by Randy Mason
♦ ♦ ♦
GLARING AT EACH OTHER as if it were a contest, it was Baker’s expression that softened first. He said, “I don’t know what it is about you that ticks me off so. I mean, you did the right thing by coming here. Even if you didn’t try to call—”
“But I did.”
“Okay, okay. I get it. Whatever. Either way, I shouldn’t have ragged on you like that. But it’s for your own safety that you should call first; it wouldn’t be good if I wasn’t here to let you in.”
Though she merely shrugged, some of the antagonism had left her face.
“Did something happen?” he asked. “Is that what this is about? Because it seemed like things were settling down.”
Her eyes fell. Twice she met his gaze only to look away. Then she sat on the bed so she was facing the wall.
Perched on the edge of the desk, Baker waited. When she remained silent, he asked, “Something happen with Rick?”
Her eyes flashed. “How …?”
“Just a lucky guess,” he said.
“I’m ruining your poker game.”
“Trust me; you’re doing me a favor.”
She turned her gaze away and stared at the wall again. And then the story spilled out: “Rick stopped by after I got home from work, and we—y’know.” She cast a glance at Baker, and he nodded slightly. Eyes back on the wall, she said, “We—were—in the middle when he noticed the necklace you gave me. So he asked me what it was, and I told him. So he goes, ‘Baker’s Jewish?’ And I go, ‘No, I’m Jewish.’ And—like—he gets this real ugly look on his face and starts callin’ me names, like—like ‘dirty Jew-cunt.’ ”
Baker felt a chill and then a searing spark of rage.
“He was—he was still—goin’ at it,” Micki continued. “And I wanted him t’stop and get off a me, but he wouldn’t. And I—I couldn’t—he had my arms pinned—his whole fuckin’ weight crushin’ me—I—”
“Micki!”
Her eyes shot over to his.
“Nobody’s blaming you for anything.”
“Yeah—well—still … If he hadn’t come so fast—in, like, two seconds—I probably could’ve done somethin’. But at least when he started gettin’ up, I managed to kick him in the balls. And while he was dealin’ with that, I pushed him into the hall and threw his clothes out after him.”
Baker chuckled darkly. “I’d like to rip that son of a bitch’s balls off permanently.”
Micki’s jaw dropped. But then she whispered, “He screamed he was gonna make me pay for it, though.”
“You could kick his ass. Besides, he’s too much of a coward.”
“Himself—yeah. But he’d get his friends to help.”
“Like Johnny McBain?”
She nodded.
Stroking his chin, Baker took a long, slow breath.
“Do you hate me ’cause I’m Jewish?” she asked.
“What? How can you even … First of all, I don’t hate you. How many times do I have to tell you that? And, no, I don’t hate people who are Jewish. I don’t hate anyone based on shit like that. I judge people for who they are—as human beings. Do you think I’d have given you that necklace if I had a problem with you being Jewish?”
She shrugged and looked away.
When neither of them had spoken for a while, he asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yessir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you want to talk some more?”
She shook her head no.
“Then why don’t you wash up and get ready for bed. You can grab some clean sheets out of the closet.” He straightened up and crossed the room. Hand on the doorknob, he asked, “Do you want me to send the guys home?”
She wanted, very much, to say yes. Instead she answered, “No, sir.”
He opened the door and said, “I’m glad you could talk to me about this.”
Watching him leave, she thought, Who the hell else would I talk to?
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER COULD FEEL HIS friends’ eyes upon him as he picked up Micki’s things and put them in the study. Then he went straight to the front door, double locked it, and pocketed the keys. He removed his pills from the bathroom medicine cabinet—wondering why he even bothered putting them back anymore—then proceeded into his bedroom, where he pocketed the window-gate key. He was heading for the kitchen when Gould asked him, “Is she okay?”
“Yeah, just a problem with—a boy.”
“Eh, Jimmy,” Martini said, grinning as he came out of the kitchen with a bag of Milky Way bars, “you’ve been holding out on us.”
“Those are for Micki!” Baker said sharply, hand extended to take them back. But then his face grew hot, and he dropped his arm, a feeble smile appearing. “Kid has a terrible sweet tooth.”
From the table, Tierney snorted. “Like that’s some big surprise. The kid’s a fuckin’ junkie.”
All the color drained from Baker’s face while Tierney blubbered apologies. Snatching the package from Martini’s hand, Baker said, “Forget it,” and continued into the kitchen.
But for Malone, things were starting to add up.
♦ ♦ ♦
ANOTHER HAND OF POKER was dealt, excluding Baker, who stood by, smoking. Micki, deliberately ignoring the men in the living room, made her way to the bathroom to quickly wash up and brush her teeth. As soon as she was back in the study, she made the bed and changed into her nightshirt. She had just taken off her jeans when there was a knock on the door.
She froze. Voice harsh, she said, “Yeah?”
Baker came in and shut the door behind him. “Are you about ready to go to sleep?”
“Yessir.”
He was taking a drag on his cigarette when his eyes fell on her assignment book. “Did you get all your homework done?”
“I didn’t get to my English or history stuff.”
With the slightest trace of a grin, he exhaled the rest of the smoke.
She shot him a testy look. “Don’t say it, okay? I would’ve finished if—if things hadn’t ended up the way they did.”
Grin broadening, he nodded. But his eyes were understanding. “I’ll write you a note to get you out of gym tomorrow. You can at least finish your history homework in the security office then. But just this once,” he emphasized.
The door swung open, and Micki gasped. But Baker had already backed up as he’d turned toward the entryway—effectively blocking the intruder’s view. Micki peaked out from behind him to see Captain Malone.
Baker’s voice was cold. “You could’ve knocked.”
“I figured if you were in here, it was okay for me to come in, too,” Malone said.
“Can we talk about this outside?”
With mock cordiality, Malone replied, “Certainly.” But before he retreated to the hall, he met Micki’s eyes with a shrewd look.
Baker stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the desk. “Go to bed, Micki.”
♦ ♦ ♦
“JUST WHAT THE HELL was that?” Baker demanded in a harsh whisper. The two men were standing in the hall, but closer to Baker’s room than Micki’s.
“I don’t see what you’re so upset about,” Malone said.
“You have no right to come barging in like that; the kid was only half dressed.”
“She didn’t seem to mind you being there.”
“Meaning what?”
Cynical eyes stared back.
“You know damn well,” Baker said, “that I go into her apartment unannounced. In all this time, don’t you think I’ve—at least once—walked in on her while she was getting dressed or undressed?”
Malone’s forehead creased.
“And when she was burning u
p with fever and probably dying, who do you think had to take care of her?” Baker asked. “Who do you think had to sponge her down with alcohol till the fever finally broke?”
One of Malone’s eyebrows shot up.
“See, the thing is,” Baker said, “it’s okay for me to see her like that because she knows I’m not going to do anything to her. But you—you she’s not so sure about.”
“Hey! You watch what you say, Sergeant. No matter where we happen to be, this is official police business; you will respect my rank.”
“Like you re—”
“Watch it!” Malone repeated. “Your mouth has gotten you into enough trouble, and I’ve stuck my neck out far too many times to smooth things over. I’m not about to tolerate any kind of insubordination from you. You owe me better than that.”
Eyes dark, Baker gazed past the captain—until he heard Micki’s door open. A glance over his shoulder found her standing in the hallway. Wearing jeans, she had her jacket thrown over her nightshirt. He whirled around to face her. “Have you been listening?”
Her voice came out small. “No, sir.” Which was true, but only because the men had been arguing in whispers. She said, “I can’t find the alarm clock.”
“I broke it. I knocked it off the desk when I was straightening up a few days ago. Just go to bed, okay? I’ll wake you up in plenty of time for school.”
She cast a suspicious look at Captain Malone, then went back inside.
“So she’s stayed here before,” Malone said.
“And obviously in that room,” Baker countered.
“And for how long was she shooting up again?”
Baker caught his breath. Then sighed—Malone had always been sharp. “Only three days,” he answered. “And she came and told me herself.” Which was sort of true.
“She’s clean now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d hate to hear how she was supporting her habit.”
“Her savings; she had some money in the bank.”
“You should’ve told me anyway.”
Martini yelled over, “Are you guys gonna play anymore or just yap all night like a couple of old ladies?”
Baker watched Malone walk back to the game.
♦ ♦ ♦
WRAPPED INSIDE THE BLANKET, Micki wondered what Captain Malone and Baker had been talking about. Judging from Baker’s reaction, probably her. She closed her eyes. But cigar and cigarette smoke filled the little study like the rest of the apartment, and she could hear the men laughing in the living room, their words unintelligible, their voices intermingling with the sounds of ice cubes against glass, and poker chips in play. And though the door was closed and the lights were out, she felt like they could see her.
She wished Baker hadn’t broken the clock radio.
♦ ♦ ♦
“DAMN KID MUST BE good luck for you,” Batillo griped, then relit his cigar.
Grinning, Baker used both hands to scoop yet another pile of poker chips toward him. “She’s got to be good for something.”
Tierney dealt next, and Baker slowly fanned out his cards to reveal two aces and two queens. Unbelievable for him to be on such a hot streak. But just as the men began to ante up, they heard strange noises. Silence fell, and all heads turned toward the study.
Baker jumped out of his chair, carelessly throwing down his cards. “Kid’s got sleeping problems,” he said, and ran to Micki’s room, leaving the door ajar to let in light. Moaning and pleading incoherently, she was curled up tight in a corner of the bed.
“Micki,” he said softly. “Micki!” And he gently touched her shoulder. Though her arm lashed out, she remained asleep—still mumbling and whimpering. But when he turned her onto her back, her eyes flew open, and she struck out violently. He pinned her to the mattress, but she continued to fight, her thrashing legs getting tangled in the sheet and blanket.
“It’s me, Micki; stop it. Stop it, Micki; it’s me. It’s just me.”
And as her surroundings pulled into focus, she finally went still.
“Let go a me!” she demanded. “Let go a me!”
He released her, and she sat up, clutching the blanket around her.
“You were making a lot of noise,” he said. “Normally I wouldn’t care, except the guys are still playing, and it’s—disturbing them.” In the dim light, her face looked smaller and more childlike. “What were you dreaming about?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I dunno. I never remember anything. Well—almost never.”
“Then what’s going on? You usually sleep like a baby when I’m around—at least, compared to this.”
“I dunno,” she repeated, but her eyes darted in the direction of the living room before she turned her head away.
“The guys?” Baker asked. “Seriously? The guys? You couldn’t be safer, Micki; they’re all cops.”
“Big deal.”
“They’re all good cops.”
She shrugged one shoulder.
“They’re all my friends. Do you think my friends would hurt you?” When she said nothing, he shook her till she looked at him. “Do you think I’d let anybody hurt you?”
Lips in a stubborn line, her look was doubtful.
“Answer me!” he demanded. “Tell me the truth: do you think I’d let somebody do something to you?”
Her eyes fell. Quietly, she said, “No, sir.”
“You’re damn right I wouldn’t. Now I’m right outside that door. You’ve got nothing to worry about, y’hear me?”
“Yessir.”
“Do you want some water from the kitchen?”
“No, but do you have another radio I could listen to?”
He took his old transistor out of the desk and handed it to her. Paused in the doorway, he said, “Good night, Micki.”
Her heart took a painful leap. “Good night?” she echoed.
♦ ♦ ♦
“HOW’S IT FEEL BEING a daddy?” Batillo said, grinning broadly around the cigar clamped between his teeth. With the door left open, everything Baker and Micki had said had been heard in the living room—especially since the men had remained utterly silent so as not to miss a single word.
“Shut up,” Baker snapped, and sat down.
“Ooh!” Tierney laughed. “Must’ve touched a nerve.”
Baker lit a fresh cigarette, flung his lighter onto the table, and looked around—but saw only friendly faces grinning back. And as his features relaxed, a sheepish smile emerged. Batillo, Gould, and Malone all had kids; exactly what was he so ashamed of? “Sorry for all the interruptions,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Gould and Martini replied together.
“Jeez,” Batillo said, “do you remember that night a couple of years ago when both my kids were upchucking all over the house?”
They all laughed.
“That was the shortest poker night we ever had,” Martini said. “I think we played for all of forty-five minutes before running for cover to our cars.”
As he shuffled the deck, Gould asked, “Is it all right if we keep playing?”
“Yeah, sure,” Baker replied.
“Too bad you had to toss your cards in before,” Tierney remarked.
In his haste, Baker had thrown his hand down face up on the table—something he’d never done in his entire life. And it had been such a nice hand to start with. It burned him that Tierney had to needle him about it. He flicked some ashes into the ashtray. “Whatever.”
♦ ♦ ♦
SHE ROTATED THE RADIO’S dial with her thumb. When she passed a snippet of a classic Young Rascals song—“How Can I Be Sure”—she carefully turned the knob backward, tuning in the station between patches of static. But the old batteries were dying, and the volume began to fade …<
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♦ ♦ ♦
HALF AN HOUR LATER, there was a break in the card playing so Gould could avail himself of the facilities. Baker looked in on Micki, then returned to the table. “The kid’s out like a light,” he reported.
♦ ♦ ♦
GOULD THUMPED BAKER ON the back. “Take care and”—he held up the leftover six-pack Baker had given him—“thanks for the beer. Oh, and good luck when you pop the question. Give me a call so’s I know what happened.”
Baker closed the door behind his friend, then hesitated before turning back to the hallway. And Malone. Everyone else had now left.
Slowly wrapping his scarf around his neck, Malone said, “I was impressed with the way you handled the kid tonight.”
Baker’s eyebrows went up. “Even after I hit her?”
“If one of my boys ever opened up a mouth like that to me, I’d smack him, too—though not quite so hard.” He put on his coat. “Tone it down a bit, okay? She’s tiny compared to you.”
A touch of heat in his cheeks, Baker nodded.
“And I suggest you talk to Dr. Tillim already; it’s up to him when you can return to the squad.” Malone started to button up. “I’ll put in a good word for you, but you’re going to have to deal with the man. And despite what you think of all this shit, you have changed.”
Really? Baker nearly blurted out, for he wasn’t aware of any change at all. “You think I could come back next month?”
Malone shrugged. “I really can’t say.”
But just the possibility caused Baker to feel a little rush—which quickly fell flat. “What’ll happen to Micki?”
“Forget the fucking kid already! I warned you about her before, and I was right. My guess is, she won’t stay clean for long. Be smart and think about yourself this time.” He looked at his watch. “Christ! I’d better get going.”
After Malone had left, Baker locked the door and removed the key. Then he went into the living room, which was full of the mess his friends had left behind. Liquor bottles clinked against each other as he put them back in the cabinet and locked it. Then he flopped down on the couch to finish his beer—the last remaining one. With the lightest of touches, he probed his left ribs. And winced.
He went to get some ice.
♦ ♦ ♦