A Man's Game

by Newton Thornburg

  “A real Irish putz,” Steiner said to Baird. “You’re lucky you ain’t got him representin you.”

  The judge, Josephine Swanson, was about Baird’s age, a small, thin woman with iron-gray hair and a look of imperious indifference. As a dime-store clerk, she would have been intimidating. On the bench, she was thoroughly scary—though not to Steiner.

  “Old Jolly Josephine,” he said. “I’ll have her eatin outa my hand.”

  The courtroom itself was small and quiet, with carpeting and theater seats and walls that soaked up the sound so effectively the judge had to speak into a microphone.

  “How do you plead?” she asked.

  “Not guilty!” Steiner cried, loud enough to carry into the corridors outside.

  “And you, Mister Baird—you agree with your counsel?” the judge asked.

  Baird nodded. “Yes. I am innocent.”

  The proceeding then went on to the matter of bail, with the prosecuting attorney calmly asking that it be set at a half-million dollars, given the gravity of the charges. Steiner, who seemed to have only the one gear—indignant outrage—pounded the table for emphasis as he extolled his client’s spotless reputation as a family man and model citizen, as a long-time resident of the city and responsible homeowner. He asked the judge to set bail at one hundred thousand dollars and then thanked her when she compromised at a quarter million. Baird did not feel like thanking anyone.

  “What does it mean, that I’ve got to come up with twenty-five thousand cash? I haven’t got it.”

  Steiner was getting his papers together. “So you get a second mortgage, that’s all. And while you’re at it, you better make it for a hundred thou, so you can keep me working and feed your family too. You’ll probably lose your job.”

  “That’s a comforting thought.”

  “It’s life. Listen, let’s just hope we keep Judge Swanson. Bitch is in a permanent coma.”

  Though the judge may have been bored by the case, the media were not. In the corridor, as a couple of uniformed police led Baird and Steiner back to the jail, reporters and TV people formed a virtual phalanx for them, hurrying along backwards, filming them and throwing questions at Baird, who walked in silence, his head up, indifferent to the cameras and the manacles on his wrists. Whatever the reporters’ questions were, he didn’t even hear them. All he could think of was the look on Kathy’s face as he was being led out of the courtroom: the anguish and disbelief and terror all coming through her tears. Next to her, Ellen looked merely rueful and angry, probably hating him for bringing all this down upon them. Across the aisle, Lucca observed Baird’s departure like a proud parent, as if a son of his were graduating magna cum laude. Lee, however, did not even glance Baird’s way.

  Back in the jail, Steiner and a court clerk led Baird through the necessary maze of paperwork before he could be freed, which he finally was at five-thirty that afternoon.

  In the evening, after the last TV van and reporter had given up and driven away, Baird put on a light jacket, got his .38 pistol out of the bed table, and left the house, planning to go for a long walk through Volunteer Park, even though it was already dark and the park was officially closed for the night. He had gone only half a block when Kathy came running up behind him and took him by the hand.

  “Want some company?” she asked.

  “I’m headed for the park,” he told her. “You know, it’s not the safest place at night.”

  “So now you’ve got me to protect you,” she said.

  “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

  “It wouldn’t do you any good anyway.”

  For the first few blocks they retraced the route Kathy took from the bus each day, the same route Slade had once walked with her, crooning about death and orgasms while Baird followed in his car. The stretch along Fifteenth Avenue was fairly well lit, more so in front of the condo buildings than the private homes. But once they crossed the avenue and entered the park, they walked in darkness. The blacktop drive glistened from an earlier rain, and many of the leafy trees, half barren now and backlit by the park’s old-style streetlamps, shone like silver spiderwebs in the dampness.

  Baird and Kathy went past the spot where he had parked that first day, waiting for her bus to come. Then they went down the hill through the towering firs, past the area where the men’s room was, the home-away-from-home for the city’s more reckless gays. Even now, at night, there were a number of cars parked along the drive. And more than once, Baird’s hand slipped into his jacket pocket, to make sure the gun was still there, though he couldn’t imagine how he would actually come to use it, a man already charged with murder. But it was nighttime in a dangerous park in a dangerous city, and the gun at least gave him a sense of security.

  He and Kathy stayed on the blacktop, coming back up the steep hill to the water tower, where they turned north, heading along the street between the reservoir and the old art museum. Occasionally she would let go of his hand and they would walk on for a few minutes, then he would feel her fingers reaching for him and he would take her hand again. He knew that it was at least uncommon for a girl her age, a woman actually, to walk hand in hand with her father. But considering where they were and how dark it was—and especially where they had been that afternoon—he judged it a harmless and natural thing. And anyway he loved the feeling of her hand in his. It comforted him. It took him back to that lovely time when he was in his early thirties and she was just a child, a time when he was not about to be tried for murder.

  Just past the art museum, Kathy led him onto a gravel path that cut across the park, through the trees. And a short distance farther on, she detoured to a nearby bench and sat down.

  “I want to talk, Daddy,” she said. “I’m going crazy.”

  Sitting next to her, he sighed in concurrence. “I know, baby. So am I.”

  It had begun to rain again, so lightly Baird could hardly feel it. But he could see it on his daughter’s face, a sheen that accented her perfect features. In the light of the distant streetlamps, her eyelashes appeared tipped with diamonds.

  “I know I’m old enough to be on my own,” she said. “I know I should be able to live without my father. But I don’t know that I can, Daddy. The thought of you in prison—I’m not sure I can live with that.”

  Her eyes filled and her mouth arched in anguish. Baird took her in his arms. He patted her and kissed her on the forehead and cheek, which tasted lightly of salt.

  “You won’t have to, honey,” he assured her. “Steiner knows what he’s doing. And he says the whole case is circumstantial. They have no real evidence. I didn’t kill the creep, so how could they prove I did?”

  “Then why would they go to all this trouble? Why would the district attorney bother to indict you?”

  Baird had already answered these questions at home, explaining as much as he could to her and her mother and brother. But he knew that she needed to hear it again and again.

  “It’s because I was with him that night, just hours before he was killed. And they have witnesses that I was there. But I’d say the main reason is Sergeant Lucca. The man simply picked me for the crime—his partner told me that. I guess that’s the way he works. He decides who did what, then builds his case.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

  “A person can be convicted on just circumstantial evidence, can’t they?”

  “I guess it happens.”

  “So you really don’t know, Daddy. You could be convicted. You could go to prison.”

  “But I won’t.”

  She laid her head on his shoulder and hugged him, crying softly. “I don’t know if I could make it,” she said again. “I love you so much. I know Mother thinks I’m a case of arrested development or even worse, some kind of sicko, an Electra or something. But I just love you, Daddy, that’s all. You’ve always been so good to me, and never judged me, and never tried to hurt my feelings the way she does. And you’ve loved me, always. I always kn
ew that, no matter what. I always knew my daddy loved me.”

  She was sobbing now. And Baird was not dry-eyed either. Unable to speak for a time, he hugged her and kissed her head, nuzzling her thick, damp hair.

  “That’s for sure,” he said finally. “I’ve always loved you, baby. And I always will. And I won’t leave you. I won’t go to prison.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes, honey, I promise.”

  It occurred to him that if anyone had seen the two of them sitting there in the middle of the park in the drizzly darkness, hugging and crying, that person would probably have thought them lovers. But he didn’t care. He knew that he loved Kathy only as a father loved a daughter. It was true, he probably cared more for her than he did for anyone else, including his wife and son. And she probably loved him just as much. But he could not see anything wrong in that. In fact, he had little doubt that it was the best thing in his life, something of real value, something to keep him going no matter what lay ahead.

  So he did not take it lightly, the promise he had just made to her. At the same time, he knew that in order to keep that promise, he was going to have to do more than wring his hands and hope for the best.

  At home, he changed into dry clothes and again left the house. He drove through the university district to Lake City Avenue and went north along the lake, stopping at a number of bars on the way. In each of them he had at least two double vodka tonics, drinking them quickly while he smoked or nibbled on peanuts or whatever other snack the bar provided. No one seemed to recognize him from the television news earlier, which was a considerable relief. He imagined that the bartenders and their patrons simply couldn’t make a connection between him as he was now, combed and shaved and wearing a dark-blue blazer and gray flannel slacks, and the poor manacled wretch on TV, lost in a baggy orange jumpsuit.

  Nevertheless, when the eleven-o’clock news was about to come on, he drained his glass and hurried out of the last bar, making do after that with a bottle of Reisling bought at a supermarket and drunk in his car, while he was parked outside the Oolala, keeping his eye on Satin’s little red Geo Storm.

  At twelve-forty-five, when he saw her come out of the building and walk toward the car, he started the Buick and headed for her apartment building, driving as fast as he dared. He still had the .38 pistol with him, though hidden under the seat now in case he was stopped for drunken driving, which he knew was not exactly a long shot for a man who had developed the habit of drinking doubles. Why he had brought the gun after the walk through the park, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t feel that he was in any particular danger now, and he certainly had no intention of using it on Satin. Yet there it was, stashed directly under him. Smiling in alcoholic whimsy, he wondered if he had brought the thing along just in case he happened to run into Sergeant Lucca somewhere—say, on a lonely bluff above the lake.

  When he reached Satin’s apartment house, he found the parking lot much better lit than it had been on the night of the killing. Also, the evergreens that had bordered the walkway had been replaced with ornamental shrubs too small for anyone to hide behind. He went around to the south side of the building, where the entrances to the individual apartments were. At the front there was a recessed bank of mailboxes, each with a tiny space for the tenant’s name. T. Dean, he saw, was in Number Twenty-three, on the second floor. He knew that she would be frightened when she first saw him, so he tried to make himself appear as innocuous as possible, sitting down on the bottom stair, ready at any moment to rest his head on his arms, in the manner of a common street drunk—not exactly a stretch for him, he reflected.

  Within a few minutes he heard a car turn in and saw the beam of its headlights darting through the trees. He heard it pull into a parking space, then its door opening and closing, followed by the sound of spiked heels on the walkway. When she came around the corner of the building, he didn’t even look up, not until she spoke.

  “What are you doing here? What do you want? You’re not supposed to be here! Sergeant Lucca said—”

  “I know, I know,” Baird said. She was standing next to the mailboxes, holding her right hand inside her purse, and he wondered if he was about to be shot or maced. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he went on. “I just want to talk to you. I want to know why you changed your testimony.”

  “Because I decided to tell the truth, that’s why. Now you know, you can leave.”

  She was wearing a tan cable-knit sweater and a short, tight brown-leather skirt. Her abundant hair was hanging loose.

  “I just want to talk with you,” he said again, getting heavily to his feet. “You know, if I’m who you say I am, then I probably saved your life.”

  For a few more seconds she continued to stand there motionless, floodlit, undecided. Then she withdrew her hand from the purse, and he was relieved to see that it wasn’t holding a gun but a key ring attached to a fuzzy pink ball. She moved past him on the stairs.

  “All right, come on up,” she said. “But only for a few minutes, all right?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Inside, she flipped on a wall switch and a pair of dim, heavily shaded lamps came on, barely lighting the apartment, which was quite small, just a living-dining area, a kitchenette, bedroom and bathroom. In the dimness, Baird had the feeling that he had stumbled into Bramante’s by mistake. When Satin switched on a stereo, though, it was not Dean Martin he heard but a heavy-metal band, mercifully turned low. She went into the kitchenette and got a Coke out of the refrigerator.

  “You want anything to drink?” she asked, reaching for a lone bottle of rum.

  “Rum and ice would be fine,” he said.

  She made his drink first, then her own, rum and Coke mixed half and half. “I usually don’t have the hard stuff,” she said. “My mother was a lush.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah. Tell me about it” She got two white pills out of a prescription bottle and washed them down.

  “Tranks,” she said. “Ever since the assault, I’ve been real tense.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  After she had given him his drink, Baird went into the living area and stood there waiting for her.

  “Well, sit down,” she said. “Who do you think I am—Princess Diana?”

  He took her advice, sitting in a cushioned wicker chair. She kicked off her shoes, a pair of brown pumps, and dropped onto the sofa.

  “What do you think of the place?” she asked. “I decorated it myself.”

  Baird had no doubt of that. In addition to the white wicker living-room set, there was a large, velour-framed wall mirror hanging above a pair of green polka-dot beanbag chairs. In the dining area there was a smoked-glass table with chairs made of black plastic and gold-colored metal tubing. There were gauzy pink throw rugs and a half-dozen enlarged wall photos framed in velour of different colors. It was the photos themselves, however, that dominated the place, all of them of Satin, all in color, and all astonishingly beautiful. Two were of her face and one was a shot of just her eyes, but the other three were full-figure pictures of her dancing nude. They were so compelling that Baird had a hard time paying attention to the girl herself, who was sitting right in front of him. And this seemed to please her. She smiled and laughed.

  “Everybody says I’m a real narcist,” she said, dropping a syllable. “I mean, having all these pictures of me here, and in my working clothes. But I say why not? It’s what I do. And I work hard to stay in shape, and I know I’m not always going to look this way.”

  Baird was trying hard to conceal how drunk he was. Even on the stairs, he had moved with great care, knowing that if he tripped or made a fool of himself in some other way, she would not want to talk with him. So he spoke carefully now, trying not to slur his words.

  “Even old, you’ll still be beautiful.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “No, I mean it. Your eyes won’t change, and your face—your bone structure—will still be the same. You’ll look
older, but still beautiful.”

  Though she was smiling, she looked embarrassed too, and he wondered if she was blushing. In the dimness, it was hard to tell.

  “But then, you didn’t let me in just to hear compliments,” he said. “So I might as well get to it. It’s like I said outside, Terri—I’d really appreciate it if you could explain it to me, why you changed your testimony.”

  Her smile faded. “I already told you—because it’s true. Sergeant Lucca told me about lying in court and what could happen to me. Perjury, it’s called. I could’ve went to prison.”

  “You didn’t know that before?”

  “Not like he told me. And anyway, it’s true, isn’t it? You were one of them.”

  “If that’s so, why did you lie at first?”

  She sipped at her drink. “I don’t know. It just seemed easier, that’s all.”

  “And now it’s not?”

  “It sure isn’t. I’m telling you, that Lucca can scare the hell out of you. Not only the perjury thing, but he also said he’d get on my case full time. He said he’d keep hassling me—haul me in for prostitution and like that. And I never hooked in my whole life.”

  “He can’t do that. It’s illegal. It’s intimidating a witness.”

  “All he wanted, he said, was the truth.”

  “That ‘truth,’ Terri, might put me in prison for the rest of my life. You realize that?”

  She looked uneasy. “You know, you really shouldn’t be here. I think maybe it’s time for you to go.”

  “Oh, come on, honey,” he said, forgetting himself. “There’s no reason to be afraid. I’d never hurt you. I’m not Slade, you know.”

  “‘Honey.’” She smiled shyly. “That’s what you called me that night.”

  “It’s a habit, I guess. I have a daughter about your age.”

  Baird was finding it hard to concentrate. He had to keep reminding himself that he had come here for a specific purpose: that if he couldn’t persuade her to go back to her original position, unable to identify him, then he at least had to convince her—remind her—that she had not even glimpsed the other assailant and therefore could not identify him as Slade. Steiner had told Baird more than once that if Lucca or the D.A. got to the girl, somehow convinced her that she had seen both Baird and Slade together just ten or fifteen minutes before the murder was alleged to have taken place—that, Steiner said, would be the ball game. Baird would be convicted.