“IS MICKI EVER GOING to stop being so angry at me?” Baker asked. “Nothing’s changing.”
“Why do you expect things to be changing?” Lerner countered.
“’Cause it’s different now. I’m different now. And look at how I fixed up her apartment. I mean, c’mon, that has to tell her something.”
“So you think she should implicitly trust you now? This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve shown her kindness in one way or another and then did a one-eighty.”
“But this is different.”
“How can she know that? Have you actually told her how you feel?”
“Well—well, no, but I think it should be obvious by now, right?” But even as he said it, he recalled how Cynthia had rebuked him so harshly for never saying what he felt. He slid down a little in his seat. “I think I’m afraid to.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“She’d laugh at me, and I’d feel like an asshole.” He lit a cigarette, then flashed a weak smile. “I guess I’d still live.” But then his face grew sad. “I don’t know. I have to say, I wouldn’t buy it if she did. I know the kid wants me to care about her.”
Lerner waited. But after nearly a minute, Baker merely announced he had an appointment scheduled with Dr. Tillim that Friday.
“How do you feel about that?” Lerner asked.
“I think I can talk to him now, especially ’cause the captain thinks I’m ready to return to the squad. And things are going okay with Cynthia, too; we had a nice time together Sunday—just as friends.”
“How do you feel about that?”
Baker shrugged. “It hurts. A lot. But it’s better than losing her altogether.” Eyes downcast, he played with his lighter while the heat crept into his face. “I can’t help it,” he said. “She kissed me goodbye—just on the cheek—but I’m already thinking maybe I still have a chance. It’s”—he fought back the emotion welling up—“it’s hard to let go.”
Lerner’s voice was soothing. “Nothing’s set in stone. Just let things be. You might be surprised by what happens.”
“Yeah.” But he sounded doubtful. Then he sat up straighter and tapped the ashes from his cigarette. “Y’know, I’ve been thinking about what you said—about Micki reminding me of someone.”
“And what have you come up with?”
Eyebrows and shoulders raised, he showed the palms of his hands. “Nothing. The only thing I can think of is what I already told you: Daryl Cole. But the more I think about it, the less convinced I am that it’s him. Do you really think she reminds me of someone? Like I said, I had plenty of reasons to hate her sight unseen.”
“But when you met her, you reacted very strongly, and it was an instantaneous, gut reaction. I’m convinced she triggered a connection on some deep level.”
Shaking his head, Baker exhaled a long stream of smoke, then stubbed out his cigarette.
“Perhaps it’ll help,” Lerner offered, “if I give you a description—a list of traits and attributes. But if you disagree at any point, feel free to stop me.” Baker nodded, so Lerner began: “Is extremely intelligent; is extremely independent; has difficulty with authority figures; has difficulty trusting; has a hard time showing any emotion besides anger; expresses anger through violence; is muscular and aggressive; has strong survival instincts, yet can be extremely self-destructive; has a drug-addiction problem; was badly abused; had, for all intents and purposes, no parents; has a number of good friends, though isn’t able—”
“Whoa!” Baker interrupted, raising his hand. “Micki does not have any friends. There are some people who like her, but I wouldn’t exactly say she’s friends with anyone.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lerner replied, “I guess I didn’t explain myself very well.” Eyes gleaming, she stared straight down into his soul. “I haven’t been describing Micki, Sergeant; I’ve been describing you.”
♦ ♦ ♦
STILL REELING FROM HIS session, barely able to keep his eyes open, Baker struggled up the stairs to his apartment. It was only six thirty. He could easily nap for an hour or so; Micki wouldn’t be leaving work till at least ten o’clock. He wanted to get back to Queens in time to make sure she got home okay—a temporary solution to what might be an ongoing problem.
He shrugged off his jacket, pulled off his shoes, then called his answering service. And with the alarm clock set, the radio’s volume low, he flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE KITCHEN DOOR SLAMMED shut behind her, and she stepped out into the cold night air. It helped cut through the fog inside her head. Tuesdays at Bel were often slow, but this had been one of the worst. Every time she’d looked at the clock, scarcely ten minutes had passed. Between the heat and the boredom, she’d spent the night fighting to stay awake.
But when she came out of the alley, she was instantly alert; she couldn’t afford to be careless on the street. In fact, anytime she was outside her apartment now, she was twice as vigilant as she’d been before. She might as well be back in the South Bronx.
There were no sounds coming from the mirror company’s parking lot, but she started diagonally across the street anyway. Not more than three steps off the curb, she saw Rick, Joey, and two other guys appear out of the shadows on the opposite side. She stepped back on the sidewalk and walked past the driveway, seeing no one and hearing nothing from within. But Rick and the others were keeping pace with her—watching her. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Just as she was about to check behind her, something hard smashed against her skull.
♦ ♦ ♦
GROANING, HE REACHED FOR the alarm clock. Damn thing was so annoying, ringing and ringing. He tried to shut it off, but nothing happened. Oh, fuck: it was the phone. He sat up and switched on the light, squinting as it stung his eyes.
“Hello?” His voice sounded thick and raspy.
“Sergeant Baker?”
The male voice was familiar, and Baker snapped to attention. He checked his watch: 10:37. He’d overslept. “Who is this?” He shut off the radio.
“Officer Roberts. I’m calling about Micki.”
“Oh, shit! Is she all right?”
“Well, yes and no.”
“Shit!” Blood was throbbing in his temples.
“She was jumped on her way home—hit in the head and knocked out. But she’s basically okay. I’m at the ER with her now, and she’s fine—just a mild concussion.”
“That’s all?” Now standing, Baker was pacing back and forth in the perimeter allowed by the tethering length of the telephone cord.
“Well—there’s a little more to it. It seems they came up behind her—”
“Who?”
“Can’t say for certain; Micki didn’t see who attacked her. But my guess would be McBain, though I’m sure they were all in on it. She mentioned that Galligan was among some kids who were following her from across the street. Y’see, Saturday night we approached McBain on a disorderly and ended up arresting him after things got out of hand. When Micki passed by on her way home, Galligan yelled out to her that she was dead. Did you know they threatened her when she came home last week?—told her if she didn’t get you to get us off their case, they’d make her pay. ‘Take it out of your ass’ were their exact words.”
Struck cold inside, Baker recalled the little scene he’d interrupted on her stoop. “Go on,” he said.
“After they knocked her out, they dragged her all the way to the back of that parking lot where they like to hang out. Someone—and it sounded like Mrs. McCrory, though she wouldn’t give her name—heard all the commotion and called it in. When the old lady saw what was going on, she must’ve yelled to them that we were on the way, ’cause none of the boys were there when we arrived. As much as she’d love to see the whole lot of them put away, I don’t think she could’ve stomached standing by while Micki got gang-raped.”
Baker felt sick. “But you said she was all right. Now you’re saying that they—that they …” He couldn’t finish.
“The old lady scared them off in time. The doctor said there was no penetration.”
No penetration. So cold and clinical sounding. “You’re at Old Queens County General?”
“Yeah, but—” Roberts hesitated.
“But what?”
“Well, she asked me not to call you.”
“She what?” Pacing again, Baker picked up the base of the phone and almost threw it against the wall.
“She asked me not to call you, said she didn’t want you to know.”
Baker was breathing so heavily Roberts could hear it on his end of the line.
“I tell you what,” Baker said, “you take her home, but don’t tell her you spoke to me; let her think I don’t know. Tomorrow I’ll straighten this out in my own way.”
The image of Baker with Micki in the interrogation room months before flashed through Roberts’ mind. “Take it easy with her. Don’t forget, she’s got a mild concussion.”
“Did the doc say it was okay for her to go to school?”
“He said she should stay home and rest, but she kept pushing till he said it probably wouldn’t hurt. But definitely no gym.”
Baker grunted. Micki knew if she skipped school, she’d have to make up a reason why. “Just take her home, but don’t say anything. And make sure her apartment’s safe before she goes in.”
Baker hung up, but continued to pace around. Tomorrow things were going to change.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN MICKI CAME INTO the office the next morning, Baker said, “You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“And you’re late.”
“I said I didn’t sleep well.”
“Don’t you talk to me like that.” He stood up and crossed to the file cabinet to return a folder.
“Or what?” she challenged.
Slamming the file drawer shut, he turned to face her. “Do you think I don’t know what happened last night? Did you really think they wouldn’t call me?”
With a fresh look of insolence, she shrugged.
“You’re still seventeen, and I’m still your legal guardian.”
“I wasn’t doin’ anything wrong, so what’s the difference?”
“What’s the difference? You got hurt didn’t you?”
“It was nothin’.”
“It was nothing? By the time they found you, you were half undressed and unconscious—almost gang-raped. And you call that nothing? What the hell is the matter with you?”
“It’s none a yer business.”
“Christ! How many times do we have to go through this? You’re supposed to tell me everything. Everything. I shouldn’t have to hear about this from someone else.”
“Yeah? Well I think I shouldn’t have t’tell y’about somethin’ like this at all. Why should I, huh? Just so y’can get y’rocks off—”
His palm struck her cheek. Hard.
She felt a sickening sensation in her skull, and the beginning of a new headache.
“Fuck it!” he said, slapping his thigh. “I swore I’d never hit you again, but you get me so pissed off.”
“Yeah, right,” she mumbled.
“Yeah, right!” he retorted. He grabbed her shoulder. “When was the last time I hit you, huh? When? C’mon, tell me.”
She glared at him.
His expression turned smug. “You can’t even remember exactly. For chrissakes, Micki, things have changed; can’t you see that?”
She snorted.
“Jesus, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you understand that I care about you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”
“Hey! I mean it. I know I made a lot of mistakes, and”—his heart was banging against his ribs—“I’m sorry—really sorry—for the things I did.” This caused her to look up. “But I can’t undo it all, I can only go on from here and try to do better.”
He’d actually apologized—actually said the words “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you have anything to say?” he asked.
Her mind went completely blank.
The seconds ticked by while his throat constricted and his chest squeezed painfully. He said, “Well then you listen to me, and you listen good: no matter what you believe or don’t believe, don’t you ever talk to me that way again. You’d better show me some respect, because I’ve had it; do you understand me?”
Her heart fell. It was all just words. In the end, it was the same old shit.
“Do you understand me?” he repeated.
Voice flat, she responded, “Yessir.”
His head pulled back while he sucked in air. “Y’know what? I don’t want to hear anymore of this yes-sir-no-sir bullshit. Just answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ like a normal person. And don’t call me Sergeant Baker anymore, either. My name is Jim, and that’ll be just fine.” When her jaw dropped, he suddenly felt like he was all alone on a stage, not knowing where to stand or what to do with his hands. He took hold of the back of his neck and said, “Um, why don’t you go home and rest. Roberts told me the doctor said—” But his words hung in the air, her reddened, freshly slapped cheek staring back at him. “Jesus Christ! Are you all right?”
Her head hurt. “Yessir.”
Squinting, as if he might see the truth more clearly, he scrutinized her face. “Are you sure? ’Cause I still think you should go home. It’s only the second day of real classes; it’s not like you’re going to miss much.”
“I’m all right.”
But by the middle of second period, which was now American History 2, Micki told Mr. Ingram she wasn’t feeling well, and returned to the office. Baker—at his desk, his back to the door—was on the phone.
“Yeah, sure,” he said to whomever he was talking to. “Listen, I’ll call you later, okay? I gotta go.” And he resumed his paperwork.
Micki, standing behind him, was waiting for him to turn around: he had to know she was there. But Baker, rifling through papers as if looking for something, was waiting for her to address him—hoping she wouldn’t just tap him on the shoulder.
Silently, she said his name: Jim. She imagined saying it out loud. What if he hadn’t really meant what he’d said? What if he’d already forgotten he’d said it? Her heart thumped, and her face grew warm. It was making her head hurt again. She blurted out, “Baker?”
He turned to face her. “What is it, Micki?”
“I … I …”
“It’s okay,” he said. “You can call me Baker if you want.”
“Um … I think you were right. I think I should go home.”
He nodded. “Give me two minutes while I get Warner to cover for me.”
“I can take the subway …” Seeing the look on his face—and the tilt of his head—her voice trailed off. She put her jacket on and waited.
♦ ♦ ♦
THEY TURNED ONTO FORTY-FOURTH Drive, and Baker searched for a parking space. When they were inside her apartment, he told her to throw some things together so she could stay at his place overnight.
“Why can’t I stay here?” she said. “I wanna go to sleep now.”
“You’ll feel safer at my place.”
“What about work? I can’t leave Mr. Antonelli without someone for tonight. Juan took off till Friday and—”
“You shouldn’t be going to work tonight anyway. If worst comes to worst, I’ll fill in.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m sure I can handle it.” Jeez, he thought, it’s just washing dishes. How tough could it be?
♦ ♦ ♦
CLOUDS ROLLED IN AS they drove through Manhattan, bright sunlight giving way to muted grey. When they pulled up to Baker’s building, James Taylor was singing “Blossom” on the radio. Baker double-parked and left the engine running. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a set of keys with a miniature NYPD-detective’s shield attached to it. It was not the spare set she’d seen before.
“Here,” he said, handing them to her. “I don’t have time to go up with you; I’ve got to get back to work. Just make sure you double lock the door after you go in. Or if you go out, for that matter.”
“Oh! I thought you were going to … Yeah. Sure.” But though she had her bag and her books in her arms, she still hadn’t opened the door.
“You want to hear the rest of the song?” he asked.
“You mind?”
He shook his head and pulled out a cigarette. Side by side they sat and listened, their expressions somber. Then he twisted in his seat to face her. “I want you to promise me you’ll never try to kill yourself again.”
Chest heaving, she looked down.
“Promise me, Micki.”
Tears fell, and she closed her eyes.
He reached over and gently touched her hand. And though she flinched, she didn’t pull away. “Call me if you need me, okay?” he said quietly.
♦ ♦ ♦
WITHOUT MUCH CHOICE, AND with only a prayer that business would be slow, Mr. Antonelli let Baker take over for Micki that night. But when the cop headed into the kitchen, he found it shockingly hot. It was also incredibly small, as were all the people in it—except him. The tight, cramped, steamy quarters were not what he’d expected. He borrowed one of Tony’s T-shirts to work in, but it was too small and too-soon soaked with sweat. To add to his misery, he couldn’t even smoke when he wanted to. Twice he managed to run out for a few quick puffs, wondering if he’d catch his death of pneumonia from the shirt’s moist fabric chilling against his skin in the cold winter air.
Just as things were calming down from the evening rush—the bottom of the sink finally visible through the piles of plates, pots, and pans—a steady stream of odd little groups came in to finish off the night. It wasn’t until the clock read 10:22 that he hung up his apron and ripped the thick rubber gloves off his sweaty hands. After he’d changed back into his turtleneck, Mr. Antonelli offered him his pay. He told him to hold it for Micki.
He left Bel and walked the way Micki would to go home, checking out the now gated and empty parking lot where she’d been attacked the night before. Looking up at the adjacent buildings, he wondered which one of them contained Mrs. McCrory. Without her stepping forward as a witness, there was no hard evidence to charge any of the boys with anything. Earlier he’d spoken to Roberts about pressing her to give a statement.
“Forget it,” Roberts had said. “Remember, she’s got to keep living here. We’re grateful she at least tips us off the way she does. For an old gal, she’s pretty feisty.”
Baker stood quietly before the shadow-filled lot. Not a minute later, he was marching off to his car.
♦ ♦ ♦
IT WASN’T LONG TILL he found the three boys he’d seen on Micki’s stoop. They were partying with some others at a wall under the elevated train tracks, a fire they’d made in a large industrial drum keeping them warm. Of the three, Baker knew only Rick, but it wasn’t hard to guess which of the remaining two was probably McBain.
He drove past, all the way to Queens Plaza South, then back up to Forty-Fourth Avenue, killing his headlights and rolling quietly to a stop just shy of the corner. From this vantage point, he could see the boys without being easily observed himself. Laughing, they were passing around a bottle and a joint. The little scum-sucking pricks were acting like they ruled the world. He wished he could make sure none of them ever laughed again. But he could only go so far. And he could only go after one. And while McBain had most likely initiated the actual attack, it was Rick who’d started the whole thing—Rick who’d been such a pig to Micki in every way.
Baker cracked his window open, zipped up his jacket, and pulled out his cigarettes to wait.
♦ ♦ ♦
SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT, THE boys’ party broke up, and Baker was in luck: while the other boys marched down Twenty-Third Street toward Forty-Fourth Drive, Rick was headed north toward the Queensboro Bridge—alone. Based on things Micki had told him, Rick was probably off to score more weed, going there now to show the others just how cool he was. Fucking asshole.
The cop turned down Forty-Fourth Avenue and drove back to the wall. Then he turned onto Twenty-Third Street with his headlights off and came up behind Rick. Rick, appearing to possess no street sense at all, seemed unconcerned or unaware that a car was following him. It wasn’t until Baker stopped and got out that Rick even bothered to glance over his shoulder. He then darted across the street in a stiff, nerdy gait, but Baker quickly overtook him. Grabbing the boy, he spun him around and slammed him up against the chain-link fence. Overgrown with weeds and piled with litter, it clinked and rattled loudly. But there was no one there to hear.
The teen attempted an arrogant, cocky smirk.
Baker said, “You’d better wipe that shitty-assed grin off your face right now, dickhead.” Then he yanked Rick forward and turned him, pushing him, face first, against the fence. After he kicked the boy’s legs back and apart, he patted him down. Thoroughly. His catch: a small blue pipe with a rolled-up, sandwich-sized plastic bag containing only the remnants of some grass. He turned the boy again and pushed him back into the jangling links. Holding up the items and shaking them, he said, “This is kid stuff.” Then he threw everything over the fence.
The smirk returned to Rick’s face.
Baker could feel the heat growing inside him. How easy it would be to take the boy down to the ground, grab a handful of hair, and smash that ugly face of his into the concrete till it was shredded and raw. Voice low, he said, “You think I don’t know what you did to Micki? You and that punk McBain? You think I don’t know it was you who set her up last night? You and your friends who trashed her place?”
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.”