by Randy Mason
“Continuing to see Micki’s shrink?”
“Well—yeah. I’ve been going for a while now.”
“C’mon, you guys,” Martini called from the living room. “We don’t wanna wait till Christmas comes around again to deal the next hand.”
“Keep your pants on,” Malone yelled back. Then to Baker, “Did Tillim ask for your guns?”
“No, but from what I’ve heard, he leaves that to the department: you’re supposed to take them from me.”
Malone grunted and rubbed his forehead. “Well, he obviously didn’t tell me you were seeing the kid’s shrink. And I’m going to pretend that you didn’t tell me, either. That being said, is it helping? You, I mean. Not the kid.”
“It’s helping both of us.”
“Well—that’s good. I have to say, you look more relaxed.”
“By the way, I hope you don’t mind that I gave Micki your number in case she needs me.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s coming along.”
Malone nodded and started to turn away, but Baker grabbed his arm. “I—I never really thanked you,” he said, “for everything you’ve done for me.”
Malone’s expression softened, and he patted Baker on the back.
“What’s goin’ on over there?” Tierney shouted. “Another private party, or are we invited? We’re startin’ to wonder about you two.”
The men headed into the living room.
Taking his seat, Baker asked, “Where’s Gould?”
“Home sick—said it’s a stomach bug this time. First his kids, then his wife, now him.”
“Another reason to stay single,” Tierney quipped.
“Bullshit,” Martini said. “It’s just that no decent woman would ever have you.”
“Shut up,” Tierney shot back.
The rest of them grinned.
“Deal!” Baker called, rubbing his hands together. “I feel lucky tonight.”
♦ ♦ ♦
SNOWFLAKES TWIRLED IN THE light of the streetlamp, the sidewalk below looking like it had been dusted with powdered sugar. Micki watched in the dark as the tiny crystals danced in the air, then fell to the ground, getting lost amongst the others. Supposedly, no two were ever exactly alike. Just like fingerprints.
She stepped back from the window and flopped down on the bed. She was so tired of her life. It was so empty—so pointless. And, pretty as it was, the newly decorated apartment was still nothing more than a place to live. Temporary. Like everything else. It didn’t belong to her, never did and never would. At least if her memory came back, she’d have something to hold onto, something to call her own. She’d even asked Dr. Lerner about hypnosis; it looked so easy when they did it on TV. But the doctor had said, “There are reasons why you can’t remember, Micki; your mind is protecting you. Forcing things to unfold too rapidly could prove dangerous.”
Micki got up and turned on the light. And though she didn’t really want to do homework, she opened her physics textbook anyway, eyes wandering now and then to the piece of paper tucked under the phone. “Captain Malone,” it said in Baker’s handwriting, with the number printed beneath. He’d offered to stay over again, too.
She closed the book, changed into her nightshirt, brushed her teeth, and got into bed. Outside, the street was quiet, the whoosh of an occasional passing car sounding lonely. She always wondered about the people who were traveling so late: Where were they going? Who were they hoping to see? Twenty minutes later, she was still awake and listening to a truck idling on the street below. After another quarter of an hour had dragged by, she went to the closet and took down Baker’s sleeping bag.
♦ ♦ ♦
“GOTTA GO,” BAKER ANNOUNCED, putting out his cigarette and standing up.
Practically whining, Tierney said, “It’s still early. Y’gotta give us a chance to win some of that back.”
“Sorry, boys”—Baker grinned, waving around the forty-six dollars he’d won—“but I’ve got to go check on the kid. You’ll have to wait till next time.”
With little traffic to contend with, he drove from Malone’s house, in New Jersey, to Manhattan via the George Washington Bridge. Then he took the Harlem River Drive, the FDR, and, ultimately, the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge into Queens. When he arrived at Micki’s building, her windows were dark, so he let himself in as quietly as possible and stood by the door. Once his eyes had adjusted, he could see her sleeping. Soundly. About to leave, he paused to take a closer look: she was nestled inside his sleeping bag.
He left the apartment. Smiling.
♦ ♦ ♦
SATURDAY, BAKER ROSE EARLY. He went to the grocery store, did some laundry, worked out heavily at the gym, then stopped by Micki’s to leave her Cynthia’s phone number.
Lying in a heap on the bed, Micki barely managed to say hello. When Baker suggested they go to a movie the following afternoon, she shrugged.
He told her to be ready by two.
♦ ♦ ♦
“IS MICKI MAKING ANY progress?” Cynthia asked as they settled themselves on the plush white couch.
“She was, but now I’m not so sure.” Baker looked down and swirled his glass of Coke. The ice cubes rattled around against each other. He looked up again. “So when do you find out about your audition?”
“Oh, I …” Cynthia’s hand went to the string of crystal beads around her neck. “Um, okay. Well—I already know I didn’t get it. They said I read well, but look too old.”
“Ouch.”
She laughed and made a funny face.
He smiled.
“Believe me,” she said, “it’s a relief. That play was awful. There’s a reason they say ‘be grateful for the roles you don’t get.’ Besides, I’ve made up my mind to start graduate classes next fall.”
Soda held high, he said, “Then I propose a toast to one of the best mathematics teachers New York City schools will ever see.” With a ceremonious flourish, they clinked their glasses together and drank.
Chin and eyes motioning toward his Coke, Cynthia asked, “How long has it been?”
“About a month.”
“A month! Let’s celebrate: Anthony’s Grill—my treat. And no negotiating.”
“How could I reject an offer made by such a beautiful woman?”
“You can’t,” she said, and went to get her coat.
♦ ♦ ♦
FLAMES LICKED THE LOGS and crackled in the fireplace. A spray of sparks glittered for an instant and was gone. Stomachs full, they sat on the floor with their backs against the couch and watched.
“So what’s really going on, Cyn?” Baker asked, eyes fixed on the flickering light. “I know you much too well. Whenever you’re as bright and cheery as you were at dinner, you’re covering up for something.”
She sighed. “Too much change too fast. And every time I look back on my relationship with Mark, I feel so foolish—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted. “You got swept away in a fantasy because you were so hurt.” He absently stroked his chin, then added, “By me.”
“Well, then,” she said, “there’s my career. I feel my decision to quit acting is right, but it still hurts. I had such high hopes, and I worked so hard.” A small, bitter-sounding noise escaped her throat. “I think it’s called ‘getting nowhere fast.’ ” He turned to look at her, but she’d already turned away. “I’m certainly feeling sorry for myself, aren’t I.” And she quickly wiped at some tears.
“You’re mourning the loss of a dream,” he said gently. “There’s a difference.”
She looked back. “It was a foolish dream!”
“No,” he said. “No, it wasn’t. I’ve come to realize that just pursuing a dream—whether you succeed or not—is pretty courageous. There’s no shame in not reach
ing a goal, only in not trying.”
“But I’m giving up.”
“I don’t think so; I really don’t. I think you’ve come to the end of this part of your journey, and it’s brought you to something else. You said it yourself: it’s simply time to move on.”
Sniffling, her eyes lit up, and she laughed. “Listen to you; you sound like me.”
He smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” But then the smile faded, and he looked back at the fire.
The flames continued to snap and pop.
“What’re you thinking about?” she finally asked.
Still gazing at the fire, he took a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it go. “I was thinking,” he said, “that I owe Micki my life.”
With a slight tilt of her head, Cynthia asked, “What do you mean? You saved her life—twice.”
He turned to Cynthia with such pain in his eyes that her lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out. He looked down, eventually turning his face away. She reached over and tenderly caressed his cheek, the back of her fingers lingering at the edge of his jaw. When he turned toward her again, their eyes locked. And then the only sound was from the logs shifting in the fireplace, the flames burning brighter after throwing off another shower of glowing embers.
Baker breathed in. “I’m sorry, Cyn, but I’ve gotta go. I don’t have this ‘just friends’ thing down a hundred percent yet.” But as he started to gather his feet beneath him, she lightly touched his arm.
“You don’t have to leave,” she whispered.
chapter 36
OVERCAST SKIES THREATENED SNOW, but the weather reports claimed it wouldn’t start till after midnight. Baker was late. Standing at the window, Micki was watching the street and thinking about sleeping some more until he got there. Maybe he’d forgotten. A yellow VW Beetle put-putted by in search of a parking spot, and then she spotted the familiar blue Camaro pulling up behind it. Her heart jumped, and she watched as Baker double-parked in front of her building. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he was looking at something in the newspaper while he headed for the stoop. She threw her jacket on, checked her pockets, and grabbed her keys. As soon as he knocked, she opened the door.
“Never just open the door,” he said. “Always ask who it is first.”
“I saw you from the window.”
“Are you ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why don’t you grab your books and throw some stuff in your bag—you can stay over at my place tonight.”
“Why?”
“Change of scenery, that’s all.”
He stepped inside to flick some ashes into the saucer.
She gathered her things together.
♦ ♦ ♦
BECAUSE MICKI LIKED RIDING in the car and listening to the radio, they drove all the way up to Westchester for a three twenty showing of The Return of the Pink Panther. This latest movie with Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau was supposed to be the funniest yet, and they weren’t disappointed; the hapless French policeman was at the top of his form.
Afterward, they went to a nearby diner made up to look like a medieval castle, a coat of arms flying from a banner on top of the roof. Inside, while waiting for the hostess, they watched oversized cakes go round and round in a glass carousel. They were soon seated in a booth, where they took off their jackets and examined the menus. When the waitress arrived and pulled out her pad, they both ordered burgers, fries, and Cokes.
They were munching on crackers when Micki said, “I don’t like the new patrol cars.”
“The turquoise ones?”
“Yeah.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the color.”
“But the old white-tops—with that awful green and black—are so ugly.”
“But these are too pretty—too friendly. I mean, they’re police cars.”
Baker chuckled, and their platters arrived. They took turns pouring ketchup all over everything.
“So tell me something,” he asked after taking a bite, “’cause I’ve been curious.”
Micki’s chewing became cautious.
“I know how you got your last name, but I’ve always wondered how you got your first name.” Sipping his soda through a straw, he raised his eyebrows.
Micki put her burger down, then picked up a French fry and swirled it around in the pool of ketchup on her plate. Eyes glued to the French fry, she asked, “Have you stopped drinking?”
“Yes.”
She looked up. “Not even beer?”
“Not even beer.”
“How come?”
“Because I have a problem with alcohol.”
She returned to playing with the French fry, which proceeded to break in half, its hot, white center releasing aromatic steam. She looked up. “You have to swear you’ll never tell anyone.”
Caught with his mouth full, he swallowed what he was chewing and wiped a bit of ketchup off his lips. “Okay.”
“No, you have to actually say it.”
Though most of his face bore a solemn expression, a gentle smile was creeping its way into his eyes. “I swear I won’t tell a soul, Micki—cross my heart and hope to die.”
She rolled her eyes, then took a deep breath and put the French fry down. “Okay—so … the place I fell asleep in ’cause I thought it was safe—y’know, that first night that I can remember—that was Tim’s hangout. When he found me there, he was really pissed. I woke up with a knife to my throat.”
“Jesus! Really?”
“Yeah—well—he said, ‘Gimme one good reason why I shouldn’t slit your fuckin’ throat right now.’ Of course, I couldn’t, and, I dunno, I thought I was good as dead. But then the next thing I know, he asks me my name. And I thought if I told him the truth—that I couldn’t remember—he’d never believe me. So—um—on the floor, there was all this garbage, y’know? And I noticed this old magazine that was open to an article about Mickey Mantle. So—so I just said, ‘Mickey.’ ” Looking at Baker expectantly, she twirled the upright ketchup bottle around on top of the table.
His knitted brow relaxed while a grin began to emerge. “But you spell it M-i-c-k-i.”
“Well, I didn’t want anyone to know.” God, he could be so dense.
Throwing his head back, Baker laughed, and Micki looked at him with an uncertain smile. He said, “Mickey’s a normal enough name—more so for guys—but still, I don’t think anyone would’ve guessed where you got it from.”
She shrugged, mouth twisting with mild irritation.
He added, “Thank god it wasn’t an article about Yogi Berra.”
And though she hung her head to try to hide it, Baker could see she was laughing.
Breezing to a stop by their booth, the waitress inquired, “How are we doing here?”
Gaze fastened on Micki, Baker replied, “We’re doing just fine.” The waitress moved on, and Baker leaned back, affecting the mannerisms of Inspector Clouseau “in disguise” as Monsieur Guy Gadbois: his shoulders, eyes, and cheeks twitched, his face sometimes assuming an almost pained expression. Then he raised his glass of soda, and, in his best Clouseau voice, said, “Here’s-a loo-king at-a you, kid!”
Micki giggled.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI TURNED ONTO HER back. Though she’d fallen asleep several hours earlier, she was now wide awake and staring at the ceiling.
For just a moment, she feels a pulling sensation in her leg, as if it’s about to knot up. And then she’s completely paralyzed and on her left side, someone pressing heavily on her right shoulder. Left pudgy cheek squished into the mattress, it’s hard for her to breathe, and only one eye, wide with terror, is open.
But now she’s looking down from the ceiling and feeling nothing—she
’s numb. The room is squalid; the only furniture, the bed. But she can see herself on it, no more than an infant, her naked little body still clothed in baby fat. Behind her, a man is standing, hips thrusting while, out in the hallway, there are others—including her father. And something is changing hands. But the man in the room is doing something horrible to her. He hates her and wants to punish her for being female—even though she’s so tiny.
Once again in her little body on the mattress, her heart is racing so fast and so hard that she thinks it’ll burst. Bright flashes of light are coming from the direction of the door.
And then it’s over. Micki’s back in Baker’s apartment, still staring at the ceiling.
She’s starting to remember.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE NEXT MORNING, BAKER made eggs and toast, but was the only one eating them. Micki’s breakfast was a Nestlé Crunch bar that she was poking around on the plate in front of her. Chewing slowly, he eyed her selection, then her. She refused to meet his gaze. Halfway through her “meal,” she lost interest and merely sipped her coffee, directing a vacant stare at the middle of the table.
Baker put his toast down with a heavy hand that knocked the butter knife off his plate. He needed this shit like a hole in the head. “What’s bothering you?”
Still staring at the Formica, she shrugged.
“Hey!”
She looked at him.
“What’s wrong?”
She studied his face: the dark eyes, the deepening lines … But all she said was, “Nothing.”
He let it go. Maybe this was some strange rebound effect from the pleasant time they’d had yesterday.
But he didn’t think so.
♦ ♦ ♦
TWO UNIFORMED OFFICERS WERE leading away the senior Jamison had caught attacking a junior girl on a staircase that led to the basement. This was the second attempted rape since Baker had been at the high school. Seated at his desk, he was starting in on some paperwork when the phone rang. He was surprised to hear Malone’s voice on the line: “Good news, Sergeant.”
♦ ♦ ♦
“ARE YOU WARM ENOUGH?” Baker asked.
