Undercover Baby

by Gina Wilkins

  Dallas thought sympathetically of the people who had to live here without the comforting knowledge that their occupancy would only be temporary. She’d been in even worse accommodations, of course; seen some places so filthy and disgusting that it had been hard to believe human beings could live that way. It was always children that got to her the most. Someone had to look out for them when their parents failed to do the job—and Dallas had long since appointed herself that task.

  She patted her false tummy, thinking of Polly Jones’s baby. If Dallas could help it, that helpless infant wouldn’t be placed in the hands of people who cared more about cash than human life.

  She tapped meekly on the door of Polly’s apartment.

  “Who is it?” Polly’s rather strident voice demanded from within.

  “It’s Dallas Pulaski,” Dallas replied, trying to sound intimidated. “Your new neighbor?”

  The door opened.

  Polly Jones was not a woman to wear ruffles, even in pregnancy. Her long, bulging body was encased in a tight purple shirt and tighter black slacks, her swollen feet shoved painfully into high-heeled black shoes. Even this early in the morning—barely ten o’clock—her long black hair was already teased and lacquered, her dark eyes heavily made up, her sullen mouth painted a bright red. From appearance alone, Dallas would have judged her to be in her late thirties, but some instinct made her take about ten years off that figure. Polly was probably only three or four years older than Dallas.

  “Whaddaya need?” Polly asked, cocking one hip at an angle that looked absolutely painful, considering her condition.

  Dallas twisted her fingers in front of her and tried to look shy. “I, uh, have to buy some groceries this morning,” she explained. “I thought maybe you could tell me where you get yours. The place with the lowest prices,” she added.

  Polly shrugged. “Cochran’s on the corner of Twenty-third and Polk is probably the cheapest. It’s only a couple blocks away, so you can walk if your old man’s got the car.”

  Dallas nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “They take food stamps.”

  “Oh, we don’t have any food stamps.”

  Polly looked surprised. “No? How come? Your old man’s out of work, isn’t he?”

  Dallas looked anxious. “Yes, but he’s very proud. He won’t take assistance.”

  Polly glanced down at Dallas’s protruding middle. “Not even for the kid?”

  With a heavy sigh, Dallas shook her head. “He’s—he hasn’t exactly gotten used to the idea of a baby yet,” she said. “He isn’t really very happy about it. He says if it wasn’t for the baby, we wouldn’t be in such bad shape. I’m sure he’ll change his mind once the baby gets here,” she added hastily, hopefully. “Sam’s really a good man. He just worries a lot.”

  “Ain’t that just like a man,” Polly muttered in disgust. “Gets you knocked up, then blames you for it. If it was up to me, the whole lot of ‘em could just up and die.”

  Dallas giggled nervously. “I’m sure you don’t really mean that.”

  “Don’t bet on it, kid. Hey, you want a cup of coffee? Got some water boiling for instant.”

  Dallas allowed her face to brighten. “That would be nice,” she said, feigning delight that someone—anyone—was being kind to her, as though it were an unusual experience for her.

  “Come on in, then.” Polly deliberately kept any expression from her own face, but Dallas sensed that the other woman was a bit lonely, herself.

  Polly’s apartment was laid out exactly the same as the one Dallas and Sam were renting. A small living room, tiny eat-in kitchen, one bedroom and a bath. Like theirs, hers was furnished with cheap, dilapidated, mismatched pieces. There were no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks on display. Except for a slight clutter of discarded shoes and papers and a couple of empty soda cans, the apartment could almost have looked unoccupied.

  Leading the way to the kitchen, Polly glanced around as though aware of the impression. “I haven’t done any decorating,” she said by way of explanation. “I don’t plan to stay here long. Just till after this kid’s born.”

  “When is your baby due?”

  “About five more weeks.” She pressed a hand to the small of her back as she reached for coffee mugs. “None too soon, as far as I’m concerned. I ain’t never been this sore and achy in my life. But I guess you know that.”

  “Uh—yeah. It’s not exactly a comfortable condition, is it?” Dallas maneuvered herself carefully into one of the two chairs at the table that was identical to the one in her apartment.

  Polly made a face at the understatement. “No,” she said wryly. “Not exactly.”

  She slid a steaming mug in front of Dallas, then took the other seat with her own. “Oh,” she said belatedly, after she’d already sat down. “You want sugar or something? I’m out of milk, but I may have some powdered creamer.”

  Dallas shook her head. “This is fine,” she replied, after sipping the too-strong instant coffee. She had long since grown accustomed to lousy coffee.

  “So when’s your kid due?”

  “Not long after yours,” Dallas answered vaguely.

  “You doing that Lamaze stuff? Not me, I told ‘em I want all the drugs they can legally give me.”

  Dallas chuckled and shook her head. “I’m no masochist,” she said. “I’ll take advantage of whatever benefits modern medicine can provide.” And she would, too, if the time ever came when she had to make that decision, she told herself with a hidden smile.

  “Think ol’ Sam will go into the delivery room with you?”

  Remembering her role, Dallas nodded fervently. “Oh, I’m sure he will. He says he won’t now, but I think he’ll change his mind when the time comes.”

  Polly sighed deeply and shook her head. Dallas noted in wonder that the woman’s long hair didn’t even sway with the movement. Must be industrial strength hairspray, she decided, wondering if it would hold up in a windstorm. She almost missed Polly’s words: “You really think that guy’s going to come around just like that?”

  Dallas twisted the coffee mug in her hands. “He’ll come around,” she insisted. “Sam will be a good father.”

  Polly shook her head again, and this time there was pity on her face. “Whatever you say, kid.”

  “Um—what about your baby’s father, Polly? Is he helping you now?”

  Polly shrugged. “Hell, I don’t even know who the father is.” She eyed Dallas through her long, heavily-blackened lashes. “Does that shock ya?”

  “No, of course not,” Dallas said hastily, making sure she looked properly shocked.

  Polly laughed without humor. “Yeah, right. Man, where did you come from? A potato farm?”

  “Soybeans,” Dallas answered, wide-eyed. “My father was a soybean farmer. How did you know?”

  Polly laughed again, with genuine amusement this time. Her broad smile erased a good five years from her face. “You really are a piece of work. Hey, you want me to go with you to the store? I can show you around, if you like. And I could use a few things, myself.”

  “That would be really nice,” Dallas said in delight. “Thank you.”

  Polly gave her a stick-with-me-kid-I’ll-take-care-o'-ya look. “You bet.”

  * * *

  IT WAS JUST AFTER five-thirty when Sam returned to the apartment. He wiped dust and sweat off his face with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of mud across his cheek. His T-shirt clung wetly to his chest and his jeans were streaked with dirt. The grubby entryway of the apartment building provided little welcome as he wearily entered, but he found himself looking forward to seeing Dallas. Just to find out if she’d learned anything during the day, he assured himself hastily.

  An old woman in a faded housedress and sagging knee-high stockings thumped past him behind an aluminum walker. He nodded politely to her and murmured a greeting. She moved closer to the wall opposite him, her pale eyes wary beneath a fringe of straggly gray hair. She didn’t return the greeting,
and Sam didn’t linger. He sensed that she was afraid of him—afraid of everyone, most likely. She’d probably learned her fears the hard way, he thought sympathetically.

  Two very young Hispanic-looking children sat in the stairwell outside the second floor, the little boy holding a plastic truck and the little girl clutching a ragged cloth doll. Sam passed them without speaking. He didn’t want to encourage them to start talking to strangers, though the darting looks they gave him indicated that they’d been warned about that already. The stairwell was hardly a safe place for them to play, but where else could they go? Out on the streets? He sighed, thinking of the backyard swing set on which he’d spent most of his time at their ages.

  The dim third-floor hallway was deserted. He could almost have imagined he was walking through an empty building, had it not been for all the sounds drifting through the thin floor and ceiling—music playing, televisions roaring, a baby crying, a man bellowing someone’s name. He thought wistfully of his own apartment building. It wasn’t exactly luxurious, but it was considerably more soundproof than this one. And a hell of a lot cleaner, he added with a grimace as he stepped around something on the floor—something he knew he’d be better off not bothering to identify.

  He shoved his key into the door of the apartment on the right and let himself in, immediately looking around for his partner. He found her in the kitchen, stirring something in a pan on the stove.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” she said, turning to greet him. “I was starving, so I thought we’d eat early. I—oh,” she said, seeing him clearly for the first time. “You’re filthy. What have you been up to?”

  He couldn’t help grinning at her appearance—the ruffled pink shirt and pink pants, the huge bulge of the harness she was still wearing, her hair pulled back into a ridiculously tiny ponytail, her face flushed and damp from the heat of the stove. “I’ve been working. Who are you pretending to be, June Cleaver? Or Harriet Nelson?”

  “Both before my time, Perry,” she retorted, then asked, “Working where?”

  “Construction crew. A guy walked off the job at lunchtime and the foreman hired me on the spot. I was kinda hoping it would take a few days to find something,” he added wearily. “It’s too hot for that kind of work.”

  “Poor baby,” she said mockingly. “So, did you talk to any of the guys?”

  He shook his head. “Exchanged names with a few, but that was all I had time for today. They kept me running. I’ll start talking to some of them tomorrow. I have to report by eight.”

  She looked at his sweat-drenched clothing. “You’d better keep plenty of water at hand while you’re working. You’ll dehydrate quickly in this heat.”

  “The foreman’s real insistent on everyone drinking lots of water. He provides it, ice cold. I’ll need to pack a lunch tomorrow, though. I never got a chance to eat today.”

  “Then you must be hungry. Go take a quick shower and I’ll get this on the table.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Sanders,” he said sincerely.

  The smile she gave him was surprisingly friendly. “Sure.”

  Hot water was in short supply in the building, but Sam didn’t miss it when he stepped beneath the cool shower. He turned his face gratefully into the spray.

  It had been pretty nice coming home to dinner and a smile, he decided, as he reached for the soap. He studied the pink bar for a moment, sniffed it and made a face at the floral scent, then shrugged and began to work up a lather.

  It had been almost a year since he’d shared living quarters with a woman. He and Paula had lived together for four whole months after dating for almost a year—a record relationship for him. She’d moved in after assuring him that she would be perfectly happy just to be with him when he wasn’t working, that she could accept his long hours and frequently absent nights. Eight weeks later, she’d started complaining.

  When she’d started hinting broadly that she had marriage on her mind—and a change of career planned for him—he’d realized that he simply couldn’t offer her what she needed from him. When she’d reached the same conclusion, she’d moved out. Last he heard, she was contentedly engaged to an accountant.

  The breakup had left him surly and bitter. Not that he’d been deeply in love with Paula; he’d known from the beginning that his feelings for her hadn’t been that strong, though he’d been very fond of her. It was just that he’d grown up watching the close, loving relationship between his parents and he’d always vaguely envisioned something similar for himself. He didn’t relish the thought of coming home to an empty apartment every evening for the rest of his life—but when it had come right down to it, he’d found himself unable to commit to the one woman who’d made it clear that she wanted marriage and children with him.

  He was beginning to believe that there was something lacking in him. Maybe he hadn’t gotten a complete set of happiness genes, or whatever the hell it was that made others content with their lot in life. Sam wasn’t content. Not with his job, his surroundings, his future—his life. And he didn’t know what in hell to do about it.

  He shook his dripping head in disgust as he stepped out of the shower. Why the hell was he getting all maudlin now? Dallas was waiting in the kitchen with a fresh-cooked meal and the details of her first day on assignment. He had too much to do to waste time moping over his disappointments.

  * * *

  DALLAS WAS JUST SETTING a casserole dish in the center of the table when Sam rejoined her in the kitchen. She slid her hands out of the tattered oven mitts she’d worn and glanced over her shoulder at him. “You like lasagna?”

  “I love lasagna,” he assured her.

  “Good. I know it’s kind of hot for such a heavy dish, but I got this sudden craving when I was in the store and saw the lasagna noodles. I hope it’s good—I had to buy the cheapest ingredients, of course. There’s a tossed salad and whole-kernel corn to go with it.”

  “Sounds great. What can I do to help?”

  “Everything’s ready. Have a seat. Oh, do you want iced tea, milk, or soda? I’m afraid the budget doesn’t extend to good wine.”

  Sam chose tea. He was already reaching for the lasagna when he took his seat. “I didn’t know you could cook, Sanders.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Perry,” she countered, taking her own seat and reaching for the salad, which she’d served as a side dish rather than a first course.

  He realized that her statement was true. He knew almost nothing about her personal life. If she was involved with anyone, he hadn’t heard anything about it. He hadn’t even known she didn’t have a family until she’d let it slip yesterday. She’d been abandoned, she’d said. Had she grown up in foster homes? An orphanage?

  It didn’t seem quite the time to ask such personal questions. Instead, he settled for teasing. “So, you had a craving for lasagna, huh? Aren’t you taking this pregnancy thing a little seriously?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Cute, Sam.”

  He laughed. A moment later he sighed. “Man, this is good. Sanders, I take back a third of the ugly things I’ve said about you.”

  “Only a third?”

  “I’m feeling generous.” He dumped bottled Italian dressing on his salad and stabbed into it with his fork. “So, did you get a chance to talk to our friendly neighborhood hooker today?”

  “Polly? Yeah. She made instant coffee for me and went with me to the store. I think she’s taking me under her wing. She told the grocer to be nice to me or she’d have her big friends pay him a little visit.”

  Sam grinned. “How’d you manage that?”

  “By convincing her that I was a sweet but slightly dim-witted helpless woman living with a self-centered jerk of a guy who treats her like dirt.”

  “Me, right?”

  “You,” she happily confirmed.

  He sighed. “And she bought your helpless-little-victim routine? She may be softhearted, but she’s not exactly perceptive.”

  “Hey, I’m good at w
hat I do, Perry. And Polly’s sort of nice,” she added, stirring her fork through the thick sauce on her plate.

  “Nice?” Sam repeated, remembering the loud-voiced woman who’d yelled at him the day before. “Yeah, right.”

  “She is,” Dallas insisted. “She’s just had a tough time of it. Her mother threw her out when she was just fourteen because the mother’s latest boyfriend was developing a thing for Polly, instead. Like a lot of homeless teenagers, she turned to the streets to support herself.”

  “And probably a drug habit,” Sam added cynically.

  “For a time,” Dallas said quietly. “She claims she kicked the problem a couple of years ago. She’s been trying to save enough money to move somewhere else and start over, but getting pregnant threw her off schedule.”

  “So how come she didn’t have an abortion?”

  “Religious convictions. She considers it a sin.”

  Sam choked on a bite of lettuce and reached for his tea. “You’re kidding.”

  Dallas shrugged. “You should know as well as I do not to try to stereotype people. Some of the most hard-luck cases I’ve met have often turned out to be more complex than I’d expected. Even Artie Cooper was a devout Catholic, remember?”

  Sam scowled at the mention of one of the most ruthless killers he’d ever brought to justice. “So he claimed.”

  “Nick and Walter said he had a shrine to the Madonna set up in his house. Candles, statue, rosary, the whole bit. His maid said he spent an average of an hour a day there.”

  Sam shook his head. “This is one hell of a crazy job we’re in, Dallas.”

  “Yeah. But don’t you love it?” she asked with a grin.

  Sam took another sip of his tea to avoid answering. “Sounds like Polly told you a lot about herself today,” he said when he set the glass down.

  “She tends to be a talker.”

  “She say anything about her plans for her baby?”

  Dallas shook her head. “The baby was one thing she wouldn’t talk about, except to say that she didn’t know who was the father. Every time I tried to lead her into a discussion of the baby’s future, she changed the subject.”