Linda Fairstein - Hell Gate

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 there 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.”

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.