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.”