Linda Fairstein - Hell Gate

“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, stroking 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?”

Patroon was anything but a take-out place, yet Ken had frequently arranged deliveries to my apartment when he heard I was under the weather or hunkered down in preparation for a trial.

“You get the fire going, find the red wine, and I’ll set out the dinner. I know how much you go for guys who can cook,” Mike said.

I walked into the den. There were logs in the fireplace and matches on the mantel, so I poked around until the sparks seemed to take on the dry wood.

I went into the powder room and freshened up. I hadn’t put on lipstick or blush the entire day, and now I found myself borrowing Vickee’s things to apply a bit of makeup, brush my hair, and dab on perfume. I stared at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing the tense and exhausted face that stared back at me.

Then I checked the fire, which was going full force. The wine rack and bar were across the room, and I selected a nice California red to avoid any more conversation about France. When I picked up the corkscrew bottle opener, my stomach churned at the thought of Salma Zunega’s neck.

“You want to get the silverware and some napkins?” Mike asked. He had come into the room carrying a platter with a black-and-blue porterhouse for two that he had sliced for us. “Give me the wine opener. Bad territory for you to revisit.”

I passed it off to him and went into the kitchen. When I returned with the place settings, Mike had uncorked the bottle and set out the glasses on the table in front of the sofa. We both made another trip back to bring in the little plates with the veggies and potatoes that Ken had included, knowing my favorites.

“Sit down and help yourself,” Mike said.

“Let me just run up and make sure Logan’s out.”

I climbed to the top of the stairs and peeked into his room. He had curled up under his quilt, surrounded by his favorite stuffed animals, and was sound asleep.

I came back down as Mike was pouring the wine. He lifted his glass and clinked it against mine. “Cheers-here’s to everything you want in the New Year.”

“You make a resolution to be nice to me? That’s top of my list.”

“How could I be nicer than this? The best grub in town, a really fine house, a cute kid. You look great with him, Coop. You look like a natural with that little guy snuggled up tight against you.”

“Here we go again.”

“You have a good time in Paris?”

I didn’t answer.