The Clouds Roll Away by Sibella Giorello

only certain topics of conversation, and we were forbidden to listen beyond the stated boundaries. This wiretap, for instance, specified criminal gang activity. Personal affairs, including watching a basketball game and arguing about “broads,” were off-limits, and highly paid defense attorneys liked to examine our wiretaps making sure we obeyed the law. Any topic change from crime required cutting away from the conversation for at least fifteen seconds, then cutting back in to see if the topic had changed again. Since the recordings were digital, anything less than fifteen seconds meant the defense attorneys could buy more Maseratis.
    At fifteen, I snapped the tape back on. The caller said, “. . . be there for the tipoff.”
    Then the phones went dead.
    Beezus snapped a carrot. “Rats.”
    But the second line suddenly lit up.
    â€œGoody,” she said.
    â€œYo, baby,” the caller said. “I was sitting here thinking about my Z-girl.”
    â€œThe girl.”
    â€œYou are, baby, you are.”
    â€œGranny says she’ll watch Zeke. Come get me.”
    â€œYeah, little change in plans, baby. Here’s the thing. I gotta work tonight.”
    There was a significant pause.
    I waited, hoping he would say something about work, something that was even vaguely criminal.
    â€œYou said we’d watch the game together, Moon,” the woman said.
    â€œBaby, that’s what I want. But XL, he just called. Says I gotta work. Pow-wow on the Christmas party, know what I’m saying?”
    â€œXL? You’re hanging at XL’s?”
    Beezus glanced at me, raising her eyebrows.
    â€œHe’s lying,” I said, trying to stretch my limit. “Lying is criminal.”
    â€œMan’s the boss,” he said. “I gotta work, girl. You hear what I’m saying?”
    â€œI hear you, Moon, I hear you good. I hear you choosing home-boys over me.”
    â€œZennie, be cool.”
    â€œXL,” she said. “He’s extra large, all right. Extra-large liar.”
    I hit the digitizer, starting my count to fifteen.
    â€œHe’s still lying,” Beezus said.
    â€œBut now it’s a lovers’ quarrel.” And I’d already stretched jurisdiction. Six . . . seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .
    â€œBut what if their argument tells you something about the gang? Doesn’t that make it okay to listen?”
    â€œNot according to the lawyers.” Thirteen . . . fourteen . . . fifteen . . .
    â€œI’m blocking your number, Moon. Don’t call me.”
    â€œBaby, I’m telling the truth. I swear. I’m working tonight.”
    â€œYeah, working your zipper.”
    She hung up.
    I watched the monitor, sensing it wasn’t over. And sure enough, the man named Moon dialed the guy named XL—or Extra Large, if the woman could be believed.
    I wrote the names on my notepad, waiting for the line to pick up.
    â€œHow bad I gotta be there?” asked the man named Moon.
    â€œGirl runs you like a pony. All the booty in town, you gotta pick Zennie Lewis?”
    â€œI asked you” —Moon’s voice was almost growling— “do I gotta be there?”
    â€œI don’t know, Moon. You wanna see the fat man come down the chimney or not?”
    There was a pause.
    â€œMoon, what’s the book say?”
    â€œMy brother and I are one, for I know what he’s done.”
    The line went dead.
    â€œMen,” Beezus said. “They always stick together.”
    I was writing notes, trying to capture the words and slang, when the monitor lit up again. The number belonged to the guy named XL but the number he dialed came up “unknown.” I wrote the local area code so that Pollard Durant could decide whether to subpoena the phone company for a name and address. While the FBI was sworn to uphold laws, the rest of the world used Google, and judicial approval for our wiretaps sometimes took longer than the