Wendy Hornsby - Midnight Baby

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.”