“Lenore,” he says, then he repeats her name, over and over until it takes on the ring and rhythm of a chant.
After a minute he pulls her forward so that her body awkwardly falls, then leans into his. She lets her face, her eyes and the bridge of her nose, find a mount at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and she collects herself up into a more regular, consistent sobbing.
He moves his fingers slowly through her hair, strokes the back of her neck, whispers into her ear, “Lenore, there are people upstairs now. They’ll hear us, Lenore. They’ll know we’re down here.”
She’s surprised at how much this quiets her. They stay in a rigid and uncomfortable position for several minutes. Lenore thinks of an old movie version of The Diary of Anne Frank that she saw as a child. She and Ike watched it together. She thinks of herself now as Anne Frank, holding herself motionless, waiting, perpetually breathless, for Nazis to kick in the attic door.
Finally, she pulls away from Woo, positions herself back on the floor, cross-legged. She begins to rub at her eyes and says, “I’m sorry.”
Woo simply reaches forward, touches then lightly squeezes her leg.
“Vicky,” she says, as if the name were a word without any assigned meaning, as if she’d read it off the wall of a cave.
Woo nods.
A small red light begins to flash on the receiver on the table. Woo stays silent but starts to point rapidly at the table. Lenore stares at him for a second, then jumps up and moves to the table, grabs the headphones, and brings them to her ear. She hears the traditional phone-ringing sound, reaches out, and turns on the reel-to-reel recorder. The two large wheels of tape begin to turn and the needle in the sound meter box jumps up into view, shocked alive. The phone rings a few times, then there’s a click of a pickup and she hears:
VOICE: Yeah, I’m here.
VOICE: Very good. I hope I didn’t wake you.
Lenore’s heart bucks. She’d bet all her memories of her parents that the second voice, with its accent and confidence, belongs to Cortez.
VOICE: I don’t live here. I’ve got a life besides this shit, okay?
CORTEZ: Relax, Mr. Rourke. There’s no reason we can’t be civil with one another.
ROURKE: I’m not so sure about that.
CORTEZ: Were you offended by my package, Mr. Rourke?
ROURKE: What package? What?
CORTEZ: You’ll find, in this business, Mr. Rourke, there’s a line of demarcation, a pivot of sorts—
ROURKE: I hate it when people talk like this. Too many fucking words—
CORTEZ: There’s a certain savvy needed in these endeavors, a definite, innate self-discipline, belief in standards. There’s an instinct that’s needed, Mr. Rourke, and I’m not entirely sure it’s the type of thing that can be learned. In this, it’s like a very useful form of grace.
ROURKE: Jesus. Just talk to me like a human for once.
CORTEZ: For instance, regarding my little package—
ROURKE: I said—didn’t you hear me?—I said, what package?
CORTEZ: —you have to know how serious to take such a thing. You have to innately know from the very moment that you smell the stink, that you see the dismembered remains, the tiny parasites moving in and out of the host, you must be hit with understanding in that instant. You must know that this is very simply a symbol, a literal suggestion, a method of effective and concise communication, that it delivers a very important message in the most dramatic and instantaneous and lasting of ways. It’s a work of art, Mr. Rourke. A thousand words, as the saying goes.
[Whistling noise from Rourke]
CORTEZ: And your reaction must be astute. You must know how to gauge your response. To take the message seriously enough to correct any aberrant behavior, but not so seriously that you rupture the whole relationship.
ROURKE: You can be an infuriating guy. Has this ever been said to you? Has anyone, maybe in passing, made this remark? You get a person’s juices going, you know? You bring me to the edge of saying shit, I don’t want to … like “talk normal, you fucking beaner.” You see, there you go. I said it. It’s out. Can’t suck the words back in. They’re out there and you heard them.
CORTEZ: Racial slurs have very little meaning to me, Mr. Rourke. Meaningless. No meaning. In this instance, it doesn’t even apply. My understanding is that “beaner” refers to a Mexican, or more likely, a Mexican-American. I’m an Argentine. Born in Brussels, to be honest.
ROURKE: Oh, for Christ sake …
CORTEZ: You say you didn’t receive my package. I’m left with a choice as to whether to believe you or not.
ROURKE: What was in the package?
CORTEZ: It’s no longer pertinent. You weren’t sorting yesterday?
ROURKE: Bitch put me on a route. I’m telling you, luck is not with us.
There’s a pause and Lenore starts to wonder if the tap’s been discovered.
CORTEZ: My assistant said you were a bit uncooperative during his visit.
ROURKE: Guy’s a freaking comedian.
CORTEZ: You continue to dispute our claim?
ROURKE: Look, mister, the sample I gave to your man had three units—
CORTEZ: Unfortunately, only two units arrived in the Park. I paid for three sample units.
ROURKE: I sent three. There were three. Think about this, why would I screw you before the main buy? Think about this. I got my neck so far out now. Think about my position for just one freaking second, okay? I’m in midair here. No one wants to be visible. I’ve got a producer whose name I don’t know, won’t show his face. I’ve got a purchaser who wants me to do all my talking to his goddamn funny-guy driver, for Christ sake.
CORTEZ: This is pointless. We’ve all got problems, Mr. Rourke.
ROURKE: I’ve fronted money. I’ve taken some risks here. You know, my own people don’t have some banker friend in the Caribbean they can tap with a WATS line, okay? These people sold their cars, mortgaged houses—
CORTEZ: You saying I should be sympathetic because the broker in this transaction is an ill-equipped amateur. This is what you’re saying. I should show mercy and patience and ignore my instinct because you’re still trying to learn a new trade. I think you’ve made a huge mistake, Mr. Rourke—
ROURKE: All right, listen, forget it, we’ll kick back on the missing unit, even though for all I know your driver Bozo—
CORTEZ: Bouza.
ROURKE: Bouza, Bouza, for all we know he lifted a Q. Okay, forget it. Everything’s still on. Everything’s perfect. It’s all set to go.
CORTEZ: My confidence is shaken, Mr. Rourke …
ROURKE: You’ve got to be kidding me here. You’re pulling my chain here, right? I talked to the Paraclete this morning. This A.M. He’s ready. Everything is packaged. The whole wad. Your final offer is still A-OK. We just need a time and a place.
CORTEZ: You spoke to him?
ROURKE: I swear to you he called this morning. At my place. Like four A.M.
CORTEZ: The Paraclete? Himself?
ROURKE: Yeah … Well, his people. You got people. I’ve got people. Of course, he’s got people. His main guy called. Guy with authority. Speaks for the Paraclete. You got Bozo—
CORTEZ: Bouza.
ROURKE: Right, right.
CORTEZ: He’s agreed that I name the spot?
ROURKE: He could be happier. But he’ll live with it.
CORTEZ: Fine. We’ll go with his original location.
ROURKE: Okay. I know right where you mean.
CORTEZ: Is two A.M. agreeable?
ROURKE: Couldn’t be better. Could not be any better.
CORTEZ: I’ll be deducting the cost of the third sample from the payout. There won’t be a problem with this?
ROURKE: I’ll cover it. It’ll come out of my commission. Off the top. Everyone’ll be happy.
CORTEZ: Then I’ll see you, Mr. Rourke.
ROURKE: Done.
There’s one hang-up click, a pause, then a second click. Lenore waits a beat, then
shuts off the recorder and removes the head-phones.
Woo stares at her and she holds the headphones out to him, indicating that he can listen to a replay if he wants. He shrugs, but takes the headphones, puts them on, and spends several seconds adjusting their placement on his head. Lenore rewinds the tape for him and when the counter numbers fall back to zero, she hits the Play button.
Then she steps back and leans up against one of the brick walls and watches Woo’s face closely as he listens. She’s not sure what she’s looking for, but she knows it’s important that she watch. Possibly, some look will kick in at the eyes, or the whole head will shake upon hearing something significant. She knows she’s being ridiculously greedy. She’s gotten every piece of information she needs in one call. She’s gotten Cortez as a buyer. She’s gotten someone named Mr. Rourke as a broker. She’s gotten someone named the Paraclete as the producer. She’s gotten the time of the transaction. But she wants more. This doesn’t surprise her. She knows, no matter what she came away with from the tap, no matter how wise and prepared she emerged from the cellar, she would want more.
Woo’s face gives her nothing. He sits in a rigid schoolboy position, eyes straight ahead, focused on brick and mortar, lips primly together. He’s even got his hands folded on the table in front of him. He’s a blank sheet.
There’s nothing to read.
Ike feels as if he’s in a high school play, maybe a drama club production of Twelve Angry Men, done in the gym, a hundred parents trying to get comfortable on the wooden bleachers. He feels like he’s missed every rehearsal since the play was cast, but they’ve kept him in the role anyway. Now it’s opening night and he doesn’t know a line. He can’t even seem to find a script.
Eva knows her role. She’s a born actress. She walked into the locker room like it was any other day. She read routes and names off her clipboard. She told Rourke if he had a problem to spit it out. She stared Wilson down in seconds and walked back to her office like her mind was already on requisition forms for a new bulletin board in the rental box area.
Ike’s having more trouble being convincing. When Bromberg tossed him the first insult of the day—something about dogs on his route running from him—he just froze and stammered until he felt like he would choke. Wilson got a real kick out of this, spitting out a laugh and slapping Rourke’s shoulder, but Rourke just stared at Ike without a word, then squatted down to retie his boots.
When Eva assigned Ike to sorting again, Rourke said, in a quiet voice, that his foot still wasn’t completely healed and he’d go to the union if she refused to give him indoor work. Eva said that was his right and she’d wait for the call. Rourke organized his trays like a mute, sulky, but hyperactive child and was out on route before any of the other carriers.
There’s no float available today and Ike is thankful for this. It means he’ll have to sort and handle the customers at the counter, but he’ll be alone with Eva and he needs to talk. He waits a few minutes after the last carrier, Jacobi, leaves, then moves to Eva’s office.
“What do you think?” he blurts. “You think they know we know? You think we’re in trouble here? You decide who we should talk to?”
Eva smiles and raises her eyebrows. “Number one. You calm down. I don’t care how. Find a way.”
“Okay, all right. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m not good under pressure. I’ve got a terrible gag reflex.”
“Deep breaths. Over and over.”
“Takes a lot of concentration.”
“Did you sleep?”
“No way. Not five minutes. Terrible. My sister was working all night. Never got home. I watched Johnny Belinda on cable, then about an hour of rap videos till I was going nuts, then I put in a tape and watched The Frozen Dead.”
“You should’ve come over. I drank a dozen cups of tea and watched Orson Welles in The Stranger.”
“So what have you decided?”
“I’m not sure who—”
“We’ve got to talk to someone—”
“What I’m saying is we’ve got very little information.”
“What are you talking about? You told me, remember? You said they’re selling some weird drug—”
“We don’t know what they’re selling. It could be some pathetic gimmick Rourke dreamed up. The Mailman’s Miracle Diet Program. Starch blockers and vitamins.”
“This isn’t what you told me. This is not what you said.”
“The other thing is, you tell someone on this, you’re an informer.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Tell me you’re not. It makes you an informer, Ike, you’ve finked on co-workers.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“I’m just saying. I’m playing devil’s advocate. You want to review all the information before you make a crucial move.”
“They’re criminals, for God’s sake, Eva.”
“You don’t know that, Ike. You don’t know anything. You’re going on what I told you.”
“Exactly. What you told me. Listen, I still think the thing to do is to call my sister in. We call Lenore. We say, ‘Lenore, this is what we know.’ We let her decide what’s what. She’s a professional. She’s my sister. She’ll know what to do.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll be honest with you. This surprises me. I’m pretty surprised here.”
“What do you mean?”
“To be honest, nothing personal, but I always thought you were like the picture of good judgment, clear thought. You knew what to do. Take-charge person. Responsible—”
“I think I’m being responsible. We wait and we see. I think this is the responsible route.”
“I’m as scared as you are, Eva.”
“This has nothing to do with fear.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“I’m asking for a little time.”
“How much?”
“Things just don’t seem as black and white to me.”
“C’mon. Please.”
“That’s the truth. Sorry, but it is. Give me today. I’ll work it out today. Tonight I’ll come by your place. We’ll talk with your sister.”
“Tonight?”
“Let’s just get through the day. Let’s just act like it’s a normal day. Like any other day.”
Ike pauses, breathes, nods, starts to walk backward. “I’ll be at the cage. Sorting.”
Eva nods back, looks down at her desk blotter, and says, “Thanks, Ike. Will you close the door going out?”
He walks to the cage and turns on the fluorescents mounted over the sorting boxes. He thinks that with the lights on, the cage looks like a miniature baseball stadium during a night game—the main wall of slots and its two hinged and angled wings are the bleachers. Sometimes he thinks of each letter that he sails into the correct slot as a home run. But he never thinks of himself as the batter, more like some unknown contest winner, called upon to croak out the national anthem.
He knows it’s going to be a long day. He doesn’t understand Eva’s hesitation. Sometimes things are black and white. If what she says she saw at the Bach Room is true, then Rourke and the others have gone into the drug-dealing business. And it’s probably pretty likely they’re even using the post office in some way. What’s there to debate about? Ike doesn’t consider himself some hard-line law-and-order dork, but wrong is wrong. Illegal is illegal. The proper people should be contacted and talked to. Like Lenore. Lenore’s job is to deal with this situation. It’s what the city pays her to do and she knows how to do it well. What the hell could be going through Eva’s brain? Is there some subtlety that Ike’s missing? Is there information he hasn’t been given?
He suddenly feels more like an outsider than ever, like someone who, no matter what time they leave to go to the theater, walks in ten minutes after the movie has started. And every question whispered to the person in the next seat is met with an avalanche of the shushing noise.
How do you remove that feeling? How do you inject yourself
into the ordinary track of life? How do you become common, a typical part of a greater whole, just one more guy who belongs to dozens of groupings without any thought to the process, immersed so mindlessly into roles like husband, father, son, neighbor, alumnus, local barroom crony, civic committee chairman, church member, Elk, Rotarian, Knight of Columbus, Red Sox fan, Red Cross volunteer, poker team member, Tuesday’s car-pool driver, citizens’ crime-watch associate, Big Brother, one of the block’s nightly eleven o’clock dog-walkers …
Ike stops, a long manila envelope in hand, hovering before a slot. He can’t think of one thing, one role, one activity, that defines him as a member of something. As belonging to anything. Then he remembers brother, but it’s an empty, uncomfortable word. His closeness to Lenore has diminished every day since adolescence. And he’s helpless to stop the erosion. It’s like an ugly side of nature, not pleasant to talk about or think of, but truthful, provable, a fact of life. He’s sure that some of this growing distance is Lenore’s fault. Her behavior and attitude and general personality have grown harsher and tougher since they turned teenagers; they took on something like a barbed-wire coating after Mom and Dad died. But Ike knows probably more than half of their distance is his responsibility. It’s only logical. It follows the same pattern as his relationships at work, in the city, walking through the supermarket, pumping gas at the self-serve station. Ike knows he makes people feel hostile and aggressive. Maybe there’s a doctor somewhere in Quinsigamond who could take on the case, study the facts, and make a few basic determinations. But Lenore is his sister. His twin. It shouldn’t have to come to that, help from some cold outsider. That’s why he’s thought of the police novels they could write together. The idea was a tool, a possible device for pulling them back toward a feeling, a surety, a blanket called family or bloodlove.
What would he do when he finally told her the cop-novel idea and she smashed it without a trial, without even an exploratory breakfast discussion? Ike’s given the idea more than a month of thought. He’s sure it has some genuine merit, and in more than one area. Ike’s big wish in life is that Lenore was still someone you could talk to. But it’s as if she’s starting to give up on the concept of dialogue, to become an apostate to the idea of exchange, slowly being converted to the church of the monologue. At least as far as Ike is concerned. He wonders if this is what she’s like with the other cops. In a lot of the mysteries he reads, cops are famous for their short tempers and misguided self-righteousness. But Lenore’s perpetual anger, this heated, seething, ongoing outrage, seems like a mile beyond the day-to-day petty nastiness found in those novels. It feels like it comes from a more dangerous place and like the enormity of the possible damage it could cause is too large to measure. At night, lying in bed, sleepless, while his sister lurks in alleys around Bangkok Park, Ike says unfocused, nondenominational prayers, not that Lenore will change, but simply that her wrath is universal, not meant for him alone.
Box Nine Page 19