by Randy Mason
But only a few minutes later, she put the chair back where it belonged. After all, what was the point? And for the first time since she’d returned, she took a look at the curtains.
They looked nice.
chapter 9
SHE BARELY MADE IT to school on time the next morning; each successive Monday seemed harder than the one before. And though it took a lot out of her, she managed to thank Baker for putting up the curtains.
He looked like he was trying not to smirk when he said, “No problem,” and walked away.
She stared after him.
♦ ♦ ♦
IT WAS TUESDAY NIGHT, and she was sitting at her desk, writing in a little memo pad, a legion of tiny pages now filled with small, precise print. After the history-exam disaster, she’d developed her own study method, taking notes every night in preparation for the inevitable tests and quizzes. Each subject’s theories, facts, and concepts were neatly organized and catalogued, flawlessly laid out in multicolored splendor. And since the pads were small enough to carry in her jacket pocket, she could study a little here and there whenever she had a spare moment—mostly going back and forth to school. That’s how she’d done all of her studying for her economics test tomorrow.
She made a few final notes, then closed her history textbook with a satisfying thud. Ten minutes later, she was in bed.
♦ ♦ ♦
FROM HIS CAR ACROSS the street, Baker saw her light go out: 12:47. In another half hour, he’d go up and have a look. Holding his cigarette up to the edge of the window, he flicked ashes into the street, some fresh air rushing in with a cool snap against his face. He let his head fall back against the headrest. Surveillance could be very boring. Yet he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing; though it would’ve been better with a beer to pass the time. With no one to talk to and nothing of interest to watch, he was chain-smoking worse than usual, literally using one cigarette to light the next. He took a long, languid pull that tasted surprisingly good for so late in the day. But he really had to cut down; Cynthia hated it.
Cynthia. Her party Saturday night had been a double celebration. Not only had she been chosen by some liquor company for a major advertising campaign to be launched in time for Christmas, but one of the agents she’d seen in California had taken her on as a client. Circulating through the partygoers, Baker had done his best to be the proud, supportive boyfriend, talking about what an exciting time this was for her, and how happy he was that she’d finally found an agent who believed in her potential. But behind the words and the smile, he was jealous: her life was moving ahead while his was foundering. And the next time she flew out to LA, well, what if she decided to stay out there? It made sense, didn’t it? The heart of the movie industry—and her only acting agent—were there. Nothing was holding her here except him, and he had yet to formalize any kind of commitment between them—much to the dismay of her father, who’d let him know this in no uncertain terms.
But Cynthia would never sacrifice career for marriage anyway. Though not a believer in the “better-dead-than-wed” attitude touted by many in the women’s movement, her career definitely took priority. It wouldn’t surprise him if she turned the tables and asked him to move to LA. Why shouldn’t he be the one to accommodate her? But he hated the place, could never live there, everyone so laid back and superficial. Just like at the party. Cynthia had chided him, saying he appeared to be working rather than enjoying himself. But he felt so out of place—even with the few people he knew. Everyone seemed to be gossiping about agents, auditions, coaches … And when someone he just met found out he was a cop, they either stopped talking and got away from him as fast as they could or started pumping him for insights they could use for an audition or script—making him want to leave.
How different Cynthia was. She was just as comfortable with his cop friends as she was with her actor/model friends. She truly enjoyed people—all kinds of people. Without denying the shallow perspectives held by many of her guests that night, she accepted them for what they were. He simply couldn’t wait till they were gone. He hated parties. They were usually nothing more than marathons of meaningless mingling and insipid small talk. So much mental energy expended for nothing.
And then there was the young actor Cynthia had been flirting with most of the night. The man lived in New York, but had met Cynthia in LA. while both were waiting to see prospective agents in the same office. Not especially good looking, it was his sense of humor that so obviously attracted her. Baker felt like his own sense of humor had gotten buried somewhere. And only last week he’d heard on the radio that, according to some survey, women rated a man’s sense of humor higher in importance than looks, education, or income. Great. Just great.
He checked his watch: 1:12. Time to get the show on the road. He got out of the car and, using his foot, mashed the cigarette into the asphalt, a brash gust of wind blowing the chilly night inside his open jacket. Unfortunately, the interior of Micki’s building didn’t feel much warmer.
Outside her door, he positioned himself to block as much of the hallway light as possible. Then he gently turned his key and eased himself through. But at the first sound of his entry, she jumped out of bed, tripped over the jeans that were lying on the floor, and crashed into the desk. Cursing, she turned on the lamp.
“Take it easy, Micki; it’s just me.”
“It’s just you? What the fuck do y’want?”
“I’m just checking to make sure you’re where you’re supposed to be.”
“Okay, so now y’know.” The look she gave him said she was waiting for him to leave.
Instead, he closed the door, walked over to the table, and pulled out a chair. Sitting down low on his spine, he stretched his long legs straight out in front of him, casually crossing them at the ankles. He watched her scrambling to put on her jeans, buckling her belt underneath her nightshirt. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m gettin’ dressed. What’re you doin’?”
“First of all, I don’t have to answer to you. Second of all, it’s after one o’clock in the morning, so get back into bed and go to sleep.”
“While y’ here? What’re y’ kiddin’? No way.”
“And why is that?”
“Whatta y’think?”
“You’d better drop that attitude and stop answering my questions with questions.”
She threw a glance toward the fire escape window, then watched as he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one.
“I’m going to hang out here for a while,” he said. “But you should be sleeping now. So take those jeans off and get back into bed.”
“Yer outta y’mind.”
He uncrossed his legs and sat up straight, feet flat on the floor and wide apart. “Nothing’s going to happen,” he said. “So get back into bed.”
“F’get it.”
Forearms on his thighs, he leaned forward. “I said nothing—is going—to happen.”
“Well, I don’t know that.”
Leaning back again, he took another hit off the cigarette and studied her. The oversized T-shirt, which hung down to her knees, emphasized how underweight she still was, its “short” sleeves reaching her elbows and covering up the muscular arms. She looked waif-like. If threatened, she wasn’t going down easy, but he knew as well as she did just how vulnerable she really was.
He stood up. “I’m leaving for tonight, but I want you to think about this, because I’ll be back.”
This last bit of news made her less than happy.
“Gee,” he said, “a month ago you were pissed off because I wasn’t stopping by. Well, here I am, and now you’re pissed off about that.” He picked up the Camels and his lighter from the table, then gave her another long look, his eyes laughing.
When the door fi
nally closed behind him, she gave him the finger before sitting down hard on the bed.
♦ ♦ ♦
HER NEW STUDY METHOD had paid off: Wednesday’s economics test had been a snap to prepare for; Thursday’s physics exam, as well, though she never really studied for those anyway. And while it was only Friday, she’d gotten both of them back already: 99 on the first and 100 on the second. Sitting in the security office for a special, ten-minute homeroom period, she was drumming her fingers on the desk, waiting for her report card—the first official document that might actually say something good about her. When Baker finally handed hers over, she felt a rush: all Os, for outstanding, in her academic courses. Numeric grades wouldn’t be coming into play until the next marking period.
But Baker was tapping his finger next to the UN—unsatisfactory—she’d received in general conduct. “You’d better pick that up,” he said. Then he took the report card back, signed it, and placed it in an envelope to return to the general office.
Elbow on the desk, head in hand, she lethargically flipped through one of her little notepads, using the remaining few minutes as a review for the next period’s English exam. Mr. Newsome hadn’t even graded the test papers from last week. He gave more tests than any of her other teachers. For English. What a jerk.
She sulked through the rest of the day, had a tough night at Bel, then lay down to sleep. Twice she nearly drifted off, only to return sharply to wakefulness, ears straining for any sounds outside her door. At half past midnight, she got up to drink her last packet of cocoa, then went back to bed, putting the radio on low. At least she could sleep late tomorrow.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER SAT IN HIS car, watching Micki’s apartment. After Tuesday’s failed attempt, he’d decided to give it a few days before trying again. If his date tonight hadn’t gone so badly, he would’ve given it a few more.
Cynthia had been worn out after working all day on a TV soap opera—Days of Our Lives or something like that. Though cast in some bit part, she’d explained, over a late dinner, that it was a much more important role than being an extra: she’d been given two lines to say to one of the show’s stars. Big fucking deal: two lines. But according to her, this was a significant first step up the ladder. When he hadn’t shared her enthusiasm, she’d gone home. Alone. He’d taken a nap.
He got out of his car and stretched his legs. Micki’s apartment was dark—same as it had been when he’d arrived almost an hour ago. There was little point in waiting any longer.
♦ ♦ ♦
TIRED OF TOSSING AROUND on the sagging collection of lumps and bumps that called itself a mattress, Micki switched on the light and checked the clock—it was twenty to two. She turned off the radio, put on her jeans, and had just stripped off her nightshirt when Baker came through the door. Her arms flew to her chest.
Eyes fixed on hers, he took a step further into the room and, without looking, pushed the door shut behind him. She was standing motionless next to the bed—muscular arms crossed over bare breasts, jeans clothing the remainder of a boyish figure. But it was an image he saw only peripherally, for his eyes never wavered—not even an instant—from hers. She, on the other hand, shot a glance down to his crotch. But this time there was no apologetic blush, just a cold, defensive glare.
As to why she’d be going out at this hour, Baker had two theories: either she was meeting Rick someplace or she was going to buy drugs. One way or another—intentionally or not—she was going to tell him. And she would suffer the consequences. He’d make sure of it. He tossed his keys onto the table, the harsh noise slicing through the stillness. She flinched.
“I see you’re getting dressed,” he said.
“So what.”
“So it’s nearly two in the morning. Where were you planning on going?”
His eyes had that cold, inhuman look; there was no telling what was going through his head. Trying to temper her voice, she said, “Down to the corner. I just wanted to get something. Woulda taken me five minutes, tops.”
“You mean down to the deli?”
“They’re open till two.”
“What’s so important that you have to get it now?”
“I—” But the truth was going to sound too dumb. She needed to come up with something serious. Like medicine. But she already had some aspirin in the kitchen drawer. And Baker knew that.
His expression turned smug.
“I wanted to get a box of instant cocoa.”
“Instant cocoa,” he repeated.
“It’s not the first time. Y’can ask Frankie; he’ll tell ya.”
“The guy at the deli?”
“Yessir.”
“And this couldn’t wait till tomorrow? You expect me to believe you’re violating curfew for some fucking cocoa?”
She should’ve lied, should’ve taken another minute to figure something out. In fact, the perfect thing now came to mind, but it was too late. “I—I still couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t have any more. I used the last packet a couple-a hours ago.”
And though it didn’t seem possible, his eyes grew colder. “What the fuck do you take me for?”
In almost a whisper, she said, “It’s the truth.”
When he moved, she pressed her arms tighter against her chest and backed up against the desk, but he was headed for the garbage pail in front of the sink. He wrenched off the lid and saw, to his astonishment, the torn remains of a Nestlé’s instant cocoa pouch with the empty, crushed box underneath. Either she was an incredibly inventive liar—it took balls to come up with something as stupid-sounding as this, which made it all the more believable?—or she was telling the truth. He replaced the cover, then faced the sink. “Finish getting dressed.”
Eyes glued to the back of his head, she put on the rest of her clothes. When she told him she was done, he took her jacket from the closet and threw it at her. With mock pleasantness he said, “Let’s go shopping.”
♦ ♦ ♦
THE DELI WAS LESS than half a block away, but it was a long, long walk that night, Micki always keeping a good five feet between herself and Baker. As they approached the store, the strange payphone out front caught her eye, and she paused to take a look at it. Encased in an old metal box painted red, it hung midway down the corner where the two graffiti-filled walls of the building met.
Baker gave her a small shove. “Move it!”
When she opened the door, the little bell above it jingled. Frankie, looking up from the large serving tub of tuna salad he was covering, smiled. “Hey, Micki.”
“Hey, Frankie.” And she went down the narrow aisle toward the back.
Turning to Baker, Frankie asked, “Camels?”—Baker almost always bought a pack when he was there.
“Yeah,” Baker responded. But he was staring at Micki while she reached above the refrigerated case and picked out a box from the shelf.
Frankie, putting the cigarettes on the counter with a book of matches, was watching the way Baker was looking at her. When Baker made no move to pay, Frankie asked, “Is there anything else I can get you?”
Picking up the pack but leaving the matches, Baker replied, “No, that’s it.”
Baker opened his wallet, and Frankie saw the metallic flash of the badge. He’d never noticed that before. He rang up the sale and gave Baker his change, only to see Baker watching Micki again. Apparently, she hadn’t liked the first box she’d chosen and was taking down another. His tone somewhat abrasive, Frankie asked, “You need something else?”
Eyes fastened on the returning figure, Baker replied, “I’m waiting for her.”
Frankie rang up her purchase. “Everything okay, Micki?”
“Yeah, sure. Say, that payphone out there works?”
“Yeah, it works. Why? Something wrong? You need to make a call?”
“No,
I just never seen anybody use it.”
Frankie lowered his voice, and with a half-joking, conspiratorial smile asked, “This your boyfriend?”
Micki paled. “He’s—he’s—um—he’s my—um—parole officer.”
“Oh!” Frankie flushed slightly while he handed her the change. “Well, that’s okay, Micki; everybody makes mistakes.” He turned to Baker. “She’s a good kid.”
“She ever come in here this late before?”
The deli man looked at Micki.
“It’s okay, Frankie; just tell him the truth.”
“Yeah. Maybe two times.” He smiled. “Always for the hot chocolate. She don’t sleep too good.” He extended his hand. “Frankie Coluccio.”
Baker hesitated, then shook it. “Detective Sergeant James Baker.”
“Detective?”
Eyes full of disdain, Baker shot a glance at Micki. “I don’t usually work in this capacity.”
Micki stared down at her hands, which were clutching the paper bag.
“Let’s go,” Baker said.
She walked outside ahead of him. Maybe Frankie wouldn’t like her as much now—now that he saw how much Baker didn’t like her. She turned to go home, but Baker yanked her back around.
“You don’t leave that apartment after curfew unless the whole fucking building is on fire; do you understand me?”
“Yessir,” she answered quietly.
He stared down at her. “You being straight with me about all this?”
“Yessir.”
But he couldn’t get a read on her. Gazing out over her head, he looked down the street, then over to the left, toward Bel Canto, now dark and shuttered. He exhaled heavily, then started back to her apartment. His brisk pace, coupled with his long stride, was difficult for her to maintain.
Frankie had been watching them through the plate-glass window. Once they were out of sight, he began closing up.