Hell Gate

by Linda A. Fairstein

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll drop you at Fifty-ninth Street and get on the bridge there.”

  Mercer and Vickee lived in a gracious house in Douglaston, one of the most attractive neighborhoods in Queens. It borders on Nassau County and has a suburban feel. Blessed with excellent public schools, it’s a great neighborhood in which to raise kids.

  “Still seeing ghosts around here?” Nan asked as I got in the car.

  “All clear. Thanks for your trust,” I said. “You stood your ground with DeCicco. Remind me, am I the boss of you or what? It’s so refreshing to be humiliated every now and then.”

  “I’m really much more worried about what you’re going to cook for Logan’s dinner. You know Vickee doesn’t let him have junk food.”

  “Her sister saved me. Made some meat loaf today and all I have to do is warm it up and nuke the veggies.”

  We talked all the way downtown, jumping back and forth between the case facts and our personal lives. I dropped Nan off at the subway on Lexington Avenue. “Speak to you tomorrow, I’m sure. Thanks for everything.”

  I beat the rush-hour traffic over the bridge and coasted out on the parkway with Smokey Robinson singing to me.

  When I reached the house, I parked in front and before I could get across the sidewalk with my shopping bags, Vickee opened the door and Logan dashed down the walk to greet me. I dropped the packages and picked him up, spinning around with him in my arms.

  “Are you staying with me, Lexi?” That was as close as the almost-three-year-old could get to my name. “What’s in the bags? Is it for me?”

  “Logan, that’s a terrible thing to say,” Vickee called out from the open doorway. “You haven’t seen Auntie Alex in over a month.”

  “That’s all right. We’ve got lots of time to play tonight,” I said. “Wow! Look at you, Detective Eaton. Don’t you look fine.”

  “Cousin Velma’s into sequins, can you tell? And I’m cohosting, so I went all out.”

  Vickee stepped back and twirled for me, a striking image in a sparkling silver gown and three-inch heels that had her towering over me.

  “Doesn’t Mommy look beautiful?” I asked Logan.

  “She looks silly,” he said, laughing as he foraged through the wrapped boxes I had brought.

  “Hey, little guy,” Mercer’s voice boomed from the top of the staircase, “did Aunt Alex say anything about those being for you?”

  He was still adjusting his tie as he came down from the master bedroom, dressed to the nines in a handsome suit and cobalt blue tie. He kissed me on both cheeks. “There’s still time to change your mind, Alex. You can borrow something from Vickee’s closet and go in my place.”

  “Don’t go breaking Velma’s heart,” Vickee said. “You’re her favorite outlaw.”

  “Open, Lexi? Can I open?” Logan asked.

  “You bet.”

  He sat on the floor and began to tear at the Christmas wrapping.

  “You got the drill?” Mercer said. “Listen up, Logan. You get to play with Aunt Alex for a while. Then you’ve got to eat all your dinner. You get a bath, three stories, and then to sleep. That good? Lights out the minute Alex tells you so.”

  The child would have said yes to anything as he ripped at the paper.

  “Look, Mommy, look! Legos!”

  Vickee had given me part of Logan’s wish list for Santa. The Legos Airport was my first order and got the desired response. He knew his grandfather had worked at LaGuardia, and he, too, was fascinated with everything that flew. He wrapped himself around my leg and said thank you over and over.

  “Come into the kitchen,” Vickee said. “I’ll show you where everything is.”

  The prepared food was laid out on the counter. I reassured Vickee of my ability to heat, plate, and serve it, while Logan shouted about the two Bionicles he had opened.

  “Over the top, Alex.”

  “I’m allowed to spoil him. That’s what aunties are all about,” I said. “Any special instructions?”

  “There’s a nice bottle of white wine on ice. It’ll go well—”

  “No drinking on duty, ma’am. My charge is too important.”

  “Well, if this doesn’t rock on too late, we’ll have a nightcap together later.”

  Logan walked into the kitchen, dragging a large Paddington Bear in one hand and clutching a small leather-bound book in the other. “Will you read me?” he asked, holding it out to me.

  “Aunt Alex can read after we’ve gone, babe,” Vickee said. “Come into the den and play with your new toys while I talk to her. And give me the book.”

  Reluctantly, he handed the slim volume to his mother. It was my tradition to give the children in my family and among my close friends books with which they could start and grow a collection. I had always found great joy in the stories that were read to me as a child, and my love of literature remained a stabilizing force in my life.

  “Aesop’s Fables,” I said.

  “I’ll put this high on the shelf with his others. No sticky fingers, no danger it will get used as a projectile,” Vickee said, as we followed Logan into the den.

  We talked until Vickee and Mercer were ready to leave. Logan was so engrossed in his new bounty that he had to be reminded to get up and give them good-night hugs.

  Getting down on the rug to help Logan put together the tiny pieces to build the airport was the perfect tonic to the end of a long, crazy week. We played for almost an hour and when I told him it was time for dinner, he merrily came to the kitchen with me, explaining everything there was to know about Gresh, one of his new Bionicles.

  I put him in his booster seat, warmed up the meat loaf in the preheated oven, and microwaved the rest of the meal. He cleaned his plate, drank two glasses of milk, introduced me to the imaginary buddies who were seated around the table with us, and made the whole process of caring for him seem like a cakewalk.

  “Time for your bath, Mr. Logan,” I said.

  “Gresh come too?”

  “Why not?”

  The child headed for the staircase and climbed as fast as he could, talking to the odd-looking creature all the way up.

  I rolled up my sleeves and ran the water in the tub, checking the temperature to make sure it would be comfortable. “Okay, sweetie, let’s get in.”

  He undressed and I lifted him into the bathtub. “Bubbles, Lexi. Where are the bubbles?”

  “Whoops! I forgot them. I don’t know why, ’cause I love bubbles when I take my bath too,” I said, adding them till they completely covered his plastic toy and the surface of the tub.

  “You take baths, Lexi? My mom likes showers better,” Logan said. “How come you don’t have a little boy like me to play with?”

  I was washing his neck and sat back on my heels as he stared at me and asked again. “How come?”

  “I expect I might someday, Logan.” I couldn’t even catch a break from a toddler. “It would be nice to have a boy or girl who could come hang out with you, right?”

  “Daddy says he doesn’t think you ever will. How come, Lexi?”

  “Maybe I’ll surprise your daddy. Would you like that?”

  The boy splashed the water with both hands, delighted by the prospect of pulling off a surprise for his father. “Yes, Logan like that.”

  “How about I tell you a story about the first time I met your daddy?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “It was a very long time ago, long before you were born—”

  I was plotting the narrative when the doorbell rang. I was startled by the loud, jarring sound and the prospect of an unexpected visitor.

  “Who’s that?” Logan asked.

  “Might be the wrong house, sweetie. Let’s rinse off the soap and get you dry and warm before we go downstairs.”

  Again the shrill ring of the bell.

  I lifted Logan out of the tub and wrapped a large bath sheet around him, carrying him in my arms and rubbing him as I walked through the hall to the master bedroom, to see if ther
e was any other car parked in front of the house.

  Now there was a pounding on the door—an impatient, insistent knock that seemed to get louder.

  “Who’s that?” I never ceased to be amazed at how often kids could be repetitious.

  “I don’t know yet, Logan. Why don’t you get into bed so I can go see,” I said, crossing down the hall to his room. I thought it would be smarter to leave him there while I explored the situation at the door.

  “I don’t want to get in bed,” he said, kicking before I could set him down and start to get his pajamas on.

  “Logan, you’ve got to get ready—”

  The brass striker hit the door again just as my cell phone rang. I stood Logan on his bed and pulled the cell out of my rear pants pocket.

  “Yes,” I said brusquely into the mouthpiece.

  “Jeez, I was afraid you took my godson and ran out the back door when I rang the bell,” Mike said. “That’s me freezing my ass here on the front steps, waiting for you to open up. All you see is the bogeyman, waiting for you everywhere you go. You better get a life for yourself, Coop.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  There was no corralling Logan Wallace. He idolized Mike and was ecstatic about the surprise visit, squealing and laughing like he’d never stop.

  “Lo-lo-lo-Logan,” Mike said, stopping for a high-five before he marched a shopping bag into the kitchen while the kid tried to keep up with him. “What are you doing still awake, m’man? It’s eight o’clock. I’m gonna fire your babysitter.”

  “No, you can’t,” he said as Mike put the bag down, grabbed the boy’s pajamas by the waistband, and began tickling him. “It’s Lexi.”

  “I thought Lexi was your date.”

  Logan buried his face in Mike’s thigh, still laughing. “Logan have no date.”

  “You had your stories yet, little guy?”

  “No.”

  “I was just about to start reading to him.”

  “Go on upstairs with Lexi,” Mike said. “Get in bed and I’ll tell you a good one.”

  “Three good ones, Mikey. I can have three.” The child grabbed my hand and started pulling me away.

  The moment Logan turned his back, Mike removed his gun from its holster and stowed it on top of the tall refrigerator. It was the first thing most cops did when they spent time in a house with kids, but that particular hiding place would only work until Logan got a little older, when he’d be able to climb up on the counters to explore all the hidden surfaces.

  “Let’s gather your animals and go on upstairs,” I said, stopping in the den to retrieve the stuffed brontosaurus and ragged teddy bear he slept with every night.

  “Wait just a minute,” Mike said, coming in behind us, scooping the boy up and hoisting him onto his shoulders. “Lexi, put on the TV, will you?”

  Logan was clapping his hands from his new perch.

  Mike’s timing was impeccable.

  “When we come back from the commercial break,” Alex Trebek said, “we’ll see which of our contestants has the right question. Who’ll become our champion tonight? Remember, the Final Jeopardy ! category is MYTH OR MADNESS.”

  “Who’s the champion, Logan?” Mike asked, letting the child ride him like a bronco.

  “Logan! Logan is!”

  “What do you give me, Coop?”

  “Whatever it takes to encourage you to put my guy to bed.”

  Myths, especially the classics, were among Mike’s specialties, full of warriors and heroes whose legends and exploits captivated him. I was the resident expert on madness, a popular theme of literature and art.

  “We’ll hold at twenty, right, Logan? You my partner, pal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We gonna beat Lexi?” Mike asked. “Dudes rule?”

  Logan’s clapping and laughing were almost at a fever pitch.

  “And the answer is, Contraband in America—for almost a hundred years, this liquid was reputed to drive men mad,” Trebek read from the board. “MYTH OR MADNESS.”

  “Was there a liquid opium?” Mike asked.

  “If that’s your question, then you lose,” I said. “What is absinthe?”

  “How did I miss that? The bartender in me should have known. But what’s the myth?”

  “Supposedly it’s what Van Gogh was drinking the night he cut off his ear and gave it to a prostitute. Poe, Baudelaire, Wilde—a lot of far-fetched stories about how dangerous a liquor it is.”

  In Le Zinc, the chic bar in Luc’s restaurant in the charming village of Mougins, he had a vintage poster of a madman drinking the green spirit, with the warning: L’Absinthe Rend Fou—absinthe makes you crazy. It had been banned in this country in 1912, and only legalized again in 2007.

  “Lexi wins, Logan. Got to brush your teeth and get ready for story time.”

  Mike flipped the child over his head and sent him running back to me. We went upstairs and after cleaning up, Logan went directly to the shelf in his room to grab a fistful of books and threw himself onto his bed.

  “Which one do you want me to start with?” I asked, sitting beside him as he put his head on the pillow and snuggled against me.

  “You’ve probably read that one a gazillion times,” Mike said, walking into the room. “Don’t you want me to tell you about the time your daddy and I had to battle the dinosaurs in Central Park?”

  Logan was clapping his hands, so wired that I doubted he would ever sleep. “Yeah, tell that one.”

  He was at the age when everything about the prehistoric creatures fascinated him. He could recognize the shapes of each species and knew their names, but couldn’t quite get the timeline that made Mike’s tales so outrageously fanciful.

  Mike pulled up the rocking chair and placed it directly in front of Logan so the child could see every expression and gesture. There was no better storyteller I’d ever seen than Mike, as he primed the background for Logan—the “good guys,” Mike and Mercer—who were rookies in the Police Academy, setting out to protect the city from the invasion of the dinosaurs who had been hiding for centuries in the Rocky Mountains.

  The story was complex and colorful. In addition to the wide variety of predators Logan knew, Mike made up dozens of others, colored them with stripes and polka dots, and crafted them to graze on favorite foods—the detectosaurus on police officers, the toddlersaurus on kids who didn’t go to sleep on time, and the Lexisaurus on babysitters who weren’t any fun to have around.

  Fifteen minutes in, I was squished into the corner where the bed met the wall. Logan had laughed at the funny parts and practically crawled over my head when he was scared by the final confrontation near the zoo inside the park.

  “Let’s not set up any night-m-a-r-e-s, Uncle Mike,” I said, spelling out the second half of the word. “There’s enough adrenaline going here to keep my guy up till dawn. I’ll really lose my job.”

  “We always close happy,” Mike said. “Don’t we, Lo-lo-lo-Logan?”

  The story ended with the dinosaurs agreeing to help Mercer patrol and keep the bad guys in line, with the swat of a long tail or the threat of a velociraptor claw.

  “ ’ Nother one, Mikey. ’Nother one.”

  Logan was exhausted but fighting the end of his happy evening.

  “No way, my friend. That was a two-book extravaganza. Lexi has to read you something about bunnies or balloons,” he said, leaving me to calm the child. “I’ll be right downstairs, making sure your mom and daddy don’t come home while you’re still all wild and wooly.”

  “And whose fault would that be?” I asked.

  Mike leaned over for a hug and Logan locked his arms around Mike’s neck. When he straightened up, Logan came along with him. They kissed good-night as I scrambled out of the bed and smoothed it for the little boy to get ready for sleep.

  I picked a brightly decorated book with a cheerful title that I thought would help soothe Logan, and read the short story to him. When that was done, I closed the light and lay down next to him for ten minutes, st
roking his baby soft skin and feeling his warmth against me.

  When he dropped off to sleep, I turned on the night-light and went downstairs. I could hear Mike in the kitchen.

  “Did you eat?” he asked. It was almost eight thirty.

  “Not yet, but there’s some meat loaf,” I said. “This is a really pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight?”

  “Nan called me. She thought the babysitter needed a babysitter. Or maybe a straitjacket. She told me about your reaction and the nine-one-one call this afternoon.”

  “I don’t need anything, actually, but I haven’t seen you—I mean, to talk to or anything like that—in far too long.”

  Mike was taking things out of the shopping bag and stacking them next to the stove. “Forget the meat loaf. I stopped at Patroon. Ken loaded me up with a feast. Light a fire in the den and we’ll eat in there.”

  I was thoroughly taken with Mike’s thoughtfulness and confused, as I had been for a very long time, by my feelings about him. I had wonderfully loyal and devoted girlfriends, but he was the man I had become closer to in the last ten years than any of the guys I had dated. I had fallen madly in love with Luc a year ago, but I loved Mike too—although I thought in a way that was not romantic. Every now and then a sweet moment like this presented itself, while I was too tired and emotionally wrought to figure out what was going on inside my head and heart.

  “I’m starving. I could eat a bear.”

  “Hate to disappoint but Ken was fresh out of grizzlies. Fix me a drink, will you?”

  “Mercer put some nice white on ice.”

  “White doesn’t go with bear—or with a porterhouse. I guess you haven’t spent enough time in France to figure that out.”

  Ken Aretsky was one of New York’s great restaurateurs and a dear friend of mine. I had introduced Luc to him, because his upscale eatery on East Forty-sixth Street was a model of fine dining—first-class food, a wine list with incredible depth, and an elegant setting for any good meal—the kind of place Luc was planning to reinvent in his father’s style.

  “I hope you brought sides. He’s got the best onion rings in the world—and garlic mashed potatoes. And sautéed spinach,” I said. “Can you tell I skipped lunch? You want vodka or red wine?”