Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  Rick’s smirk grew broader. “What if it was? Ya can’t prove shit.” And as Baker’s eyes narrowed further, the boy’s face filled with glee. “What’s ya sudden interest anyhow? I thought ya hated her.” He snickered at Baker’s silence. “What she do ta get ya all hot ’n bothered, huh? Give ya a blow job?”

  With both hands, Baker grabbed the boy’s jacket and whirled him around to the street side of the pavement, ramming him up against one of the metal stanchions that supported the elevated subway tracks. Rick’s head smacked against the cold steel, and his glasses flew off, landing amidst some litter. Yelping and grunting, he gurgled and sputtered as Baker’s large hand encircled his throat to pin him in place. His eyes were bulging.

  A glance down, and Baker could see, even in the dim light, a spreading patch of darkness at the boy’s crotch. “Looks like you had a little accident there, Rick. But I can tell you right now”—he shoved his face in the teen’s—“if anything else happens to Micki, you’re going to have an even bigger accident. Do you catch my drift here?”

  Face ashen, the boy was mute.

  “Answer me, you motherfucking asshole.”

  In a strangled voice, Rick said, “Uh-huh.”

  “In fact, from now on,” Baker continued, “you’d better look out for Micki. Because if anything happens to her—anything at all, whether it’s your fault or not—I’m coming after you and McBain. You tell him that. You tell him that I will personally shove both your dicks down your throats.” With a forceful push, Baker released him and casually lit a cigarette. “Now go home, you little piece of shit, and change your diapers.”

  Rick rummaged through the pile of litter to find his glasses. But once he’d put a little distance between himself and the cop, he stopped and pointed, a tough-guy expression plastered clownishly across his face. “Ya gonna pay fa this! Ya can’t—”

  “I can’t what, you fucking idiot? There’s no one around. It’s like this never happened. Now get your stinking ass out of here and tell McBain what I said.”

  “I—”

  Baker feigned throwing down his cigarette as if to go after the boy.

  Rick ran away as fast as he could.

  “Fucking putz,” Baker muttered, and walked to his car. But even if Rick was too stupid to get it, McBain would back off, which was all that really mattered. Rick was no match for Micki on his own, and he knew it. He was also too much of a coward.

  Driving by the underpass, looking for the entrance ramp to the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, Baker noted the drug dealers, pimps, and prostitutes that were congregated in the area. The hookers—dressed in little more than cheap lingerie, high heels, and very short fake-fur jackets—had to be freezing.

  Many years ago, one frigid January night when he’d been on patrol, he arrested a whole bunch of them near the Lincoln Tunnel for no other reason than to get them out of the cold for a few hours. But he wasn’t sure he’d really done them any favors. They’d probably caught hell for getting locked up. Pimps couldn’t care less if their girls lived or died so long as they made money up to their last dying breath. And the hookers, like shackled slaves, went along with it—which was hard to comprehend unless you knew the whole story:

  Typically beaten and gang-raped for days—often forcibly hooked on drugs for good measure—runaways were broken down by pimps before being turned out onto the street. After that, with dead eyes and jaded smiles, they did what they were told, usually joking and teasing crudely with the johns. And the cops. But buried deep underneath the loud, vulgar talk and the thick, garish make-up, Baker was certain that the pale, frightened shadows of the girls they’d once been were still there. Were still crying. Were still praying to be saved.

  Seeing them be ravaged by drugs, rapidly age, and often die within a few years—sometimes by their own hand—was hard for him to take. He hated pimps and had roughed up more than a few—pretty badly, too. But unlike cops who were nothing more than thugs with badges, cops like him had to walk a fine line—had an unspoken code. And had to live with their choices. But the world was changing: more and more people felt there was no place at all for aggressive police behavior. But if you weren’t on the job, you really couldn’t understand.

  He drove over the bridge with no regrets over what he’d just done. If anything, he wished he’d gone further.

  A lot further.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE SOUND OF A key turning in the lock woke her up. Eyes full of sleep, she sat up on the couch and said, “You’re back so late.”

  “I had to take care of something.” His voice turned teasing. “Why, you worried about me?”

  Looking shy, she shrugged. “Just thought you’d get back earlier.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I’m okay.”

  He glanced at her clothes. “You should be in bed by now, Micki.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” She stood up. “How did it go at Bel?”

  He grunted. “I don’t know how the hell you work that job and go to school. I’m completely wiped out.”

  She started toward the study. “You get used to it.”

  When she passed in front of him, he asked, “Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

  She paused. “Not right now.”

  Eyes kind, he nodded. “By the way,” he said, “you don’t have to worry about anyone bothering you anymore.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE they were putting on their jackets, he asked, “Do you have everything?”

  “Uh-huh. Here”—she took something from her pocket and held it out—“here are your keys.”

  “Those are your keys,” he said.

  The lines between her eyebrows deepened as she reexamined them. “No they’re not, they’re your keys.” And she held them up so the little detective’s shield dangled down. “See?”

  “I haven’t used that keychain since I made sergeant.” He looked at her meaningfully. “Those are your keys to my apartment.”

  Opening her mouth to object, she paused: her keys to his apartment.

  “You can come here whenever you want,” he said. “You don’t have to ask, and you don’t have to have a reason. Although, if it’s after curfew, I want you to call so I can come get you.”

  All she could manage to say was: “Okay.”

  chapter 34

  DESPITE WHAT BAKER HAD told her, Micki was constantly looking over her shoulder, jumping at the slightest unusual sound. And at work the next day, all she could think about was what the boys had done to her. Her face—already flushed from the hot, steamy water—turned a deeper shade of red.

  Before she left the restaurant, she wrapped a sharp steak knife in a cloth napkin and tucked it up inside the sleeve of her jacket.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  CYNTHIA PICKED UP THE phone on the second ring and, without hesitation, accepted Baker’s invitation to get together that Saturday night. After he hung up he reflected, with mild amazement, that she’d had no plans. He turned on the TV and made himself comfortable in the recliner, glad the weekly poker game had been postponed a day. And though the last half hour of the ten o’clock news was boring—only fluff—he didn’t have the energy to get up and change the channel. He was thinking about how nice it would be to have a new TV—one with a remote control—when a field reporter launched into a story about a group of volunteers reaching out to homeless people on the streets. All things considered, it wasn’t that dull of a piece, but he was unable to sit still, a ball of anxiety festering in the pit of his stomach. “Oh, shit,” he said. Not a minute later, he was heading back to Queens.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AFTER A QUICK CONFIRMATION that Micki wasn’t in her apartment, Baker zeroed in on the one location that offered the best chance of catching Rick. It would’ve been his own choice last
night had fate not intervened. Situated in a residential part of Long Island City, it nearly guaranteed success if not a clean getaway. And with any luck, Micki’s target, who lived the furthest south, would be by himself for at least one full block, the structure of the elevated train tracks providing her with some minimal cover. But in addition to the risk of witnesses, it called for waiting around without any clue as to when the boys would actually be heading home. It required a lot of patience.

  Baker jogged down Forty-Fourth, past Bel, to the corner. He then crossed twice and headed south on Twenty-Third, sneakered feet moving silently down the east side of the street. But with so few cars driving by and no one in sight, the area felt abandoned. Until the back of Micki’s shoulder stuck out momentarily from behind a riveted steel support. He stopped and stood very still.

  But she’d caught a glimpse of his approach when he’d been two blocks away. After a couple of minutes had passed and he hadn’t walked by, she stole another quick peek, only to catch her breath: he was barely fifteen feet from her.

  Dressed in black like she was, he said, “Hi, Micki.”

  She stepped out from behind the stanchion and faced him. Eyes as cold as they were empty, she asked, “How the fuck didja know I was here?”

  All of his senses were heightened, every muscle ready to react. Yet instead, with forced casualness, he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, cupping his hand around the tiny flame. He gave her a wry smile. “You don’t expect me to reveal all my secrets, now; do you?”

  “That mothafuckin’ bastard’s gotta pay f’what he did t’me!”

  “I know how you must feel, but—”

  “No! No, y’don’t know. Y’can’t know a fuckin’ thing about how I feel!”

  Cigarette halfway to his mouth, he paused. “Okay, I can’t,” he said. “But this is not the answer, y’hear me? This is not the answer.”

  “That son of a bitch’s gotta pay!”

  “Listen to me, Micki: if you go after him, you’re the one who’s going to pay—and for the rest of your life. In the end, he’ll still win. Everything you worked so hard for will be gone.”

  “Yeah, that’s how it always is, isn’t it. It always comes back to me. So what’re y’gonna do now? Huh? Y’gonna turn me in?”

  “You haven’t actually done anything yet. That’s the whole point: just walk away.”

  “Yer always a fuckin’ cop.”

  “No, Micki, not always.” There was a beat before he added, “And not now.”

  She seemed to deflate as she lowered her gaze.

  Walking toward her, he said, “Give me the blade.”

  Her eyes shot up to his.

  One eyebrow arched, he said, “Lucky guess?”

  She let the knife slide down, then handed it over. While he was examining it, she removed the napkin from inside her sleeve.

  “Did you take this from the restaurant?” he asked.

  “I planned on returning it,” she snapped.

  Trying hard not to smile, he said. “I’m sure you did. C’mon”—he patted her on the back—“let’s go home.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AS SOON AS THEY were inside her apartment, Baker said, “Why don’t you stay at my place.”

  She took off her jacket. “I’m not gonna try anything else, okay?”

  “I know that, Micki.” Yet if it weren’t to prove his trust, he would’ve insisted she go back with him.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said.

  “You call me if you need me.” He pointed to the phone. “That’s what it’s there for.”

  But shortly after he left, she knew she was far from all right. She hated leaving it like this: Rick and McBain getting the best of her the way they had—having the last laugh. Everyone was always fucking her over, and she was never able to even it up.

  Stretched out on the bed, still in her street clothes, she turned on the radio, searching up and down the dial. But the song—the message—never came.

  At half past two, she put on her sneakers and jacket. She couldn’t take it anymore. She wanted to get so fucking high she’d never come down. She’d cashed her paycheck and could feel the little wad of money in her pocket. But when she grabbed her keys—all of them now on the key ring Baker had given her—she was confronted by the miniature detective’s shield. Gold with blue enamel, it looked just like the real ones, only much smaller. It used to be his, used to hang out in his pocket all day while he did his job.

  Her eyes slowly drifted from the keys to the phone. Shiny and black, it sat on the desk, patiently waiting, silent and forgiving like a long-neglected, misunderstood friend. She put the keys down, lifted the receiver, and held it to her ear. The dial tone droned loudly, resonating inside her head. She twined the thick, coiled cord around her finger, then released it, watching it snap back into place while she shifted her weight from side to side. She felt like she was about to burst right out of her skin. How much easier it would be to just hang up and walk out the door. Yet she remained where she was, hypnotized by the grating, buzzing monotone.

  She watched her hand reach out, finger slipping into the dial at the number four. She moved it around sharply, then let it go. And though the ratcheting sound it made was very businesslike and serious, the clear plastic disk rotated lazily back. After six more numbers, she heard the mechanical clicks of the line connecting, followed by the ring. But then she whipped the phone away from her head, leaving the receiver hovering above the cradle. Suspended between her thumb and index finger, it was still ringing, faint and thin.

  “Hello?” His sleepy voice sounded miles away.

  She put the receiver back to her ear.

  “Hello?” he asked again—but much more harshly, for all he was hearing at the other end of the line was dead air. “Jesus Christ!” He was about to slam the phone down when, all at once, he could picture her standing there. “Micki?” he asked.

  Voice small, she responded, “Yeah?”

  Throwing off the blanket, he swung his feet out and sat bolt upright on the bed. “Are you okay?”

  She could barely speak for trying to hold back the tears. “Not really,” she managed to whisper.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THERE WAS HARDLY ANY traffic, and it wasn’t long till he was at her door, overnight bag stuffed with towel, toiletries, and a change of clothes.

  Knocking softly, he called, “Micki?”

  “Yeah?”

  He let himself in and found her sitting on the bed, fully dressed and staring across the room.

  “Did you go out?” he asked.

  “No, sir.”

  He tossed his bag on the table, “Then what’s with the jacket and the sneakers?”

  Eyes still fixed on the sink, she said, “You told me not to move until you got here.”

  He looked at her more closely. “Did you take something?”

  “No, sir.”

  He squatted down in front of her, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You know you don’t have to answer me that way anymore.”

  She looked very sad.

  “Have you slept at all tonight?” he asked.

  She shook her head no.

  “Do you want to talk?”

  She shook her head again.

  When he straightened up, a sharp pain shot through his left knee, and he silently cursed it. Then he took off his jacket and opened the closet door. “Why don’t you get ready for bed. You can still catch a few z’s.”

  She watched him pull out the sleeping bag and the grey metal box from the shelf. After he removed his ankle holster and emptied the bullets from his gun, he locked them all inside the box and put it back. There was a tug at her heart.

  Almost whispering, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” One of the ties on the
sleeping bag had knotted up. His attention was focused on undoing it.

  “Making you come all the way out here again.”

  He glanced up. “You’ve got nothing to feel sorry about. You did exactly what I told you to. You did the right thing.” And he continued to patiently work at the knot, feeling it loosen as he picked and pulled.

  “I’m scared,” she blurted out, and looked surprised at hearing her own voice.

  He paused to look at her. “Of what?”

  “I dunno,” she breathed.

  Nodding, he returned to the knot, which came free. He unrolled his bed on the floor and said, “Maybe that’s good in a way.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe,” he said, “you finally feel like you have something to lose.”

  chapter 35

  DR. TILLIM WELCOMED HIM with a smile. “Take a seat.”

  Only half awake after being up most of the night, Baker entered the office, shut the door, and fell into one of the old, beat-up chairs. But for the first time ever, he greeted Tillim with something less than a dirty glare, wondering if the man wasn’t smarter than he’d given him credit for.

  Probably not.

  He settled himself and lit a cigarette. The fifty-minute hour had begun.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “HEY!” MALONE SAID, USHERING Baker into his home. “How did your appointment go?”

  “Hello to you, too,” Baker said, taking off his coat.

  “Yeah, all right: Hi—How are you—I’m fine—How did your appointment go?”

  This elicited a chuckle, and Baker said, “It’s hard to tell, but I think it went okay.”

  “So you’ll see him for a few sessions?”

  “Actually … um … well … Tillim didn’t seem to mind my continuing to see Micki’s shrink. I cleared it for her to talk to him about me.”