by Randy Mason
“Shit!” Marino repeated.
Micki was biting the inside of her lip to keep from laughing.
“You think this is funny?” Baker asked.
Marino looked like he’d pissed his pants. Yeah, she thought it was funny, but all she did was shrug and try desperately to keep a straight face.
“Well, since you’re finding this so entertaining, you can have the pleasure of cleaning it up.”
“I’ll help,” Jamison offered. “It’s my fault—”
“She’ll do it herself,” Baker said. “You should get back to your post.”
“But … Sure, Chief.” Jamison glanced at Micki, then apologized again to Marino on his way out.
“Why do I have to clean it up?” Micki asked.
“Because I told you to.”
Marino, still standing in the middle of it all, was smirking.
“NOW,” Baker barked.
She put her books on the desk and pulled over the white plastic trashcan from beside the little refrigerator. Down on one knee, she threw away the Styrofoam cup, then started picking up the larger pieces of glass while Baker went to get the whiskbroom and dustpan from under the bathroom sink. Literally at Marino’s feet, she felt the heat rising in her face. She was gingerly placing her fingers on either side of an especially jagged shard when Baker reentered the room. Marino, taking advantage of the cop’s presence, said to Micki, “Why don’t you shove that up your ass.”
Dropping the glass, Micki sprang to her feet, pushing Marino hard and sending him sailing backward into the door. But Baker grabbed some hair on the top of her head—right at the base of the scalp—and pulled back cruelly. She nearly lost her footing. Face distorted in a grimace, her hands shot up to grasp his wrist. He pulled her backward.
“Fuck it!” she cursed.
Maintaining the tension on her hair, he slammed his free palm into her back.
She gritted her teeth.
Marino’s grin faded. “Hey, let her go,” he said. “It was nothing. Really.”
“Go home and change your clothes,” Baker ordered.
“C’mon, Jim, I—”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Baker said.
♦ ♦ ♦
AS SHE STOOD IN front of Bel, the breeze blew back her hair so gently it felt like a caress. She brushed the bangs out of her eyes and gazed past the elevated tracks to a row of trees, their dying leaves a warm sunburst of color against the slate-grey sky. The street itself, however—garbage scattered across stained sidewalks, graffiti sprayed on almost every available space—looked ugly and mean.
The number 7 train rumbled past toward the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, where it would soon turn off to travel further into Queens. She could picture herself traveling down the road alongside it. But only as far as the underpass. With the possibility of going back to Heyden looming larger than ever, what did it matter if she scored a fix? Eyes closed, she could feel the sweet release, could feel her wretched, lonely existence being carried away into a warm, cocoon-like place of nothing.
She opened her eyes and rubbed her wrist. It hadn’t been in such great shape to begin with; now it hurt from Baker having ruthlessly twisted it. But it was what he’d told her afterward that had caused her world to come crashing down: tomorrow he was meeting with Captain Malone to deliver a progress report. “Truth is, Micki,” he’d said, “I haven’t seen any progress. None at all.”
Her mouth had gone dry, the blood turning cold in her veins. She argued she was doing well in school; she argued she was doing so well at work that Mr. Antonelli had given her a raise.
Baker’s eyes had narrowed. “When was that?”
Confused by the tone of his voice, her own came out small. “Last night.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I—I thought I just had to tell you the bad stuff.”
“You tell me everything. Everything. Understand?” He hadn’t even been pleased that she’d finally be earning minimum wage. And maybe with good reason.
“Micki, you okay?” Mr. Antonelli asked, leaning out the front door of the restaurant.
“Not really,” she murmured.
“Eh? I cannot-a hear you.”
“I’ll be right in, Mr. Antonelli,” she said more loudly, and the little man disappeared back inside. Hanging her head, she kicked away a bottle cap with the toe of her worn-out sneaker.
She was such a loser.
♦ ♦ ♦
BY THE TIME THE entrance buzzer rang, announcing the first arrival, Baker was almost set for the poker game. Though it had been a weekly tradition for years, he’d skipped all but one since starting his job at the high school. When he’d gone the second week after the semester had begun, he’d felt demoted sitting among the men he used to work with—especially his partner, Barry Gould, who’d been teamed with Dave Blanchard in his absence. Baker had lost more money that night than he ever had before, and, since then, he’d avoided not only the poker games, but Gould and all his other cop friends, as well. The one exception—out of necessity—had been Malone. But the isolation had only made him feel worse.
He recognized the knock on the door and opened it to see Gould with a bottle of J&B and a big grin. “Hey, partner!”
Baker smiled, a rush of warmth flooding through him as he accepted the whiskey. Then they briefly embraced with the obligatory pats on the back. A real Mutt-’n’-Jeff pair, Baker was lean, clean-shaven, nine inches taller, and five years older than Gould, who had curly red hair, an ample mustache, and a bit too much weight. Their natures were also opposites: Baker, hot and quick-tempered; Gould, mild and good-humored. But both men were sharp, possessing solid investigative skills and a willingness to do whatever it took to get the job done. They’d made a formidable team. And had bonded like brothers.
“Thanks, man,” Baker said. “Make yourself at home. I’ve just got a few things left to put out.”
Gould threw his jacket on the couch and looked at the bridge table holding court in the middle of the living room. With cards, poker chips, and liquor already in place, Baker was putting out nuts, pretzels, and potato chips.
“Y’know, I’ve missed you,” Gould said. “I wish you’d call once in a while just to shoot the shit. I stopped calling myself ’cause I didn’t want to push you, but, hey …”
“Sorry,” Baker said. “It’s just that—well—this whole thing has been really hard on me. Besides, you’re working with someone else now.”
“So what? That doesn’t change a fuckin’ thing between you and me. And anyways, Blanchard’s a lazy son of a bitch, a real empty suit. He’s useless as a partner; I’d be happier alone.”
Baker continued setting up.
“I’m tellin’ you,” Gould said, “this’ll be over before y’know it, and we’ll be a team again like always.”
Not looking all that convinced, Baker nodded. Then he took out his cigarettes and lit one, noting the surprise that registered on his friend’s face. A sheepish look spread across his own. “Yeah. This ‘therapy’ is just doing wonders for me.”
“How’s it goin’?”
Baker shrugged. “It’s going.”
When Baker didn’t say more, Gould tried asking about Cynthia. But from Baker’s brief replies, he gathered that wasn’t going too well, either. Apparently, a lot had happened since the last time the two men had spoken. None of it too good.
The buzzer rang again, and Baker hastily stubbed out the Camel before the other players arrived. But since all except Gould and Malone smoked, once the game got going, it wasn’t long till he fired up another.
With a broad grin, Batillo pointed his cigar and, in his raspy voice, said, “Hey, look who rejoined the club.”
All of the men stared at Baker.
“Yeah, yeah. Screw you,” Baker shot ba
ck, and busied himself with straightening the stacks of poker chips in front of him.
“Aw, don’t get all pissy,” Tierney said. “It’s just that we were afraid you were gonna stop drinking soon, too.”
“Yeah, and then we wouldn’t be able to trust you,” Martini said.
“We might even have to kill you,” Batillo added.
They all chuckled. Except Baker, who said sharply, “Well I can tell you right now that you don’t have to worry about that, okay?”
Malone started to deal in the uneasy silence.
“So, Jimmy,” Martini asked as he grabbed a fistful of peanuts to toss into his mouth, “you hire a maid or what? You’ve always been neat, but this place looks fuckin’ spotless.”
“No maid. The kid’s been cleaning as punishment for some shit she pulled.”
“Yeah? Well, next time she fucks up, send her over to my place.”
“No way!” Tierney said. “That would be cruel and unusual.”
They all laughed while Martini shot back, “Yeah? Look who’s talkin’.”
Within half an hour, all of the tension in Baker’s body had disappeared, the cop talk and precinct gossip a little like coming home. And with everything that went on at the school, he had his own share of tales to tell, some quite serious, the rest often funny. By the end of the evening, he understood that his friends were his friends. They’d lost no respect for him, just felt badly that he’d gotten such a raw deal. And though he didn’t feel quite the same as when he’d been working with them, he realized most of the judgmental stuff was only in his own head. It made him think about what Cynthia had said.
Then again, it wasn’t as if he’d retired. Or been fired.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE FIRST TO ARRIVE, Gould was also the last to leave. Putting on his jacket, he asked, “So you’re meeting with Malone tomorrow?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Nothing, really, just overheard the captain reminding you.”
Baker shrugged. “I think he needs some kind of formal status report.”
Gould walked toward the door, then paused and turned. “Are you doin’ okay, Jim? I want you to tell me the truth.”
“I don’t know, I guess so. I just can’t see where any of this is going.”
“You get along okay with this kid?”
Baker snorted. “Not exactly.”
“Well, this won’t go on forever, y’know. Alls you gotta do is hold the line. Just don’t flip out over anything.”
“It’s a little late for that.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry,” Baker said. “I haven’t broken anything yet.”
Gould patted him on the back. “I knows you; you’re gonna be okay.”
They said goodnight, and Baker locked the door behind his friend. But after all the boisterous banter, his apartment felt too quiet. Too empty. Again. Surveying the mess in his living room, he considered being a lazy bastard and leaving it till Micki came on Sunday.
Then he started cleaning up.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE SKY WAS A brilliant azure blue interrupted by just a few white clouds that looked like mounds of shaving cream. With the sun’s rays generating an unseasonably warm seventy-two degrees, Baker considered taking a late afternoon jog through Central Park to catch the autumn foliage. He parked his car, then hurried down the busy midtown street, wondering how long his meeting with Malone was going to take.
But walking into the station house was something of a shock—so familiar and yet not, like returning to his apartment after he’d been away for a couple of weeks. As he lifted his chin in greeting to the desk sergeant, he clipped his badge to his belt, feeling conspicuous and out of place. Yet no one who caught his eye did more than nod or say a quick hello.
He ran up the stairs, two at a time, and knocked on the captain’s door, entering at the brusque “yeah?”
Looking up from the statistics he was examining, Malone said, “Jim! Sit down. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Baker sat on the old vinyl couch, its ugly yellow color somewhat disarming in the otherwise drab surroundings. The office felt much smaller than he remembered. Not even two months had gone by, but it seemed like a lifetime. He stared out the window. Undaunted by the dirty pane of glass, the bright blue of the sky was fighting its way through the grime. Apparently, no one had told it a nor’easter was predicted to hit by midnight.
“So!” Malone said.
And Baker looked back at the captain, who stood up and walked around to the front of his desk. Arms folded over his chest, Malone leaned back against the battered piece of furniture while Baker, sitting tensed on the edge of the couch, pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his T-shirt and lit one.
“How’s everything been going lately?” the older man inquired.
Exhaling smoke, Baker said, “About the same, I guess.”
“Anything new happen since the last time we spoke?”
Baker summarized as concisely as possible—with convenient edits—then stood up and glanced around for an ashtray. Malone pointed to a paper plate with a stale crust of rye bread sitting in the middle of a mustard stain.
“Doesn’t sound like there’s been much improvement,” Malone said.
Baker tapped a small column of ashes onto the plate and raised his eyebrows in a gesture of uncertainty. “Hard to say.”
“I’ll tell you the reason I asked you to come here today.”
Though his cigarette was hardly beat, Baker stubbed it out, then continued standing, hands in the front pockets of his jeans.
“There’s another kid Kelly wants to place and—”
Slapping his thigh, Baker said, “You’ve got to be kidding! What am I, suddenly, a fucking one-man juvenile hall?”
“Take it easy, Jim, and let me finish.”
Baker turned and stared out the window.
“This other kid’ll be a breeze. He’s fifteen years old and was practically an honor student until his parents got divorced. After that he got mixed up with the wrong crowd—started doing drugs and stealing cars. His mother, who he’d been living with, became an alcoholic; his father disappeared. In two weeks he’ll be released from Spoffard, but he’s got no place to go. The mother’s currently doing time for check forgery, and there aren’t any relatives to take him till she’s out and reestablished as a sober, responsible parent. Seems the family moved here from Ohio three years ago because the mother had a big falling-out with her parents. Even so, you’d probably only have the kid till the beginning of the spring. I think he’d work out a hell of a lot better than Micki has. Not to mention he’s a boy. The only drawback to choosing him over her is that he’d have to live with you.”
“What? Wait a minute.” Baker turned to face Malone. “What do you mean ‘choosing him over her’?”
“Well, it’s your choice: which kid do you want?”
“I thought you meant—”
“No.”
Baker looked stunned. “But then what would happen to Micki?”
“She’d go back to Heyden.”
It felt like minutes went by before Baker asked, “What if someone else were interested in taking her? There’s someone—”
“A cop?”
“Well, no, he’s working security at the high school with me. But—”
“I don’t think you understand the whole picture.” Malone folded his arms across his chest again. “The only reason Kelly got his way in having Micki released from juvi so early was because, unlike the other kids he’d gotten involved with, it was agreed that whether her first placement worked out or not, she could only have a cop as her legal guardian. Truth be known, no one wanted her. But then you needed a kid, and she was the only one available. Everything about her processing has been c
ompletely unorthodox—most of it slipping well under the radar. But no judge is going to allow her to be handled by anyone less than a police officer. She’s too much of a risk otherwise. Quite frankly, I think she’s too much of a risk, period.”
Baker swallowed hard and looked around. “I just—the thought of sending her back there—the things they did to her … I’ve been having a tough enough time dealing with the idea of leaving her there over Thanksgiving. But to leave her there permanently …”
Malone uncrossed his arms and stood up straight. “Y’know, I figured this was a real no-brainer, that you’d dump that kid in a heartbeat. A month ago you hated her like nobody’s business.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not so sure anymore that she’s a total waste. Maybe there’s someone in there after all. I know she could be jerking me around, but if she’s not—”
“Why the sudden change?”
Baker shifted his gaze. “Things’ve happened.”
“Things? What kind of ‘things’?”
He looked back. “What’re you asking?”
“Are you banging her? Is that the difference?”
“Jesus Christ! Give me a little credit! I haven’t laid a finger on her. Well, not like that, at least.”
“ ‘Not like that’? Then like what?”
“The worst she’s ever gotten from me is some bruises, nothing more.”
“Oh, jeez.” Malone looked away, then looked back. “You care about this kid?”
“I feel sorry for her.”
“You feel sorry for her?” Blood rushed to Malone’s face. “You think she’ll feel sorry for you when your career goes down the toilet? If she fucks up bad, it won’t look good for you. But you’re a winner if your kid’s a winner, and this boy I told you about is a surefire success. His behavior in Spoffard’s been model, and his delinquency was but a little blip to be erased from an otherwise normal, healthy childhood. Now, I’m going to be frank with you, Sergeant: I don’t give a flying fuck about Micki. My only concern is you; it always has been. You’re a damned good detective, and I need you back. Since you got your wings clipped, morale in this squad has taken a nosedive, and our clearance rate has gone right down with it. So straighten out your priorities. That goddamn kid’s a lost cause, and you’re not!”