Christopher Buckley - Wet Work

Senior Agent Frank Diatri (that's Dee-atri), holding his yogurt and bran, stepped off the elevator of the nineteenth floor of 555 West Fifty-seventh Street in New York City, Divisional Office of the Drug Enforcement Administration, and right away everyone made a fuss.

"Frankie! How ya doin?"

"Great," said Diatri.

"Yeah?" said Gubanovich unconvincingly. "You look great."

How the hell were you supposed to look, like you just got back from a Carnival Cruise? Alice and Marge came up and started kissing him. "Oh, jeez, Frankie, we were so worried," Alice said. "Didja get the card?"

"Do you want some coffee, Frankie?"

"I'm not supposed to drink coffee."

"Oh, Frankie, I'm sorry! What am I saying?"

"Marge, it's okay. I'm fine. It's these doctors. They don't want you to do anything."

Marge said, "My aunt had the same thing."

Diatri stared. "Your aunt got shot?"

"No. But they hadda take some of her intestine out." She whispered, "Do you have to wear a bag?"

"No, Marge. Listen, I gotta go eat this yogurt. If I don't eat yogurt every two hours, I die."

"Aw, Frankie, you're sure a-here, you get another kiss."

"I'm going to have to get shot more often," said Diatri. He must have been stopped twenty times on the way to his desk, everyone wanting to know the particulars. It was a little embarrassing, to tell the truth. He hoped Marge hadn't been going around telling everyone he had to wear a bag. His desk wasn't too bad, except for a Styrofoam coffee cup by his phone that looked like a bacteriological experiment, with gray fur growing out of it. But there were flowers-white carnations-with a note saying: "From NADDIS with love." Aw. He recognized Phyllis' handwriting. He was always asking Phyllis to run his Narcotics And Dangerous Drugs Information System searches on the computer. Phyllis used to have a crush on him, but now she was dating a guy in Asset Seizure. Should have-probably just as well. But that was nice of Phyllis. People are always so nice after you get shot; except for Suzie. Suzie actually seemed a little put out when he got back after getting wounded the second time, like she would have rather had the monthly VA checks instead. Turning on Cronkite every night during dinner. Sweetheart, I just got back, can we not watch the war on TV every night, please?-

"Frankie!"

"Gene, hey."

"You look good."

"That's what everyone is saying."

"Listen, Frankie, what happened with Kincaid was a fuckin' disgrace. Five to fifteen for illegal possession of weapons. I mean, they should've nailed the fuck's ears to the wall with a Hilti gun."

"Hilti gun?"

"Nail driver. What the hell is that?" he said, pointing at the Styrofoam cup.

"It's just an experiment I'm doing."

"It's disgusting, Frank."

The Special Agent in Charge called him down to his office. "You look great, Frank."

Diatri gave his stomach a loud whack. "Never better."

The SAC winced. "I was just going over your medical. You were leaking pretty bad there."

"Two quarts," said Diatri.

"You know what the worst part of being shot is these days?"

Not this again. "How's Ellen, Jim?"

"Same-same. The blood. The blood is what scares me. I mean, I'm sure you got good blood."

"Yeah," said Diatri. "They test it."

"Me, I'd make them run it through fucking chlorine first. Then charcoal. You know what I'd like to set up? Our own blood bank. You know, I sent a memo to the AA about it."

"Good idea, Jim. And what did the AA say?"

"I haven't heard back yet. You know how it is down there."

"Oh yeah," said Diatri.

"So, what are we going to do with you?"

This was a very strange question, he thought, the kind you'd put to a summer intern, not a Senior Agent who'd twice passed up a promotion to Group Supervisor and five extra grand a year just so he could stay on the street. Diatri told people he did it to keep the five grand from going to his two exes. "Your medical says you're fit, but I thought we might, you know, ease back in."

"We?" said Diatri. "You sound like the nurses." He gave his stomach another demo whack.

The SAC winced. "Frank, will you stop hitting yourself?"

"What does it say?"

"It says you're okay-"

"Okay, then. What do you got for me?"

The SAC handed Diatri a sheet. It was court order for a wiretap. Diatri said, "A T-Three? Are you serious?"

"I got Title Threes up to my crotch, Frank. I could really use you."

Diatri stared. He twisted the ring on his wedding finger. It was a leftover from a UC job a couple of years ago where he had to look like a pimp. He bought all this stuff at one of those community-conscious boutiques on Times Square that sell Ninja swords, bull-whips, blowguns, choke wires and kukri knives. It looked like a Sicilian version of a West Point class ring, with a tiny photo of the young Frank Sinatra underneath a hunk of cheap blue glass. People gave him grief about it. Diatri continued to stare.

"Okay," said the SAC. He handed Diatri a folder. "We got a call from the Ninth Precinct."

"The Fighting Ninth," said Diatri, untensing.

"They found a body on one of their sidewalks yesterday. A Ramon Antonio Luis, local crack dealer. Twenty-two caliber in the back of the head. Puerto Rican kid works at an all-night gypsy cab place on the block told them he saw some people wearing our raid jackets. It's all in the 61," he said, handing Diatri the police report.

"We have anything going down there?"

"No. We had two groups out that night, one in Brooklyn, one in the Bronx."

"Is Internal Security working this?"

"They're… no. We gonna work this ourselves, then if it turns out there's something, Internal Security can get involved."

"I see this is a real red-hot case."

"Look, Frank-"

"Luis' biggest prior was for," Diatri read, "two ounces. Ounces , Jack? You want me to work someone who does ounces?"

"Someone maybe wearing our raid jackets popped the guy. It could be an important case."

"Yeah."

"Hey, if you'd rather work the T-Threes…"

Diatri got up. "No no. I'm honored. I mean, we can't have scumbags going around popping each other wearing our raid jackets."

"Personally," said the SAC, "I think the kid probably needs glasses. Frank, I'm sorry about Kincaid. If it's any consolation, they went fucking berserk in Washington over it. The administrator went to Bennett and requested a meeting in the White House."

"Uh-huh," said Diatri.

"The White House doesn't want to piss off the State Supreme Court, so they ended up not having a meeting."

"Uh-huh."

"Jesus, Frank, don't be so fuckin' nonchalant. I'm telling you the Administrator himself took it all the way to the fuckin' White House."

"I'm grateful, Jim. Truly."

"Don't let it eat you up."

"Hah. Hey, I've only got so much intestine left, right?"

"Right. That's it." Diatri started out the door. "Listen," the SAC said, "take your time on it. Ease into it. Remember what happened to Shamalbach."

Diatri sat at his desk munching lactose tablets and read over the 61 on the shooting of Ramon Antonio Luis, male, Hispanic, five-eight, 145, mid-thirties, fourteen priors, mostly assaults, B and A, possession, possession with intent, possession with intent, possession with… babum babum babum. Nothing interesting here at all except the caliber of the bullet that had interrupted such a promising career. Twenty-two long rifle, the "Devastator," same that Hinckley used on Reagan, the roach motel of small-arms ammunition: bullet goes in, can't go out, breaks up into little pieces. Generally, dopers wanted a lot of bang for their bucks: 9mms,.357s,.380 ACPs, 7.65s,.44s,.45s. Some were using the new 10mms. In this market, a.22 was unusual. The mob used to use.22s because they went in fast and clean and ricocheted around inside the skull, pureeing the old cauliflower.