by Randy Mason
In her loosened grip, the pen had strayed, leaving an errant mark upon the page. A small but permanent scar. She glanced over at her needle-tracked skin, then slammed the history textbook shut.
chapter 3
JOEY OFFERED HER THE bottle again, but she handed it over to Rick, who took an extra long swig as if to prove he was cooler than everyone else. Sitting with her back against the wall in the hidden section of the parking lot, Micki was feeling a little spacey just from breathing in the smoke that hung like a cloud over the little enclosure.
The roach had gotten too small. Rick lit up a fresh joint and pressured her to take a hit since it was his last one. But she wouldn’t even touch it to pass it along; Joey had to take it from Rick himself, all the while complaining that he wanted to get something to eat already—he was hungry.
The air was still warm, but it was late, past curfew, and Micki should’ve been back in her apartment, should’ve been there a long time ago. But she didn’t get up and didn’t care much about it, either. There was nothing but homework to go home to. She looked at Rick with his reddened eyes half closed behind his glasses, then looked around at the others. What a waste of time; what a drag. When was something fun ever going to happen?
Johnny stood up and smashed the empty whiskey bottle against the wall, a shock of sandy-colored hair falling across his eyes. He looked really hot in his tight, slim-cut Levi’s, but he’d spent time in Spoffard and, more recently, Rikers. A little older and a lot rougher, he and his crew sometimes hung out by themselves. But if Rick scored some weed—which he did as often as he could—they were more than happy to share it with him. Rick was more than happy to oblige since it made him feel cool.
From a window overlooking the lot, a woman yelled, “You kids better get outta here, or I’m callin’ the cops.”
Micki stood up.
Johnny yelled back, “Why don’tcha just fuck the cops already and leave us alone, y’old bitch.”
The window slammed shut, and Micki listened to the inane laughter that ensued, Rick laughing loudest.
“Who was that?” Micki asked.
Rick took another hit off the joint. “Just Mrs. McCrory. Don’t worry about it.”
“I gotta get goin’.”
“Hey, don’t leave. The party’s just gettin’ started.”
“I gotta go. It’s past—”
“Ooohhhh.” His mouth was in a pout. “It’s past ya bedtime.”
“Knock it off.”
“Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes.”
She wanted to punch him. Instead, she started down the alley toward the street. But an old, battered squad car pulled in at the curb, and two young cops—one black, one white—were opening their doors. She froze: there was no other way out of the lot. What a dumb place to hang out.
The black cop was coming toward her. “Just take it easy,” he said.
She turned and ran back to the others. “Cops!” she hissed. Things were tossed into the dumpster.
“Okay, everybody up,” the black cop ordered. “Turn around and put your hands against the wall.”
Appearing bored by the whole thing, the white cop started frisking the boys in a cursory manner. He knew them all by name and talked to them as he went along. The black cop, however, went directly to her. And that was when Micki realized she was the only girl there.
He put his hand on her back and took a careful look at her face. “Haven’t seen you before.”
“I only moved in last week.”
After hearing her voice, he said, “I’m just going to check your pockets. Anything I should know about?”
“No.”
He kept his word, then told her she could turn around. And when she did, she saw dark eyes examining her. Slim with close-cropped hair, he didn’t look old enough to have been a cop very long. His partner, hulking and closer to Baker’s height, was blond with a childlike haircut and a round, ruddy face that made him look even younger. Standing alongside the boys, the white cop was making notes in his logbook.
“What’s your name?” the black cop asked.
“Micki.”
“Hi, Micki. My name’s Officer Roberts.”
Her eyes narrowed as they flicked over his uniform and badge. She thought it odd the way he introduced himself—like this was some sort of social occasion.
He smiled, but his gaze was cool: she looked very different than the girls who usually hung around with this crowd. “Have you got some ID on you, Micki?”
His voice sounded so friendly. For now. “Yeah, I got ID.”
When she didn’t move, his smile broadened. “Can I see it?”
She took a deep breath. “Yeah, sure.” She pulled it out and handed it to him.
In the beam of his flashlight, he examined it: official NYPD, though not like anything he’d ever seen before. He looked at her over the card. “You’ve got a ten-o’clock curfew. It’s almost eleven thirty now.”
“If I’m on my way home from work, I can be out later.”
“I don’t really think this qualifies, do you?”
“I—I wasn’t drinkin’ or smokin’ or anything. I—”
“I think you know you’re going to have to come with me now.” And though his tone was relaxed, the handcuffs were waiting. “Would you put your hands out please, Micki?” When her eyes met his, he saw the hardness in them, the slow-burning anger. Still she gave him her wrists. He said, “Now, I’m being nice and leaving your hands out in front. You’re going to be nice and behave yourself, right?”
She shifted her gaze. “Yeah, right.”
Roberts called to his partner, “What’ve you got?”
“Everybody’s clean,” Wollenski replied. “Though I’m sure”—he indicated the dumpster with his thumb—“we’d find some interesting stuff in there.”
Roberts turned his attention to Johnny. “Aren’t you still on probation, McBain?”
“Finished yesterday.”
“You’d better keep your nose clean from now on. Next time you get busted, you’ll be looking at some hard time.”
“Oh, I’m so scared.”
“A pretty, young boy like you? You should be.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Roberts shook his head, then addressed them all. “Listen up: if you guys want to party, be smart and keep it quiet. We’ve got better things to do than bust you for smoking a little pot or drinking. But if you start breaking glass, making a racket, and harassing people, then we have to follow up. Understand?”
“What’s wit’ her?” Joey asked.
Rick piped in, “Yeah, ya can’t just—”
“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” Roberts said. “You don’t want to know what I can and can’t do.”
Though he’d taken a couple of steps backward, Rick, with an awkward thrust of his chin replied, “Yeah? Well, we’ll just see.”
Brushing past him, Roberts led Micki back into the alley toward the patrol car, which was parked at an odd angle in the street. Micki thought she heard someone mutter, “The Po-lack and the nigger, jeez.” And while her face colored—deeply—neither of the two cops gave any indication they’d heard anything.
They pulled away from the curb, did a U-turn, then drove the block to Micki’s apartment. Roberts got out and took her by her right arm; Wollenski tagged along on the left. As they approached the stoop, Roberts, with another glance at the ID card, asked, “You live in apartment 2F?”
“Yeah, second floor, front. Why?”
They climbed the stairs inside and went to her door. Roberts knocked.
Micki looked at him.
When no one answered, he knocked again, more loudly.
She bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Roberts asked.
/>
“There’s no one in there.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause I’m out here.”
“Where’s your legal guardian?”
“I dunno.”
“Doesn’t he live here?”
“No.”
“Then who do you live with?”
“No one.”
In the dim light of the hallway, Roberts examined the ID card more closely. Only now did he realize that the second address—the Manhattan address—was a separate residence for the guardian, not the address of a Manhattan precinct house as he’d assumed earlier. And yet the card was stamped “JUVENILE.” Even more confusing was that next to her date of birth—according to which she was seventeen—it said “estimated.” Estimated? As he handed the card to Wollenski, he asked Micki, “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Can you get your key out so I can open the door?”
“Why? What’re you gonna do?”
“I just want to take a quick look around.”
“Are y’gonna let me stay here?”
“Not unless your guardian says it’s all right. I’ll call him once we get inside.”
“I don’t have a phone. Y’have to use the one over there.” And she lifted her hands to point to the payphone on the landing.
“Can you get your key out?” he asked again.
With grim resignation, she fished it out of the change pocket of her jeans, the chain on the handcuffs rattling.
One look at her apartment, and Roberts was convinced she lived alone: a single twin mattress, a single dresser, one setting’s worth of mismatched dishes and silverware in the dish drainer … Though dirty and shabby, the place was surprisingly neat. He went to the payphone to call Baker.
Slumped in a chair at the little Formica table, Micki stared miserably at the pile of unopened textbooks on her desk.
♦ ♦ ♦
AN UNEXPECTED SHIVER. COOL. Exquisite. Cynthia closed her eyes while Baker’s hands glided over her skin. Light, sure, they skimmed her shoulders till the unbuttoned blouse fell to the bedroom floor in a shimmering heap of lilac silk. He felt the tremor beneath his fingers, breathed the scented heat off her body. This was the moment he’d been looking forward to since picking her up from the airport several hours ago. Standing toward the back of the terminal gate, he’d spotted her at the very same second she’d caught sight of him, the color creeping into her face causing his grin to widen.
“Hey, beautiful.” He’d kissed her on the lips and hugged her tight. “How was your flight?”
Arms around each other’s waists, they’d made their way to the baggage-claim carousel. And while they waited for her luggage, she told him about the man she’d sat next to on the plane. A retired postal worker, the elderly passenger had jabbered on endlessly about his daughter and the grandchildren he’d gone to visit, the son-in-law he hated, and the job he used to do. With only half an hour left till landing, he’d finally taken a nap. But by then, Cynthia had been comatose, her face hurting from the smile that had frozen there.
They exited the airport terminal and headed for Baker’s car, the evening air still hot and uncomfortably moist. She commented on how he was carrying her suitcases as easily as if they were empty while she could barely lug them around herself for more than a few feet at a time. When they reached the Camaro, he set them down on the pavement, then ran his fingers through her thick, blonde hair. The strands fell silently back into place, glowing gold in the light of the setting sun.
“I really missed you,” he said.
“I missed you, too.”
“I wish I could’ve gone with you; you have no idea …” And he remembered how disappointed she’d been when he’d revealed he couldn’t accompany her to LA. Besides going there to look for an acting agent, she’d planned the trip as a vacation of sorts. But Captain Malone, in no uncertain terms, had told Baker he couldn’t leave Micki unsupervised; nor could he leave her at Heyden a little longer because then she’d miss the start of school. So Cynthia had gone alone. Without him. But, knowing her, she’d been just fine. Knowing her, she’d probably chatted up half of Hollywood while she was out there.
“It’s okay,” she said.
Her hand brushed the side of his face with such tenderness that his heart swelled with emotion. He felt the stirrings in his groin—then saw a fiery spark in her eyes, as well. With a look full of mischief, he said, “Y’know, we could just skip dinner and get a room right here at the airport. Then we wouldn’t have to wait.”
Though she was trying hard not to smile, she blushed a deep rose. “You are so terrible, James Baker!” And she playfully slapped him on the arm.
He laughed, opened the trunk, and threw her bags inside. “So did you happen to meet any movie stars?” To avoid racking up hefty long-distance phone bills, they’d spoken for only a few minutes halfway through her trip.
“Not a one. Didn’t even see any; can you believe it?”
“I bet I,” he teased, “a trained professional with keen observational skills, would’ve spotted a few.” He finished arranging the luggage, slammed the trunk closed, then faced her again. “Did you at least meet someone interesting to keep you company? Someone to keep you from getting too lonely without me?”
He’d said it somewhat jokingly, but her eyes had flashed wide before she’d replied, “Not really, just a lot of wannabes like me. You know what that scene’s like. So tell me about the school …”
And he’d felt a little catch in his throat, had gotten a sickening, sinking feeling in his gut while the noise from an airplane taking flight overhead had drowned out the rest of her words. Side-lit by the low rays of the sun shooting across the horizon, her features had taken on a harsh, almost sinister, look. Now softened in the muted light of her bedroom, her face was so open—as if she had nothing to hide. His palm gently caressed her cheek.
“You look so sad,” she remarked.
He gave her a faint smile before sliding his hands down her back and unhooking her bra—always, for him, the defining moment. Then he pulled off the lacy white undergarment and let it fall, lips kissing her tenderly. With a touch that said he knew every curve of her body, his hands traveled around to her collar bones, lightly grazed her neck, then moved down to cover her small, firm breasts.
She was aware of the rapid beat of her heart beneath his palm, the rush of breath, the spreading warmth and quickened pulse. Her hand ran up the inside of his thigh to cup his crotch and rub the hardness. Then she unbuttoned his shirt so she could feel the skin of his chest against her own.
Kissing, tongues searching, they moved as one, Baker guiding her backward till they reached the bed, where he eased her onto her back. And though they were both still wearing jeans, he straddled her, then leaned down, tongue flicking over her nipples while she let her fingers wander through his hair. Eyes locked, they paused. Then he straightened up and took his shirt off completely. She began unbuckling his belt.
The phone rang.
With sly smiles, they ignored it. But the ringing was persistent, and Cynthia picked up the receiver—only to hand it to Baker. An edge to her voice, she said, “It’s your answering service.”
At the social worker’s insistence that he be reachable at any time, day or night, Baker had gotten an answering service. The instructions he left with the operators were always the same: only forward messages about Micki. This was the first time they’d ever called. While he jotted down a name and number, Cynthia put on a maroon silk dressing gown. She watched his face harden and his eyes darken as he spoke to whomever it was he’d called back, some cop whose name she didn’t recognize. She retreated to the brightly lit kitchen to fix herself some tea.
As she moved about, filling the flower-patterned kettle with water and putting it on the burner to heat, she recalled the
second—and what was to be the last—time she’d ever gone to meet Baker at his precinct house. A dreary day, she’d been waiting for him to return from his shift. She was seated in Captain Malone’s office, the two of them chatting, when she heard a loud commotion. Looking over her shoulder through the doorway, she caught sight of Baker hauling in a struggling, handcuffed suspect he and his partner had arrested. Between the grungy “perp” (as Baker would later call him) and Baker himself, the cursing was so profane she wanted to cover her ears, but refrained for fear of appearing girly. Captain Malone left to find out what was happening while she hung back, just inside the office door.
Though part of her didn’t want to look, she watched Baker manhandle the criminal in his custody, the man grimacing in pain yet refusing to comply. But it wasn’t until Baker had finished talking to the captain that he actually spied her there. For just a second, he froze, eyes filled with uncertainty. Then he resumed what he was doing, heading for the holding pen, the cursing growing louder but more muffled over scuffling, grunts, and clanging metal. She slipped out of the squad room as fast as she could and took a taxi home—only to hear the telephone before she even got inside.
For the entire evening she avoided him by letting her answering service pick up her calls, eventually disconnecting the phone so she wouldn’t be subjected to the relentless ringing. At nine o’clock she plugged it back in and finally answered, full of a fear she’d never felt before. Yet instead of admitting what was wrong, she said she’d left so abruptly because of a shockingly bad headache that had come out of nowhere. But otherwise, everything was fine, perfectly fine. When he reminded her she’d offered to make him dinner the next day, she suggested they meet at the Red Roses Café instead. “Seven o’clock,” she suggested—the height of the dinner hour there.
So the following night, they stood on line in the crowded little area near the cashier’s, making mindless small talk for twenty-five minutes till they were seated at their suddenly too-tiny table. She felt his piercing gaze boring right into her head.
“Are you breaking up with me?” he finally asked.