The Bait Read online

  Even without directly observing him, Christie knew the man was a degenerate. It was the kind of knowledge that she had absorbed day after day in the movie houses, the parks, along the side streets near schools, an awareness as intangible but as definite as a radar flash. There was a small, sharp, breathy sound from the corner where he stood: the man was exposing himself. With certain, harsh clarity, Christie acknowledged two facts: the man was a degenerate performing a degenerate act; she was on her way to an assignment where four Squad members awaited her arrival and she could take no official action.

  Without a sound, without another glance toward him, without any indication that she had been even slightly aware of him, Christie moved casually from the vestibule and entered the car, sitting halfway down the length of wicker seats, on the left side of the train so that she faced the empty portion of the vestibule. She felt a helpless anger. None of the passengers in the car was aware of the man in the vestibule; nor, for that matter, would they have acted any differently had they been aware of him. Christie sat stiffly, eyes averted from the end of the car, regretting her inability to act. The train pulled into the station and she glanced toward the vestibule. He had not exited.

  Two small girls entered the car by the center door. Dressed in crisply identical uniforms of navy-blue school jumpers, white blouses, little blue bow ties and berets, emblazoned in gold with school emblems, the children were chattering excitedly and clutching their schoolbooks to them.

  Sit down, sit down; oh, come on, little girls, sit down. Christie pleaded with them silently but their skinny legs couldn’t stand still. Radiantly alive in the deadness of the yellow-lit subway car, their bright faces overly animated compared to the sleepy dullness of the older passengers, the children seemed unable to settle down. Looking up and down the subway car, trying to decide in which direction they should go, they turned and headed toward the vestibule.

  Christie moved rapidly toward the subway map at the end of the car. The man had switched sides: he was leaning into the corner, facing into the car now, waiting. The two young schoolgirls, trying to get their footing as the car lurched into a turn, moved toward him.

  Acting swiftly now, as the small girls approached the vestibule, Christie turned from the map, confronting them, blocking their way and their view into the vestibule. Confused, the two children tried to walk past her, but Christie, with the graceful force of her body, spun them about so casually that no one but the children was aware of her actions. “Stay out of there,” she commanded in so low and harsh a whisper that the children, startled, didn’t look back at her, but took seats midway down the car.

  In a determined motion, Christie, her hand extracting her detective shield from the small pocket inside the shoulder bag, pushed the schoolbooks under her arm, transferred the shield to her left hand, right hand free. She moved swiftly into the vestibule, confronting the man directly.

  “Police officer,” she said quietly, the flash of shield confirming her words. “You’re under arrest.” Her right hand grasped the man’s belt, her fingers twisted into the leather. Her eyes searched for his face, hidden somewhere beneath the plaid cap and strange goggles. “Close your trousers. We’re getting off at the next station.” Standing close to the man, she was sickeningly aware of his size. Her voice wavered and she spoke lower. “I have a gun in my pocketbook. I don’t want to use it, but that will be up to you.”

  The man’s hands moved and he zipped his trousers. Wordlessly, he seemed to be regarding her but Christie could not see his features. She was only conscious of the massiveness of his body and she swallowed dryly as the station slid into place outside the door. Still grasping his belt, she tugged at him and he exited with her through the opened door.

  “Nice and easy,” she intoned. It was more of a prayer than a command, but the man, stooping forward slightly, obeyed her. No one else got off the train and the station seemed deserted. Christie, with a sinking sensation, heard the doors close behind her, felt the rumble as the train pulled away from the station. She looked about with an empty feeling and stepped away from the edge of the platform and the very real possibility of being tossed against the rapidly moving train. With her still holding his belt and him still obeying every tug and direction, they moved against the wall. Down the far end of the station was a tall, easy-moving figure in a blue uniform. A Transit Patrolman. The patrolman stiffened curiously, approaching them now, his chin raised in question. Christie directed her prisoner to place his hands against the tile wall, high over his head, feet apart and well back, his weight balanced on his fingertips. She slid her left foot sideways against his left toe, feeling her schoolbooks edging from beneath her arm.

  The policeman, as tall, but lighter than the prisoner, was beside them.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked warily. Christie could sense the sharpening of the policeman. She unclenched her left hand, the shield pressed against the flesh of her palm, aware that the officer was making a curious appraisal of her levis and sweater and sneakers.

  “I’m Detective Opara, District Attorney’s Squad. I just took this man off the train—indecent exposure.”

  The policeman was very young; his face was as pink and smooth as those of the two small schoolgirls. He whistled softly in admiration and surprise. “He’s a big one.” He measured himself against the height and bulk of the prisoner, then quickly, expertly, the Transit Patrolman ran his hands down the length of Murray Rogoff, shaking his head. “He’s clean. Turn around, fella, let’s see what you look like.”

  Rogoff obediently turned and faced the two police officers, his hands dangling at his sides. His face was still obscured by the cap which rested on the edge of his glasses. The young policeman squinted, peering for a better look, then asked Christie, “He give you any trouble?”

  Christie glanced at her watch and moved back a few steps. She signaled the cop nearer to her and spoke quickly and quietly. The policeman’s eyes remained riveted on the prisoner. “He hasn’t caused me any trouble yet, but he’s going to. Look, officer, I’m on an assignment. I’m supposed to be down at City College in about fifteen minutes. I’m on a set-up.” Watching the clean, intense young profile, Christie clenched her teeth, then said, “Officer, this fellow is an 1140; have you ever had an 1140?”

  “No, ma’am,” he answered, his eyes not leaving Rogoff. “In fact, this is my first collar. I mean, I’ll get an assist, won’t I?”

  Christie took a deep breath and the words came out without pause. “Look, how’d you like the collar? Your first pinch, as a gift. He’s yours.”

  The policeman’s eyes left the prisoner for just an instant; his face stiffened. “How’s that?”

  Trying to read his profile again, Christie said, “I’m on an assignment. Something very important, for the D.A. We have four men staked out, waiting for me to make a connection, in just about fifteen minutes. We’ve been on this case for nearly a month and today’s the day.” She realized her voice was getting a little shaky. There was an intelligent awareness about the young patrolman that unnerved her. Not stopping to measure his reaction, she continued, “When he got off the train he was exposed—you saw that when you approached us, right?”

  The cop’s bright face was a frozen mask; the eyes, like two points of ice, stayed on hers now. “I didn’t see him exposed. I can’t make the collar. You’re the arresting officer. I have no complainant and I can’t take him on observation because I didn’t see him exposed: you did. He’s your prisoner. I’m assisting.”

  Christie’s breath exploded into an irritated whistle between her teeth. She could hear a train approaching from the tunnel. All she wanted was to get on that train and ride one more stop to where she was supposed to be: to where the Squad men were waiting for her.

  “All right, officer, my mistake. I thought you had observed him. So you didn’t. Look, I’ll tell you what. He’s been a nice, quiet fellow. He isn’t going to give me any trouble. You go on with your patrol. There might be a mugger or something do
wn the south end of the station. Why don’t you just go about your job and I’ll take care of this, okay?”

  “No good,” he said in a voice so familiar to her: the voice of every cop who knew he was being conned. “He’s a prisoner. You placed him under arrest. His next stop is the precinct, which you know better than I do, officer. If he was to dump you or something, that would be my responsibility.”

  With a feeling close to despair, Christie watched a train pull into the station, saw the doors slide open and then shut; watched it leave the station heading toward 23rd Street ... without her.

  The Transit Patrolman had a firm grasp on Rogoff’s arm now, then his face broke into a grin. “Hey, Sarge,” he called, waving to a stocky blue-clad figure who had just gotten off the train. His voice lower, he said to Christie, “This guy’s a corker; he gives us a look every hour on the hour.” Then, to the sergeant, who came toward them, “Look what we got here!”

  The Transit Sergeant, a compact man of about fifty, with the springy bounce of a light heavyweight, professionally narrowed his eyes which raced from Rogoff to Christie, trying to size up the situation. “What’s this?” he asked sharply, his chin pushing in her direction. “Couple of beatniks acting up?”

  The patrolman grinned. “She’s a detective, Sarge. D.A.’s Squad. Took this guy off the train all by herself. An 1140,” he added.

  “Yeah?” the sergeant growled, unconvinced.

  Christie held up her shield; then, regarding the shrewd, weary, wise face hopefully, she moved away, motioning him toward her. “Sergeant, can I talk to you for a minute?” She looked at her watch, groaning. “Oh God, I’m going to get murdered.” The sergeant regarded her without expression. “Sergeant, I’m supposed to be down at City College right now. We’re on a big case. Confidential, involving some students and LSD; some big people are pushing this investigation and today is wrap-it-up day. My squad is down there, waiting for me. Casey Reardon is my boss and ...”

  The sergeant’s face collapsed now into a different face altogether: the human, warm, pleasant face of someone who has just recognized a friend. “Casey Reardon?” The smile recalled some private memories. “Hey, he still a regular hell-shooter? Geez, I could tell you stories about him.”

  Clutching at a sudden, unexpected, possible hope, Christie’s voice became conspiratorial: the sergeant knew Reardon. “Well I’m the one who is going to get shot right straight to the devil if I don’t get myself to where I’m supposed to be. It’s not just a case, Sarge, you understand that.” He nodded sympathetically and she began to feel a little better. “Someone ‘very high up’ is waiting on this, Sarge, and putting real pressure on all of us.”

  The sergeant’s face had its professional look again. “Why this then?” His thumb jerked over his shoulder, toward Rogoff and the young officer.

  Christie explained about the schoolgirls, watching the sergeant’s face relax again. “I wouldn’t have touched him with a ten-foot pole otherwise. Believe me, Sarge, I don’t want him. I would have called your headquarters and I’m sure your teams would have picked him up in the act another day. I was just afraid he’d expose himself to the kids—or maybe worse—after I detrained at 23rd Street.” Then, not hiding her bitterness, “I didn’t expect to run into your bright, efficient and very helpful young patrolman. Sergeant, I’m in a jam.”

  The sergeant thoughtfully rubbed the back of his neck. His face was sympathetic. “I understand the situation. Casey Reardon!” His soft whistle did not help Christie. “You see”—his eyes flashed over to the young cop—“we just turned these kids out. Two weeks on the line; bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young turks, most of them. This one is a good kid; going to make a real good cop out of him. Book smart and head smart.”

  Christie felt the subway platform being pulled from under her and it was a long, long way down.

  “If it was me had been on the station, well, I might have seen him exposed, you know? But these new kids—it’s a big deal. First collar. And these are good kids, know what I mean?”

  Christie nodded with heavy resignation. “I know what you mean, Sarge. And thanks for the ear, anyway.” More to herself, she said, “Reardon might bounce me all the way back to the Woman’s Bureau.”

  Without conviction, the sergeant tried to comfort her. “Aw, maybe it won’t be that bad, kid. Under the circumstances, what the hell could you do?”

  The agent in the change booth, a wiry man with a thin leather face, pushed the telephone on the little steel revolving platform from his booth so that the Transit Patrolman could call his Headquarters. The agent continued counting his tokens, his fingers automatically pushing them two at a time from one part of the smooth wooden board to the other, not missing count but also not missing a word being said into the telephone.

  “That’s right, Lieutenant, 1140, Indecent Exposure. On southbound IRT local en route between 33rd and 28th Street. Arresting Officer, Detective Christie Opara (he spelled it phonetically into the phone “O-per-uh” and Christie didn’t correct him, because then he would call her, as everyone did, O’Para); shield number 4754, D.A.’s Squad—Investigations.” The patrolman listened for a moment, then, “Oh, all right, I didn’t know you wanted the prisoner’s pedigree now, just a minute.” Carefully cradling the telephone against his shoulder, he turned the pages of his notebook. “Here we go: Murray Rogoff—two f’s—male—white—36 years—born U.S.; height, 6’1”, weight, approximately 185.” Then turning to Rogoff, “Hey, fella, what color are your eyes?”

  The sergeant peered at Rogoff. “Take off your cap, mister.”

  Rogoff reached up and removed his cap. The sergeant whistled in blunt surprise at the stony skull. “You wouldn’t miss this guy a mile away. Those special glasses, buddy? What have you got, trouble with your eyes?”

  Rogoff removed his glasses without being told and his lashless eyes blinked rapidly, unprotected now. His face was browless and as smooth as his head with no stubble or indication of any beard growth. The sergeant called out, “Eyes, light brown. Go ahead, buddy, put the glasses back on if it hurts your eyes.” Then, to Christie, who at the moment couldn’t care less, “Those are special moisture glasses; I’ve seen them before. Guy I know got burned in a forest fire once—pal of mine, used to be a ranger. Holds the moisture in, right, Rogoff?” The sergeant wasn’t annoyed by the unanswered question. He whispered to Christie, “This guy’s in a fog; acts like a robot; gotta watch them when they’re like that.”

  Christie looked around the station again: no telephone. The sergeant, catching her distress, hurried the patrolman off the phone. “Come on, come on, you can give them more details from the precinct; hell, you can tell them what color shorts he’s wearing if you want to.”

  Christie took a deep breath, inserted her index finger in the dial, spinning it completely for an outside line. She heard the steady buzzing of the dial tone, then dialed her office number.

  The first ring was interrupted by the slurred words: “District-Attorney’s-Squad-Detective-Martin.”

  “Stoney? This is Christie.”

  There was a silence lasting approximately two seconds. “Is it now?”

  “Yes. Stoney, listen ...”

  “Christie, where the hell are you? It’s after ten. Marty called twice; Ferranti called once; O’Hanlon’s been ringing steady and Mr. Reardon is getting what you might call a little tense, only that’s not what you really might call it.”

  “Well, Stoney, a funny thing happened to me on my way to City College.” Her voice fell as she realized he wasn’t responding. “I’m at the 28th Street station of the IRT subway.”

  Another voice blared into her ear, harsh, cold and deliberate. “And exactly what the hell are you doing at the 28th Street station of the IRT subway?” Casey Reardon demanded.

  Christie caught her breath. The sergeant, standing next to her, was pointing at himself. Would it help if he spoke? She shook her head. “Well, sir, it’s a long story.”

  Irritably, she was ordered to te
ll it fast. “Well, I got this 1140.” She hoped the sergeant hadn’t heard the words that were blasted into her ear. He probably had, for he was strolling discreetly toward the prisoner. Christie’s mind went blank and she felt the words struggling inside her mouth, not forming first carefully inside her brain. She wondered if Mr. Reardon even heard her: it seemed as though his steady, furious cursing continued as she spoke, trying to tell him the facts. “And this Transit cop gave me an assist, and ...” This triggered another barrage of words and then the voice receded and Stoney’s voice spoke to her again.

  “Christie,” he said carefully, “Mr. Reardon says as soon as you get your prisoner arraigned you get yourself into the office. Hold it a minute.” She heard an angry consultation, then Stoney again. “When you get to court, see Tommy Kalman, you know him, the blond court attendant. Have him get you in and out fast—tell him Mr. Reardon’s orders, then you come in, right?”

  “Right. What about the other fellas?”

  “Yeah, how ’bout them?” Stoney asked her. “I’ll probably be hearing from them in the immediate future and I’ll call them in.” She heard Reardon’s voice moving further away, then cut off completely by the explosive sound of a slamming door. Stoney sighed and his voice was softer now. “Christie, you better wear a suit of armor; Mr. Reardon is what you might say ‘unhappy.’”

  “Thanks a lot.” Christie hung up the phone and pushed it back into the booth. Mr. Reardon’s unhappy.

  Regretfully, Christie waved to the sergeant as he stood looking out the window of the subway train which was picking up speed, hurtling toward 23rd Street.

  “Good God,” the desk lieutenant at the precinct said, “look what Transit is sending us now: a twelve-year-old cop and a beatnik female detective. What’s your prisoner, a circus strong man? Look at the build on this guy!”