The Bait

by Dorothy Uhnak

  Marty stopped before the glass case which faced onto the street, regarding the rows of fish which lay in an even row on the crushed ice, their eyes like clear buttons staring back at his. Overhead was a large folding door so that at the end of the day, the wooden stand, dripping with the debris of the fast-melting ice, the glass case on its rusty wheels, the old tin scale balanced precariously on a milk box, could all be slid into the small recess of the store, the door unfolded and chained into place so that no one could make off with any of these items during the night.

  The aroma of the store permeated the street for at least twenty feet in each direction and was no stronger inside the cool, yellow-lighted cubicle than outside. Detective Martin Ginsburg of the District Attorney’s Squad had fused into Marty Ginsburg the glorious haggler now, and the two personalities, melded into the large, package-clutching form, entered the store and his heavy, free hand reached into the barrel within and caught the tail of a perch. He held it distastefully in the air, then dropped it back with a splash.

  “These fresh this morning?” he asked the old man who was barely tall enough to see over the small counter.

  “From the mountain lakes they were taken at four o’clock this morning and from Fulton Street I purchased them at five A.M. and into that barrel I placed them at five-fifteen A.M.,” the old man recited. “Fresh they are.”

  “Yeah? They don’t look so fresh to me.”

  “So go catch them yourself, they ain’t fresh enough?”

  With his free hand, Marty jiggled the barrel, peering into the dark water. “How do I know they haven’t been swimming around in there since last week?”

  The old voice was sharp and hissing, beside him now. “They ain’t swimming around. They been dead for a month. A little motor inside keeps them moving.”

  “I believe it,” Marty stated, grasping another tail, studying an unblinking eye.

  “So don’t handle the merchandise if you ain’t going to buy.”

  “Aw, what the hell. This one looks like he’s going to croak from old age, so I’ll let you do a mercy killing—it will be a kindness. How much?”

  “By the pound,” the old man rasped. “A set price—by the pound.”

  They haggled just a little, eliminating the weight of the head and tail but including the weight of the guts, and the old man took the fish from Marty and handed it to his son who stood silently at his chopping board-Marty watched the strong smooth arms rather than the bloody hands which quickly and expertly divided the fish into pieces. Hell, the guy was a giant: the muscles on his shoulders and across his back and arms were like something in one of those body-building magazines over which his oldest boy, a chubby twelve-year-old, sweated and groaned.

  “Can you bone it?” Marty asked, directing his question at Murray Rogoff, but the old man, turning from the front of the store, whined, “You want boned, you buy at the A and P.”

  A small dark girl came into the shop, cautiously watching and cautiously watched. She was short and black-eyed, her figure showing through the bright sheerness of her yellow blouse: the breasts high and pointed and sharply divided; her waist, tiny, pulled in with a wide plastic yellow belt clutching the short black skirt under which, as she turned, it was apparent she wore very little. Marty’s eyes rested pleasurably on the girl’s backside and he nudged a friendly elbow into Murray’s side. God, the guy felt like a rock.

  Murray looked up, puzzled, then followed Marty’s stare for a moment, then when Marty turned for his reaction, Rogoff’s mouth pulled down and his eyes, or at least the glasses (you couldn’t find his eyes behind those crazy glasses), went back to the fish.

  Murray’s father didn’t haggle with the little Puerto Rican: he told her the price, it didn’t please her and she left.

  “What a pair on that broad, huh?” Marty said. The only response was a noncommittal grunt. “How’d you like to get that against the ice? Turn it into boiling water in about two minutes.”

  The large naked head shook. “Not my type.”

  “Not your type?” Marty asked in disbelief. “You’re kidding. Man, that’s anybody’s type.”

  “No,” Rogoff said. “That’s dreck. That’s for anybody with two bits. That’s nothing. Nothing.”

  “Well that nothing sure as hell did something to me.” Marty looked at the spot where the girl had stood.

  “That’s garbage,” Rogoff said quietly as he folded the newspaper package into a brown paper bag. “Dirt.” Marty could see his eyes now, batting rapidly behind the dirty, goggle-like glasses. They were pale and small and round and lashless: like a fish.

  “Hell, nothing wrong with a little garbage now and then,” Ginsburg said, smiling lewdly. “Not when it looks like that.”

  “I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.” There was a strange smile on the smooth face now, a thoughtful look.

  Marty cursed in a friendly way, using the marvelous obscenity the old woman had recalled to his vocabulary, adding, “I would.”

  “No class,” Rogoff said. “Who wants what anybody can have?”

  “Who don’t?”

  “Me. I don’t.” Murray handed the brown paper bag to the stocky, dark-haired customer, then added in a low voice, “Not with what I got. What I got, brother, you couldn’t get near.”

  Marty raised his eyebrows, licked his lips. “Yeah? You got something good? Around here?”

  Rogoff smiled. He measured the stocky figure, comparing the hefty stomach and flabby arms against his own hardness: the little runt. “Forget it, pal. Not for you. Not when you go for that type.”

  “Me—I go for any type, so long as it got the equipment, pal.”

  Murray shook his head. “Uh-uh. What I got is one-of-a-kind, friend. Clean and nice. The one-man kind.” His hand, closing into a fist around the money extended for the fish, pressed against his own chest. “This man.”

  Marty accepted his change, readjusted his packages against his chest and grinned. “Well, it takes all kinds. Me—I like all kinds, just so long as they’re broads, that suits me.”

  It would, Rogoff thought. He stood watching the heavyset figure in the bright-flowered shirt leave the store, looking up and down the street: looking. Murray took the dull edge of his sharp butcher knife and ran it over the wooden block, scraping the sticky remnants of guts and flesh off the edge and into the slop bucket beneath the table.

  That slob. What would he know. What would he know about a girl like Christie. Christie Opara.

  15

  CHRISTIE OPARA TYPED RAPIDLY on the Underwood without even realizing that since Stoner Martin was in the field she could have used the Royal. She copied her notes verbatim, mindlessly letting her fingers find the keys without translating the words into meaning.

  Marty Ginsburg left the office shortly after she arrived, indicating the few telephone messages he had taken for Mr. Reardon while banging over his particular report. Marty had seemed oddly quiet: no jokes, no wisecracks, not commenting, of course, on his assignment, but still unusually tight-mouthed for Marty. He seemed in a hurry to leave, ducking into Reardon’s empty office, leaving his report on the boss’s desk and asking Christie to notify Reardon of that fact when he arrived.

  She lifted her fingers to her face for a moment: she would notify Reardon of a fact today all right. She didn’t plan what she was going to say: she couldn’t. It would just have to come to her at the moment. She understood herself well enough to realize that if she tried to phrase it now, it would come out wrong then. If she tried to anticipate the sharp questions he would ask, she would not be able to find the instinctive answers that were somewhere inside of her, waiting.

  The voice—Rogoff’s—she knew—had taken to speaking a little more now: “Is this Christie Opara? How are you, Christie? Are you all right? Why do you work so late? Take care of yourself. I worry about you.” And then, last night, before the sharp, disconnecting click, “I love you, Christie Opara.”

  And her own voice, after asking, “Who is this?”
had responded to his questions carefully, “I am fine. Don’t worry about me. Thanks for calling.” Resisting the temptation to say it, breathing it down, “How are you, Murray Rogoff?” because she didn’t know what would happen then and she didn’t want to take the chance, because this was more than phone calls in the night and was heading somewhere else and it had begun and she had to ride it out to the end.

  She typed another paragraph, then flexed her fingers and kneaded her wrists, her right wrist aching in a peculiar, sympathetic pain: Poor Mickey, breaking his wrist. Just leaping down the two steps in front of the house in joy at being invited by the neighborhood kids to full partnership in their lemonade stand (I was going to bring the sugar, Mom) and his sneakered foot catching and his hands shooting out and his wrist cracking. Nora, feeling just the way she could be expected to feel: when it’s your own child, it’s bad enough, but when it’s your grandchild, it’s worse. And Christie, comforting Nora: but it could have happened anytime, if I were there or not, you know that. Kids run and kids jump and kids twist and kids fall. And kids break their wrists.

  Christie wanted to be home, right now home, with Mickey, she needed to see his bright daytime face. Knowing he was comfortable, knowing he was busy and happy and not complaining over his games and coloring books wasn’t enough: his voice on the telephone wasn’t enough. She wanted to be home with him, not here, finishing this completely senseless report, preparing to confront Reardon with her completely senseless, yet absolute, definite, positive conclusions on this other matter. This Rogoff matter.

  Christie felt both a relief and a tensing when Tom Dell entered the office. That meant Reardon was around.

  “Hi, Tom. Boss back?”

  Dell pushed his hat back from his forehead. He was a dapper man and always looked as though he’d just had a shower, suit press and shoeshine. He never gave out any information about his boss’s comings, goings, appointments, conversations or overheard remarks, but the question of whether or not Reardon was about to appear was legitimate so he answered, “Yeah, he’s talking to some guy in the hallway.” He moved his head to the side. “Ah, the mighty footsteps are approaching.”

  Dell carefully placed his hat on the aluminum rack, took out his report form and began transferring the mileage and gas information from his notebook to the official, required form.

  Reardon scanned the room. “Empty house?”

  “Not quite,” Christie said. “I’m completing this report, Mr. Reardon. I think this will wrap it up.” Then, anticipating him, she added quickly, “For now.”

  Reardon smiled: she was learning. “Good.”

  “Marty Ginsburg left a report on your desk—and asked me to give you these telephone messages.”

  “Right.”

  Christie checked her completed report carefully, stapled the sets of papers together, read it over, giving Reardon time to attend to the matters on his desk and herself time to think how she would begin but no words came, just the soft voice: “Hello, Christie Opara,” but maybe that was enough.

  She tapped lightly on his door, taking the grunting sound from within as permission to enter. She took one long full breath, holding it until she sat in the chair before his desk, releasing it slowly as he reached for her report then looked at her, still sitting there, in some surprise.

  “I’d like to talk to you for a moment, Mr. Reardon, if you’re not too busy.”

  She caught the impatient glance as he consulted his watch, but he said, “I’m busy, but go ahead. What’s the problem?”

  It didn’t start to come, not yet. She searched for a moment, trying to find the right words and she was startled when he asked, directly, “Is it about the phone calls?”

  “Yes.” She nodded at him; there was a hollowness in her throat and she bit down hard on her teeth.

  “Let’s have it.”

  Christie ran her hand over her eyes feeling the silence around her. She had wanted her voice to come out strong and certain, not trembling; hating the sound of her words, she said, “I know who it is.”

  “Who?”

  “Murray Rogoff.” She added, “The 1140 I locked up a few weeks ago. You remember?”

  There was no biting wisecrack, no caustic, “Yeah, how could I forget?” Reardon just nodded at her.

  “Murray Rogoff,” she repeated softly, and saying his name aloud, to Reardon now, not just inside her own brain where it had been echoing around for nearly a week, released the hidden words. She leaned forward, her fingers grasping the edge of his desk. “Mr. Reardon, I want to say something now that you can probably cut into ribbons with a few questions, but I’m going to say it anyway.”

  “Go ahead. Say what you want to say.”

  She raised her face to his and her voice was steady and unshaken and certain. “Murray Rogoff murdered those three girls.” Her fingers shot up, ticking them off. “The one in Greenwich Village last February, the one on Riverside Drive in March, the one in the Bronx this month.”

  Reardon watched the paling of her face, aware that she was saying something now that had been eluding her the way the solution to a game-puzzle eludes your brain: all the facts present, the answer contained in your knowledge yet your mind not able to cut through the extraneous matter to the logical words, then all at once, the answer standing there, inside your head: clear and undeniable. She hadn’t said: I think or he might be or possibly is. She had said Murray Rogoff murdered those three girls.

  “You sound positive.”

  “I am positive.”

  Considering her for a moment, he tapped his pen against his teeth, then, with no challenge in his voice, just a logical question, he asked. “Court positive?”

  She wavered, shook her head, her voice lower, but her eyes not leaving his. “No. Not court positive. But positive.”

  She waited for his barrage of questions, for his fine, precise legal mind to destroy her certainty, but he just told her to go on and spell it out for him and Christie told him about her conversation with Johnnie Devereaux; about the victims’ phone calls; about the scraps of hair, and then about the pronunciation of her name.

  “Do you recognize his voice when he calls?”

  Impatiently, Christie shook her head. “No. The voice is what got me hung up; I tried too hard with the voice. I never heard Rogoff speak; he was silent when I locked him up and silent in court. I missed the pronunciation of my name completely, but it was there all the time—just the way Santino says it.”

  Reardon walked from his desk to the window, the silence broken by his clicking some coins together in his trouser pocket. He stood for a long time, then turned, walked to his desk and removed a folder from the bottom drawer.

  “Here,” he said, tossing the folder at her, “read this.”

  Frowning, puzzled, waiting for some hard laughter, some nasty comment, she took the folder, opened it absently, her eyes racing without comprehension over the typed words. She looked at him blankly.

  “It’s a background report that Stoney prepared for me last week. On Murray Rogoff. Christ, Opara, close your mouth.” He picked up Marty’s report, shoving it across the desk at her. “When you finish reading Stoney’s investigation, read Ginsburg’s. He made an observation on Rogoff yesterday.” Reardon ran his hand over his face, down, then up, then back through the thick red hair, then rubbed his knuckles under his chin. His voice seemed irritable but at the same time weary. “You know, Opara, you really knock me out. I mean, it really never even occurred to you that possibly, just possibly, by some miracle maybe or even by some long years of experience, out of habit, your old boss might have sat quietly one afternoon and given just some slight thought to the problem of your phone calls, et cetera.” He smiled tightly and held his hand up. “Oh, not because I was interested on your behalf, or concerned or anything like that—hell, no. More likely because I felt I’d better do something to stop your sleepless nights since you’ve been goofing off during working, hours—carrying over assignments that should be completed in one day
.” He leaned his chin on his hands, pressing his elbows on the desk. “So, giving me some credit for my long years in this business, let’s say that the possibilities went through my mind, and that one of the possibilities was Rogoff.”

  Reardon stopped speaking and dug a coin from his trouser pocket. His eyes still on Christie, he spun the dime on his desk, then abruptly slammed the palm of his hand over it and leaned forward. His voice forced her eyes from his hand back to his face. “Approximately ten million people have access to your phone number every day in New York City. When you begin with ten million possibilities, you have to narrow it down a little, right? Rogoff was the only collar you’ve made since you’ve been in the Squad and Rogoff is a degenerate and he was the first possibility.” He leaned back, slipped the dime into his pocket and watched her closely. “Do you want me to spell out in detail the various reasons I felt a run-down on Rogoff should be done?” His voice was patronizing now and he ignored her terse “no.” “Hell, I’d be glad to lay it all out for you; even tell you what I was planning to do if we hit a blank wall with Murray.”

  She still had that incredulous, half-comprehending expression on her face and Reardon felt anger or pride, or whatever the hell it was, rising to his lips. “Tell me something, Opara,” he said sharply, “what the hell impresses you?”

  “Competence,” she said evenly. “Professional competence.”

  The anger, unexplained, forced the words from him. “Then why is it that you seem to feel you’re the only one around here with the slightest amount of professional competence?” Stopping himself, not needing her acknowledgment, yet oddly annoyed at her lack of recognition, he irritably gestured at her, “Go on—go on, read!”