Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love

by Abby Winter Flower

  He opens it. “There’s two thousand dollars in here.”

  “You can give a thousand to Henry to pay for my escape from your airport. That ought to make him happy. You can keep the other thousand, maybe use it to send Jethro to school, teach him some manners.”

  The room phone rings. “Don’t answer it, it’s Henry’s boys checking to see if we’re here. You have to get out fast,” says Ben.

  “Go down to the lobby. Buy us some time. Tell them we’ve already left.”

  Ben surprises me with a hug. Jethro gives me a little one, too.

  “Got something else for you.” I give him a paper bag. Inside are two guns, the .45 that Tim stole from Jethro’s dresser and the nine millimeter I took from Bernard at The Pit. “To add to your extensive family collection. Never had much use for handguns on the reservation. Us Indians like rifles and bows.”

  They move to the door. “One last thing. I hate to say it, but you remind me of my brother. I know he’d like you have this—one criminal to another.” I hand him the Rolex.

  He takes it and grins, “Fake Rolex.”

  He waits before opening the door. “Not fake,” I say. Then, they’re gone.

  * * *

  We grab our stuff and follow them out. There are two elevators. One is going down, it’s on the tenth floor. That’s Ben and Jethro. It’s the one coming up that I’m worried about. It’s on nine and has to be Henry’s guys. So much for heading them off in the lobby.

  We sprint down the hall, away from the elevator and are just about to duck around the corner when I hear the bell and see three guys pop out of the elevator. They all have guns. What is it about this country and guns?

  “Quick, this way. Move,” he commands. I’d like to tell him that’s easy for him to say, he’s not pulling a suitcase and wearing crammed backpack, but he’s right. They’re racing down the hall and getting closer.

  We make the turn and head for an emergency staircase at the end of the hall. I turn the knob but it won’t open. They round the corner and the one in the lead waves his gun and shouts something in a native language. I’m pretty sure it’s not “Have a nice day.”

  I twist and jerk at the door knob but it won’t budge. How can you be an emergency door and be locked? If there was ever an emergency, this is it. I realize I’m having a conversation with a door, and look at Tim.

  “Let me try.” He turns the knob to the left, then slowly and gently to the right. It opens. We duck through and slam it. “Let’s hope that they’re just as clumsy as you,” he says.

  They are. We’re halfway to the twelfth floor when we hear banging and shouting. We make it to eleven before we hear the shots. No finesse for them. They just shot out the lock.

  “Got to get to ten, go faster,” he screams. I’m taking two steps at a time, he’s taking three. He catches a toe and stumbles. I drop my load and pull him up. His nose is bleeding and he’s holding his left knee. “Doesn’t . . . matter . . . keep . . . going,” he pants.

  I can hear clomping footsteps. They’re two floors above us when we get to ten. “Quiet,” I whisper. He opens the door and I pull a metal fire extinguisher from the wall and heave it down the stairs. I can hear it clanging as it bounces to the landing on nine. With any luck they’ll hear it too.

  He silently shuts the door and we race halfway down the hall and duck into an alcove where there’s a vending machine and an ice maker. In a corner, behind the ice maker I spot a narrow door.

  “Hope they haven’t changed the combination.” He punches the numbers on the lock too hard and too fast. It doesn’t open and we hear the stairwell door crash against the wall. They’ve found the fire extinguisher and have come back.

  “Easy, go slow.” I try to sound calm but I don’t feel that way. They’re halfway to the alcove.

  The lock clicks open and we slip inside. We shut the door seconds before one of Henry’s thugs rushes into the alcove. The door is thin and we hear him moving around. He finds the door and tries to open it. We’re standing a foot away on the other side and holding our breaths. “It’s locked, they can’t be in there,” he shouts, this time in English.

  “Spread out. They’ve got to be on this floor. We’ve got to hurry, someone must have heard those shots,” says one of his buddies. I hear banging feet and short bursts of conversation, then only the sound of the ice maker’s motor.

  * * *

  Tim knows where the switch is and turns on the light. We’re in a small storeroom, more like a large closet. I see a stack of mattresses against the back wall, shelves of folded towels, sheets, and pillow cases. A large canvas cart, filled with a jumble of soiled sheets, pillows and blankets sits next to the door waiting to be wheeled to the laundry.

  “I used to sneak up here when I worked the night shift to grab a few minutes sleep. Not too many people know it’s here.”

  “We’re stuck. They’ll be watching the exits. It’ll probably be safe in the morning.”

  There’s no water, but I improvise and use some mouthwash and one of the towels to clean the scratch on his knee and wipe the blood from under his nose. We’re both too exhausted to say much. He pulls down two single bed mattresses and lays them side by side on the floor. “Not the luxury suite I paid for. Find a pillow and a reasonably clean blanket.” He gives me a fatherly kiss on the forehead and lays on his mattress. “Tuck in,” he says.

  I look up and see an air conditioning vent in the ceiling and feel cold air blasting down on us. I don’t know why anyone would air condition a closet but it gives me an excuse to wrap my arms and legs around him.

  “You must be cold,” I whisper.

  “Getting warmer,” he says, fumbling in his backpack and pulling out a little plastic packet.

  “You weren’t a boy scout were you?”

  “Why?”

  “Boy scout motto is Always Prepared.”

  “I’m preparing to put it on—there, got it done, just like in the scout handbook.”

  We lay on our sides, facing each other, exploring, rubbing, and kissing.

  With no preamble he suddenly orders, “Turn over.”

  It’s not the time for discussion. I comply and, without pause he mounts me and slowly begins pumping. I feel his urgency and join his increasing cadence. After a minute, I try to roll her over. “Let me get on top for a while,” I moan.

  “No . . . stay . . . I . . . want it . . . this way,” he pants.

  Again, not the time for debate. I lay back, raise my hips and start my own rhythm.

  “No . . . don’t move . . . I’ll . . . do the work . . .” Not one to resist coaching, I comply. He’s true to his word and very good at his work. Contrary to my past experience, I come first—not an earthquake, but not bad. He stays on top and I open my eyes and watch him grind and pump. He climaxes with a long groan.

  We turn on our sides and enjoy an afterglow series of kissing and stroking. “You like to be on top,” I say.

  “I like to be in control,” he answers, then turns and falls asleep.

  I lie awake thinking about Andy. He’s so normal, so natural, no hang ups about control. I try to compartmentalize, and it’s not as though we’re married, but I’m feeling guilty. There’s something about Tim that hooks me but also makes me wary. He’s so into lovemaking control, I help wondering if he’s controlling me too, only using our relationship as a way to get out of Nigeria. I look at him peacefully sleeping, his warm lips slightly open, and give up thinking for the night.

  CHAPTER 25

  It’s still dark when we walk out the front door holding hands like honeymooners. There’s no sign of Henry’s guys. When we get to the airport, Tim tips the cab driver ten dollars. Big spender with my hard earned money.

  We’re in the domestic airport terminal building. It’s different than the international terminal where I got into this mess three days ago, but still scary. I keep looking for Ahmed the suit guy and his security goons.

  Tim made reservations but we have to pay for our tickets at
the counter. It’s a domestic flight so I can use the fake driver’s license for identification. The picture Tim took is a little crooked but the rest looks good. For today I’m Patricia R. Bonner of Charlotte North Carolina. “How about your ID?” I ask.

  He shows me a Nigerian passport. “I got this a year ago. Part of my plan to go to the U.S. I wanted to be ready.”

  “You are always prepared—always in control, too, based on my recent experience.”

  He smiles, pats my ass, and leads me to the ticket counter.

  * * *

  I watch the agent, a middle aged woman with a skinny face and grey hair that she pulls back to cover an emerging bald spot, raise her eyebrows when Tim pulls out a stack of bills and peels off enough to pay for our tickets.

  “Why only one way when you live in Lagos?”

  “I’m unsure of my plans. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious, I thought you might want a round trip ticket.” She answers Tim but looks at me.

  She holds my new driver’s license up to the light and studies it. “How’s the weather in North Carolina?” she asks, still looking at the license.

  “Not as hot as here.”

  She takes the fake license and Tim’s passport, turns her back on us and makes a phone call. Thirty seconds later, another agent shows up. He’s an old guy with grey hair, rimless glasses, a hat with a shiny bill, and a better uniform. “What’s your business in Nigeria?” he asks me.

  “I’m with a group of volunteers from Minnesota helping a girl’s school. They left three days ago.”

  “Why didn’t you go north with them?”

  “What’s with all the questions? Just give us our boarding passes. Isn’t that your job?”

  Tim steps between us, smiles at the old guy, and calmly says, “My brother, Ben is a student—a high honors graduate student. His advisor put them in touch. They’ve become pen pals.”

  “I stopped off to visit for a couple of days,” I say, following his lead. “He really showed me around. I sure learned a lot of things about Lagos that aren’t in the travel brochures from him. As you noticed, Tim paid. That’s because his brother offered to buy my ticket to Abuja if I’d stay over. They come from a very wealthy family, lots of influence. Best if we got our tickets without all the hassle.”

  The two agents turn and talk. They can’t seem to figure us out and I hope they give up trying. Finally, the woman turns and gives us our boarding passes. “Have a nice flight,” she says. I can tell she doesn’t really mean it.

  * * *

  We get through the security check point with no problem and move quickly to get to the gate before they shut the doors. We’re heading to the ramp when Tim tugs my arm.

  “Over there. Don’t be obvious.”

  I turn my head slowly and see the grey haired agent flashing a badge and pushing through the security check point. Ahmed is with him and he’s still carrying that damn briefcase.

  “Get on. If I don’t make it, get a room at a hotel near the airport. Use my name. I’ll find you.”

  “But—”

  “Go.” I push him ahead and rush back to the woman taking tickets. “Emergency.” I point to the women’s room across the hall.

  “You got three minutes before we shut the doors. Better be fast.”

  I want to make sure they see me so I race across the hallway and come to a stop at the end of the security line. They’re thirty feet back and coming fast. I dash to the women’s room and duck behind a wall inside the door. The first one in is Ahmed. I stick my right leg out and push with my left hand. He falls to the floor and his briefcase slides away. Second time I’ve done that in three days. The grey haired agent is on his heels and I leap out and push him forward. He trips over Ahmed and staggers toward a row of stalls trying to catch his balance.

  “Men in the restroom. That guy stole the agent’s brief case. Get him,” I shout. A flight just arrived and the room is small and crowded. “Quick, get him before he gets up. I’ll help the old guy.”

  A couple of women move toward Ahmed and another picks up the briefcase. I shove the agent into a stall, push him against the wall, pull off his hat and glasses, throw them in the toilet and flush it. I’m not sure that makes any sense but feels like the right thing to do.

  I run out of the stall and point back. “Help him, he’s hurt.” I use the confusion to cover my exit. The boarding ramp is blocked but I jump over the rope barrier and get to the door as its closing. Before getting in, I look back and see Ahmed emerge. His hair’s messed up, his coat’s missing, and his shirt is hanging outside his pants. One hand holds a cell phone to his ear and the other makes wild gestures with a clenched fist.

  We taxi toward the runway. Tim turns to me. “The guy in the suit—I’ve seen him before with Henry and my brother. He works for airport security but he’s for sale to the highest bidder. They bribe him to let drugs in.”

  I’m hoping Ahmed thinks it’s too big a risk to stop the plane and don’t relax until the wheels leave the ground. Tim puts his hand on my knee. “We made it.”

  “Right, we’re on the way,” I say more cheerfully than I feel. I don’t tell him I’m worried about what’s waiting for us when we get there or who was on the other end of that call.

  CHAPTER 26

  It’s a bumpy flight and when we approach to Abuja’s Nnamdi Azikiwe airport and Tim squeezes my arm as we bounce through the clouds. Strange that such a big good looking guy is afraid of a few bumps but his grip feels good. I wish it was bouncy all the way.

  I want to find out if Ahmed has anyone waiting for me and I don’t want to involve Tim. When the plane taxis to the gate I say, “We’ll get off separately. You go first, I’ll be the last one out. Keep walking to the baggage claim. I’ll pick you up there.”

  “I thought guys were supposed to do the picking up.”

  “It’s different in Desperation Hollow, kind of a tribal custom. Guys are in short supply.”

  “Sounds like a great place to live,” he says, getting out of his seat.

  I wait until everyone is gone, then stay in my seat pretending to sleep. The flight attendant wants to get off herself, comes back, and thinks she wakes me.

  I stand at the end of the ramp and survey the terminal. All the passengers are out of sight and no one seems to be looking for me. Ahmed might have just been calling home but I don’t think so.

  For the next ten minutes, I wonder around the airport, randomly stopping and reversing my path. I don’t discover anyone following and go down a flight of steps to the luggage return. I see Tim standing by a pile of baggage and a guy leaning against a post behind him, reading a newspaper. He’s short, squat, with a big bald head. He’s only a couple years older than us so I speculate he must shave it.

  When I get to Tim I tell him to turn around slowly. “Pretend you’re looking for someone. Check out the bald troll with the paper.”

  “Got him,” he says over his shoulder.

  “No one reads a paper in baggage claim. My bad. They didn’t follow me, they followed you. Let’s wear him out before we reel him in.”

  We browse some airport shops, have breakfast, then browse the shops again. Eventually we leave the building to stand in line for a cab. Baldy the troll stays with us. He’s easy to spot. Whoever hired him must have a low budget.

  “Take us to the best shops,” I tell the driver. “We got money, let’s get you some decent clothes. I could use some too,” I tell Tim.

  * * *

  I buy a new jacket and an overpriced pair of slacks. Then it’s Tim’s turn. He’s a slow, picky shopper he tries on shoes, shirts, sport coats and trousers. At the third shop I’m waiting outside a dressing room when the troll sits down by another. He still has the paper. I move next to him.

  “What kind of a guy would sit outside men’s dressing rooms by himself without trying anything on? You some kind of a pervert?”

  “No . . . no . . . just resting.” He tries to stand, but I hold him down.

 
; “We’re on to you. Why don’t you just come with us? Less stressful. After he finishes spending my money we’re taking a cab to an internet café. Why not share the fare. Save your employer some cash.”

  He tries to get up again but I still don’t let go. “Give it up. Stop playing the game.” This time I make it an order, not a question.

  When Tim comes out we head for a luggage store. He’s bought so much he needs another suitcase. Baldy follows us a step behind. He’s not really with us but not really by himself—like a dog trained to heel.

  Tim packs his purchases in the new suitcase. We’re now toting our backpacks and two suitcases. He holds on to his travel bag. That’s where our money is. I hand the suitcases to baldy. “Make yourself useful. You’ll fit in better.” His stubby troll arms are powerful and he picks them up with no strain or complaints.

  Tim counts our bankroll. “Made a dent but we’ve still got enough left. I’ve never had any new clothes, just handouts and what Ben could steal. Sorry if I got carried away.”

  “You’re not sorry and I don’t care. You deserve them. If I can convince Mrs. Selby to help get you out of this strange country you’ll need some new clothes anyway.” He moves forward and gives me a long hug followed by an even longer kiss. It’s almost worth all those boring waits outside dressing rooms. The troll watches and follows us out the door, carrying the luggage like a mindless packhorse.

  * * *

  We parade into an internet café. The pot smoke makes my eyes water and my sinuses clog. The noise stops and everyone looks at us. We’re quite a site, a tall American girl and a big Nigerian hunk, followed by a bald troll carrying two suitcases. Tim pays in advance and we’re given booth eight. There are twelve in a row along the left side of the room. My phone doesn’t work in this country and Tim doesn’t have one so this is our only option.

  I dig a dirty sock from my pack and take it to the long bar on the other side of the room. “Just put some water on it,” I say to the girl behind the bar. She looks puzzled. “Make it wet. I want to wipe the sweat and goo from the keyboard.” She shakes her head, opens a faucet and squirts some yellowish water on it. I hope it comes from a water pipe, not the toilet.