by Randy Mason
But he’d stated it with such empathy that Micki’s expression changed. And when Gould held out his hand, it reminded her of when Baker had done that. The beefy grip was firm, and she felt an odd little thrill before they released.
He moved toward the window. “I have to give Jim the sign that things went okay.”
“Yeah? What’s the sign?”
“I stand so’s he can see me, then run my fingers through my hair.”
Sure enough, Micki could hear the downstairs door. As Gould turned back, she asked, “And what if things hadn’t gone okay?”
“Then I would’ve just stood at the window, lookin’ sad and pathetic.”
“Sounds real sophisticated.”
His manner solemn, Gould said, “Sure. Y’don’t think we spent all these years on the job for nothin’, do ya?”
And as if they’d known each other for the longest of times, they shared a sly grin that slowly became a full-blown smile. Baker let himself into the apartment, and looked at them both with mild amazement. Then he pulled some tickets from his jacket pocket, fanned them out, and held them up. “What do you say we all go to a Rangers game?”
“You’ve got four,” Micki said. “Is Cynthia coming?”
“Malone’s meeting us there.”
“I’m not going.”
Gould and Baker exchanged meaningful glances.
Gould, heading for the door, said, “I’m gonna wait downstairs.” But halfway out, he paused and leaned back in. “I hope you change your mind, Micki.” He left without waiting for a response, and she wondered if that implied Baker was going either way: with or without her.
“Why don’t you want to go?” Baker asked.
“How do you think I’m gonna feel goin’ to a hockey game with three cops?” But the stricken look on his face made her lower her eyes.
“You’re not going with three cops,” he said heatedly. “You’re going with me and two of my friends.”
She hung her head. “Captain Malone doesn’t like me.”
“He doesn’t really know you, Micki; that’s why he wanted to come. And considering the way he’s seen you behave, if he’s willing to give this a shot, I think it’s only fair you do the same.”
She looked up and glowered at him.
“And you can just call him Malone,” Baker added.
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Jesus! You can’t go through life with all these walls up all the time. I mean, you can, but you’ll miss out on a hell of a lot.”
She rolled her eyes.
The creases in his forehead deepened. “C’mon, Micki. I can’t have my life all split up into fractured, little pieces.”
“Why not?”
“Seriously? Please. This is important to me.”
With a sigh full of misery and defeat, she said, “Fine.”
His face lit up.
She was surprised to find herself smiling back.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI HAD A GOOD time.
chapter 39
GYM BAG IN HAND, Baker was almost out the door when the phone rang. He paused. It had been a long day. Not ten minutes into first period, there had been yet another bomb threat credible enough to have the entire school evacuated and the local precinct called in. And that had only been the beginning.
While the phone continued to ring, he took a deep breath, then went back to answer it.
“Hey, partner,” Gould said. “Blanchard just went home with some kinda fuckin’ backache for a change. It’s like fuckin’ clockwork anytime anything’s about to go down. Anyways, now we’re one guy short, and we’re gettin’ ready to bring in some armed-robbery suspects supposed to be holed up in a squat on West Thirty-Ninth. One of ’em looks good for that candy-store shootin’ I been workin’. Captain’s askin’: you want in?”
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER’S VEINS FELT LIKE electrified wires. Standing in a filthy, crumbling tenement hall—gun drawn, every nerve on fire—he was waiting for the door to be rammed open and the melee to begin. He never felt more alive than when he was facing the possibility of death.
The door gave way, and they rushed in, shouting, “POLICE! GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR NOW!”—which startled their three suspects plus two other men they hadn’t counted on. With jackets on to ward off the cold, the five had been sitting on the floor, drinking whiskey and divvying up money. Cash scattering all around, four of them clumsily scrambled to their feet while the fifth, reaching for a gun on the upside-down box beside him, got shot in the shoulder by Tierney for his efforts. Three then surrendered to Gould and Martini, but Baker had to run after the last one, who’d overturned a broken-down bookcase and was heading for the dark back room.
“FREEZE,” Baker commanded.
One leg out the window and one still inside, the man glanced down over his shoulder and caught sight of the uniformed officers positioned below the fire escape. Lips in a snarl, he then looked back at Baker, the hand hidden by his body inching backward along the windowsill.
“PUT YOUR HANDS UP,” Baker barked. “LET ME SEE THOSE HANDS!”
But the perp’s palm—still blocked from view—crept back a little further on the bumpy, peeling paint, the edge of his thumb sliding up the side of his rump. There was a tiny shift in the material of his open jacket, and he worried about the almost imperceptible alteration it might have made in the outline of his figure. But eyes steady on Baker—a large, faceless mass in the darkness—he felt his fingers touching solid, cool wood; felt them wrap around the textured grip …
Baker’s voice broke through the trancelike power that seemed to have overtaken the room. “Keep going for that gun”—he cocked the hammer of his .38—“and I swear it’s the last thing you’ll ever do on this earth.”
♦ ♦ ♦
THE ENTIRE OPERATION HAD taken place in a matter of minutes, but it would be at least another couple of hours before the adrenaline wore off. In the past, after taking care of paperwork, Baker would’ve hung out at the bar with the rest of the guys. Instead, he made his trip to the gym after all, lifting weights and punching the heavy bag till all of his excess energy had been spent.
Still sweating heavily and feeling like he’d overdone his workout, he dropped his jacket and gym bag on the bed, stripped off his clothes, and stepped into the shower. The steaming-hot water felt cleansing—redeeming—and he turned to let it wash down his face. Afterward, in just his jeans, he wolfed down leftover Chinese food and slaked his thirst with three glasses of Coke. Then he put Simon & Garfunkel’s Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme on the stereo and shut off all the lights in the living room except one.
♦ ♦ ♦
KEY IN HAND, MICKI stood poised in the third-floor hallway, the aroma of something spicy hanging in the air. But it couldn’t have been anything Baker had cooked; she was quite familiar with his entire, and very limited, repertoire. Arms full between schoolbooks and a couple of bulging, dangling bags, she still managed, with great difficulty, to glance at her watch again, though it did little to help her make up her mind. For nearly ten minutes she’d been standing in front of his apartment doing nothing more than listening to stray noises from the street, arms growing tired and two fingers turning numb. He did want her here, didn’t he? “You’ll have plenty of time to be on your own soon enough,” he’d once told her. “This is your last chance to be a kid, Micki. Take it before you lose it.” That last statement had hit her hard.
She slipped the key into the upper lock and turned it.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER AWOKE WITH A start and jumped up, only to grab onto the liquor cabinet. With his vision full of scintillating white particles, he couldn’t see a thing. And someone was breaking into his apartment. No—no, couldn’t be; he could hear the sound of keys. He stumbled through the soft glow of the living room int
o the shadowed hall and dark foyer, where, silhouetted in the open doorway, Micki was fumbling for the switch. He reached across and flipped it on, blinking and squinting in the bright glare.
She shifted the books in her arms to keep them from falling, not sure what to make of all the lights that were off. Bare-chested, jaw set squarely, Baker looked as though he’d been sleeping, his half-closed eyes neither happy nor unhappy to see her.
“I quit my job,” she blurted out, then quickly added, “I mean, I’m not here because I quit my job; I told Mr. Antonelli last week that yesterday would be my last day.” And in her mind’s eye, she could still see the little man’s face clouding over as she’d broken the news. He’d looked really angry, had probably thought her ungrateful after he’d been so good to her. Just thinking about it now, she was getting the same sinking feeling she’d had then. But when she’d told him the reason why, his face had just as quickly beamed. “Is-a good-a! Is-a very good-a! I’m-a so happy for you!” And before she’d had a chance to stop him, he’d grabbed her and kissed her once on each cheek. But now, facing Baker, she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake.
His voice husky, Baker said, “Either way would be okay with me.” He cleared his throat. “All that matters is that you’re here.” But there was no emotion in his voice.
“Is someone else here?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Why?” And all at once, his mind was sharp, taking in the moment’s significance.
“I dunno. You look like—well …” She shrugged one shoulder. “I just wouldn’t want to be—intruding.”
“You can’t be intruding in your own home.”
Her heart fluttered like a tiny butterfly opening its wings. And yet she was still unnerved by something—something about Baker himself.
“I went out on a bust with the guys today,” he said quietly.
A police siren wailed through the open window in the stairwell.
Eyes and chin indicating her overburdened arms, he asked, “So what is all this, huh? Y’know, you didn’t have to drag everything you own on the subway. In case you’ve forgotten, I do have a car.”
Trying to hold back tears, she said, “I—I didn’t wanna wait, and—and I didn’t wanna have to go back there again.” Yet she was still stationed in the doorway—standing on the threshold.
His tone softened. “Well”—he reached down to take her books—“I think you’d better come in, then.”
And so she took a step inside, letting some of the darkness fall away, letting the warmth of his presence—like the welcome rays of a strong November sun—seep into her heart, her blood, her bones.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A TEENAGER DURING THE turbulent 1970s, Randy Mason grew up in New York City, where she has lived most of her life. Falling Back to One is her first book.