by Randy Mason
“Do you really know guys on the New York Times?” she asked.
Taking another sip of coffee, he gave her a sly smile. “Yeah, I know a few. But they’re not my friends. Stanton didn’t have to know that, though.”
Micki’s eyes gleamed.
The waitress brought their breakfast and returned shortly to refill their cups. Baker, after pouring ketchup on just a small portion of his scrambled eggs, began to eat at a leisurely pace. Micki, drowning her pancakes in syrup, proceeded to wolf them down as if they might be taken away at any minute.
“Didn’t you eat anything while you were there?” he asked.
Words garbled since her mouth was full, she replied, “Not really.”
Finished with the small section of ketchup-covered eggs, his French fries and toast entirely untouched, Baker leaned back and lit a cigarette. When Micki had cleaned her plate, he pushed his toward her. “Go ahead,” he said.
Color rose in her face.
“Go on,” he urged.
So she moved the plate in front of her and doused, not only the French fries, but the remaining eggs in ketchup.
Baker smiled to himself. Teased innumerable times by people who considered the combination disgusting, he’d purposely put the condiment only on the portion he’d expected to eat himself. Meanwhile, it now looked like a plate of ketchup with eggs rather than eggs with ketchup.
Eating more slowly, she could feel him watching her. Her movements became self-conscious.
He tapped his cigarette on the ashtray. “Why did you act out like that at Heyden?”
“I told y’already.”
“No, I mean, why did you do something like that when you knew it would only make things worse?”
Looking at her plate, she shrugged. “I didn’t care anymore. I thought nobody …” Her voice trailed off. She poked at her food, then glanced up. “So how come y’couldn’t come get me Sunday? And where’s Cynthia?”
“She stayed on at her parents’ place. Her father’s in the hospital. He suffered a heart attack.”
“Wow!” With a forkful of eggs hanging poised midair, Micki asked, “Is he gonna be okay?”
But Baker was suddenly aware of his own breathing. Eyes cold, he took another drag on his cigarette. “Just finish up; I want to get going.”
She dropped her fork onto the plate. “Y’already sorry y’didn’t leave me there, aren’t ya. Y’golden opportunity t’be rid a me.”
“Just finish up,” he repeated.
She pushed the plate away and stared out the window. One of the two truckers from the counter had gone outside. He was getting into his vehicle, a white truck with “Weller’s Baked Goods” printed in large black letters. A bakery truck. That’s how she’d escaped from Heyden over the summer. When the delivery was very late one day, the normal security routine had been thrown off. She’d snuck out of the kitchen and hid in the truck until it made its next stop. As soon as the doors had opened, she’d jumped out past the astonished deliveryman, her fists gripping bags of bread and rolls. She’d run as fast and as far as she could.
“Anything else?” the waitress asked.
“No,” Baker replied as he stubbed out his cigarette. “Just the check.” While the waitress tallied the figures on her pad, he slid out of the booth and stood up. “I’m going to the men’s room,” he said to Micki, “and then we’ll leave.”
Gazing out the window again, Micki let the waitress clear away the dishes. But she wasn’t alone for more than a few seconds before she heard a deep, cheerful voice say, “Hey there, little lady.”
She turned back to see the other trucker standing beside the table. Tall and wide all the way around, his smile was as broad and warm as his southern accent. And though his grin was managing to overcome the thick black beard and mustache that obscured most of his face, it did nothing to change Micki’s expression. He took the pack of cigarettes he’d just bought from the vending machine and put it in the pocket of his brown, shearling-trimmed jacket. Then he absently checked that the tails of his flannel shirt were tucked into his jeans, which were barely hanging on beneath the bulge of his belly.
Micki thought he looked pregnant—and like something out of a bad TV show. Her tone harsh, she asked, “Whatta y’want?”
“Just thought if things weren’t workin’ out too well with your friend, here, you might care to ride along with me for a while.”
“Get the fuck away from me.”
He chuckled. “C’mon, now, girl; I’d treat you right. We could have us a sweet time. A real fine time.” And then he made the mistake of taking the back of his index finger and stroking her cheek.
With shocking reflex, she slammed his hand down, smashing his knuckles into the table. And while it was too awkward to stand up completely in the booth, she had her free hand drawn back in a fist.
“MICKI!” Baker’s voice ripped through the diner.
She let go of the trucker, who backed up, his face still contorted in a mixture of pain and surprise. Coddling his bruised hand, he looked from Baker to Micki—who was now standing beside the booth—then back to Baker, the two of them with their eyes locked together. He noticed the butt of Baker’s gun peeking out from under his jacket. Hands raised, he said to Baker, “Hey, man”—he backed up even further—“no harm meant, I—”
“Forget it,” Baker said. “Just go.”
“Sure, man—thanks!” And he hurried out the door.
No one in the restaurant moved.
“Put your jacket on, Micki.”
“Y’know it—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Do you understand me?”
“But—”
“DO—YOU—UN-DER-STAND—ME!”
She yanked her jacket off the seat and put it on while Baker picked up the check and threw three dollars on the table as an outrageously generous tip. When he paid on the way out, the woman at the register—still trying very hard to smile—gave him his change with a shaking hand.
♦ ♦ ♦
AS SOON AS BAKER had started the car, he said, “Why is it that you’re always getting into trouble? I can’t leave you alone for two fucking minutes without something happening.”
“But I—”
“But you what? Huh? What?” He accelerated back onto the highway. “You are always in the middle. How can you even think of saying it’s not your fault when you’re always involved. Explain this to me ’cause I just can’t figure it out.” The knuckles of his left hand—the one that was gripping the wheel—had gone white.
Her voice very quiet, she answered, “I dunno.” Staring out the windshield, she wished she were anywhere but with him.
For several miles, they drove in deafening silence until Baker turned on the radio, catching the intro to Climax’s “Precious and Few.” But just as the chorus started, the car began to swerve: first to the right, then to the left, and then back again. He was trying desperately to regain control when it went into a spin.
And time expanded.
Micki watched the world revolving slowly outside the windows as they crossed lanes—still spinning—heading toward the shoulder. This is it, she thought. This is where my life ends. And as the car floated over the road, her whole body relaxed. But they plowed, rather gently, into the snowbank on the right and came to a stop. And though she was the only one wearing a seatbelt, Baker’s right arm was extended protectively in front of her to prevent her from pitching into the windshield. He cut the engine, and it was instantly quiet—just the occasional swish of a passing car.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Are you?”
“Yeah.”
But when she turned her gaze back to the snow, he saw an odd look on her face. �
�What?” he asked. “What is it?”
Still staring ahead, she said, “I wish I was dead.”
And in that split second following their climactic reprieve from death, all the emotional turmoil that had been churning inside him for days erupted into one slick retort: “Well, so do I.”
Her head whipped around. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, a bitter smile emerged. “Well, hey—we finally agree on something.” And before he could respond, she’d slipped out of the car, the slam of the door ringing in his ears.
The moment seemed frozen, like a stilled frame in some strange, incomprehensible movie. And yet in the rearview mirror, he saw her retreating figure, a thin black form walking against traffic in the snow. Large as life. He jumped out of the car.
“Micki, get back here!”
She kept on walking.
“Micki! MICKI! YOU GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!”
Still walking, she called back over her shoulder, “Fuck you, man. Be smart for once and let me go.”
He started after her, creating a larger set of footprints through the crusted top layer of snow. A car, speeding as though the blacktop were bone dry, flew past. He imagined another vehicle spinning out like theirs had, and started to jog.
But at the sound of the more-rapid crunch of his feet, she stopped and wheeled around.
He pulled up short.
It was both super-real and dreamlike standing there under the dark, grey sky—cars intermittently whizzing past, headlights ghostly in the cold, misty air. Safe and warm inside their vehicles, the cars’ occupants were totally separated from the scene playing out on the shoulder.
He could feel the chill seeping into his open jacket. “Micki, you get back in that car right now.”
“No.”
“Don’t you tell me ‘no’! You get back there right now!”
“Or what?”
They were about five yards apart, and he could see it in her eyes: she didn’t give a shit about anything. Reaching across his body, he pulled his service revolver out of its holster and aimed it at her with both hands. “Get back in that car,” he repeated.
She didn’t move.
“NOW.”
Chin tilted up slightly, she said, “Or what? Y’gonna shoot me?”
The large gun steady in his grip, he sighted down the barrel.
But her eyes were laughing at him. “So go ahead … Shoot.”
After a few seconds, when he did nothing, she snorted, turned, and started walking away. He remained where he was, still pointing the revolver: a healthy, six-foot-six adult male holding a loaded gun on an underweight, five-foot-six teenaged girl. And he was powerless.
Weapon reholstered, he started after her, and she began to run. But he overtook and tackled her, twisting his body as he did so, taking the brunt of the fall on the edge of his back. Covered in snow, he rolled over, pinning her beneath him. She heard the ratcheting of the handcuffs as the cold metal closed around her wrists.
She laughed at him. “D’ya take those goddamn things with y’everywhere?”
He pulled her up by the back of her jacket collar.
“I bet if y’could,” she said, “you’d even wear ’em t’bed—have ’em hangin’ from y’goddamn Jockey shorts.”
He roughly turned her around, holding one arm tight in his grip.
She looked up into his eyes and lowered her voice. “Whatta y’do with ’em when y’fuckin’ y’girlfriend?”
He whipped the back of his free hand across her face, drawing blood.
“Whatsa matta?” she asked. “Y’didn’t get any this weekend?”
His fist slammed into her, catching the border of her solar plexus, causing her knees to buckle. Hot and bitter, the taste of bile was mixing with the metallic taste of blood. She gasped for air and pictured herself reexperiencing her breakfast in reverse.
He reached down, grabbed her hair, and pulled her head back. “Y’got any more smart-ass comments?”
But they were interrupted by the brief blare of a siren and a blinding set of headlights. A rotating light flashed red on the snow.
“Put your hands on your head and step back,” a male voice commanded.
Baker, who couldn’t see anything beyond the headlights glaring in his eyes, did as he was told. Micki, who didn’t feel capable of getting up if she wanted to, remained where she was. The trooper, who was approaching slowly, had his gun drawn and trained on Baker.
“I’m on the job,” Baker said. “NYPD. My ID is in my front pocket.” His left hand began to move.
“KEEP YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD,” the trooper barked. “AND LACE YOUR FINGERS TOGETHER. We’ll get everything straightened out in good time.”
Arms raised, Baker’s open jacket was lifted and pulled apart, leaving his revolver fully exposed. The trooper immediately confiscated it, putting it in the back of his own waistband. “I want you to walk over to my car,” he said. “Put your hands on the hood and assume the position.”
Baker shot a glance at Micki. “You wipe that smirk off your face,” he said, “or I’ll wipe it off for you later.”
“MOVE,” the trooper ordered. And with his gun still trained on Baker, he made sure Micki was securely handcuffed before helping her to her feet. He put her where he could keep an eye on her, then proceeded to frisk Baker very thoroughly, one side at a time, switching his gun to the opposite hand to keep it pressed against Baker’s body. Once he was finished, he pulled out Baker’s wallet and took a step back to examine the badge and ID. Then he holstered his own revolver and returned Baker’s wallet. But not his weapon. “You want to tell me what’s going on here, Sergeant?”
“We spun out on some ice back there, and she decided”—Baker paused, choosing his words—“to be a pain in the ass for a change.” When the trooper’s expression remained impassive, Baker added, “I’m taking her back to the city from Heyden.”
Face still blank, the trooper said only, “Okay.” A good six foot four, he had a solid, athletic build and a blond crew cut beneath the wide brim of his hat. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a recruitment poster. He asked, “Some kind of big case she’s a witness for?”
“What?”
“Must be something important for a detective sergeant to be sent as a personal escort.”
“Oh—no, it’s nothing like that. I had to leave her at Heyden because I went on vacation with my girlfriend this weekend.” He looked toward Micki. “Lucky me happens to be her legal guardian for the time being.”
The trooper caught the briefest flicker of hurt across Micki’s features. “What about her parents?” he inquired.
Baker shook his head no.
“So she lives with you.”
“No, she’s on her own. But—well—it’s more like she’s on parole.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen.” When this didn’t appear to satisfy the trooper, Baker added tersely, “It’s an experiment.”
The trooper walked up to Micki. “Y’got any ID on you?”
“Right front pocket.”
He pulled it out and looked it over. Without comment, he returned it, asking Baker, “So what exactly was going on here when I arrived?”
“I was trying to get her back to the car.”
“So she was running away.”
“She … Let’s just say she was giving me a hard time.”
“I see,” the trooper responded, though he didn’t see at all. Turning to Micki, he studied the scars and bruises on her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
The blood on her cheek had already gelled; her lip, now swollen, felt numb. Looking past him, she replied, “Yeah.”
“Are you giving him a hard time?” he asked.
She shrugged.
His tone became fr
iendly. “So your name’s Micki.”
“So what.”
He smiled. “I have a cousin named Mickey,”
She finally looked at him. The tuxedo stripe on his grey pants made her think of a security guard more than a cop. But that hat! She said, “Who the fuck gives a shit.”
Baker took a step toward her. “Micki, I swear—”
But the trooper raised a hand, and Baker stopped. “Don’t play tough with me, kid,” he said, “’cause I’m not buying it.”
Jaw clenched, she shifted her gaze.
“It seems to me,” the trooper continued, “that you could use a friend right now. So do you want to tell me your side of this? ’Cause I’m willing to listen.”
“He hates me!” she blurted out. “He wishes I was dead! He said so!”
The trooper threw a questioning look at Baker, who, looking heavenward, shook his head.
Micki started to shiver. Cold and clammy, her jeans were damp up to the knees from the snow that had melted underneath them.
“Can you spare a smoke?” the trooper asked Baker.
“Sure.” And he reached into his jacket pocket.
But the trooper held up his hand again. “Micki’s cold. Why don’t you take her back to the car and let her warm up in there. In fact, I’d like you to pull your vehicle out of the snowbank so I know it’s roadworthy. After that I’ll take that cigarette. Okay, Sergeant?”
With a shrewd smile, Baker did as the trooper asked, leaving Micki cuffed in the car with the window cracked open, the engine running, and the heater on. As an added precaution, he deployed her seatbelt and locked her door, wondering if she even knew how to drive.