Midnight Baby

by Wendy Hornsby

  “I missed you. I worry about you when I’m away.” She had her mouth full, so she could only nod.

  “I have a new direction for my project,” I said, filling airtime. “It took me a long time to figure out what was missing. But I have it now.”

  Casey looked as if she had something to contribute, so I waited for her to wash down a mouthful of bagel with juice. “Did you and Mike have a fight?” she asked.

  “Of course not. I didn’t even see Mike.”

  She seemed dubious. “I thought that’s why you went down to L.A.”

  “I went down to work.”

  “So why are you back?”

  I sighed.

  Casey dumped her dishes into the dishwasher and wiped off the counter. She kissed me as she sped past.

  “Glad you’re back, Mom. I gotta go.”

  That was Thursday.

  Friday I hardly saw Casey. In the morning I kissed her goodbye and saw her off to school as on any other weekday.

  I spent most of Friday talking to the staff at a drop-off center for sick kids. It was a nice place. They served chicken noodle soup and soda crackers for lunch. It was probably better than some of the alternatives: staying home alone, Mom staying home and therefore not earning the rent money, going to school sick.

  Several anxious mothers and fathers dropped in during their lunch hours. I talked to them, too. They seemed to be far more upset than the children, who by all appearances were generally accepting of the arrangements. I would have preferred being sick in a quieter place, that is, in my own bed with my own TV remote. With the Beaver’s mother bringing me milk and cookies.

  I ran into a woman I had met at some charity auction earlier in the year. She was expensively sleek, a decorator or a gallery owner, I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember her name, either.

  “Maggie,” she said, kissing the air somewhere around my head. “Do you have a sick little one?”

  “Just visiting,” I said. “Doing some background research.”

  “You must interview my Rachel.” She carried a bag from a downtown food boutique. “I always bring her favorite soup when she’s sick. Anything to make my million-dollar baby feel better.”

  I had nearly asked if she was visiting a grandchild. Even with her face stretched, she couldn’t hide sixty years of sun on her hands. The director had told me they accepted children up to the age of fourteen, but I thought the oldest there that day was around ten. The math didn’t work for this woman.

  We found million-dollar Rachel in the television room, reclining on a beanbag chair and wrapped in a small comforter. She had her thumb in her mouth and a stuffed cat in her arms. Her dark eyes were glassy with fever, but she perked up when the woman knelt beside her.

  Rachel was about three years old. A pretty child, as dark as her mother was fair. My guess was she came from Indian stock in Central or South America.

  “My baby feels better?” The glossy mother hovered over Rachel, fussing with the blanket and kissing the little girl’s damp face. She looked up at me. “Isn’t my Rachel a sweet ums thing?”

  “Very sweet,” I said. “Your million-dollar baby?”

  “Not really a million. But plenty. And worth every penny and peso.” She hovered over Rachel with a spoonful of soup. “Aren’t you, my precious baby angel?”

  I could see she had more than a million-dollar emotional investment in the girl. I was happy for her. I wondered how long her child dream had been deferred.

  I left them snuggling together in the beanbag chair.

  Early Friday evening, Casey left for Denver to attend her new half brother’s baptism. When I got back from driving her to the airport, the house was far too quiet. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Lyle had a dinner date. That left Bowser and me to entertain each other.

  Bowser is nothing much to look at, uneven masses of medium-brown fur over a body built by a genetic committee. But he is an affable fellow. I have had worse dates. He loves two things above all others: sleeping and running. He was beside himself with doggie glee when I pulled out his leash and snapped it to his collar.

  We took a long run through Marina Green and Fort Mason, over Russian Hill, then back home by way of Lombard Street. I hadn’t run for over a week, so the course I had set out was much too ambitious. The last mile was sheer torture, all uphill. Even Bowser was flagging.

  Halfway back up our own hill, my legs gave out. I stumbled into the neighborhood video store. I wasn’t so much interested in renting a movie as I was in finding a place to catch my breath with dignity before I collapsed. To have his master collapse on the sidewalk might humiliate a sensitive fellow like Bowser. And Bowser is sensitive. Anyone as ugly as he is has to be.

  I was choosing between the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Aliens when someone brushed against me. “Hot date tonight, Maggie?”

  I turned and found my neighbor, Felix Mack, with two John Wayne movies under his arm. I like Felix. He’s a great talker — a quality I admire in a man. He teaches neurosurgery at the University of California because his mother won the big argument. His ambition was to play sleazy sax in nightclubs. Now and then he jams with a group from the medical school that is equal parts Ivy League surgeons and jive-wise janitors. I love to tag along.

  “Bowser is the hottest date I could come up with,” I said to Felix. I tapped his cowboy movies. “Planning a romantic evening at home tonight?”

  “Do you like John Wayne?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  He stuffed his tape boxes onto the nearest shelf. “If Bowser won’t mind, you want to go get something to eat with me? No sense both of us soloing on Friday night.”

  “Love to,” I said. “Give me half an hour to get presentable.”

  I limped home, showered, slipped into wool slacks and a blazer with spangles on one sleeve. Bowser was snoring on the brocade sofa when I passed him on my way out.

  Over frittata at Balboa Cafe, Felix and I solved an amazing number of the world’s problems, if none of our own. In no time at all we found the bottom of a bottle of very good cabernet.

  It was still early when we finished eating, so we took a cab to Kimball’s, a jazz club over by the Civic Center. We stayed through three sets, another bottle of wine, and a snifter of brandy. Maybe two. By the time our shared cab pulled up in front of my house, I was full-on mellow; equal parts good wine, good music, good company.

  “Come in for coffee?” Felix asked as the cab drove away.

  The question had undertones that made me uneasy. I really liked Felix. We had had a wonderful evening, one of several over the years. In the cab coming home, because it had seemed to be only a companionable gesture on his part, when he took my hand I hadn’t pulled away. On the sidewalk, with him looking into my eyes, I began to think maybe that had been a mistake. Then again, maybe I was reading a lot into nothing. It’s just that I didn’t want to move our relationship beyond the comfortable point where it had been before we left Kimball’s.

  I gave Felix’s arm a firm squeeze.

  “This evening was a great idea,” I said. “Thanks for suggesting it. It’s late and I think I’ve reached my limit.”

  “Me, too. I guess.” He leaned forward and gave me an awkward hug. “Let’s do it again. Soon.”

  It was nearly one o’clock when I opened my door, according to the hall clock. Lyle takes good care of himself and usually goes to bed early. He had left lights on for me, always considerate.

  As I locked up and turned out the lights, I tried to imagine Felix as a love interest. I had no success with it. Felix was great. Few better. His only flaw was, he wasn’t Mike Flint.

  When I thought about how Mike Flint might be spending his Friday night I went suddenly cold all over. I knew how we used to spend Friday nights. And every other night of the week when we were together. I tried to shake away the images; they made my chest feel tight.

  I was so confused. Calling Mike, I knew, could lead to dangerous complications. Not
calling him hurt too much. I hated feeling indecisive. I was glad I was a little tipsy so I would fall right asleep.

  Bowser was snoring in the living room. After thinking about Mike, I wasn’t going up to bed alone, even if it meant sleeping with the dog. I went in to fetch the old fellow.

  Bowser wasn’t in his usual place on the brocade sofa. I couldn’t find him at first in the dark room. Then I saw that the big leather wingback chair that usually sat in the far corner of the room had been pulled around to face the window that overlooked the street. All that I could see of Bowser was his tail hanging over the arm of the chair.

  I walked around the chair to rouse him.

  Bowser was sound asleep, all right, but it was Mike Flint who was snoring. I looked at him for a moment, making sure that I hadn’t conjured up Mike’s image out of those bottles of cabernet. Booze coupled with lust can do stranger things to the mind.

  If I had conjured him, however, I knew I would never have put so many clothes on him. Nor would my erotic fantasies include the dog that was sprawled over him, with his muzzle in the crook of Mike’s neck where my muzzle should have been.

  It was a sweet scene, dog and man together, man snoring with his mouth open. Mike is tall, with a distance runner’s slenderness. He is only in his mid-forties — he lies about which zero he’s closer to — but his hair is already silver. He may not be Cary Grant, but he is very striking.

  As soon as I saw Mike, I knew I was doomed. I had been almost proud of myself for not calling him, the way a recovering drunk takes pride in avoiding the block where his favorite gin mill sits. Seeing his cheek all pushed out of shape where it rested against Bowser’s skull was like putting a drink in an alcoholic’s hand.

  Call me weak. I succumbed. I wrestled the mutt to the floor and took his place on Mike’s lap before either of them had both eyes open.

  “Hi, sailor,” I said when Mike smiled at me sleepily. “Looking for company?”

  “Mpfh,” he said.

  His front was deliciously warm from the dog. I snuggled into him and kissed his forehead, his cheek, his chin, found his mouth.

  “Maggie,” he moaned. God, I loved to make Mike moan.

  Full dress for Mike Flint included tie, suspenders, belt holster and gun, a beeper, and a detective shield as big as his fist. I began to undo him, keeping his mouth busy with mine while I worked to open the tie, buttons, buckles, clips, and, at last, zipper.

  When I got to the point of sliding my hand into his open fly, he grabbed my wrists and held them.

  “We have to talk,” he said.

  “So, talk,” I said, and leaned around to take a nip of his earlobe.

  “Maggie, this is serious,” he said sternly, though he didn’t resist when I kissed his bare chest, starting at the hollow at the base of his neck. I licked and bit him gently, moving slowly all the way down his flat belly to the elastic band of his blue boxer shorts. His erection peeked through the open flap, and I kissed the tip of that, too, with a little tongue.

  He began to writhe under me.

  I straightened up then and faced him, smiling like the cat who lapped the cream. “So, what did you want to talk about, Mike?”

  He laughed and let go of my hands so he could wrap his arms around me. His lips found the place at the back of my neck that sends chills all the way to my knees.

  There is something incredibly sexy about kissing someone for the very first time. The joy is discovering a whole new set of textures, smells, and flavors. But the first embrace in no way compares to the sheer, sensual power of being held once again by someone you have loved and lost and thought you might never be able to touch again. I hadn’t lost Mike, exactly. Just mislaid him.

  “Will you stay the night?” I asked.

  “If you’ll have me.”

  I got to my feet and gave him a hand up. With my arm around his solid waist I started moving him toward the stairs. “Where’s your bag?”

  “I don’t have one. I wasn’t planning on coming up.”

  I laughed. “You just found yourself on an airplane?”

  “Sort of. Look, Maggie, we really have to talk. I was going to call, but some things are better said in person.”

  I had that cold feeling again. I stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Is there someone else?”

  “Jesus, no. Look, just sit down a minute.” He switched on the light over the stairs and we sat on the bottom step. His clothes still hung open, so he fumbled a bit to find his trouser pocket. He took out a color photograph and handed it to me. It was a Polaroid of a very disheveled Pisces. The camera had caught her with her eyes closed.

  “She in trouble?” I asked.

  “Depends on your theology. Sister Pete tells me you know something about the kid.”

  “I know very little. Guido and I found her on Alvarado Street by MacArthur Park. She tried to solicit me while I filmed her.”

  “Pete said you picked her up.”

  “I don’t like the way ‘picked her up’ sounds. We bought her some dinner. She’s only fourteen, same age as Casey. It made me feel sick to see her on the street. She was a nice kid, Mike, once we got past her routine. So we fed her and took her to Pete’s.”

  I handed back the picture. “There was a nine-year-old boy with her.”

  “We got him,” Mike said. “He’s in MacLaren Hall.”

  “What did they do?” I asked.

  “In a minute,” he said. “Tell me everything you know about the girl.”

  “She was careful about not saying too much.” I shrugged. “I can only give you my impressions. She is well-spoken, well-mannered. Plays the piano. Probably comes from the West Coast. Doesn’t have anything nice to say about mothers, but she took to me right away. She was pleasant with Guido, not seductive like many sexually abused kids I’ve met. I got the feeling she’s new to the street. She doesn’t like to be dirty, and the park scares her. And that’s all I know. Now, your turn. What happened?”

  He was in no hurry to share anything. He puffed out a few deep breaths and absently stroked my back.

  “You liked her?” he asked.

  “I guess I did. I worried about her. The other kid, Sly, is a little pip, though.”

  I tugged on his open shirt front. “Is it that bad?”

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “She had Pete’s phone number in her bra. And this.”

  He handed me a thin gold ring with a tiny opal stone. Engraved inside the band was “Hillary” and a heart.

  “Mean anything to you?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” As soon as I saw the ring, though, I knew. “Is she dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, damn.” I choked back what felt like rage but came out as tears. “Why didn’t she stay with Pete?”

  “That’s what Pete wanted to know.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “A Rampart Division patrolman found her in the park Thursday night. Looked like a routine prostitute slaying. Detectives assigned to the case found Pete’s number on her. Pete referred them to you. And, of course, because you were involved, she called me.”

  “So it’s not your case,” I said.

  “It is now. I went to the lieutenant and told him I wanted it. He sent me to Rampart for clearance with their detectives. I told them I knew some of the players in the case. They have so many murders down there they were just real happy to let me have this one.

  “Besides,” he said, “they generally give me all the murder cases that fall in two categories. The first category is anything with your name on it.”

  “You’re sweet, Mike.”

  “The second category is anything that’s totally weird. Often as not, it amounts to the same thing.”

  I buried my face against him. “Don’t tell me it was really awful for her.”

  “No. I think her passing was easy and quick. Her throat was slashed, something very sharp, like a straight razor. It severed her jugular. She would have had time to be scared. But not enough to hurt.”

/>   “You said this case was weird.”

  “Your prostitute,” he said, “died virgo intacta.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Mike held me all night. I’m not sure whether I slept. We didn’t make love until dawn. In the dark, the specter of young Pisces and her violent end lay between us like a fevered child who slips into the parental bed at night.

  When the first light filtered through the bedroom shutters, I opened my eyes and found Mike looking at me with a worried crease between his pale brows. I kissed his shoulder, and what followed was very sweet, unusually tame for us.

  The carillon at Grace Cathedral was chiming nine when we finally walked downstairs.

  Lyle was in the kitchen, drinking coffee over the Examiner. He wore his uniform, that is, a starched dress shirt open at the neck, chinos, and loafers — no socks. His thin brown hair was still damp from the shower.

  “Morning,” he smirked, and popped up for two more coffee mugs. “You children hungry?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Starved,” Mike said. “I missed dinner.”

  “Why didn’t you say something when you got in?” Lyle scolded. “We don’t do room service in this house, but the kitchen never closes.”

  Mike pulled me against him and kissed the top of my head. “Guess I wasn’t thinking about food.”

  “Maggie always says she’s not hungry in the morning, but she eats breakfast like a lumberjack.” Lyle talked on as he got eggs and milk from the refrigerator. I found his abundant energy exhausting. “Mike, you’re so skinny. You look like a little cholesterol packing won’t hurt you just this once. I’m thinking fluffy crab omelettes with Parmesan and tomatoes, toasted corn bread on the side. Some fresh papaya. Sound good?”

  “Sounds good.” Mike ran his hand down my back. “But what did you say about room service?”

  “Mike, honey,” Lyle laughed, “from the moaning I heard coming from that bedroom this morning, you’d better eat something, take a little rest before she gets your ass back up those stairs. I don’t want no white-haired guy dyin’ in my house.”

  “Lyle, Lyle, crocodile,” I mocked, pulling out a chair and sitting. “Whatever can you mean?”