by Randy Mason
And Baker knew he wasn’t going home.
♦ ♦ ♦
WITH NOTHING BETWEEN HIMSELF and the hard surface of the floor but his folded-up jacket as a pillow, Baker stretched out on his back. Micki offered him her blanket to sleep on, saying the apartment was so warm she wouldn’t need it.
“But it’ll be on the floor,” he pointed out.
“It sometimes ends up there anyway.”
And though she was still sitting at the table, he turned out the light and lay down, dozing off, but only briefly. He awoke to find her staring at him. Propping himself up on one elbow, he asked, “What the hell are you doing? Watching me sleep?”
“Were you ever afraid you were going to die?”
“Is that what’s keeping you awake?”
There was little light in the room, their forms a deeper shadow in the dark. When she shook her head no, the movement was like a subtle ripple in an ocean of black.
“Well, we’re all going to die at some point,” he said.
“I don’t mean like that. I mean, were you ever afraid you were going to die right then?”
He sat up completely and crossed his legs. “No.”
“Even right before you shot that guy?”
“The day I start worrying about my mortality is the day I’d better get a desk job in the department—or find myself another line of work.”
“So you’re never afraid.”
“I didn’t say that. I’ve been scared shitless more times than I care to remember. Truth is, you need a healthy dose of fear or you get careless, and that’s when you—or your partner—can get hurt. Or even killed. It’s”—he paused—“it’s hard to explain, but no matter how dangerous it gets, once I’m in the middle of what’s going down, I’m not thinking anymore about what could happen to me. It’s like I’m at peace with it. My mind’s completely focused on whatever it is I have to do and nothing else.”
She pushed the saucer he used as an ashtray a couple of inches across the table, the china gently scraping against the Formica.
“You seem pretty fearless yourself sometimes,” he said.
“That’s ’cause I got nothing to lose.”
“That’s not too good, Micki.”
She shrugged.
Outside, siren off, a police vehicle drove by, its light flashing red through the curtains.
“What’s really bothering you?” he asked.
Covered in the darkness of the night’s final hours, the room felt strangely safe. “I need to know what happened to me. I want my memory back. I used to think I didn’t care—but I do. You can’t imagine what’s it’s like to know you know something but can’t get at it no matter how hard you try.”
“You still don’t remember anything? Nothing at all?”
“No, and I’m thinking maybe I never will. But then, y’know, sometimes I’m afraid of what it might be.”
“Maybe that’s why it’s better this way.”
“I have a right to know!”
They heard another car drive by. And then another. In a small voice, she asked, “How come nobody’s come looking for me?”
He felt like his heart was being wrenched right out of his chest. “Why don’t you lie down,” he said. “You need to sleep.”
She finally got into bed and drifted off.
But Baker found himself staring up at the ceiling for a long, long time.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER DROPPED IN at the precinct house the next day, he searched through the new missing-persons files from the past few months. But no description resembled Micki’s—mainly because the dates of disappearance were too recent. And without any new leads to go on, he could spend every waking minute of every day and still not come up with anything. In fact, after her arrest, the only thing ascertained was that it appeared she’d never been in the system before. That alone had been a huge undertaking, detectives sifting through mug shots and old case files from anywhere in the city or its environs. They’d also done the usual screening of local high school yearbooks. There seemed little point in going down those roads again.
Before he headed out, Baker stopped by Malone’s office and considered himself lucky that the captain wasn’t in. He left a note, then checked around for Gould, but was told he was out on a case. When he returned to his apartment, he thought about calling Cynthia, but decided that if he appeared too pushy, she might break off what little contact they had.
And so, with nothing specific to take up his time, he found himself squandering most of it smoking cigarettes, drinking whiskey, watching vapid TV, and wallowing in a shallow pool of self-pity. And Tuesday was New Year’s Eve. As if he weren’t depressed enough.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI SETTLED INTO A routine of work, workouts, and long bouts of daytime sleeping. She exercised religiously, sometimes to exhaustion just to get a mild high. Baker checked in on her several times, but didn’t stay over again—and her nighttime sleep reverted back to the restless disaster it had always been.
She refused to think about it.
♦ ♦ ♦
MONDAY, BAKER PULLED HIMSELF together for the few hours of work he had on the school’s holiday schedule. On his way back to Manhattan, he stopped by Micki’s, then went to a downtown firing range to shoot off a few rounds. He did an intense session at the gym; took a long, hot shower; ate an oversized bowl of spaghetti; and then finally picked up the phone and dialed.
Her voice was bright. “Hello?”
“Hi, Cyn.”
“Jim!”
“How’s everything?”
“Um—okay—I guess … And you?”
“I take it you have plans for tomorrow night?”
“Mark and I are going to a party in Soho.”
Mark. Mr. LA. “Any chance we could get together? Maybe for dinner next week?”
“I—uh—I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“C’mon, Cyn, it’s just dinner. What’s the harm?”
There was a long pause. “It’s over, Jim. Can’t you accept that?”
His heart was ripping apart so badly he was sure the jagged-edged pieces would never fit together again. “So—so you don’t feel anything for me anymore? Nothing?”
“I don’t want to see you because I do still have feelings. I’d be reopening wounds that haven’t even begun to heal. And it wouldn’t be right. I’d feel like I was cheating on Mark.”
Cheating on Mark! And yet Cynthia’s words had exactly the opposite effect of what she’d intended. “I’m only asking,” he said, “for a couple of hours of your time. It would mean a lot to me.”
There was a fleeting burst of static.
She sighed. “All right. But this is against my better judgment, James Baker. Don’t make me regret this.”
♦ ♦ ♦
IT WAS ALMOST NOON when—head throbbing, mouth dry—Baker opened his eyes and failed to recognize his surroundings. In the ribbon of light that emanated from the small space between the closed curtains and the window, tiny dust particles were darting and bobbing. Weightless. Unencumbered. Baker sat up and hung his heavy head in his hands, the previous night’s festivities coming back in only little bits and pieces.
Sam Tierney’s New Year’s Eve party for “swinging singles” had been crowded and loud with the boisterous overcompensation of a lot of people trying to hide their loneliness. Having gotten sufficiently drunk, Baker had succumbed to the advances of a somewhat attractive woman he would otherwise have avoided because, like many of the women invited, she had a thing for cops. It appeared he’d followed her back to her apartment—there was a radio on somewhere and the aroma of perking coffee—but he wasn’t sure. After he’d left Tierney’s, he must’ve blacked out.
The woman entered the bedroom, smi
ling. “Hi there!” She opened the curtains halfway and saw he was already getting dressed. “Don’t you want to take a shower first?” she asked.
In the light of day, the woman didn’t look quite the same, though she’d clearly taken great pains to reapply her make-up. Tall and nicely shaped, her body was in a youthfully short skirt and a cable-knit sweater sporting a large cowl neck. Her lopsided smile, in a bright coral shade of lipstick, was either endearing or annoying; he couldn’t decide which. But worst of all, he had no idea what her name was.
“I really need to get home,” he said.
Her smile faded. “I thought we could—y’know—maybe spend some time together today.”
God, he hated this. What was he thinking last night? Jesus, he couldn’t even remember having sex with her. After a glance around the room—which was wallpapered in large, psychedelic-looking flowers to compliment the thick shag carpet in three different shades of pink—he spotted his boots beneath a vanity table littered with cosmetics and perfume bottles. He retrieved them and sat on the bed to put them on. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’ve got some things I have to take care of.” Making a point of looking at his watch, he added, “And I’m very late.”
She played with the lucite ring on her finger. “Yeah—well—that’s okay.”
He stood up and threw on his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
She tugged at the short blonde hair by her ear, then threw up her hands with a forced laugh. “Hey, it was just one of those things.” And though she was blinking back tears, she was still trying to smile when she said, “So—so happy New Year.”
He gently touched her hair, caressed her cheek, and kissed her. “You take care of yourself.” Then he walked through the apartment and let himself out. Once he was in the hallway, he was certain he heard muffled sobs. Or maybe it was just his imagination. Either way, he felt like shit.
♦ ♦ ♦
ALONE IN THE ELEVATOR, an old model with a pullout door and metal gate, Baker pressed the button and waited. With a nauseating lurch, it began its downward journey, motor whining and whirring as though transporting him took an enormous amount of effort. Just as it was about to reach the lobby, he frantically pulled out his wallet, then heaved a huge sigh of relief.
The condom was gone.
♦ ♦ ♦
UNDER THE PALEST OF blue skies, Baker hailed a checkered cab to drive him home from Chelsea. Though its suspension was totally shot, the taxi sped over the road, every bump and pothole a source of torture for both his head and his bladder. God help me, he thought, if Micki called after I left the party. He’d given the answering service Tierney’s number but not the woman’s. At least, he didn’t remember giving them the woman’s. But when he got home, he called his service to find no messages waiting. He used the bathroom, took three aspirin, drank half a quart of orange juice straight from the carton, and crawled back into bed.
chapter 24
ONCE THE CONTAINER OF leftover ravioli was safely sealed and inside the fridge, Micki hung up her damp work shirt. Then she poured herself a glass of Coke and sat down at the table, sorry to see the saucer Baker used as an ashtray still empty after she’d dumped it out that morning. Even a single, solitary cigarette butt would’ve been reassuring. Yesterday, when he’d checked in, she’d been subjected to the nasty fallout from his hangover—probably from too much partying the night before. But then, the whole New Year’s Eve thing seemed pretty stupid to her. After all, it was just another night. But she’d worked till nearly two in the morning while people celebrated by getting very drunk and rowdy. And when the clock struck midnight, they’d cheered as if the UN had just announced world peace, yet the only thing that had actually changed was the date on the calendar. Maybe she would’ve felt differently if she’d had a boyfriend to share it with, but when she’d passed the football player in the hall today—her first day back at school—he’d pretended not to see her.
The knock on the door made her jump. In a harsh voice, she called out, “Who is it?”
“Rick.”
It was late; she was tired and had homework to finish.
“C’mon, Micki. Open up. My aunt’s in the hospital ’cause a my uncle, and my mom won’t stop cryin’.”
Like she really gave a shit about his fucked-up family. Or him. The only person he really cared about was himself.
“C’mon, Micki. Please. Let me in already. I’m real sorry for whatever I did that got ya so pissed off.” She was about to tell him to leave her the fuck alone when he added, “I promise I’ll make it upta ya.”
She opened the door.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE BUZZER RANG.
“Hey, that must be Santiago,” Martini said. “It’s about time that son of a bitch showed up. He owes me eight bucks from last week.”
Baker got up and pressed the button to release the downstairs door.
“Oh, yes!” Martini exclaimed, and used his elbow to push the card just dealt him down in place among the others.
“You are so full of shit,” Gould said. “You got nothin’ in that hand.”
Martini grinned. “Gotta pay to see.”
Back at the table, Baker picked up his new cards: a deuce, a five, and a queen. Alongside the pair of tens he already had, they were useless. His front door buzzed.
Throwing two poker chips into the middle, Malone called, “Who’s still in?”
With a heavy sigh, Baker tossed in two of his own. “I’ll see you.” Then he went to greet the newest arrival. But when he opened the door, he said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Thick with cigar and cigarette smoke, the air seemed to billow out from his apartment. Micki could hear male voices inside. “I—”
“Eh, Jimmy,” Martini called over, “is that Santiago? And are you still in? I raised the pot another buck.”
“It’s not Santiago,” Baker called back. “And I’m out.”
“So am I,” Micki quipped, and turned to go.
But Baker snagged her by the arm and swung her inside, then slammed the door shut. By sheer momentum, she was carried partway down the hall. There was absolute silence as all five men stopped their game to stare at the severely thin girl wearing a black leather jacket and black jeans. The scars on her face stood out sharply from being exposed to the cold night air.
Heart pounding, Micki recognized Malone, the coffee cop, and one other detective she’d seen that first day in the station house. No doubt, the other two were cops, as well.
“You were supposed to call before coming here, Micki.”
Her eyes snapped back to Baker’s. “I tried to, but the line was busy.”
“So you wait a few minutes and try again.”
“I did.”
“Bullshit. You—”
“I made a bunch of calls before, remember?” Tierney offered.
While Micki gaped at the cop coming to her defense, Baker’s jaw set in a hard line. He exhaled loudly. “Okay, Micki, fine.”
“Yeah, well thanks for nothin’. This was a mistake.” Books clutched in her arms, small duffle hanging from her elbow, she moved toward the door.
Baker stepped in her way. “And just where do you think you’re going?”
“Home.”
He snorted. “Fat chance.”
“Why? Y’don’t want me here.”
“For one thing, it’s way past your curfew.”
“So write me a note.”
He tried to stop himself from smiling, but a couple of chuckles could be heard coming from the living room.
Color rose in her face. “Yeah, everything’s so fuckin’ funny—one big fuckin’ joke.”
“You watch your language.”
“Or what?”
“Don’t push me, Micki.”
“Fuck—you.”
The back of his hand caught her cheek squarely and sent her stumbling, bringing all five guests to sharp attention. Now strewn across the hallway, her books looked like poorly set paving stones creating an uneven path to reach Baker’s bedroom. Eyes blazing, she charged for the door, but he grabbed her nearest arm and spun her back around. She responded by jabbing her free fist into his exposed side. Sucking in air, his grip loosened, and she broke free.
Malone, who had already gotten up, was halfway toward the hall.
Micki turned the knob and opened the door about two inches before Baker got her in a bear hug and swung her away, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Let go a me, y’son of a bitch!” And though her arms were pinned in a steely hold, she continued to struggle, legs flailing after he lifted her slightly.
With short, clumsy steps, Baker edged his way toward the study. Throwing her inside, he said, “Get in there.” Then he followed, slamming that door shut, as well.
“Let me outta this fuckin’ apartment!” Micki shouted. “Y’don’t want me here an’ I don’t wanna be here.”
“We both know why you’re here,” Baker yelled back, “and there’s no way in hell I’m letting you leave.”
“Y’can’t keep me here like a fuckin’ prisoner!”
“I can do whatever I have to.”
“I—”
“SHUT UP.”
“Y’—”
“SHUT—UP. WE’RE BOTH GONNA SHUT UP FOR FIVE MINUTES UNTIL WE BOTH CALM DOWN.”
Their voices had carried easily into the living room, where the men looked at each other with raised eyebrows and amused expressions. Malone, who had advanced into the hallway, now retreated to the poker table.
“Maybe we should go,” Gould said.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Malone responded. “Jim’ll tell us if he wants us to leave. Till then, we might as well play.”
So the cops, no longer able to hear the voices in the other room, resumed their game, one man short. But Malone wasn’t paying much attention. “We both know why you’re here,” Baker had said. What exactly did that mean?