Baker's Dozen

by Amey Zeigler

  He had taken a risk. He hoped it paid off. They had the schematics. Not what they wanted, but surely one of the team members would be able to figure out what it was and how it connected to everything.

  His gaze followed a spider crawling along the corner of the wall and the ceiling. Evil men were crawling the city for them. They stood out as foreigners. They’d have to be really careful if they wanted to get out alive. He wished he hadn’t put Andy in so much danger.

  His mind whirled, planning, strategizing. If the Habanero Cartel searched for a couple, maybe they should split up. If only he had the funds, he could send her alone, on an airplane. It was his duty to make sure Andy was safe. Especially her.

  It must have been late, yet the bar underneath them was still going strong. Music pounded upward through the wooden floorboards. Cheers rang up. Tucking his pillow under his head, he flipped to his back. He wouldn’t be getting any sleep any time soon. How could Andy sleep through all of this? He peeked at her bed.

  She was gone.

  Alarmed, he dressed and crept to the door. Opening it, music flooded in, like a wave of the night breeze sweeping through an open window. With only his undershirt and a pair of jeans, Christiaan wished he had more than his belt to take out any attackers. He smirked to himself, remembering the time he bested five former KGB turncoats on a train outside of Moscow with only his belt and his fists.

  At the end of the darkened hallway, light glowed from the stairwell below. He descended toward the light and the music, entering the bar.

  The smoke-filled room crowded with men smoking, cheering and clapping and laughing at…

  Christiaan shouldered his way through the group of men, holding bills in their fists and shouting encouragement in Spanish.

  In the center of the man-made ring was Andy, in her sports bra and shorts fighting a man in a sweaty brown shirt. She’d just tackled him down, winning the bout.

  “Ho, hello there.” Andy faced him, smiling a crooked smile as men threw cash at her feet. She waved a coy, little wave, then bent to pick up the cash.

  “Who’s next?” she asked. Her eyes were glassy, and she blinked a few times.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She cupped her hand around her ear. “Can’t hear. Music.”

  “Let’s get you out of here,” he shouted.

  “I’m fighting.” She scooped up more bills and stuffed them in her bra. A challenger wearing a Stetson stepped into the ring.

  “I can see that.” But he was powerless to stop it. The man in the Stetson believed he could take Andy down. Poor guy.

  After blocking a few hits, she dropped the man with a side kick to the knee and a knee to the face. The men cheered again. But Christiaan was not amused these men were ogling Andy. And egging her on.

  “Don’t you want to know why?” she shouted over the music.

  “Why?”

  “For travel money.”

  “Not this way. How many have you already knocked out?”

  “Twelve.” Andy bent to retrieve her winnings, her balance a little wobbly. “I’m getting to be a sure bet.”

  “Martial arts aren’t for prize fighting. This is disrespectful. Come on.”

  He grabbed her forearm, but even drunk, she easily broke his hold, staring at him with defiance. He should’ve known better. Everyone learns how to break a hold the first year of martial arts training. Staring her down, he plotted the next attack.

  But she made a mistake. She faced away from him.

  In a swift jump, he executed a rear choke hold. Not tight enough to make her pass out, just enough to gain control.

  To his surprise, she stepped to the side. Sliding her leg behind him, she rolled back on the ground, breaking the hold.

  This time he jumped up, seized her about the waist and lifted her off the floor.

  “Ow, let go of me,” she said as he hauled her through the men, kicking and jabbing. But Christiaan kept his grip firm. The men groaned as he carried her away. Christiaan wished he had a blanket to cover her up. They headed for the stairwell for a bit more privacy, a little less music. But before they could make it, a man with a large mustache caught him by the arm.

  “¿De dónde crees que vas?”

  “La joven viene conmigo,” Christiaan replied. He was taking Andy, and that was that.

  The mustache cocked back his arm to strike Christiaan, but Christiaan dropped Andy and easily caught his opponent’s arm, twisting it back to its owner. The man cried out in pain. When the others realized Christiaan and their prized fighter were leaving, they headed toward Christiaan in a drunken-zombie amble, eyes bloodshot, angry, arms ready to rip, punch and pull Christiaan apart.

  “That’s not how it’s supposed to be played,” Andy said, forgetting she didn’t speak Spanish. “It’s supposed to be a one-on-one game.”

  Suddenly tired, Andy leaned against the wall, droopy and dopey-eyed and lazily, sleepily as at least seventeen men clamored for more action as Christiaan cocked back his arm, knocking one down after another. How he had so much energy at four a.m., she’d never know. They were no match for him, of course. Most of them were drunk, unable to walk a straight line, much less hit anything. He was a highly trained killing machine. Not a fair match, really. Andy wished she could’ve taken bets but there were no idlers on the sidelines. They were all in the fray. He was clearing the room anyway.

  She was as disconnected from the room as an old Western bar scene from a movie. At last, the scuffle ended, with Christiaan breathing hard, his hair flailing, his undershirt untucked and sweat soaked. A trickle of blood seeped from his lips where someone got a sucker punch in while he had two guys, one under each arm, in a strangle hold.

  He faced her and said rather angrily, “Let’s go.”

  “Are you going to chew me out because I’m an amateur? I don’t want to hear it tonight.”

  “Why did you do it, Andy?” He pointed back to the pile of men on the floor groaning, clutching their heads, their stomachs, and their legs. “Someone could’ve seen you and reported you to the cartels.”

  “Because you said we needed money to get out of here. You said I couldn’t use my card to get money from an ATM or use it to buy plane tickets. I was just helping out.” The logic was so sound after a few drinks. It seemed so stupid now.

  “It’s okay, at least I have on my wig.” Andy patted her head. Then shook it. “I guess it’s gone. I wonder where it went.”

  Despite his own fatigue, he helped Andy up the stairs, the smell of tequila heavy on her. She missed a stair and landed on him, collapsing both of them to the wall. Christiaan held her up, bracing her with her arm around him, holding her close. “I was only trying to help.”

  “Yes, but not this way.”

  “I like my way.” Now she was crying. “It’s the only way I can help.”

  Christiaan’s heart did a weird flip. It couldn’t have been compassion. He had believed it was all drilled out of him.

  “We’ll think of something else.” He kicked open the door to their room, shuffling her inside and laying her sideways on her bed. He tucked the covers around her.

  “But I got quite a bit of money.” She dug into her bra to show him wads of cash and jangled a purse of coins.

  When he didn’t take the proffered coins, she set them on the bed next to her. Instead, he chided her. “You should’ve been more careful. What if they ratted you out to the cartel? Then you’d be dead.”

  “What does it matter?” Her words slurred. She faced away from him, the mattress squeaking under her, coins spilling on the red Saltillo floor.

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t save Brad.”

  Christiaan cocked an eyebrow, trying to figure out what she was talking about. Then he realized.

  “You’re still upset. Over his death?” Her head slumped to her chest.

  “I didn’t save him. I could’ve stopped them if I hadn’t been so scared. And Conner. If I hadn’t been an investigative journalist, but someth
ing better, I would’ve been able to save Conner.”

  She was bawling now, her shoulders shaking under the covers. He wanted to pound Conner. If he wasn’t dead, he’d would have killed him. Conner was a pansy for leaving an amazing, beautiful, yet feisty girl.

  She sobbed until her shoulders shook. Christiaan drew nearer. This was what propelled her forward. Guilt.

  “I told you this before. You did the right thing. If you’d tried to save Brad, you would have died. And for what? Nothing. Because of you, we have hope for justice. Sometimes the bravest action is none at all.” His voice sounded more tender than he expected.

  Andy paused in her crying, peering up at him. Even with her stringy hair streaming across her face, her nose and eyes red, she was still beautiful. And she had pure intent like a child.

  “Will you tell me a story? From your childhood. Something true. No lies.”

  Christiaan’s mind traveled far from their rented room to a land far away, very different from where they were sitting. His memories flooded his mind, the smell of the sewers running in the streets, the sounds of mangy dogs barking and people shouting obscenities from ramshackle houses, broken windows. He remembered the laundry lines blocking the sun, hanging from building to building like unofficial telephone wires in the government projects. He didn’t want her in to the dark corners of his life. He didn’t want to relive it.

  He searched his feelings for something to endear him to her. A turmoil of emotions roiled inside, thoughts he’d never let himself think, feelings he’d ignored for so long. He closed his eyes, thinking back.

  He is in a broken-down mansion. A long hallway of doors is in front of him. Each locked room hides a memory he’s wanted to keep tucked away, to forget about. Andy is knocking on the door. She wants to come in. Christiaan feels so ashamed. He doesn’t want to let her in. He opens the front door. She wants to explore everything. She wants to clean the room. The house is filthy, he realizes, seeing it as if for the first time. Cobwebs in corners, paint peeling, dirt on the wall. Dust bunnies in the corner. He panics. What if she sees the dark and evil part of him he doesn’t want her to discover? Andy starts to open rooms. He flies across the room in a speed exceptional even for him. He closes the door. She tries another. He closes it. Andy asks, “Isn’t there anything I can see?” He opens some rooms, but doesn’t turn on the light. He feels clever he is sharing, but she can’t really recognize anything, can’t fix anything. Then there is a large room at the end of the hall. The door is very dark. Finally, he knows.

  “Hey, wake up.”

  Christiaan opened his eyes, disoriented in the dimness of the room, the bed seedy, decrepit window, the shade dirty and torn. “I guess I fell asleep.” He wiped his eyes.

  “I thought you were going to tell me a story. But if you’re too tired, it’s fine.”

  “No,” he said, wrapping his arm around her, completely weirded out at their closeness. “I just have to think of something not depressing. I was a scrappy kid, right? Orphan on the streets. Well, I had a friend named Blaine. He was a few years older than I was. He sheltered me under his wing. He told me I didn’t have to be alone anymore.” Christiaan didn’t want to say how harrowing it was to be alone, but how horrific it was with the older boys forcing them to do despicable things. He didn’t want to relive those dark days.

  “Blaine and I eventually ran away. A master found us, trained us skills and introduced us to a different path.”

  So many years ago. And Blaine so different in those first tender years of friendship.

  He glanced over at her, she’d fallen asleep. He then gave way to his sleepiness, allowing himself one indulgence.

  ****

  The next morning, Christiaan counted up the cash. Luckily, Andy made quite a bundle in her drunken fights the night before. Not enough for two flights home, but there might be other options.

  Cash in hand, he paused before going out, assuring himself Andy was safely asleep. He tiptoed out in the early morning light in search of supplies.

  When he returned, Andy was up, clutching her head. “Drink this,” he said, tossing her a bottle of colorful liquid.

  Andy read the label. “A sports drink?”

  “You’re dehydrated.”

  Andy opened the bottle, then sat up on her elbow to drink.

  He paced, floorboards squeaking under his feet. “We need to figure out how to get home.”

  “You can’t call your people and ask them to send us two passports with fake names on them?”

  “No. They,” he paused, exhaling, “don’t know where I am.”

  “You’re really off the grid?”

  “We’re off the grid,” he corrected.

  “You can’t call them?”

  “I don’t have a secure line. We don’t know who has ties to the Mexican cartels. Using anyone’s phone here would prove dangerous for them and for us.”

  “So, what’s next? How much money do we have?”

  “Enough for one plane ticket. I am sending you home. You can claim your passport was stolen, then go somewhere in the States, anywhere but St. Louis.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not leaving you here. And we’re going back to St. Louis together until justice is served.”

  Christiaan was touched by her loyalty, her courage. “Okay. The other option is bus fare.”

  Christiaan set down a map he purchased earlier that morning for his own route home. She unfolded it and spread it over the table.

  “How much is a bus ticket? How far can we get?”

  “With what you made, we could get as far as Oijinga.” He pointed to the map to a town not far from the border. “Then we can cross on foot if we pack enough supplies.” He slid more sports drinks and bottled water into a satchel.

  Andy sat all the way up, quite pleased with herself. “Admit it,” she said. “My idea worked.”

  Christiaan packed while Andy gloated.

  “Haha.” She threw off the covers, tossing her legs out of bed and landing on her feet. “I got us out of here.”

  Christiaan frowned and followed her out of the room.

  ****

  At the bus depot, swarms of people searched for them. A man distributed papers with copies of their pictures.

  “Your friend José sold us out,” Christiaan said, picking up one of the fliers. “A picture of us from his phone. Now what?”

  Andy didn’t skip a beat. “I need a haircut and dye job. And so do you. But you need something more. Give me ten minutes and a couple of pesos.”

  Andy sifted through items in the small shops bordering the bus depot. Leather goods, hats, bolo ties, some maracas. Andy bought a silver necklace as part of her costume since she’d always wanted one, stifling her worries about getting thrown into a Mexican jail if they failed to cross safely. She’d gotten them this far, she could get them home.

  Andy fingered the textiles, cotton shirts with floral patterns stitched into them, raw hide belts and bags, sequins-speckled sombreros, and blankets dyed bright colored, roughly woven. Andy got an idea. She purchased a few items, shoe polish, a purse, and some clothing. Andy paid a women, wrinkled from sun and a hard life, more than enough pesos. Andy smiled at her.

  Outside, away from the sun and searching men, Andy’s scissors cut away. First on the purse, then on her hair.

  “Here.” Andy found Christiaan waiting for her on a shady side of grocery store. She held out a fuzzy black strip. “A mustache.”

  He did a double-take. “Woah, your hair.”

  Andy stroked her coal-colored bob. “Do you like it?”

  He held up the mustache. He pinched the patch, feeling the fibers with his fingers. “Is this real hair?”

  “It is real hair,” she said eying him from the side, feeling especially clever. “Just not human hair. I borrowed it from a cow.”

  “A real live cow?” He wasn’t sure what grossed him out more, human hair or cow.

  “She’s dead now. She was a purse.” Andy held up the snipped cowh
ide bag. “I just borrowed a corner. Glue it on with this.” Andy proffered super glue and squirted it on the back.

  “This is going to hurt when it comes off,” he said, plying the bit of cowhide to his upper lip, pressing his thumb and forefinger over the top to smooth it.

  “Do we look different?” Andy asked, turning him toward the foggy not quite reflection of the glass windows. His hair darkened, closely shaved, dyed with shoe blacking, his skin darker from her bronzer, his clothes local, a white shirt with only small white flowers embroidered. She couldn’t afford boots; hopefully no one would be scrutinizing his shoes, which were a dead give-away.

  “Your eyes are still blue,” Andy said. “Keep them down.”

  He smiled.

  “Good enough,” she said, biting her lip.

  Andy’s eyes, heavy with liner, stood out, her skin smoothed with makeup, darker, too. Her clothes were more vibrant, and she hoped she would blend in, not stick out.

  They boarded the bus with no problem. Andy’s heart raced as men searched different busses, questioning people. Christiaan did all the speaking as he settled his bag filled with water, food, and supplies under his seat. Andy made a mental note to study languages once she got home and things calmed down. Being fluent in another tongue would be so handy for disguises. She wondered why she didn’t think of it before.

  The bus lurched forward, grinding like a tractor, the gears scraping as the driver drove out of the bus depot, leaving a trail of dust and exhaust behind them. Andy couldn’t keep her heart from beating wildly.

  Darkness fell. She welcomed the relief from the oppressive heat, as a cooler breeze drifted in from the open windows. Of course, they had to sit with the only stuck window. But at least the radiant heat no longer burned them through the panes. Everyone else passively traveled, the mother with her toddler on her lap, the old woman. Everyone had a serious contemplative expression.

  Andy’s body jostled at every pot hole, every change of gear. She wondered what would happen if she had to go pee in the next four hours.