“Let me see,” Uncle Enzo says, looking at the ceiling, scanning his memory banks. “I know a few things about you. That you are fifteen years old, you live in a Burbclave in the Valley with your mother.”
“I know a few things about you, too,” Y.T. hazards.
Uncle Enzo laughs. “Not nearly as much as you think, I promise. Tell me, what does your mother think of your career?”
Nice of him to use the word “career.” “She’s not totally aware of it—or doesn’t want to know.”
“You’re probably wrong,” Uncle Enzo says. He says it cheerfully enough, not trying to cut her down or anything. “You might be shocked at how well-informed she is. This is my experience, anyway. What does your mother do for a living?”
“She works for the Feds.”
Uncle Enzo finds that richly amusing. “And her daughter is delivering pizzas for Nova Sicilia. What does she do for the Feds?”
“Some kind of thing where she can’t really tell me in case I blab it. She has to take a lot of polygraph tests.”
Uncle Enzo seems to understand this very well. “Yes, a lot of Fed jobs are that way.”
There is an opportune silence.
“It kind of freaks me out,” Y.T. says.
“The fact that she works for the Feds?”
“The polygraph tests. They put a thing around her arm—to measure the blood pressure.”
“A sphygmomanometer,” Uncle Enzo says crisply.
“It leaves a bruise around her arm. For some reason, that kind of bothers me.”
“It should bother you.”
“And the house is bugged. So when I’m home—no matter what I’m doing—someone else is probably listening.”
“Well, I can certainly relate to that,” Uncle Enzo says.
They both laugh.
“I’m going to ask you a question that I’ve always wanted to ask a Kourier,” Uncle Enzo says. “I always watch you people through the windows of my limousine. In fact, when a Kourier poons me, I always tell Peter, my driver, not to give them a hard time. My question is, you are covered from head to toe in protective padding. So why don’t you wear a helmet?”
“The suit’s got a cervical airbag that blows up when you fall off the board, so you can bounce on your head. Besides, helmets feel weird. They say it doesn’t affect your hearing, but it does.”
“You use your hearing quite a bit in your line of work?”
“Definitely, yeah.”
Uncle Enzo is nodding. “That’s what I suspected. We felt the same way, the boys in my unit in Vietnam.”
“I heard you went to Vietnam, but—” She stops, sensing danger.
“You thought it was hype. No, I went there. Could have stayed out, if I’d wanted. But I volunteered.”
“You volunteered to go to Vietnam?”
Uncle Enzo laughs. “Yes, I did. The only boy in my family to do so.”
“Why?”
“I thought it would be safer than Brooklyn.”
Y.T. laughs.
“A bad joke,” he says. “I volunteered because my father didn’t want me to. And I wanted to piss him off.”
“Really?”
“Definitely. I spent years and years finding ways to piss him off. Dated black girls. Grew my hair long. Smoked marijuana. But the capstone, my ultimate achievement—even better than having my ear pierced—was volunteering for service in Vietnam. But I had to take extreme measures even then.”
Y.T.’s eyes dart back and forth between Uncle Enzo’s creased and leathery earlobes. In the left one she just barely sees a tiny diamond stud.
“What do you mean, extreme measures?”
“Everyone knew who I was. Word gets around, you know. If I had volunteered for the regular Army, I would have ended up stateside, filling out forms—maybe even at Fort Hamilton, right there in Bensonhurst. To prevent that, I volunteered for Special Forces, did everything I could to get into a front-line unit.” He laughs. “And it worked. Anyway, I’m rambling like an old man. I was trying to make a point about helmets.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Our job was to go through the jungle making trouble for some slippery gentlemen carrying guns bigger than they were. Stealthy guys. And we depended on our hearing, too—just like you do. And you know what? We never wore helmets.”
“Same reason.”
“Exactly. Even though they didn’t cover the ears, really, they did something to your sense of hearing. I still think I owe my life to going bareheaded.”
“That’s really cool. That’s really interesting.”
“You’d think they would have solved the problem by now.”
“Yeah,” Y.T. volunteers, “some things never change, I guess.”
Uncle Enzo throws back his head and belly laughs. Usually, Y.T. finds this kind of thing pretty annoying, but Uncle Enzo just seems like he’s having a good time, not putting her down.
Y.T. wants to ask him how he went from the ultimate rebellion to running the family beeswax. She doesn’t. But Uncle Enzo senses that it is the next, natural subject of the conversation.
“Sometimes I wonder who’ll come after me,” he says. “Oh, we have plenty of excellent people in the next generation. But after that—well, I don’t know. I guess all old people feel like the world is coming to an end.”
“You got millions of those Young Mafia types,” Y.T. says.
“All destined to wear blazers and shuffle papers in suburbia. You don’t respect those people very much, Y.T., because you’re young and arrogant. But I don’t respect them much either, because I’m old and wise.”
This is a fairly shocking thing for Uncle Enzo to be saying, but Y.T. doesn’t feel shocked. It just seems like a reasonable statement coming from her reasonable pal, Uncle Enzo.
“None of them would ever volunteer to go get his legs shot off in the jungle, just to piss off his old man. They lack a certain fiber. They are lifeless and beaten down.”
“That’s sad,” Y.T. says. It feels better to say this than to trash them, which was her first inclination.
“Well,” says Uncle Enzo. It is the “well” that begins the end of a conversation. “I was going to send you some roses, but you wouldn’t really be interested in that, would you?”