by Susan Slater
She dialed the number that Sam had given her. On the third ring it transferred to electronic equipment that squealed in her ear and announced in a halting monotone that the number she was trying to reach was out of service at this time. She took the voice’s advice and dialed it again, positive that, in fact, she had “reached this recording in error.” But no, once again, the screech and voice. She hung up, then dialed the operator and asked for assistance.
Again, nothing. The number was not in service. There were no other listings for an Amistad agency. She even checked Triple A, thinking that there could have been an Americanization of Amistad Adoption Agency. But, no luck; she only got the auto service. Reluctantly, she put down the phone.
Then on impulse she dialed the operator again. Could she tell her when the Amistad agency’s phone had been disconnected?
She couldn’t, that information came under some privacy act. Pauly hung up. Did it really matter when? Didn’t Pauly know for a fact that the agency was in service a scant three months ago? Didn’t the adoption papers give the date as one month before the wedding?
She was kicking herself that she hadn’t brought a copy of the papers. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t. She had halfway planned on telling the truth—that Randy was dead, but she, the widow was very concerned for the child—if the agency seemed on the up and up. And if they were, wouldn’t they have a copy of the papers? She had the picture with her of Randy and Jorge. That should jog some memories.
But now what? She could check other agencies if there were any. If one went out of business, would the owners consolidate services? Pass on records and business to another? But that could wait until after she’d checked the address. Maybe they were just closed for the holidays. But that didn’t really explain the disconnection. Couldn’t there be some kind of phone trouble, some reason she couldn’t get through? Other than not paying their bill, nothing came to mind.
She walked out to the truck and got a map of El Paso from the glove compartment and spread it out on the bed. She had no idea where River Street was. When she found it, it looked like it was almost on the border; certainly it twisted along close to it. So much for the vague hope that she’d be trying to locate a plush office complex in the middle of downtown.
She folded the map; like parallel parking, it was something she was proud of being able to do. Sexist, but weren’t those a couple of things for which her birth certificate somehow said she had no talent? The truck cab was warm. She rolled down the window, then decided to test the air-conditioning and rolled it back up. Air-conditioning in December at four-thirty in the afternoon. Even this far south of Albuquerque, the weather was unseasonably warm.
The tinselly Christmas decorations trailing across busy streets looked forlorn, with plastic snowmen and multicolored carolers hugging light posts. Maybe a foot of snow would perk them up. It was just difficult to get into the holiday spirit when it was sixty-two degrees outside. One thing was for certain, she’d never be able to live where they decorated palm trees for the holidays.
Pauly drove across town hoping she’d read the map correctly. It seemed like she was awfully close to the border. Then she saw it. River was the next street to the left. Pauly slowed, waited for the light to change, and then swung the red pickup into the left lane and through the intersection, noticing a Dead End sign on her right. There was very little traffic, probably because of the time of year.
River Street was in what looked to be an industrial part of town. Warehouses, barn-big metal buildings with ramps and turn-around areas, lined both sides of the street for the first block.
Except for a few parked cars, there was no sign of life. The second block held an assortment of businesses, but ones that needed storage, like a ceramic tile company, a paper warehouse, and a fenced area in front of a portable building that guarded a few thousand clay flower pots stacked one on top of the other, opening side down. Garden statuary, squirrels, rabbits, turtles, several supplicant St. Francises ringed the fence next to cement-mold fountains. All had the look of having been there too long.
The word “grubby” came to mind…maybe “dingy” was more descriptive. Everything needed a coat of paint and some caring. Trash, indiscriminate papers, food wrappers, fliers, sheets of newspaper were caught here and there along the curb. One company’s driveway looked like an oil slick, which didn’t say a lot for the condition of its trucks.
Pauly slowed to read the number on the business called Pottery Land. The Amistad agency should be in the next block, the last block before the street ended. She accelerated but kept an eye on the right-hand side. There—the yuccas should have given it away. It was the only building with any kind of planting in the front. A half dozen of the tall, spiked arid-land lovers stood as sentinels beside the entrance. As Pauly pulled into the empty parking lot, she could see that the middle one was dead and leaned precariously against the building. An evergreen bed of arborvitae shaggily spilled over a two-brick-high border that ran along the front then curved out of sight. Not much, but the touch of green had probably brightened things up.
At one time the parking lot had been a smooth layer of asphalt. But it had long since given up the battle with nature, and clumps of dried grasses erupted at asymmetrical intervals. Pauly didn’t want to acknowledge the feeling of emptiness that the place exuded. She had come so far to be disappointed. She rolled down the window and slouched against the armrest. There was no sign of life, no human; she watched a yellow mutt lift a leg on the nearest yucca before trotting out of view.
The building was another portable. The street seemed to sprout them. This one had sage-green metal siding with a darker green metal overhang. The front door and the four large windows across the front were trimmed in brown. And all had bars, decorative, wrought-iron, sturdy, break-in-proof protection. And that didn’t surprise her. This wasn’t the most populated of neighborhoods nor, probably, the best part of town.
What a strange area to house an adoption agency. The entire office couldn’t be more than twelve to fifteen hundred square feet, Pauly thought. Certainly in comparison to its neighbors, the place was dinky. But maybe she was jumping to conclusions. There were no signs proclaiming this was the right place, no name in gilded letters on the door; only the numbers in dimestore-cheap metal that had been nailed above the door matched the address Sam had given her.
The windows were bare of curtains and someone had tagged the panel by the door with graffiti. The building looked unused, looked like it had sat empty for a long time. But she just didn’t want to give up, to have to give up hope, not yet. Five o’clock shadows pushed across the parking lot. The sun had almost set. Pauly shivered and started to roll up the window.
“Hey lady, me watch your car?”
She jumped. She had been too preoccupied to notice the slight brown-skinned boy who had walked up to the driver’s-side window. She wasn’t really certain what he’d asked to do, wash or watch? She asked him to repeat himself.
“Watch my car?” She said it once more to be sure.
He nodded.
“I don’t see anybody around here who looks like trouble.”
He shrugged, put his hands in faded jeans pockets and leaned closer.
“Sometimes biggest trouble you no can see.”
He had her on that one. She agreed wholeheartedly. But he was assuming that she was going in, would be getting out of the truck. But to do what? Maybe to prove to herself that she hadn’t wasted a trip, she should check out the facility, just look around. She was having a tough time overcoming her disappointment.
“How much?” She’d learned the hard way once to get prices settled up front. And she’d also learned that rejection of services could mean that your vehicle would be vandalized.
“Five.” He held up five fingers, palm outward.
“And I bet not cents.”
His look went beyond disdain. Like she had made the poorest excuse of a joke. So, five dollars it was; she’d spent more to probably get less and she was c
urious. She’d like to snoop a bit around the back of the building. Maybe the trash would tell her something. And it was getting dark. Knowing the truck had a miniature guard made her feel pretty good…five dollars’ worth, at least.
“You pay now?”
“Do I look dumb?” She’d reached under the seat and felt around for the flashlight, put it in her purse, then got out of the truck, rolled up the window, pushed the door shut and locked it.
“I’ll pay when I get back and see what kind of job you’ve done.”
A sly smile bent the corner of his mouth.
“You pretty smart.”
“Thanks.”
She started towards the front door, then turned back.
“You know what kind of business this is?” She pointed to the building.
He shrugged, “Nothing now.”
“But what used to be here?”
Again the shrug and a shake of the head. She couldn’t tell if he knew or not; dusk had obscured his features. She watched as he ran around to the back of the truck, hopped onto the back bumper, swung a leg into the truck-bed and waved to her as he leaned over the cab. She waved back. Cute kid, not unlike a certain other dark-haired child who was the reason for her trip here, she thought.
She stood a moment to look at the building. There were no windows along the side. Odd. Must make the place dark inside. She picked her way over and around the jungle-growth of low-lying evergreens. The back of the building had two small barred windows, maybe bathrooms. And there was a Dumpster, close to the building just this side of the back door. Now that looked promising. She hoisted the lid but a quick swish of light told her it had been recently emptied.
It wasn’t until she stepped around the Dumpster and let the flashlight play along the windows and door that she noticed the back door didn’t have bars. As she got closer, she could see that the bars had been pried off and had been left hanging to one side. The back door, in fact, was open, not by much, maybe two inches, but the invitation was there.
Pauly didn’t listen to any of her customary inner voices. There was no excuse for what she was doing; trespassing might be the least of what it could be called. But she had to know. If there was any shred of information, anything that gave legitimacy to the adoption, any hint of where the agency might have gone, she had to find out.
At least she was smart enough to nudge the door open with her purse and not touch anything. She’d make sure she didn’t leave fingerprints. She fumbled a moment with her flashlight; it didn’t want to stay on. It was so dark, she needed it. Not only were there very few windows, but there were no skylights, either. She wasn’t an expert but the place seemed cheaply made. Thin, plastic fake wood paneling lined the hallway, buckling slightly in a wavy line where it pulled away from the wall. And the linoleum squares on the floor were chipped, the pattern worn smooth forming a pathway down the middle.
The first room to her left was tiny, and very empty, more like stripped. The blinds had even been pulled off the window, leaving gaping screw holes where the valance had been. A pile of what looked to be discarded diapers filled one corner, so old that any odor had long evaporated. A door on her right proved to be a bathroom, horrible with scummy, brown to black dried waste clinging to the commode, the sink broken, dangling away from the wall. She backed out and walked towards the front.
Each room she glanced into gave evidence of owners being long gone and current occupants being transients at best. Maybe the young man watching the truck stayed here sometimes. But the place had been picked clean. Whatever had been moveable or useable had also found its way out the door. There was a draft in the hallway, not a surprise since the glass in the front windows had been punched out; her light vest was ineffectual in the chill of early evening. She folded her arms in front of her, clutching her duffle purse, and pushed open the next half-closed door with her foot. The light from the flashlight arced into the room then fizzled. Damn. She rattled the batteries and the light flickered, weaker, but still on.
“Who you looking for, honey?” a slurred voice demanded.
Oh my God, someone was in the room. Pauly couldn’t control her heartbeat. The flashlight went dead. Taking a deep breath, she stammered, “Amistad agency.” There was silence.
“This ain’t it.” A muted belch, then the sound of someone turning over.
“How long have you been coming here?” Pauly was calmer now. She’d regained her nerve but didn’t try her light again. She stayed in the doorway and could make out the huddled mass in the far corner. A woman, she thought, but the throaty voice, gravelly as it was, didn’t give away the sex of its owner. There was a metal grocery-store cart parked just inside the room, overflowing with collectibles including a good-sized plastic garbage bag of aluminum cans.
“Who wants to know?” The voice had an edge of belligerence.
“Forget it. Sorry I bothered you.” Pauly backed away. What a stupid idea this had been. Suddenly all she wanted was fresh air and lights, traffic and people, civilization. The flashlight was now utterly useless. She felt her way along the wall towards the back door, hurrying, stumbling over a loose tile. How could she have allowed herself to believe that she’d find an agency full of helpful people who were just waiting to allay all her fears and misgivings? People who would offer realistic answers, explain away any doubts? Exonerate Randy. The sting of tears blinded her before she blinked them back. She still, even with all the evidence, couldn’t believe Randy’s duplicity.
She reached the back door and stopped. Something was different, wrong; it was closed. She hadn’t shut it, of that she was certain. Of course, it could have been the wind. Foolish, probably, to be so jumpy, she admonished herself, it was just easy to get spooked in a place like this. Screw worrying about prints—she turned the knob and pushed. It didn’t budge. She pressed her weight against it and shoved. How could it be locked? She threw a shoulder into it, grimacing with pain and fighting the claustrophobic panic that grabbed at her senses. It moved a half inch. So it wasn’t locked; it was blocked. Something had been moved in front of it, wedged there and not about to be pushed away from the inside. She was trapped in a building with bars at the windows.
Suddenly she stopped her futile pounding against the door. An odor, familiar and unmistakable, was trying to register on her brain as it wafted towards her down the hall. Gasoline. She jerked her head upright. Recognition zapped through her nervous system, sending shock-waves across her body as the explosion rocked the building. Flames engulfed the front rooms, sending an exploratory tongue of fire curling along the ceiling to within twenty feet of where she stood.
Get to the floor. Stay under the heat and smoke. Where had she learned that? Who cared? Pauly jerked off her half-slip and wound the nylon around the lower part of her face and cursed the skirt she was wearing. The walls in the hall were melting, bubbling, popping, and then turning to liquid. She inched her way to the right. The bathroom, could she find it again? It had a window. Maybe, just maybe, the bars were loose.
“Lady. Aqui. Aqui. Over here.”
The roar of the fire drowned out all but its own sound. But hadn’t someone called out to her? She made it to the bathroom and closed the door.
“Lady. Here. I help.”
There was a small face at the window about six feet up from the floor. The truck’s protector was working on the bars with a tire iron. Pauly slipped once but finally stood on the toilet’s porcelain rim, her slick-soled boots not gaining a hold until she balanced a foot against the tank. The room was filling with smoke. She coughed and sputtered and lent her weight to the stubborn bars. But at least there was air. She pushed her head through the opening gulping the outside air that already was acrid from the fire. No glass, no screen, just bars. She was beginning to feel faint.
“Push here…aqui.” The boy was pointing to the top corner of the window. Then he pulled and she pushed. A bolt snapped free.
“Aqui.” Now he pointed to the lower corner. Another bolt fell away. But the fire
was at the door, five feet from where she hung grasping a window sill, her feet slipping and sliding over the tank of a toilet. The paint was blistering, then oozing down the inside of the bathroom door. How long before the entire door simply melted and the fire burst through? Seconds? She was mesmerized, staring at the killer so close.
“Lady. Lady. Now you come.” Suddenly the child was leaning into the room. He grasped her around the neck, then pulled her arm, desperately trying to get her to follow, to understand that she was free. The bars had fallen away. In some gargantuan burst of adrenalin Pauly struggled to force her body through the small opening, using the toilet tank as a springboard just as she felt a burst of intense heat engulf her backside.
She fell hard. Dazed. Not comprehending at first that she was on top of the Dumpster’s lid, she lay there gulping in lungfuls of air. Stunned. Something hurt. Her shoulder. Broken? She didn’t know, but her purse seemed to have cushioned her head; she’d tossed it out first.
“Please, you come. Hurry. No is safe.” The eyes peeking up over the rim of the receptacle were wildly large with fright. Another explosion somewhere to the side. Flames darted out the bathroom window. Panic. This time Pauly rolled to the edge and, dangling her feet over the side, jumped, then crumpled to the pavement. Small brown hands tugged her upright, pulled her to follow him back around the side, giving the burning building a wide berth.
They rushed for the truck. Fumbling, she found the keys, dropped them, scooped them up, opened the truck’s door, pushed her rescuer in first, slipped behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition and gunned the truck back over the low curb to bounce into the street with a screech as she rammed it into first gear and floorboarded it.
She made it the three blocks to the main street before she heard sirens in the distance. She pulled into the Allsups grocery-mart and gas station on the corner. Her passenger gripped the edge of the seat and watched her wide-eyed as she parked along the side of the building. She didn’t turn the truck off but just sat there, fingers locked around the steering wheel, eyes closed as she tried to regulate her breathing, keep her heart from racing.
