TUESDAY NIGHT’S SENIOR VARSITY basketball game, and Baker was heading security. It was a typical high school event—the squeak of sneakers on highly polished wood; thumps of a dribbled ball; cheers, jeers, and angry shouts; and pulsing pom-poms like giant sea anemones—until an especially tall, well-muscled black forward from Queens Central High engaged in heavy contact with one of the home team’s white guards. Surrounded by a haphazard circle of other players and the umpire, the white boy was rolling around on the floor, clutching his ribs, face contorted in a melodramatic display. Queens Central High was predominantly black; Newbridge High, predominantly white. The conflict escalated from a personal, sports-related one to a race-related one in a matter of seconds. The game was called and, with the help of Marino and Jamison, the spectators cleared from the bleachers—though not without the threat of a full-fledged riot. Afterward, rather than sit at a bar alone, Baker called Warner to take him up on a standing invitation to stop by.
Warner lived in a basement apartment near the university where he was attending classes. Baker walked through the door and into an invasion of textbooks, library books, and papers to which the entire studio space had apparently surrendered.
“Sorry for the mess,” Warner said as he cleared a spot at the kitchen table. Then he grabbed two beers from the refrigerator.
Looking at the piles all around him, Baker said, “It’s fine. What’re you working on?”
“A small case presentation, a term paper, and my dissertation.
“You’re sure I’m not interrupting you?”
Warner laughed. “Life is interrupting me. I feel like all I do in my free time is work on this stuff. So tell me, what happened at the game tonight?”
Baker told him about the incident, they talked a little about work, and then the conversation turned to Micki. After listening to Baker seesaw back and forth, Warner finally asked, “Have you ever considered what it’s like to actually be her?”
“Huh?”
“How would you feel if you were seventeen years old and entirely on your own without a shred of personal history and no family or friends to turn to? It’s a pretty rough deal.”
Baker took a drink of his beer and sat back. “Well, it’s really not my problem.”
“But it is.”
“Do you want kids?”
“What?”
“Do you want kids,” Baker repeated.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing, I’m just curious.”
“Well, yeah, I do want kids, but I think it would help if I found myself a girlfriend first to kind of get the ball rolling, don’t y’think?”
They both laughed, then drifted onto other topics. And after another couple of beers, Baker left, feeling extremely tired. Still, he found himself detouring to Micki’s, driving through Queens neighborhoods where clusters of stores, all closed for the night, looked abandoned and uninviting, most shuttered with graffitied security gates under unlit signs. Here and there—like a misplaced, gaudy island—a fast-food restaurant glared through the boredom, so bright it almost hurt his eyes.
Momentarily stopped at a red light, he looked over at the car to his right. The driver, about twenty years old, was talking to his female passenger. Baker, an invisible stranger in his own glass-and-metal bubble, felt utterly alone. Except for the moon. Glancing upward from time to time as he continued on his way, he watched the earth’s satellite—his traveling companion—sliding in and out of clouds as it arced its way across the late-October sky.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER PARKED HIS CAR down the street from Micki’s apartment. Though it was only half past eleven, her windows were already dark. He entered her building and trudged up the stairs, noting the telephone’s new “OUt oF oRder” sign, which looked, as usual, like a first-grader had written it. The hallway—windowless and narrow, with peeling yellowed wallpaper and uneven linoleum tiles—smelled strongly of bleach, though nothing looked the cleaner for it.
Before he’d even reached her door, he could hear noises—moans—from inside. His fatigue disappeared. Like hell she didn’t stay up fucking that bastard! Eleven thirty on a school night! He quietly inserted his key in the lock, then stopped. He’d wait. How long could Galligan last anyway? But as he was pulling his cigarettes from his pocket, he became cognizant of how odd the sounds were. The moans were more distressed than sensual; there were whimpers, thuds, and little cries of “no.” He strained to hear what was happening. What if the son of a bitch was hurting her? Forcing her? He turned the key and slipped inside.
Light spilled in through the doorway to dimly illuminate the room. But he saw only one figure: Micki was alone in bed. And though she was unconscious, she was far from inactive, first thrashing around and then curling up tight—yelling, moaning, or whimpering in some nightmarish dream state. He gently eased the door shut, waited for his eyes to adjust, then sat down quietly at the table.
Her bed was an impressive mess, the top sheet and blanket pulled half off the mattress in different directions. He was thinking about waking her, if only to relieve his own discomfort, when she abruptly stopped and opened her eyes. She picked up the alarm clock and tilted it toward the faint light coming in through the curtains. With a groan, she lay back down on her stomach, tucking her arms beneath her and closing her eyes.
Baker slowly exhaled. Motionless at the table, he watched as she shifted, turned, and moved the pillow around on the mattress until she eventually fell back to sleep. But the same violently restless activity soon ensued, sending chills up his spine. This episode, however, was very brief. And when she looked at the clock again, she muttered, “Fuck it,” before getting out of bed and switching on the desk lamp. She turned toward the kitchen. And gasped.
“What’re you doin’ here?” she demanded.
“Just take it easy. I’m not doing anything. Except watching you sleep—if you could call it that.”
“Meanin’ what?”
“You must’ve been having a really bad nightmare.”
She glanced away, the shadows in her eyes getting deeper. For at Heyden, during the brief time she’d spent in the lower-security cottages, her roommates had made her painfully aware of her nocturnal activities. She could only imagine it had gotten worse. She waited for Baker to ask the inevitable next question, but he never did. Instead, he lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. She walked past him, heading for the kitchen. But rather than make cocoa, she got a glass of water. She took a few sips and stared at the back of his head.
“Are you gonna go now?” she asked.
Turned sideways in the chair so he could see her, he replied, “Not just yet.”
“Why not? What’re you hangin’ around for?”
“I’ll leave when I’m ready.”
“Well, I won’t be able to go to bed if you’re here.”
“If I were going to do something, Micki, I would’ve made my move while you were still asleep.”
She held his gaze, then averted her eyes.
From across the street, there came a loud, metallic rattle as the auto-body shop’s garage door opened. A car that had been idling could be heard moving, and then its engine was cut. The garage door clattered closed.
Micki sipped her water while Baker smoked his cigarette. She realized he wasn’t going to leave this time. She put the glass in the sink and got back into bed.
Baker went to the desk and shut the light.
♦ ♦ ♦
LYING ON HER LEFT side, blanket clutched tightly around her, Micki could see the tip of his cigarette brighten each time he inhaled. She tried to focus on the little orange glow and the assortment of sounds coming in from the street. She tried very hard to stay awake. But her eyelids were growing heavy. A short while later, there was a calm steadiness to her breathing.
Voice hushed, Baker asked, “Are you still awake?” When there was no response, he got up and went over to the bed. All of the tension was gone from her face, the scarred skin smoothed out in the soft, diffuse light. She looked younger, peaceful, and—like anyone asleep—innocent. Almost in a whisper, he added, “’Cause if you’re still awake, I’ll leave. I really don’t want to keep you up.” But all he heard was the auto-body shop’s garage door again, and another car being driven in. Maybe the joint was a chop shop.
He hung around a while longer, even though he’d already seen enough to know that what she’d told him was true: she didn’t sleep well. Except for now. For the past twenty minutes she’d barely moved.
♦ ♦ ♦
THURSDAY MORNING, TWO DETECTIVES and three uniformed cops showed up at the school to arrest three white seniors on murder charges. The boys had allegedly stalked a young black man as he’d left a house only a block away from the campus. Using an old, beat-up Rambler that belonged to one of the boys’ mothers, they’d followed him in his Volkswagen to Queens College, where he was a student. He’d parked and gotten out of his car, only to be met with the blows of a baseball bat that fatally crushed his skull. Witnesses claimed the man had been beaten for no other reason than being black.
When word of the killing got around the security staff, there was fear that the incident, if publicized, would fan the fires of racial tension already smoldering in the school. So much for all the peace and love of the sixties, Baker thought. What bullshit that turned out to be.
As he signed the last report for the school’s records, he recalled how condescending the local detectives had been until, incensed at the role he was being forced to play, he’d reintroduced himself—rank and all—and flashed his shield. Immediately, their attitudes had changed. And though they’d eyed him with curiosity, they’d kept their questions to themselves.
Baker filed the papers and slammed the cabinet drawer shut. Fucking assholes.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI WAS JUST ABOUT to go home when Marino came rushing into the office.
“Hey,” he said as he shrugged off his jacket, “I tried to get back here as quick as I could, but the friggin’ doctor made me wait nearly three-quarters of an hour. Man, I could use some coffee.” He picked up a Styrofoam cup and pulled out the carafe. Turning toward Baker, he said, “Doc tells me, after taking a ton of blood for tests, that it’s probably just some allergic thing—”
The office door flew open as Jamison hurried in to retrieve the walkie-talkie he’d left on the desk a few minutes earlier. The door hit Marino’s elbow, causing the coffee he was pouring to spill onto his hand. “Shit!” He let go of the cup, its contents splashing across his jeans and sneakers. As the hot liquid seeped into the denim and burned his skin, he instinctively grabbed at the wet material—letting go of the carafe in the process. The glass pot shattered when it hit the floor. “Shit!” he said again, still pulling at the cloth.
“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Jamison asked. “I didn’t know you were standing there.”
“Shit!” Marino repeated.
Micki was biting the inside of her lip to keep from laughing.
“You think this is funny?” Baker asked.
Marino looked like he’d pissed his pants. Yeah, she thought it was funny, but all she did was shrug and try desperately to keep a straight face.
“Well, since you’re finding this so entertaining, you can have the pleasure of cleaning it up.”
“I’ll help,” Jamison offered. “It’s my fault—”
“She’ll do it herself,” Baker said. “You should get back to your post.”
“But … Sure, Chief.” Jamison glanced at Micki, then apologized again to Marino on his way out.
“Why do I have to clean it up?” Micki asked.
“Because I told you to.”
Marino, still standing in the middle of it all, was smirking.
“NOW,” Baker barked.
She put her books on the desk and pulled over the white plastic trashcan from beside the little refrigerator. Down on one knee, she threw away the Styrofoam cup, then started picking up the larger pieces of glass while Baker went to get the whiskbroom and dustpan from under the bathroom sink. Literally at Marino’s feet, she felt the heat rising in her face. She was gingerly placing her fingers on either side of an especially jagged shard when Baker reentered the room. Marino, taking advantage of the cop’s presence, said to Micki, “Why don’t you shove that up your ass.”
Dropping the glass, Micki sprang to her feet, pushing Marino hard and sending him sailing backward into the door. But Baker grabbed some hair on the top of her head—right at the base of the scalp—and pulled back cruelly. She nearly lost her footing. Face distorted in a grimace, her hands shot up to grasp his wrist. He pulled her backward.
“Fuck it!” she cursed.
Maintaining the tension on her hair, he slammed his free palm into her back.
She gritted her teeth.
Marino’s grin faded. “Hey, let her go,” he said. “It was nothing. Really.”
“Go home and change your clothes,” Baker ordered.
“C’mon, Jim, I—”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Baker said.
♦ ♦ ♦
AS SHE STOOD IN front of Bel, the breeze blew back her hair so gently it felt like a caress. She brushed the bangs out of her eyes and gazed past the elevated tracks to a row of trees, their dying leaves a warm sunburst of color against the slate-grey sky. The street itself, however—garbage scattered across stained sidewalks, graffiti sprayed on almost every available space—looked ugly and mean.
The number 7 train rumbled past toward the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, where it would soon turn off to travel further into Queens. She could picture herself traveling down the road alongside it. But only as far as the underpass. With the possibility of going back to Heyden looming larger than ever, what did it matter if she scored a fix? Eyes closed, she could feel the sweet release, could feel her wretched, lonely existence being carried away into a warm, cocoon-like place of nothing.
She opened her eyes and rubbed her wrist. It hadn’t been in such great shape to begin with; now it hurt from Baker having ruthlessly twisted it. But it was what he’d told her afterward that had caused her world to come crashing down: tomorrow he was meeting with Captain Malone to deliver a progress report. “Truth is, Micki,” he’d said, “I haven’t seen any progress. None at all.”
Her mouth had gone dry, the blood turning cold in her veins. She argued she was doing well in school; she argued she was doing so well at work that Mr. Antonelli had given her a raise.
Baker’s eyes had narrowed. “When was that?”
Confused by the tone of his voice, her own came out small. “Last night.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I—I thought I just had to tell you the bad stuff.”
“You tell me everything. Everything. Understand?” He hadn’t even been pleased that she’d finally be earning minimum wage. And maybe with good reason.
“Micki, you okay?” Mr. Antonelli asked, leaning out the front door of the restaurant.
“Not really,” she murmured.
“Eh? I cannot-a hear you.”
“I’ll be right in, Mr. Antonelli,” she said more loudly, and the little man disappeared back inside. Hanging her head, she kicked away a bottle cap with the toe of her worn-out sneaker.
She was such a loser.
♦ ♦ ♦
BY THE TIME THE entrance buzzer rang, announcing the first arrival, Baker was almost set for the poker game. Though it had been a weekly tradition for years, he’d skipped all but one since starting his job at the high school. When he’d gone the second week after the semester had begun, he’d felt demoted sitting among the men he used to work with—especially his partner, Barry Gould, who’d been teamed with Dave Blanchard in his absence. Baker had lost more money that night than he ever had before, and, since then, he’d avoided not only the poker games, but Gould and all his other cop friends, as well. The one exception—out of necessity—had been Malone. But the isolation had only made him feel worse.
He recognized the knock on the door and opened it to see Gould with a bottle of J&B and a big grin. “Hey, partner!”
Baker smiled, a rush of warmth flooding through him as he accepted the whiskey. Then they briefly embraced with the obligatory pats on the back. A real Mutt-’n’-Jeff pair, Baker was lean, clean-shaven, nine inches taller, and five years older than Gould, who had curly red hair, an ample mustache, and a bit too much weight. Their natures were also opposites: Baker, hot and quick-tempered; Gould, mild and good-humored. But both men were sharp, possessing solid investigative skills and a willingness to do whatever it took to get the job done. They’d made a formidable team. And had bonded like brothers.
“Thanks, man,” Baker said. “Make yourself at home. I’ve just got a few things left to put out.”
Gould threw his jacket on the couch and looked at the bridge table holding court in the middle of the living room. With cards, poker chips, and liquor already in place, Baker was putting out nuts, pretzels, and potato chips.
“Y’know, I’ve missed you,” Gould said. “I wish you’d call once in a while just to shoot the shit. I stopped calling myself ’cause I didn’t want to push you, but, hey …”
“Sorry,” Baker said. “It’s just that—well—this whole thing has been really hard on me. Besides, you’re working with someone else now.”
“So what? That doesn’t change a fuckin’ thing between you and me. And anyways, Blanchard’s a lazy son of a bitch, a real empty suit. He’s useless as a partner; I’d be happier alone.”
Baker continued setting up.
“I’m tellin’ you,” Gould said, “this’ll be over before y’know it, and we’ll be a team again like always.”
Not looking all that convinced, Baker nodded. Then he took out his cigarettes and lit one, noting the surprise that registered on his friend’s face. A sheepish look spread across his own. “Yeah. This ‘therapy’ is just doing wonders for me.”
“How’s it goin’?”
Baker shrugged. “It’s going.”
When Baker didn’t say more, Gould tried asking about Cynthia. But from Baker’s brief replies, he gathered that wasn’t going too well, either. Apparently, a lot had happened since the last time the two men had spoken. None of it too good.
The buzzer rang again, and Baker hastily stubbed out the Camel before the other players arrived. But since all except Gould and Malone smoked, once the game got going, it wasn’t long till he fired up another.
With a broad grin, Batillo pointed his cigar and, in his raspy voice, said, “Hey, look who rejoined the club.”
All of the men stared at Baker.
“Yeah, yeah. Screw you,” Baker shot back, and busied himself with straightening the stacks of poker chips in front of him.
“Aw, don’t get all pissy,” Tierney said. “It’s just that we were afraid you were gonna stop drinking soon, too.”
“Yeah, and then we wouldn’t be able to trust you,” Martini said.
“We might even have to kill you,” Batillo added.
They all chuckled. Except Baker, who said sharply, “Well I can tell you right now that you don’t have to worry about that, okay?”
Malone started to deal in the uneasy silence.
“So, Jimmy,” Martini asked as he grabbed a fistful of peanuts to toss into his mouth, “you hire a maid or what? You’ve always been neat, but this place looks fuckin’ spotless.”
“No maid. The kid’s been cleaning as punishment for some shit she pulled.”
“Yeah? Well, next time she fucks up, send her over to my place.”
“No way!” Tierney said. “That would be cruel and unusual.”
They all laughed while Martini shot back, “Yeah? Look who’s talkin’.”
Within half an hour, all of the tension in Baker’s body had disappeared, the cop talk and precinct gossip a little like coming home. And with everything that went on at the school, he had his own share of tales to tell, some quite serious, the rest often funny. By the end of the evening, he understood that his friends were his friends. They’d lost no respect for him, just felt badly that he’d gotten such a raw deal. And though he didn’t feel quite the same as when he’d been working with them, he realized most of the judgmental stuff was only in his own head. It made him think about what Cynthia had said.
Then again, it wasn’t as if he’d retired. Or been fired.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE FIRST TO ARRIVE, Gould was also the last to leave. Putting on his jacket, he asked, “So you’re meeting with Malone tomorrow?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Nothing, really, just overheard the captain reminding you.”
Baker shrugged. “I think he needs some kind of formal status report.”
Gould walked toward the door, then paused and turned. “Are you doin’ okay, Jim? I want you to tell me the truth.”
“I don’t know, I guess so. I just can’t see where any of this is going.”
“You get along okay with this kid?”
Baker snorted. “Not exactly.”
“Well, this won’t go on forever, y’know. Alls you gotta do is hold the line. Just don’t flip out over anything.”
“It’s a little late for that.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry,” Baker said. “I haven’t broken anything yet.”
Gould patted him on the back. “I knows you; you’re gonna be okay.”
They said goodnight, and Baker locked the door behind his friend. But after all the boisterous banter, his apartment felt too quiet. Too empty. Again. Surveying the mess in his living room, he considered being a lazy bastard and leaving it till Micki came on Sunday.
Then he started cleaning up.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE SKY WAS A brilliant azure blue interrupted by just a few white clouds that looked like mounds of shaving cream. With the sun’s rays generating an unseasonably warm seventy-two degrees, Baker considered taking a late afternoon jog through Central Park to catch the autumn foliage. He parked his car, then hurried down the busy midtown street, wondering how long his meeting with Malone was going to take.
But walking into the station house was something of a shock—so familiar and yet not, like returning to his apartment after he’d been away for a couple of weeks. As he lifted his chin in greeting to the desk sergeant, he clipped his badge to his belt, feeling conspicuous and out of place. Yet no one who caught his eye did more than nod or say a quick hello.
He ran up the stairs, two at a time, and knocked on the captain’s door, entering at the brusque “yeah?”
Looking up from the statistics he was examining, Malone said, “Jim! Sit down. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Baker sat on the old vinyl couch, its ugly yellow color somewhat disarming in the otherwise drab surroundings. The office felt much smaller than he remembered. Not even two months had gone by, but it seemed like a lifetime. He stared out the window. Undaunted by the dirty pane of glass, the bright blue of the sky was fighting its way through the grime. Apparently, no one had told it a nor’easter was predicted to hit by midnight.
“So!” Malone said.
And Baker looked back at the captain, who stood up and walked around to the front of his desk. Arms folded over his chest, Malone leaned back against the battered piece of furniture while Baker, sitting tensed on the edge of the couch, pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his T-shirt and lit one.
“How’s everything been going lately?” the older man inquired.
Exhaling smoke, Baker said, “About the same, I guess.”
“Anything new happen since the last time we spoke?”
Baker summarized as concisely as possible—with convenient edits—then stood up and glanced around for an ashtray. Malone pointed to a paper plate with a stale crust of rye bread sitting in the middle of a mustard stain.
“Doesn’t sound like there’s been much improvement,” Malone said.
Baker tapped a small column of ashes onto the plate and raised his eyebrows in a gesture of uncertainty. “Hard to say.”
“I’ll tell you the reason I asked you to come here today.”
Though his cigarette was hardly beat, Baker stubbed it out, then continued standing, hands in the front pockets of his jeans.
“There’s another kid Kelly wants to place and—”
Slapping his thigh, Baker said, “You’ve got to be kidding! What am I, suddenly, a fucking one-man juvenile hall?”
“Take it easy, Jim, and let me finish.”
Baker turned and stared out the window.
“This other kid’ll be a breeze. He’s fifteen years old and was practically an honor student until his parents got divorced. After that he got mixed up with the wrong crowd—started doing drugs and stealing cars. His mother, who he’d been living with, became an alcoholic; his father disappeared. In two weeks he’ll be released from Spoffard, but he’s got no place to go. The mother’s currently doing time for check forgery, and there aren’t any relatives to take him till she’s out and reestablished as a sober, responsible parent. Seems the family moved here from Ohio three years ago because the mother had a big falling-out with her parents. Even so, you’d probably only have the kid till the beginning of the spring. I think he’d work out a hell of a lot better than Micki has. Not to mention he’s a boy. The only drawback to choosing him over her is that he’d have to live with you.”
“What? Wait a minute.” Baker turned to face Malone. “What do you mean ‘choosing him over her’?”
“Well, it’s your choice: which kid do you want?”
“I thought you meant—”
“No.”
Baker looked stunned. “But then what would happen to Micki?”
“She’d go back to Heyden.”
It felt like minutes went by before Baker asked, “What if someone else were interested in taking her? There’s someone—”
“A cop?”
“Well, no, he’s working security at the high school with me. But—”
“I don’t think you understand the whole picture.” Malone folded his arms across his chest again. “The only reason Kelly got his way in having Micki released from juvi so early was because, unlike the other kids he’d gotten involved with, it was agreed that whether her first placement worked out or not, she could only have a cop as her legal guardian. Truth be known, no one wanted her. But then you needed a kid, and she was the only one available. Everything about her processing has been completely unorthodox—most of it slipping well under the radar. But no judge is going to allow her to be handled by anyone less than a police officer. She’s too much of a risk otherwise. Quite frankly, I think she’s too much of a risk, period.”
Baker swallowed hard and looked around. “I just—the thought of sending her back there—the things they did to her … I’ve been having a tough enough time dealing with the idea of leaving her there over Thanksgiving. But to leave her there permanently …”
Malone uncrossed his arms and stood up straight. “Y’know, I figured this was a real no-brainer, that you’d dump that kid in a heartbeat. A month ago you hated her like nobody’s business.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not so sure anymore that she’s a total waste. Maybe there’s someone in there after all. I know she could be jerking me around, but if she’s not—”
“Why the sudden change?”
Baker shifted his gaze. “Things’ve happened.”
“Things? What kind of ‘things’?”
He looked back. “What’re you asking?”
“Are you banging her? Is that the difference?”
“Jesus Christ! Give me a little credit! I haven’t laid a finger on her. Well, not like that, at least.”
“ ‘Not like that’? Then like what?”
“The worst she’s ever gotten from me is some bruises, nothing more.”
“Oh, jeez.” Malone looked away, then looked back. “You care about this kid?”
“I feel sorry for her.”
“You feel sorry for her?” Blood rushed to Malone’s face. “You think she’ll feel sorry for you when your career goes down the toilet? If she fucks up bad, it won’t look good for you. But you’re a winner if your kid’s a winner, and this boy I told you about is a surefire success. His behavior in Spoffard’s been model, and his delinquency was but a little blip to be erased from an otherwise normal, healthy childhood. Now, I’m going to be frank with you, Sergeant: I don’t give a flying fuck about Micki. My only concern is you; it always has been. You’re a damned good detective, and I need you back. Since you got your wings clipped, morale in this squad has taken a nosedive, and our clearance rate has gone right down with it. So straighten out your priorities. That goddamn kid’s a lost cause, and you’re not!”
“I need some time to think about this.”
“Well, you’ve only got till Monday. After that, the boy’ll get hooked up with one of the eligible families. There’s a lot of paperwork involved. I can’t hold them off any longer than that.”
“Then why did you wait till now to tell me?”
“Because this time around you’re the problem. That boy could easily get placed with one of several families eager to take him. As far as social services is concerned you’re, by far, the least appealing candidate. But I’ve been busy pulling strings again.”
“Look, I’m not ungrateful, but I—this just isn’t so easy. I need some time.”
Malone picked up a crumpled paper napkin from his desk and threw it in the garbage. “It’s your life.”
♦ ♦ ♦
AUTUMN WAS STAKING ITS claim with wind-driven showers of golden and fiery leaves. They were floating and spinning as the gusts picked up in expectation of the impending storm. But while Baker’s feet crunched along the path, pounding out his usual course, the scenery around him was fading. Next week he could still be exercising through this seasonal beauty while Micki might be locked up behind brick walls and barbed-wire fences—back in solitary, no doubt. If she went back there for good, it would probably take her all of one day to manage that.
As he passed another jogger, a man he frequently saw running in the mornings, Baker raised his hand in greeting. Back around June, the same man, going by at a remarkable clip, had shouted to him in a very thick accent, “My son, he just graduated medical school!” The word just had sounded like hhhyust; the word medical, like medeecal. And the man’s face, glistening from a layer of sweat over a shadow of stubble, had been beaming. Because of his son. Watching the man disappear around the bend in the green glow of late spring, Baker had suddenly wondered whether his own decision to never have kids was a mistake. And now there was this boy Malone was offering …
Stung by a nasty stitch in his left side—his punishment for lifting weights more often than jogging, the cigarettes not helping much, either—Baker slowed his pace. Veering off, he headed back to his apartment, dragging himself up the stairs and cursing the pain in his knees. His sweatshirt was soaked through, and he needed a shower. But more than anything, he needed someone to tell him what to do. The smart thing, thinking strictly of himself, was to get rid of Micki and take the other kid. Micki had been nothing but a combative, streetwise pain in the ass from day one. But every time he thought about trading her in, his mind would throw back proof that he was totally off, completely missing the mark—as if he’d never seen a hint of what was on the other side.
So which Micki was the real one? If she was scamming him, she was doing a hell of a job, was a far better actress than Cynthia would ever be. Plus, that boy had a mother to go home to in the future and lots of people vying to take him in the interim. Micki had no one and never would. No one, that was, except him.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI SPENT THE HOUR before work in a flat and heavy sleep. As soon as her shift was over, she went back to her apartment, changed into her nightshirt, and lay down again, not even bothering to brush her teeth. When the storm started after midnight, it woke her up. She listened to the hard rain strike the glass, the wind blasting by, rattling the old windows and shrieking.
♦ ♦ ♦
SHE WAS RUNNING DOWN the alley again, chain-link fence glittering on one side, smooth brick wall on the other. Ragged and harsh in the warm summer night, her breathing had the same steady rhythm as her feet.
Further and further she flew down the tapering trail, her pursuer anywhere and everywhere in the shadows behind her. And then the air rippled with a long, sorrowful sigh, producing the other brick wall to block her path. Eyes stinging from the gritty dust kicking up from the ground, she could feel herself slowing while the pavement, rumbling and shaking, cracked itself open into a vast, craggy fissure just before the barrier.
She reached the crust at the edge of the pit and stared down at her feet and the chasm below. Chunks of the surface were falling away, the gaping black hole growing wider and wider. But she needed to wait; she needed to stay where she was. Until the last possible moment. Until that razor-sharp point when she alone could make it across. But perhaps she’d already waited too long. Endlessly deep, the gap appeared too large; the crumbling ledge on the opposite side, too narrow. If she jumped now, she could lose her footing.
Alive with flashes and crackles, the atmosphere bristled with a massive static charge. Then the floodlight dimmed, throwing the area beyond into deeper shadow. Hot, foul breath touched the nape of her neck …
Micki woke to the howling of the wind outside, the rain beating harshly against the glass. Wide eyed, she stared into the darkness of her room.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFTER TWELVE HOURS, THE storm abated, but major roads and highways had been flooded. Strewn with debris and downed trees, they were still closed, precluding the scenic drive to Bear Mountain that Baker and Cynthia had planned. Instead, they went out for a late Chinese dinner and returned to Baker’s apartment, debating whether or not to catch the ten-o’clock showing of a movie.
Cynthia thought it would be fun to see Earthquake, simply to experience Sensurround, which was supposed to simulate the feel of the real thing. Baker said it sounded dumb and that the movie was probably dumber. So they ended up having sex, then lying around in bed afterward. Eyes closed, stretched out on his back, Baker had his arm around Cynthia. She ran her hand over his chest.
“Mmm,” he murmured.
She suddenly pulled the sheet around her and sat up.
Baker opened his eyes. “What is it?”
“Let’s bake cookies,” she said. “Big, giant chocolate-chip cookies.”
“What?” He was grinning.
“I’m starving again.”
“You’re serious!”
“C’mon, I bet Red Apple is still open; I want to bake them from scratch.”
He sat up and kissed her nose.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER DID A MINIMAL amount of cooking, but never baked; so they had to buy almost everything they needed. Following the recipe on the back of the Nestlé’s bag, Cynthia sifted, measured, and mixed the ingredients while Baker greased two cookie sheets. Each received one huge glob of cookie dough that was flattened out before heading into the oven.
When Cynthia checked her watch to keep track of the time, it was already 11:13. “Let’s see if there’s an old movie on TV.” They moved into the living room, and Baker turned on the set while Cynthia took off her shoes and got comfortable on the couch. As he started changing channels, she asked, “So do you want to tell me what’s been bothering you all night?”
He shrugged and flipped through the stations again. So far, all he’d seen was commercials.
“Talk to me, Jim. Please.”
Sighing, he shut the TV and straightened up to face her. “I have to decide if I want to keep Micki or take a different kid instead. Malone told me about a boy he wants me to consider.”
“But, I don’t understand …”
So Baker sketched it out while Cynthia’s expression clouded over. “Well, you’re not going to do that, are you? Abandon her like that?”
“At this point, I don’t know what I should do. It’s not like I don’t feel bad about the idea of sending her back to juvi, but I have my career to think about. It’d be a hell of a lot easier on me to take the boy.”
Unfolding her long legs from where they’d been tucked beneath her, Cynthia sat up very straight while the aroma of warm, baking cookies filled the apartment. “So you’ve made up your mind already?”
“No, that’s just it: I haven’t yet.”
“Well—do the right thing.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple. There’s no other choice. It’s not fair to her.”
“And what about me?” Baker’s voice was rising. “Is it fair to me to jeopardize my career when I don’t have to? Jesus, I should never have told you about this.”
“You’re supposed to do what’s right, not what’s easiest.”
“You’re so naïve, Cynthia. When are you going to start living in the real world?”
Her eyes flashed. There was a small, defiant toss of her hair. But she got up from the couch with great composure. And when she spoke again, her voice was low. “You go to hell.”
Baker’s mouth fell open. Not once, in all the time he’d known her, had he ever heard her talk like that.
“I am not naïve,” she said, “I simply live by my principles.” With a cool eye, she looked him over. “I really don’t know you anymore; maybe I never knew you to begin with. I always thought you believed in justice and fairness—always ready to help people, protecting those who can’t protect themselves.”
“What makes you think Micki needs protecting? You have absolutely no idea the things that kid has done.”
“Because you won’t tell me. But I don’t need to know. Whatever she did in the past has nothing to do with where she is now. From the first time I saw her, I knew in my heart that she was basically good, that she had a good soul.”
“Oh, Jesus. Now you’re going to start in with that mysticism crap?”
Her blue eyes turned darker, and her words began from between clenched teeth: “She just needs someone to help her. She’s crying out for some attention, and you’re going to turn your back on her.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about.” The patronizing look he gave her made her want to smack it right off his face. Instead, she said, “I want to see other people, Jim.” When his jaw dropped again, she added, “This has been coming on for quite some time now.”
“Yeah, ever since you met that asshole actor out in LA.”
There was a spark of pity in her eyes. “It’s much more than that. We have a lot of issues that need to be addressed.”
Voice full of sarcasm, he said, “Oh, really.”
“That’s right. You want to hear some?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, that’s the biggest one of all.” When Baker looked away, Cynthia slipped into her shoes and went to the closet to get her coat. “I think I’d better go.”
“I think so.”
She was turning his keys in the lock when he asked the back of her head, “Do you want me to call you a cab or wait with you downstairs until you get one?”
Not glancing back, she could picture the annoyed look on his face. “No,” she said acidly, and opened the door. “I’ll be just fine by myself.”
After the door had slammed shut behind her, Baker said softly, “I bet you will.”
♦ ♦ ♦
LEANING OUT THE WINDOW, he could see her exiting the building. As pissed off as he was, he should never have let her go downstairs alone. He had an “understanding” with the local crew that hung out on his street, but she wasn’t, by any means, safe; the area was rife with crime. Yet he was worrying over nothing; the woman clearly led a charmed life: a taxi—an extremely rare sight in his neighborhood at this hour—pulled up out of nowhere. He ducked his head back in and slammed the window down.
The cookies were burning. He went into the kitchen and turned off the oven before looking inside and then slamming that shut, too. After a brief pause, he swept his arm across the counter and the table, sending the still-open bags of sugars and flour, the little can of baking soda, the tiny bottle of vanilla extract, the measuring cups and spoons, mixing bowl, and utensils all flying to the floor. In the late-night silence, the noise from the falling metal and heavy glass was deafening. Baker half expected an irate, disapproving bang on the ceiling from his downstairs neighbor—but none was forthcoming.
He stomped back into the living room, pulled out his whiskey, and quickly polished off what little was left. He reached for the J&B Gould had brought, but then closed the cabinet instead. He should go to sleep. After all, the kid would be coming in the morning, the goddamn pain in the ass. Because of her, he couldn’t even tie one on when he needed to.
But his sleep was fitful. And at 4:00 a.m., he got up and went back to the living room. After some hesitation, he opened the new bottle. No doubt, this was not how Gould had envisioned his gift being used, but then, Gould didn’t know Baker had a drinking problem. Baker never drank on the job and had never gotten truly drunk socially. It was only when he was alone—alone and depressed. Bottle to his lips, he told himself it wasn’t such a big deal—nothing he couldn’t handle on his own. Yet this was the very first time he’d ever admitted—even to himself—that his drinking was, in fact, a problem.
The whiskey burned going down, the spreading warmth inducing an unusual and uncomfortable tremor. Hand wrapped around the neck, he let the bottle hang by his side.
The hour felt much darker.
♦ ♦ ♦
IT TOOK FIVE RINGS of the buzzer to cut through Baker’s leaden sleep—he’d dozed off only half an hour before. Groaning as he rolled over, he got up and put on his jeans, fumbling with the button before zipping up the fly. He threw on his shirt, not bothering to button it at all.
When he opened the door, Micki drew back. But more than the bloodshot gaze, the uncombed hair, and the state of his clothes, it was his breath that really made her want to bolt.
At first he said nothing, simply stood in the entryway, glaring at her through hooded eyes that were masking the slightly disjointed thoughts and almost imperceptible hint of the headache to come. Strangely sickening, a shimmering aura was flickering back and forth at the edge of his brain.
“Go make me some coffee,” he ordered.
Warm and brown, the scent of burnt sugar colored the air as she walked past him into the living room. He followed a few steps behind, then sat down in the club chair by the bookcase.
But at the foot of the kitchen, she froze, gaping at the disaster before her. She pivoted around and started back. “I don’t know what the hell is goin’ on, but I’m outta here.”
He stood up. “Is that right,” he said.
She halted a few feet away, still holding her lunch.
“Well, go on, then,” he said. “Who’s stopping you?”
She remained where she was.
Voice low, speech a little slurred, he asked, “Whatsa matter, Reilly, you scared of me?”
And she wished that—even if it were only for a moment—she could be bigger than he was. “Yeah, I’m scared of you.”
A grin spread across his face. “Gee, I didn’t think you’d admit that. But, then again, you don’t generally lie, do you.”
She tried to think of some way to get out.
He snorted. “You’re just a fuckin’ little pussy.”
“Fuck you.”
He lunged forward and grabbed two fistfuls of her open jacket, running her backward till he’d slammed her up against the wall. It knocked the breath out of her in a grunt, and there was pain where his fists dug in to keep her pinned.
“Fuck me?” he hissed. “You’re gonna fuck me? I could fuck you real easy whether you wanted me to or not. But you’d have a hard time tryin’ to do that to me, now, wouldn’t you. WOULDN’T YOU.”
Her jaded eyes seemed to be daring him.
“ANSWER ME, YOU LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER.” But when she merely lowered her gaze, he said, “You better watch what you say, ’cause I’m tired of hearin’ the shit that comes outta your mouth. Do you understand me?”
Looking straight up at him, she said, “You’re drunk.”
He pulled her away from the wall, and she grabbed his upper arms, though her fingers encircled very little of the large, solid muscle underneath. But when she felt her feet leave the ground, she gasped, eyes wide, fingers digging in to hold on. And Baker froze, body vibrating with rage.
A truck rumbled down Ninety-Third Street below.
He released her. “I’m going to the gym.” And he turned and went into his bedroom.
She listened to him gathering some things together. She watched him go to the hall closet and stuff the items in a gym bag. She watched him put his jacket on and unlock the door. And then, voice small, she said, “I’ll—I’ll need to leave the apartment to—to do the laundry and stuff.”
He paused, then went back into his bedroom. She could hear him rummaging through several drawers followed by the sound of keys. When he came out again, he tossed them at her, nearly hitting her in the face. “Just make sure you lock up tight when you go out. Both locks. Understand?”
“Yessir.”
“I’ll be at West Side Workouts if you need me.” And with that, he picked up his bag and let himself out, locking the door behind him.
♦ ♦ ♦
AS IF NOTHING HAD happened, the apartment was quiet. Calm. She looked at the extra set of keys in her hand, then went to retrieve her lunch from where it had landed on the floor. But instead of picking it up, she sat down beside it, slumped in a shapeless heap and hanging her head. When Baker had slammed her against the wall, she’d seen the hate in his eyes—so pure, so intense. And to think she’d recently told herself that he didn’t hate her as much anymore, maybe even liked her a little.
She poked at a piece of lint from the rug, then rolled it up between her fingers. There was no way she was going to clean this entire fucking apartment again. Especially with that mess in the kitchen. She looked around. Maybe she should just go home. After all, she could lock the place up. What was he going to do? Tell her she had to clean more days? Send her back to juvi if she didn’t? Did it really matter?
She closed her eyes. She knew what would happen if she left. And it had nothing to do with Baker.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN BAKER RETURNED, HE looked a little green around the gills. Micki took a break from her mopping to watch him from the kitchen doorway. He dropped his gym bag on the floor, took off his jacket, and threw it on the club chair in the living room. Inside the bathroom, he gulped down three aspirin.
Back in the hallway, he paused, his voice low. “I have a splitting headache; I’m going to lie down for a while. I do not want to be disturbed by anything. Do you understand me?”
“I need the shopping list and some money.”
He massaged his temples, then pulled out his wallet and dropped two twenty-dollar bills on top of his jacket. “Just get whatever you remember from last time.” And he disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
Leaving the mop to rest against the wall, she hurried over to pocket the money. She’d finish the floor, then go to the supermarket. She’d already changed the linens on his bed and gotten the laundry started using his stash of coins. But the extra work in the kitchen had thrown her entire cleaning routine off.
Like anyone fucking cared.
She went back to mopping.
♦ ♦ ♦
ONCE INSIDE THE BEDROOM, Baker stripped down to his underpants and crawled between the cool, fresh sheets. And though he tried several different positions and played desperately with the pillows, nothing eased the pounding in his head. At the gym, he’d punched the heavy bag until his arms had felt like lead, every strike accelerating the onset and severity of his headache. At one point, he was so overcome with nausea that he’d wished he could simply heave his insides out.
He turned over and heard the whoosh and gurgle of a bucketful of water being emptied into the bathtub. It sounded muffled and far away …
♦ ♦ ♦
AT ONE O’CLOCK, MICKI had her lunch in peace, then continued cleaning. It was nearly four thirty when she finished ironing the last of Baker’s button-down shirts. But she hadn’t gotten any of her vacuuming done, and she hadn’t dusted his bedroom yet, either. Tired of staring out the window, she picked up the book he’d left on the coffee table—a thick, oversized paperback: The Foundation Trilogy by Isaac Asimov. Science fiction. Who would’ve thought? Actually, she was surprised he liked to read anything at all. She sat on the couch and opened it.
But the apartment was growing dark as the afternoon sun, already low in the sky, became hidden behind some clouds. She switched on the nearest lamp, but her eyelids were soon drooping. And after only a few more pages, she set the paperback aside and lay down. The sofa cushions felt comfortable and firm beneath her; the velvety throw pillow, puffy and soft. She closed her eyes and drifted—until she imagined Baker finding her asleep on his couch. She sat up. Elbows on knees, she rested her head in her hands. The extra keys were on the kitchen table; she could still lock the place up and go home.
With a final glance toward his room, she pushed herself up and went to get her jacket.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER AWOKE WITH AN urgent need to relieve himself. He rolled out of bed and stuck his head out the door. Except for a table lamp in the living room, the apartment was dark. And utterly silent. He left the bedroom in just his Jockey shorts, turning on lights as he fumbled his way to the bathroom. After he emptied his bladder, he washed his hands and face, the cold water bracing. But then his vision went white. Leaning against the sink, he could feel his sunken eyes and unshaved skin. He took a deep breath, then glanced at his watch: a quarter past seven; he’d essentially slept through the entire day.
He shuffled back down the hall and into the living room—where he pulled up short. Lying on her side, using her folded-up jacket as a pillow, Micki was asleep on the area rug between the coffee table and the TV. A sharp pang shot through him. He went back to the bedroom to throw on some jeans and a sweatshirt.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE AROMA OF FRESHLY perked coffee wound its way into her consciousness. Painfully stiff, she got up slowly in the dark; Baker must’ve shut off the lamp. She dropped her jacket on a chair and walked into the kitchen. Blinking and squinting from the bright fluorescent lights, she saw him sitting at the table, a heavy earthenware mug between his large hands, a cigarette balanced on the edge of an ashtray.
“Is your headache gone?” she asked.
“Pretty much.”
“So you don’t mind if I vacuum?”
He hung his head. “Forget the vacuuming, Micki. The punishment’s over. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee, and then I’ll take you home.”
“So you’re saying I don’t have to clean anymore? That I’m done? For good?”
He looked up at her. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”
“’Cause I’m not comin’ back here next week; there’s no way I’m comin’ back.”
“You won’t have to come back.”
“Well, then I’ll just take the subway—”
“I said I’ll drive you home.”
She chewed her lower lip. The coffee smelled good. She took a mug from the cabinet and poured herself a cup. “Can I have some milk?”
Another sharp twinge: the kid felt like she had to ask for every fucking little thing now. “Help yourself. There’s sugar in the pantry by the door.”
“Seriously? You really think you need to tell me where anything is? Besides, I don’t even take sugar.” She added some milk and started drinking—standing up.
“Sit down,” he said.
She took the chair furthest from his.
Baker looked at his watch. “Did you eat anything today?”
“Just what I brought, okay? Nothing else.”
“You must be starving. There’s some bologna in the refrigerator. Why don’t you make yourself a sandwich?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“How can you not be hungry when you hardly ate anything all day?”
She shrugged and stared at the coffee.
“If you don’t start eating more, Micki, you’re going to disappear.”
“Well, wouldn’t that save a lot of people a lot of grief.” She got up, tossed the rest of her coffee down the sink, then stalked out of the kitchen.
After a quick final puff, Baker crushed his cigarette and followed her into the living room.
Her back to him, she was looking out the window.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked.
Turning to face him, she said, “Like you wouldn’t be happy if I was gone.”
Hands on hips, he opened his mouth, then shut it again—he still hadn’t given Malone his decision.
Her smile was bitter. “That’s what I figured.”
“It worries me that you’re getting so thin.”
“Spare me the bullshit concern. You don’t really care; I’m just a job to you. By the way”—her voice was full of sarcasm—“can I say ‘bullshit,’ or are y’gonna hit me for that?”
He rubbed his temples. His headache was coming back. “I’m going to have another cup of coffee,” he said quietly, “and then we’re going to leave. Just relax for a little while.” But halfway to the kitchen, he paused and said over his shoulder, “And don’t ever sleep on the floor again. The couch is a hell of a lot better.”
She went back to looking out the window. He hadn’t even tried to deny anything.
Across the street, she could see into another living room, brightly lit with all the blinds pulled up. A pudgy man, wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt, sat reading the newspaper in a large, overstuffed chair. When an equally rotund woman entered the room, holding the hand of a little boy, the man looked up. Smiling with delight, he dropped his newspaper and spread his arms wide. The little boy, giggling and squealing, ran to be swallowed up in a warm embrace.
If only she were someone else.
♦ ♦ ♦
TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY AS they traveled cross-town on Ninety-Sixth Street toward the FDR Drive. Baker had the radio on low, but was changing stations constantly to avoid hearing the songs he hated most. Switching to AM, he tuned in 1010 WINS to catch an updated traffic report. Micki gave up trying to keep her eyes open and let her head fall back against the headrest.
“Push the seat down,” Baker said.
“Huh?”
“On the floor, near the door, there’s a lever. Pull it up and lean back.”
Not sure what she was looking for, she groped around.
The light turned red, and he reached across, putting her hand on the lever. “Here,” he said.
The warmth of his face so close, the feel of his hand over hers—her heart was racing. When he turned his head to look at her, she shyly averted her eyes. He bit the inside of his lip and straightened up. The light turned green. She successfully reclined the seat and fell asleep.
It wasn’t until they were crossing the bridge that ugly snippets of their morning encounter began to present themselves to him. He shot a glance at her sleeping figure. Clearly she knew he hadn’t been threatening to actually rape her. But when his eyes returned to the road, his jaw was working. And for the remainder of the trip, he didn’t look at her again.
♦ ♦ ♦
DOUBLE-PARKED IN FRONT OF her building, he left the engine running. Micki stirred and opened her eyes. “You’re home,” he said.
She got the seat upright, unlocked the door, but then paused. For the longest time, she’d planned to say she was sorry once the punishment was over. But after what had happened this morning, what was the point?
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing’s wrong; everything’s just great.” She started getting out.
He grabbed her arm. “I don’t need your snide remarks.”
“You don’t need anything from me. But you are using me for something.”
Baker paled slightly under the dome light, and Micki’s expression turned smug. He released her arm, and she left, slamming the car door behind her.