by Randy Mason
She looked at him, his face so handsome. So full of pain.
The waiter came by, and Baker rolled his eyes at the bad timing. But Cynthia, smiling brightly as though the young man hadn’t interrupted a thing, proceeded to order. As soon as the waiter was gone, she began buttering a roll she had no intention of eating, but it failed to block out the feel of Baker’s gaze upon her. Unable to go on with the charade, she put the bread down somewhat heavily, unconsciously pointing the butter knife at him. Voice shaking, she said, “If you ever lay a hand on me, I will end this relationship immediately.”
His brow knitted.
“And forever,” she added.
He continued to look at her steadily until his eyes filled with compassion. “As well you should,” was all he’d said.
And she’d promptly burst into tears.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN CYNTHIA HEARD HIM slam the phone down in the bedroom muttering, “I’m gonna kill that kid,” she began rooting around in the kitchen cabinet to find the honey bear that was playing games, hiding somewhere behind the myriad boxes of teas that occupied the bottom shelf.
Seconds later, Baker appeared in the doorway, tucking his shirttails into his jeans. “I’ve got to go to Queens. The kid got picked up hanging out with some guys who were drinking and smoking weed.”
“The kid” was how Baker kept referring to Micki. In fact, Cynthia had yet to learn the girl’s name. She sat down, waiting for the water to boil.
“I’m sorry, Cyn, I—”
“Forget it. Just go. I don’t know why I believed you when you said things would be different while you were working at the school. All that’s changed is that, instead of someone from the station house calling at all hours, it’ll be your answering service.”
“What do you want me to do? This is my job.”
The kettle started to whistle. She got up and poured the boiling water into her cup. Back at the table, she dunked the tea bag twice, then placed it on the saucer. “It’s not like I don’t understand. I know that you have to take care of this, but”—she took hold of the plastic bear without picking it up—“well, it’s been nearly two weeks since we’ve seen each other.”
“I wish I could tell you I’ll be back, but I don’t know how long this is going to take.”
She squeezed some honey into her tea and swirled it around with a spoon, which she tapped three times on the rim of the cup before setting it down on the bone-white china. But then her shoulders relaxed. Voice softer, she said, “It’s okay. Just do whatever you need to. I should try to get to sleep soon anyway. I’m exhausted.” But she succeeded with only half a smile.
He bent down and gave her a guilty kiss. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI’S BODY FELT HEAVY and dull, the handcuffs a constant annoyance. She sat on the bench against the wall while Roberts kept an eye on her, his partner having gone upstairs to have some paperwork processed.
But with the tour already over, Roberts was anxious to get home to his wife. They desperately wanted a baby, and tonight was a good night to try—she was waiting up. He glanced over at Micki, now sitting with her elbows on her knees and her forehead in her hands. When she’d heard Baker wanted her brought to the station house, she’d said, “He’s gonna kill me.” And given how furious Baker had sounded over the phone, Roberts thought she wasn’t too far off. He pulled his last piece of gum out of his pocket. He could probably stick around a little while longer—maybe get some answers. Besides, he needed his cuffs back.
♦ ♦ ♦
AT 12:17 A.M., BAKER showed up in different clothes than what Micki had seen him in at school. Still dressed in jeans, he’d exchanged the T-shirt for a dress shirt, sneakers for brown leather shoes. She sat up straight, and Roberts followed her gaze through the large rectangular archway to the extremely tall man checking in with the desk sergeant up front. When Roberts saw the man turn and stride purposefully toward Micki, he stood up.
But before Roberts could say a word, Baker asked, “Do you have a room that’s free?”
“Looks like Interview A is open,” and he pointed down the hall, where a door was slightly ajar. He held out his hand. “I’m Officer Roberts. I spoke to you on the—”
But Baker had already yanked Micki to her feet and was leading her away.
Nearly running to keep pace so he wouldn’t be dragging her along, she asked, “Y’gonna take these cuffs off me at least?”
“Shut up.”
She tried to pull out of his grip. “No! I’m not goin’ in there.” But he simply tossed her into the room like an old jacket. She smashed into a metal table, her thigh catching the brunt of the collision.
Baker slammed the door shut.
She was barely aware of the throbbing in her leg. It seemed like the only thing she was really conscious of was him. Edging her way to the end of the table, she backed up toward the far wall of the tiny room.
“Just what the fuck were you doing?” he demanded.
He was right in front of her now—she could smell the aftershave he’d put on, could feel the heat radiating from his body. And still her voice came out challenging. Belligerent. “I was just hangin’ out. That’s all. I wasn’t drinkin’ or smokin’ or anything.” She shifted her eyes and saw her reflection staring back. A one-way mirror. She looked so small.
“You weren’t smoking dope?” He grabbed her vest, pulled her away from the wall a little, then slammed her back. “You reek of that shit.”
“That’s ’cause everyone else was smokin’ it.”
“And you think that’s okay? You think it’s okay to hang out with people doing drugs and drinking?” His face was right in hers, their noses practically touching.
She swallowed hard. “I—I just wanted to hang out awhile. I—”
“This isn’t a fucking vacation for you! This isn’t about what you want. But I’ll tell you what I wanted. I wanted to spend the night with my girlfriend, who I haven’t seen in almost two weeks. I didn’t want to be interrupted by a phone call about you. Do you have any idea what that felt like?” He slammed her against the wall again. “Huh? Do you know what that felt like?”
Her chest heaved. She hated being tossed around. “I dunno, okay?” she yelled back. “I dunno how it felt!”
“Well, this is how it felt.” He rammed his knee up between her legs.
The intensity of the pain took her by surprise. She swung her cuffed hands up. “You son of a—”
But he caught her fists and punched low with his free hand. When she struggled against him, he punched her twice more, hitting the little wall of muscle a little harder each time. And while her face didn’t show it, he knew the initial sting was turning more to pain with each blow. He thought about hitting her without holding back, without worrying about what would happen afterward. Instead he released her.
Voice strangely calm, he said, “Besides the fact that you broke curfew, you’re not even supposed to associate with kids who drink or do drugs, let alone be hanging out with them while they’re doing it. Do you understand that?”
Hunched over slightly, she was leaning against the wall. “Yessir.”
“Do you have anything to say?”
About to answer, “No,” she said, “It won’t happen again.”
“You bet your sweet ass it won’t happen again—’cause there won’t be another chance for it to happen again.”
Her eyes met his. “But … I …” She straightened up. “Are you sayin’ this is over?”
Voice full of contempt, he said, “You want to give me a reason why it shouldn’t be?”
She merely gave him a hateful look and turned away. But then she faced him again. “Y’such a fuckin’ bastard, y’know that? Y’fuckin’ hated me from the minute y’saw me. Why the fuck did they make y
ou my legal guardian? I’ve been livin’ here for a week now, and y’haven’t stopped by once—”
“So this is my fault? You’re blaming me for—”
“Y’fuckin’ don’t get it. It’s unbelievable. Well, just f’get it, okay? Go ahead, y’mothafuckin’ prick; go send me back t’Heyden. Then y’can go fuck y’girlfriend all y’want. It’s nothin’ t’me. It’s all the same fuckin’ shit anyway.” She turned her back again.
He paused a moment, then left the room and closed the door, asking a uniformed officer to stand guard outside.
♦ ♦ ♦
FROM THE OTHER SIDE of the one-way mirror, Roberts had seen most of the exchange. He was sorry the brief phone call from his wife had kept him from witnessing all of it. He followed Baker down the hall to find him scanning the room.
“You looking for me, Sergeant?”
Baker whirled around, and Roberts pulled back.
“You were the one who picked her up?” Baker asked.
“Yes, sir, me and my partner, Officer Wollenski.”
“Did she give you a hard time?”
“No, sir, not at all. She was very cooperative.”
Baker looked at him steadily, then snorted. “Are you kidding me?”
“She did what she was told.”
“And she didn’t have anything on her? Nothing at all?”
“No, sir.”
“Did she seem high?”
“No. Said she wasn’t using anything, and I believed her.”
The thing was, so did Baker. He’d put his face right in hers for more than just intimidation purposes. To his disappointment, her breath had been clean: no traces of pot or alcohol, just garlic from whatever she’d had for dinner. “I could use some coffee,” he said.
The two cops talked briefly, Roberts pressing for information but getting little for his efforts, only a sketchy picture of what was going on. When he asked what would happen to Micki, Baker said he needed time to think and promised to leave the officer’s cuffs with the desk sergeant on his way out. They shook hands, and Roberts headed home. Chances were, he’d never see the kid again anyway.
♦ ♦ ♦
BLENDING INTO A CORNER of the first-floor stairwell, Baker considered his options. It was pretty much the same as when he’d thought it through over the pocketknife: technically Micki had done enough to justify sending her back to juvi, but Malone would never buy it. He’d be pissed that Baker was taking such a hard line so early, even angrier that Baker hadn’t gotten more involved. By now he should’ve stopped by the kid’s place—several times—if only out of his own self-interest: returning her to Heyden would ultimately leave him in bad straits.
A couple of uniforms walked by, smoking, and he nearly asked to bum a cigarette. With about two years of abstinence behind him, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have just one. He could almost taste that first puff—feel the smoke filling his lungs. A heavy user for most of his life, he hadn’t even been Micki’s age when he’d started—his earliest act of real rebellion. He would light up and picture himself in a leather jacket, tearing up the roads on a Harley, a crack shot with all kinds of guns.
He never did learn how to ride a motorcycle.
He rubbed his eyes. He should’ve been home by now.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI WENT OVER AND yanked out a chair to wait. When no one came for her, she put her head down on the metal table, cheek pressed against the cold, hard surface. But then she pulled her cuffed hands toward her, and rested her forehead on them instead. Any moment now, someone was going to walk through that door and take her to a cell so she could wait some more before the long drive up to Heyden. After everything Sergeant Kelly had done to get her out of that place, she was going back. Over nothing. Her heart squeezed painfully, her scarred veins aching. She wanted to fade into the darkness behind her closed eyes and—
The door opened, and she bolted upright: it was Baker. And for a moment, they simply studied each other. But when he started toward her, she stood up and moved free of the furniture.
“Just take it easy,” he said. “Nothing’s going to happen unless you can’t control your mouth.” Misreading her face, he asked, “Is that still a problem? You have something more you want to say?”
She looked away. “No.”
“No, sir,” he corrected.
She rolled her eyes. “Gimme a break. ‘No,’ ‘no, sir,’ what’s it matter anymore?”
“It matters to me.” And he picked up her cuffed hands. “I’ve decided to let this go as a simple curfew violation.”
“What?”
He held the little key above her wrists. “You want me to change my mind?”
Though she merely shook her head no, a totally new thought was taking shape: maybe Baker needed her for something.
They left the police station, Baker dropping Roberts’ handcuffs off with the desk sergeant.
♦ ♦ ♦
AS THEY DROVE THROUGH the streets, not a word passed between them, the interior thick with silence and the scent of his aftershave. His thigh, long and lean, was next to the stick his large hand was shifting just inches from her knee. Sitting so close, she thought she could feel the air vibrating around him, pulsating with a raw, dangerous energy. And out of the corner of her eye, she could see his profile, her own chest tight from the hard set of his jaw, which was clenching and unclenching while he was thinking about god-only-knew what. He glanced over, and she shrank and withered under his dark gaze, feeling like she was contaminating his private little space.
“Get out,” he said, still looking straight ahead while the car idled in front of her building. Then he pulled away without even watching to make sure she went inside.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI STAYED UP MOST of the night to finish her homework and study for an economics quiz. Baker—after picking up a pack of cigarettes from the corner deli—drove home, drank too much, and fell asleep, fully dressed, in his chair.
chapter 4
AFTER HER LAST CLASS on Thursday, Micki entered the security office for the usual check-in. Over by the window, Baker and Warner were talking about the two juniors Angela had caught popping Black Beauties in the third-floor bathroom. Apparently, one of the girls, in admitting she’d taken the pills from her mother’s purse, had said, “The doctor prescribed them ’cause my mom’s such a cow. We just wanted, like, to have some fun. School’s so, y’know, boring.” A couple of uniforms from the local precinct had been called in to pick them up.
“These kids have it too easy,” Baker said to Warner. “It’s like they have nothing better to do than fuck up their lives.”
Micki went over to Baker’s desk and dropped off her lab workbook. But the two men had stopped talking. And when she glanced up, she saw them watching her. Looking from one to the other, she asked, “What?”
Baker lit a cigarette.
Her eyes widened. “You smoke?”
Cigarette held between his thumb and index finger—like a joint—he slowly exhaled.
She shifted her weight. “I just, y’know, never saw you smoke before, that’s all.”
Baker walked over while Warner, some guards’ reports tucked under his arm, went to fix himself a cup of coffee.
“Put the books down,” Baker ordered. And with the cigarette dangling from his lips, he picked up her left arm and ran his fingers over the needle-tracked skin. Her wrist was still in his grasp when he took the cigarette out of his mouth. She jerked her arm away and stepped back. His forehead creased. But then he simply picked a piece of paper up from his desk and said, “I got a note from your gym teacher. She says you’re late every day.”
“I get there on time.”
“You get to the locker room on time, but you’re late getting up to class. What’s taking you so long?”
“Look at me when you talk to me.”
“Yessir.”
He took a drag on the cigarette.
“You think I’m shooting up?” she asked.
“Are you?”
“No!”
“No, sir,” he corrected.
Fuck you, she thought. But repeated, “No, sir.”
Actually, Mrs. Tandy had mentioned that Micki was never more than a couple of minutes or so behind the last girl up—not enough time to do much of anything beyond popping a few pills. Baker had searched her locker anyway and found only a wrinkled gym suit. But he wanted to be sure. Leaving his cigarette balanced on the edge of an ashtray, he took a flashlight from his desk and grabbed her shoulder.
She stiffened. “What’re you gonna do?”
“Shut up and stand still.” He turned the flashlight on. “And keep your eyes open.”
She saw blinding white light followed by purple splotches on a washed-out background. Another white flash and more spots in front of her eyes.
Baker let go and tossed the flashlight back. “Why can’t you get up to the gym on time?”
“I dunno, I guess I’m slow changing.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Reilly.”
Her eyes flicked over to Warner—still reading reports on the couch—then back to Baker.
“Let’s hear it now. I haven’t got all day.”
“I don’t wanna change in front of the other girls.”
“You don’t want to change in front of them? I would’ve thought it was the other way around. But this isn’t Heyden. Nothing’s going to happen in the locker room.”
“It’s got nothin’ to do with that.”
“Enlighten me, then.”
She flicked another glance at Warner, who looked up.
“Anything you have to say can be said in front of him,” Baker said.
But she was starting to sweat. “I—I have scars. I don’t want anyone to see ’em.”
“Scars from when they stitched up your gut?” He retrieved his cigarette and took another hit.