Free Crooked Numbers by Tim O'Mara

our fine city’s respected papers of record. What’s this? Something you do every eighteen months or so?” He stuck his cigar in his mouth, opened the paper, found the page he was looking for, and folded it over. “There you are, Raymond. Your mother must be so proud.”
    “I haven’t spoken to her yet,” I said.
    “Well…” He folded the paper back the way it had been and handed it to me. “I see you’ve got your own, but take mine, too. For your scrapbook.”
    “Thanks.” I took the paper and put it under my arm with the copy Tio had given me. “You came all the way to Greenpoint just to give me a newspaper?” I asked, both of us knowing the answer to that question.
    “Actually,” he said, then took a long drag from his cigar and let out a smooth stream of smoke. “Having lunch at Peter Luger’s this afternoon. Bunch of us from the academy—those of us still alive and not in Florida—still keep in touch, try to get together once a year before the holidays. Reminisce, shoot the shit, you know.”
    I smiled. “That’s cool.”
    He pointed to the newspapers. “Seems like you’ve been taking a little stroll down memory lane yourself, Nephew.”
    “Yeah. I ran into Dennis Murcer yesterday. The reporter covering my kid’s—”
    “I read the paper, Raymond.” He looked at the tip of his cigar and blew off the one-inch layer of ash. Eyes back on me, he said, “Had the weird feeling of déjà vu after reading that story. Made me very uncomfortable.”
    “And why’s that?”
    He grinned. “A year and a half ago, Raymond. Didn’t we have this very conversation a year and a half ago?”
    I considered that for a while. “Absolutely, Uncle Ray. This has nothing to do with that, though. This was just me—”
    “Sticking your nose into police business.”
    “Keeping Douglas Lee’s story in the papers for another day or two.”
    “Raymond,” he said, still grinning. “Don’t bullshit the man who taught you how to bullshit. It’s insulting.”
    “Uncle Ray, all I wanted to do was get the reporter to do another piece on Dougie. I had no idea Dennis was the detective in charge. Even if I had, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m glad he caught the case. He’s a good cop.”
    “Damn straight he is,” said the man who had the most invested in that idea. “So your involvement in this case is over?”
    “My involvement in this case is over,” I said, knowing my uncle liked to have his exact words repeated back to him to make sure I got it.
    He dropped his cigar to the ground, stepped on it, then kicked it into the gutter. “Good,” he said. “Because I have no desire to go through what we went through the last time.”
    “I have no intention of that happening either, Uncle Ray.”
    He let out a big laugh. “The road to Hell, Raymond. I believe you had no intention the last time, as well.” He held up his hand, anticipating my next words. “I know. This time is different.”
    “It is,” I said.
    He looked me in the eyes for a few seconds. “Okay,” he said. “We going to see you and Rachel for Christmas dinner?”
    No one changes a topic faster than Uncle Ray. “That’s the plan,” I said.
    “Good.” He stepped over and pulled me into another hug. “Your mom’s gonna be there. And Reeny’s brother, Max.”
    Reeny was my uncle’s second wife, and her single brother was always invited to family functions—I think with the intention of him and my mom getting together. Not only was this never going to happen, I had the strong feeling Max was gay. An issue never discussed at Raymond and Reeny Donne’s very Catholic kitchen table.
    “I’m there,” I said.
    “Outstanding,” my uncle said. He motioned with his head up the block at a black town car illegally double parked, and said, “There’s my ride. Don’t wanna keep the boys—or my steak—waiting. Stay in touch, Nephew.”
    “I will, Uncle Ray. Thanks for the extra copy.”
    *
    When I got upstairs, I threw the papers on