two or three inches in width, bulletproof and Thermopane, but also incapable of being opened to let in fresh air.

There are a lot of days when Lenore just wants to bring her Magnum up from the bunker and empty the chamber into one of those skinny windows until it shatters and falls to the ground. Today is one of those days.

The conference room is on the top floor of the police station and from where she stands she can look at the sparse traffic rolling down the interstate. She'd love to be out there now, out of this stupid briefing, in a metallic-teal Porsche, clocking one twenty-five toward no destination in particular. Instead, she's drinking bitter coffee, which she knows will only aggravate the speed jag, and hoping Zarelli doesn't come over and try to start a conversation.

Richmond, Shaw, and Peirce are grouped next to the side table that's crowded with the coffee urn and a cardboard platter of cheese and lemon Danish. Richmond is telling the women some long, confusing joke that has to do with a hooker and a talking parrot. No matter what the punch line is, there's no way it can warrant the effort he's giving the story.

Zarelli comes in the door with his hands in his pockets, wearing a dark grey suit, a strange white shirt with a long, pointy collar, and a red-and-grey-striped tie equipped with both tie tack and collar pin. He looks like he's headed to a funeral, Lenore thinks. Why the hell did he dress like this? Who is he trying to impress?

It's apparent that everybody else is a little confused by his clothes. Shaw and Peirce break their concentration from Richmond's story and give funny, squinty looks.

Peirce says, “You got somewhere to go after this?”

Zarelli shakes his head deliberately and says, “I like to dress up on occasion. Problem?”

Richmond, annoyed at the interruption, says, “You look like a Bible salesman from ten years back.”

Zarelli just says, “Thanks, Rich,” and moves to the table to pour himself a coffee. He nods over to Lenore a little too formally as he adds packet after packet of sugar to his drink. She thinks he seems nervous and unsure of himself, nothing like the Zarelli she knows and is tired of. As he lifts the coffee cup to his lips, she can see his hands tremble. She has two responses to this. The first is to wonder if somehow he's already picked up on her plans to sever the relationship, through vibrations in the air or some unconscious telepathy. The second is to wonder how those shaky hands can possibly cover her if they get caught in any life-or-death situations.

He starts to cross the room toward her. Her curiosity is a little piqued and now talking to him doesn't seem as unpleasant as it had moments ago. He looks like he's wearing rented shoes that are a size too big for his feet. He seems to shuffle across the floor, the coffee cup at his lips the whole time. There's a sheen of sweat glowing on his forehead. His shirt is buttoned at the neck and pushes against his Adam's apple. Lenore feels like gagging just watching it.

He reaches the window and stares out at the highway and begins to talk.

“Okay, Lenore,” he says. “This is it.”

She thinks about turning mute, not responding at all, letting him summon up all his powers of language and communication to no avail. Instead she says flatly, “This is what?”

“This is for real,” he says, his eyes starting to blink too fast. “I've got an appointment, all right? I've made a goddamn appointment.”

“That's swell,” she says, “an appointment.”