The Bait

by Dorothy Uhnak

  Dell handed Reardon the car keys. “I checked with Communications and Homicide and the office and nobody’s looking for us, boss. You got a full tank.”

  Christie felt a sense of relief now: Reardon was going home. She was finished for the day; she could go home, get Mickey. Reardon had a tight hold on her arm and was propelling her toward the Pontiac. Tom Dell called to her, “See you, Christie, take it easy.”

  Reardon opened the car door for her. “Come on, Opara, get in. Hey, do you know that your mouth is open?” Edging her into the front seat, he leaned toward her. “Dell has to subway it home tonight. The boss is driving. Any questions?” He held up his hand. “Don’t ask any questions, just do like the boss tells you—fasten your seat belt.”

  She clicked the seat belt, feeling the metal buckle press against her stomach. She didn’t look at him, sitting beside her now, but she felt a renewed wave of anger growing: at him. Everyone else was going home; everyone else in the Squad was finished for the day. But she had to drag around, probably type up a hundred more reports. She folded her arms and dropped her pocketbook beside her feet.

  Reardon drove the way he did everything else: quickly, expertly, impatiently. Christie sat biting the inside of her cheek, refusing to ask him any questions in response to his lack of any explanation. She didn’t even notice what street they were on when he suddenly slammed on the brakes and backed into a parking space.

  “What luck: they must have known we were coming. C’mon, Opara.”

  She debated sitting there, waiting for him to walk around and open the door for her, but he was headed down the block, waving his hand for her to follow. He didn’t slow his pace, so she walked rapidly until she was alongside of him. He grasped her arm and steered her into a doorway.

  “Here we are,” he said easily, as though they had both been looking for a particular location. It was a restaurant and the coolness sent a momentary chill along her shoulder blades and some man approached them, smiling expansively, shaking Casey’s hand, taking hers, nodding approval, walking them past all the other tables to a booth isolated in the semi-darkness. Christie slid into the dark red leather seat indicated by the man, identified as George, and Casey sat opposite her, leaning his elbows on the table, regarding her with an amused expression.

  “Hey,” Reardon asked, “when did you eat last?”

  Christie shrugged.

  “Well, you are going to eat now. And I mean eat. George doesn’t give me a menu: he just brings food. And you better smile, because George is a very sensitive guy and he watches like a hawk: the first bite of everything he brings. He waits and watches. You better keep that face of yours under control because I’ll murder you if you hurt George’s feelings, because if you do, I’m dead here.”

  She started to answer, to say something to him, but

  George appeared carrying two drinks on a tray, smiling and beaming at Casey and then at Christie. “Scotch on the rocks for Mr. Reardon and for the young lady, something very special.” He carefully placed a white frothy drink in a cocktail glass before her and stood, waiting, the smile hovering. His hand gestured. “Taste it, young lady, and you let me know.”

  Christie sipped at the liquid; it was cool and creamy and sweet in her mouth, then warm in her throat. “It’s very nice,” she said, then seeing the smile was not completed, she sipped again. “Really, it’s delicious.”

  George’s face expanded and he made a circle with his thumb and index finger and headed for the kitchen. “See,” Casey said, “George’s feelings are very delicate.”

  Christie tasted the drink again. George’s feelings. Why should she be concerned about the feelings of some stranger named George, who stood there waiting, demanding her reaction? She turned her wrist; the damn band was too loose and she could never see what time it was. Reardon’s hand shot out and grasped her wrist.

  “Relax, Christie, you’re with the boss.”

  She pulled her hand away, recognizing the voice, the familiar taunting voice. Whose voice had it been last night, asking her if she were all right, over and over again, asking if she were all right, as if only she of all of them would be the only one not to make it?

  “Mr. Reardon, I’m tired. I’m not hungry. I’m just tired. I don’t want to upset your friend George, but I think I probably will because I don’t think I’ll be able to eat anything so why don’t you just explain it to him because I really want to go home now.”

  “Too late,” Reardon said, smiling over the tangy, steaming delicacy that the waiter placed before them and, automatically playing a role, Christie nibbled at a corner of something, not tasting it, smiling up at the man, who wouldn’t move away until she had swallowed. Her fork played over the plate, her fingers locked tightly around it. Reardon was talking about the food, then something about wine, about which wine went with what food and about fragrance and aroma and bouquet and vintage. He uncorked a bottle, pouring a small amount into a sparkling glass, sipped it, signaled acceptance to George somewhere behind her, then poured some for her and urged her to drink it and she did.

  In one swallow, Christie let it rush down her throat, ignoring Reardon and his voice, telling her that isn’t the way you drink wine, as though the technique of drinking wine mattered, as though their sitting here mattered.

  “Christie, look up at me.” The voice was sharp but she could see only a blur facing her. “Christie, let it out,” Reardon said, and she heard her own voice, hard and unfamiliar, “Leave me alone, Mr. Reardon. I’m fine. You didn’t think I would be, did you? Well, wet-nurse one of the others—not me!”

  His chin was raised but she couldn’t really see him. His face was lost in the shadows, in a kind of darkness that was enveloping him, but she could still meet him head on. If he had to dig at her, that was his problem not hers.

  The voice was familiar, mocking and sarcastic, and his words were rapid and mean. “Jesus, I hope you’re not getting the idea that I’m wet-nursing you. Hell, you’re one of my guys, right?”

  “Right,” she said, unaware she had spoken.

  “You’re one of the best, right?” He was leaning forward now, his hands flat on the table alongside his drink, and his voice was low. “It didn’t touch you, did it? None of it reached you, did it? It said in the News—it said Christie Opara was cool and calm as if she’d just taken a walk around the block. It said you were the calmest officer present on the scene. Like ice. Is that what you’re like, Christie? Because—hey—that’s a damn good thing to be: like ice!”

  His words pierced her like a steady barrage of sharp bright needles but she didn’t recognize him: he was a dark shape, darker than the darkness surrounding him, the clearest shape she had ever seen in her life, moving toward her, and she opened her mouth to protest, to tell him, to strike back at him, but a low sound came from within her and her breath caught and she could not form the sound and she could not breathe in or out. And then, it was as though light had suddenly shattered the intense darkness of the room and the room changed, unfamiliar and unknown. Christie reached out for something to hold on to and there was something—someone—beside her now, holding her tightly, and she tried to wrench away because it was Rogoff and his hands, dead, could not hold, but hands held her now, biting into her shoulders, pressing her face against the clean fresh smell of a new shirt and the hands were easing their hard grasp now, the pressure relaxing, and it was Reardon’s voice and Reardon’s hands, moving through her hair, pressing her face against his chest.

  “Okay, Christie,” he intoned, chanting it over and over, until the words began to have meaning, “okay, Christie, let it out, Christie, let it all out, it’s okay now, Christie, it’s all over.”

  She eased back now and he released her and she touched her face, looking at the colorless wetness which was not blood: not this time. He dug around in his back pocket, wiped her face, told her to “blow,” then he blotted her eyes again.

  She leaned back, taking the handkerchief from him, blew again, avoiding his eyes. “
I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m the first member of your Squad who ever cried all over your shirt. And a new shirt too.”

  He turned her chin roughly to him, forcing her face up. “Don’t apologize, Christie. You’ve a right to cry it out. Hell, I think men would be a lot better off if they sobbed it out occasionally. There’d be a hell of a lot less boozing and a hell of a lot less ulcers and a hell of a lot less everything else.” He grinned now. “But I’ll tell you, I thought I was going to have to belt you one, and George never would have understood that.”

  She leaned back feeling more tired than she had ever felt in her life: but it was a good, empty tiredness. She opened her eyes, saw George with his tray. He registered no reaction to the fact that Casey was seated alongside Christie. Casey looked at her, then at George.

  “George, I hate to do this to you,” Casey said, rising, extending his hand to her, “but this young lady has become ill.” He quickly added, “Not from the drink or anything, gee, no. You see, she’s been exposed to the German measles and just look at her. She’s all blotchy and I haven’t had the German measles and I’m going to just stick her in a cab and send her home right now. I certainly wouldn’t want her spreading her germs all over this place.”

  George moved his head discreetly. “What a shame,” he said. He balanced the tray against his body and lifted a heavy aluminum cover just enough to permit a steamy fragrant aroma to escape. “Another time?”

  Casey placed a five-dollar bill on the tray. “Right. And next time, George, when the lady is over the German measles, I’ll starve her for three days and then you can stuff her for a whole evening. She needs a little fattening up, don’t you think so?”

  George smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Reardon. Yes, I will plan something very special. Any time, Mr. Reardon, you come any time. You too, miss.”

  The evening had darkened with long jagged red remnants streaking across the edges of the sky. Christie sniffled into the handkerchief, then jammed it into her pocketbook. Reardon held the car door open for her, ordered, “Fasten your seat belt.”

  Christie leaned her head back, closed her eyes and did not listen to his terse telephone conversation or his grunt of satisfaction when he placed the receiver back into position and switched the mobile telephone to the “off” position.

  “We’re off the air and we are going to stay off the air.” He turned his body toward her, his arm on the steering wheel. “Christie, where do you want to go?”

  Her eyes traced the white vinyl of the car ceiling and the weariness seemed to be dissolving and she thought for a moment.

  “Not home?” he asked. “Not yet, right?”

  Her tongue touched the corner of her lips and she started to say something, then stopped, and he told her impatiently, “Look, Opara, you name it—you got it.”

  “The beach,” she said.

  “The beach,” he said flatly. He started the car, pulled into traffic, disregarding an irate motorist who had to come to an unexpected, brake-shrieking halt. “Not P.J.’s? Not Top of the Sixes? Not the Four Seasons?” He glanced at her, then muttered to himself, “It figures. Okay, Opara. The beach.”

  Reardon fought every car in sight, cataloguing the inadequacies and low intelligence of all the drivers on all the streets and parkways between Manhattan and Queens. Christie dozed, half listening to the one-sided arguments which finally subsided into an occasional snatch of song: he had a nice voice, musically strong and certain. She opened her eyes as he cut the motor.

  “Where are we?”

  “Riis Park,” Reardon said. “The beach.” Then, as she looked around, “This is a closed-off road, used for military vehicles at the Army installation over there. Some people don’t believe in signs”—he pointed to the official no admittance poster—“but, hell, this is an authorized vehicle, right?”

  “Right.” She got out of the car and he slid across the seat and stood beside her.

  “Well,” Reardon said, “we’re at the beach. What do we do now—strip and go swimming?”

  She shook her head slowly and walked onto the sand, wordless. Reardon followed her halfway to the water’s edge, then squatted on the cool sand. She had thought, back at the restaurant, that she had purged herself of it, but he knew she hadn’t. He watched her move tentatively along the shore, her body caught by the strong pale moonlight, a small shadow on the deserted beach. It was the loneliest sight Reardon had ever seen.

  He knew she could not accomplish it alone and he walked toward her. He saw her shudder as his shadow crossed hers; the air rushing from the ocean was cold and wet. Her face, as she turned to him, was contorted by pain and her eyes were empty and she tried to say something but the words stopped at her lips. She was too drained to cry and too exhausted to attempt to explain what she felt.

  “Come on up on the beach. It’s too cold here.” He took her arm and led her to a mound of dry sand and she sat when he did. Reardon began speaking, his voice a little uncertain, his eyes on the ocean. “About sixteen years ago,” he said, “I was in Korea. Right off the beach there was a jungle. It was cold on the beach, but it was hot in that jungle: like steam heat. You had to keep your eyes sharp and the damn sweat seemed to bubble up in your sockets. You had to look around in that goddamn tangle of hot weeds and trees and you had to spot those bastards: they were hidden all around us. We were part of a large encampment of Marines getting ready to push on. There hadn’t been any sniping for several hours, but they were there. You could feel them there.”

  Reardon dropped his head for a moment and was silent. She had never heard his voice sound like this before: it was hollow and frightening and she wondered if he was going to continue.

  “You could feel them there,” he repeated, “watching you. But it was hot and you got careless. I got careless. Standing orders were to wear combat helmets at all times.” Reardon turned and his eyes did not leave hers. “I was a lieutenant: twenty-four years old and invulnerable. I took the damn helmet off and put on my overseas cap to keep the sweat out of my eyes. I set it on my forehead and dropped my hands.” He outlined the gesture. “And then I heard the shot. It never even knocked my hat off: went right through, clean, and I heard a small noise in back of me.” He ran his band roughly over his face; his voice was harsh and bitter. “My sergeant was dead before he hit the sand. The bullet penetrated his helmet. I turned him over and there was a small red mark in the center of his forehead. He was a boy: a kid.”

  Reardon shifted so that he was on his knees, facing her. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Christie?” She stared at him dumbly and he grasped her shoulders. “Listen carefully: that bullet was mine. It was meant for me.” His voice was cold and positive. “There was no bullet in that room last night meant for you.” He saw the quick intake of breath; his words began to penetrate and she seemed immobilized. “All the bullets were meant for Rogoff. They were directed at Rogoff and they hit Rogoff and they killed Rogoff. Not you. His death had nothing to do with you.”

  He relaxed his hold, then stood and walked down the beach, his mind relinquishing the scene he had just described to her, filling with the clean cold sight and sound of the ocean. It was a long time before he returned to her and he was surprised that she had fallen into a deep sleep. She was curled on her side, her cheek resting on her folded arm. He knelt beside her. Her face was more than pretty now: relaxed, at peace. He touched her cheek and a frown pulled at her forehead. He traced it away gently without disturbing her sleep.

  Reardon locked his hands around his knees and watched her. She aroused so many conflicting emotions in him. She looked, in sleep, so completely vulnerable: that was one part of it, his feeling of wanting to protect her. But she was a tease in some ways; no, not really a tease, but provocative, then suddenly innocent. And fresh. Tough: not really tough, strong was a better word. She tried to be strong and she had great pride. Reardon watched her move slowly, then her body relaxed again.

  It all went deeper than just physical desire, though that, o
f course, was present. Not that she was particularly desirable: thin, flat, wiry, but the way she moved, sure of herself, confident, a little defiant and guarded.

  He pressed his forehead against his knees, not looking at her now. Because if he continued to look at her, he would reach out for her. Christ, he hadn’t wanted this. Never this. There had never been anything like this before. He had been to bed with many women and it had always been a casual thing, understood on both sides, taken for the mutual pleasure that was involved. His relationship with women other than his wife had never even gone into a relationship which could be called an affair. There had been many others: attractive women easily available and attractive women not easily available, but always it had involved nothing more than a mutual desire.

  He and his wife had an understanding, going back some fifteen years: back to when his twin daughters were born. It was bitter and involved and he owed no explanations to anyone: not to his wife or to himself or to anyone.

  Reardon licked his lips. His tongue lingered between his teeth and he looked at Christie again. This was different and this wasn’t what he wanted. He thought of Nora Opara: Christie is someone very special: she cares.

  She moved her arm, then slowly straightened her legs in a long stretch. Her face was puzzled for a moment, then she smiled. “I really slept,” she said.

  Reardon stood up and brushed his jacket. He sounded annoyed. “I’ll be carrying sand around with me for a week. Damn, my shoes are gritty. You better get up, Opara, it’s getting cold. That’s all I’d need—to have you on the sick list too.” He looked around quickly. “Hey, where’s your pocket-book?”

  “I left it in the car.”

  “In the car? With your gun and shield? Great. You could get a complaint for that, you know that, don’t you?”