The Bait

by Dorothy Uhnak

  Reardon’s face tightened slightly; they stood measuring each other for a moment, then he said softly, “Okay. Don’t worry about her, right?”

  She watched him walk to the car and returned his brisk wave.

  Reardon slumped in the seat beside Dell, his eyes staring through the spotless windshield. This Nora Opara was indeed a very shrewd little lady. He wondered if Christie realized that Nora had read something more than anger or annoyance into her complaints’ about him or if Christie herself even knew there had been anything else.

  Reardon smiled and closed his eyes. He didn’t think so.

  17

  CHRISTIE FOLLOWED BILL FERRANTI as he led her about the tiny apartment which was not really an apartment, just a compartmentalized room with a separate bathroom. The diagramed floor plan she had studied in the office did not translate into this small, hot sticky room; there was a kitchen unit contained in a half-walled alcove, consisting of a waist-high refrigerator, lined up flush with a small sink which was wedged against a narrow, four-burner stove.

  Each ugly, alien piece of furniture in the room had been shifted to a location calculated to meet their needs: the heavy stuffed flowered armchair had been pushed alongside the door. This was where Stoner Martin would crouch, giving him coverage for either of the two possibilities: that Rogoff would enter the apartment via the hallway door or that Rogoff would enter through the bathroom window. The lumpy couch bed had been moved from its location against the wall and centered on the short wall so that there was free space on either side of its length: this way, Christie could follow her instructions which were, “The minute the lights go on, baby, you roll to the left, hit the deck and stay down until ole Stoney says’ otherwise!” The scarred and loose-legged wooden table had been moved off center in the small kitchen alcove for two reasons: first, that it would not pose a stumbling block for Rogoff who would enter in the darkness, and secondly, that it would not interfere with Ferranti’s movements as he emerged from his hiding place behind the half-arched alcove.

  Her mind automatically rearranged the ugly furnishings, trying to get some measure of balance. Christie made a determined effort to accept this room, to let its dimensions and narrow passageways have meaning and necessity. The bathroom was another matter: everything stationary, everything exact in the range of its requirements.

  Stoner Martin signaled them all into the long, narrow chipped and dirty bathroom and they all stood, Christie and Ginsburg and Ferranti, their eyes following Stoner’s to the bathroom window: the all-important rectangle on which it all depended.

  “Now, this, as we have discussed, would seem to be the logical place.” Leaning across the tub, his muscles straining slightly, his fingertips gently slid the smoked glass window up, soundlessly, then back into place. Stoney stepped into the tub, turned to face them, his eyes shut tight. “Now, we will assume that this is point of entry and it is dark now.” His hands extended before him, his feet carefully moved, measuring the edge of the tub; he bent over, his hands on the side of the tub, and they stepped back clearing a pathway as he walked like a blind man, his fingers tracing the tile wall, guiding him toward the opened door, his hands moving lightly in the air, finding the dimensions of the doorway.

  “Now, by this point, his eyes will have become somewhat accustomed to the darkness of the room,” and then to Christie, his eyes opening, “we did this last night in the dark, Marty and the boss and I, and we noticed that if we left the toaster out there, on top of the stove, it picks up a glint of light and you can tell that’s the kitchen area.” Moving into the room now, eyes closed again, he pointed, “So, if I know that the kitchen area is to my left, I know that the bed will be to my right.” His hand circled quickly and Christie passed him, sliding her body on the bed, her eyes on his approaching figure, edging closer to her, his knees lightly hitting the bed, his body bending, leaning toward her, but she spun quickly, so that when he opened his eyes, the bed was empty.

  “Where’d she go?” he asked playfully. “I know she’s here someplace!”

  Christie propped her head on her arms along the edge of the bed. “Try down here,” she said, trying to match his voice.

  “Good. Only you slide yourself way down under the bed and you don’t come out until I say.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, Stoney old boss man, can we eat now?” Marty clicked the handle of the refrigerator impatiently.

  Stoney’s eyes glided about the room in despair. “We better let this man set a table or he’ll be hollering all night and we don’t want any hollering herein. Go ahead, Marty.”

  Marty filled the table with paper cartons of corned beef and pastrami and pickles and potato salad and coleslaw, then reached for a half-gallon bottle of milk, ignoring the groans. “Milk is good for you, good for you,” he insisted.

  Christie folded a piece of rye bread around a few slices of corned beef, eating without taste. Only Marty ate with any appetite, insulted that the others refused the milk. Christie put up a pot of water, grateful that Marty had remembered tea bags and instant coffee.

  She wondered where Johnnie Devereaux was at that moment: or more exactly, where Murray Rogoff was, since wherever Rogoff was, Devereaux, tailing him since early afternoon, was close by. This last week of telephone calls had been the worst, the voice more and more intimate, more and more familiar, whispering in her ear, reaching into her, the image of the sixteen-year-old hairless boy forming: an image of horrible despair and panic. She had forced her own voice into a casual, conversational level: “Yes, this is Christie. Yes, I am fine. Yes, I am safe. Yes, thank you for calling, goodbye.” God. Oh dear God, not saying anything more, the words shrieking through every part of her, but not saying anything.

  “Say there, Christie.” Stoney’s voice was quiet but pulled at her, making her jaws work over the dry piece of sandwich she hadn’t realized was between her teeth. “Did any of the fellows tell you about the ‘particular problem’ we have always had in our Squad?”

  She shook her head. “What particular problem?”

  “Well,” Stoney said, “this is not generally known or discussed, as you will understand, but among the members of our Squad, there is not real marksman. In fact, you might say, among the members of our Squad, there is hardly a qualified target-shooter.”

  Marty jammed a huge bite of pastrami sandwich between his jaws, wiped his mouth with a flowered paper napkin, and shook his head heavily at her. “Hey, Stoney, don’t tell her about that now.”

  “Well, I think she has a right to know. Bill, what do you think?”

  Seriously, carefully, Bill Ferranti said, “Well, I’d want to know.”

  She knew what they were doing: all of them. Pulling her and each other and themselves into the room, into the reality of the place, forcing the wandering complicated thoughts out and away: starting the easy, joking, relaxing story-telling which would put them here, aware of each other. Christie made herself respond, her voice mock-serious. “Well, I think somebody better tell me if it’s something I should know.”

  Stoney’s hand moved toward Bill Ferranti. Bill fingered his horn-rimmed glasses, “Well, I never can line up those little ridges in my gun sighting. In fact, last shooting cycle, I put two holes in Stoney’s target, and he was two booths to my right.”

  “Yes,” Stoney said sadly, “and those two holes were only in the five ring and didn’t help me much.” He extended his long brown arm across the table and his fingers trembled. He regarded them, clicking his tongue. “My hand shakes. Just a little. But just enough to throw me off.”

  They all waited for Marty to swallow his cold milk. “And me,” he said, smearing a milk mustache on his paper napkin, “every time I go down to the range, my hand jumps in anticipation of the shot. I’m very sensitive to noise, you know, so just expecting the noise, before the shot is off, I get bugged and my shot always drops down to the left.” He moved his arm in an arc. “Eight o’clock.”

  Becoming part of it, part of them, Chri
stie’s voice struck just the right note. “Well, gentlemen, that is all very reassuring to me. m tell you what—you’re all going to be on this side of the room.” Her hand pointed toward the bed, her index finger extending from her fist like the barrel of a gun. “And I’m going to be on that side of the room. And if there’s going to be shooting, that’s where the bullets will go. Now, how about we all reverse sides? I’m a good shot: no glasses, no tremors, no eight o’clocks!”

  “Well, now, Christie, just because none of us are very good, that’s not saying we can’t hit something, right, fellas?”

  Stoney’s” head twisted toward Marty and his voice was sharp, yet it was part of the game; Stoney was following Marty’s cue. “Shut up about that, Marty.”

  “Yes,” Ferranti said, “let’s not discuss that, Marty.”

  Christie looked from face to face, admiring them; this was all by-play, yet it was essential. An establishing of lines of communication, of reading and responding. No one really knew what story Marty was about to tell, yet each would help him, filling in, building on it. It’ was more than time-passing, it was an interacting on a light and unimportant level: it was a rehearsal.

  “I think there’s something else I should know,” she said.

  “Well, if it was me, I’d want to know,” Marty grumbled. “You tell her, Stoney.”

  Stoney smiled, blinked, settled back in the rickety wooden chair and began. They were like kids at a campfire, passing fragments of a story around. “Well now, you ever hear of a fella named Phil Jones?”

  She shook her head. Marty sighed and covered his forehead. Bill clicked his tongue. “Well, old Phil,” Stoney continued, ignoring Marty’s “may-he-rest-in-peace,” “was a member of our Squad some years ago. Well, we were all on a stake-out, similar to this, but of course the circumstances were different, but anyway, it was one of these things.” His hands indicated the room. “Without going into detail ...”

  “No, don’t go into detail,” Bill said almost fervently, joined by Marty’s voice, “No, don’t.”

  “Well, old Phil, at any rate, took two.” Stoney’s hand touched the center of his forehead and then his heart.

  “Two bullets? He was killed?”

  “Honey,” Marty said, “one in the head and one in the ticker. He was killed dead.”

  “And,” Stoney said, “only Marty and Bill and I had guns.

  Our suspect, upon apprehension and further investigation was as they say ‘clean.’”

  The three men silently stared at their hands, all clasped and motionless on the table before them. “Well, what happened?” Christie asked.

  Marty’s’ head popped up. “We gave him an inspector’s funeral, of course.”

  “And you know, Christie,” Bill said in his quiet, humorless way, “I* know that at times you’ve been annoyed at Mr. Reardon, but he does take care of his own. Right, Stoney?”

  “He does indeed, Bill. Tell her.”

  It was Bill’s part now. “Well, he knew how badly we all felt. Anyone would—after all, our own man. Mr. Reardon ordered the inspector’s funeral immediately. He wouldn’t let an autopsy be performed. Boy, he did some fast talking to get that pushed through.”

  “Yeah,” Marty picked up on it. “After all, how the hell would old Stoney feel, knowing he had killed his own partner?”

  “Me?” Stoney bellowed. “Why you ingrate: all these years the boss and I have been protecting you from that terrible knowledge, and now you try to put it on me!”

  “Not me.” Marty shook his heavy head. “Everyone knows I can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

  “But Phil wasn’t a barn,” Bill said quietly.

  Marty began collecting the paper plates, finishing off odd pieces of food. “Not me, Stoney, but hell, if it makes you feel better, it’s okay with me.” He leaned across the table to Christie, whispering loudly, “It would be too tough for him to admit: hell, he was partners with the guy for six years.”

  “Well, fellows, I appreciate your complete honesty and I really think, under the circumstances, Stoney, you should let me keep my gun under the pillow. I’d only shoot if you got me first.”

  “Oh no, no,” Stoney said. “Absolutely not. If one Squad member gets shot, we can cover, but if two of us got hit, it would look real bad. Bad for the Squad image!”

  “Gee,” Christie said, her voice young. “I wouldn’t want to hurt the Squad image. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  At seven P. M. there was an impatient thud at the door and a muffled, familiar voice. “Reardon,” it said, and Ferranti opened the door. Reardon barreled in, sniffing, wrinkling his short nose. “Smells like a delicatessen in here! My God, Ginsburg, you eating pickles and drinking milk?”

  Marty innocently held up his glass. “Milk is very good for you, Mr. Reardon. They even give it to babies nowadays.”

  “Stoney, you better have a good talk with that guy. Remind me to issue an order relative to meeting Squad regulations re height and weight. Marty, you are putting on too much weight.”

  “I know, Mr. Reardon,” Marty said sadly, “and it worries me, so when I worry I eat. It’s a syndrome or something.”

  Christie watched him and began to feel cold now and still and aware: it was not a game. Reardon moved rapidly about the room, squatting down behind a chair, his head cocked to one side, easing himself into the position where Ferranti would be, placing himself inside the small closet. “You sure Ginsburg will fit in here?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not too sure if he’ll be able to get out.”

  “I’ll get out, Stoney, don’t worry, I’ll get out.”

  Reardon crossed to the bed, sat beside Christie who let the magazine fall opened on her lap. He bounced lightly. “Feels pretty comfortable. Don’t fall asleep on us, Opara.”

  “I’ll be awake, Mr. Reardon.”

  He stood up, looked down at her, then asked Stoney, “Hey, how come you got Opara dressed up like a little boy again? I can’t see anyone bursting into a room after her in those dungarees and—Opara, at least tuck your shirttail in!”

  “She’ll be hitting the deck, boss, and I think she’d do it better not having to worry about a dress riding up and all.”

  “Umm, I guess.” He strode into the bathroom, and she could hear the window sliding up and down and then he was back, standing in the center of the room, and they all watched him. The bantering tones had left his voice which was flatly informative now. “I just gave Jimmy O’Neill a wave: he’s at his post—you know where. Right, Stoney?”

  Stoner Martin nodded. “Two windows up and three across; in the building directly across from us.”

  “Right. Now, the two other Homicide men are three doors down the hallway. They’re not going to move until”—he corrected himself—”unless they hear action in here.” He moved to the door, checking. “Good, leave this on the latch in case our boy decides to use the door, but I don’t think he will.” His eyes, and theirs, turned toward the bathroom. “He’ll come in the window if he comes at all.”

  He will, Christie told him silently, and Reardon’s eyes, on hers, saw it and she knew he saw it. He will.

  “Sam Farrell will call you in about”—he consulted his watch—“in about ten minutes just for a check ring. Now, after that check call and for the remainder of this assignment, no one will use that telephone to make a call.” Their eyes were now all on the strangely old-fashioned black telephone on the small combination lamp and table placed near Stoney’s hand, against the plush chair. “Here’s what to anticipate after the check call: if suspect calls Opara’s house, as soon as that call is completed, Farrell will ring here and play back the tape. Devereaux is on Rogoff right now. As soon as suspect makes his call, you’ll get the relay, then I’ll get it. I’ll be in my car, which is parked across the street from access to the alley. If suspect—and we are assuming he’ll make his call from Queens—if suspect then heads toward Manhattan, Devereaux, if he can, will give me a blast on my car telephone; as soon as I
get the word, I’ll call here and let you know.” They all listened silently, their faces solemn and still, their eyes between Reardon and the telephone, none of them looking at each other. “Then”—Casey paused, his eyes turning to the phone now—“when and if suspect hits this block—and I’m located where I can see both entrance to the alley and entrance to the building, I will give you just one blast on the telephone. Don’t answer it—that’s the signal that he is in the immediate vicinity. Any questions?”

  Marty opened his mouth, saw Casey’s eyes, changed his mind and shook his head.

  “Now, this is important: under no circumstances is anyone to make a call. There will be a lack of communication. I realize that, but we will all be waiting it out and if it goes through the night, it goes through the night. Nothing might happen, no calls at all.” He shrugged. “Ya never know, right?”

  They all nodded. He put his hand lightly on Stoney’s shoulder, but he was speaking directly to Christie now. “Stoney is in charge, he is the boss here.”

  “Right,” Stoney said, “I am the boss!”

  Reardon shoved him, his voice a growl. “Not with me in the room, you’re not, buddy!”

  “Well, then, Mr. Reardon, sir, how come you don’t leave and let me be boss now?”

  “Well, I got one problem that I didn’t want to mention, but I’d better tell you, fellas.” Reardon lowered his voice including them all in his bantering confidence. “This is one helluva building; I mean, there is P.D. brass all over the place, across the street, up and down the block, practically breathing down our necks, and this building is a trap for an honest man. See, there’s a little blonde down the hall there.” He looked over his shoulder. “I was given an unmistakable set of little signals when I came into the building.” Pulling his mouth down, Reardon said, “I don’t want any of that, naturally, so, Stoney, since you’re in charge, will you assign Opara to give me a safe escort to the front door?”