Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love

by Abby Winter Flower

  “Yeah, probably see a guy in a Gay Pride t-shirt and a girl in one that says Buck Brush Casino all the time.”

  * * *

  I’m laughing when we round the corner to the street that runs behind the post office building, but not for long. Parked in a lot reserved for police vehicles I see a white Nissan pick-up. The right side is caved in where I rammed it and the other side is mangled where it hit the ground.

  I run across the street. The door is jammed but the window is open and I squeeze through. I see blood stains on the seat and .30 caliber casings on the floor. Wedged behind the seat, under a canvas tarpaulin, is a Winchester 30-30 rifle and two boxes of ammunition. I hand the rifle to Sammy through the window. He runs his fingers over the stock like he’s petting a dog. North woods people like us grew up with Winchester lever-action 30-30 hunting rifles. The key is still in the ignition and I take it along with the ammunition and wiggle back out the window.

  People are pointing at us and cars are stopping. We’re standing on a sidewalk and Sammy’s waving a rifle in his right hand. He can’t help it. He always moves his hands when he talks.

  “Why did you take the rifle?”

  “Quit moving it. Put it against your leg and duck in there.” I point to a door across the street with a sign above it that’s so dirty I can’t read it.

  Sammy walks stiff legged across the street, holding the rifle against his leg and I’m a step behind with an ammunition box in each hand. We’re halfway across when a black Ford van skids to a stop and the driver jumps out and screams at us. The truck behind the van doesn’t stop in time and bashes into it. The driver stops shouting at us and starts yelling at the truck driver. Horns start blaring and more drivers get out of their vehicles. Sammy stops trying to hide the rifle and races to the door. I’m right behind him.

  * * *

  It feels sticky hot, and smells like a mix of sweat and beer. I squint through the smoke and darkness and make out a long, narrow room with a bar made up of planks on top of sawhorses along one wall. The floor is mostly dirt with a scattering of sawdust. People are lined up against the wall opposite the bar. When their tin cups run dry of beer, they get refills by dipping them into large buckets on the floor. At the opposite end, I see three young guys sitting on the floor, sharing a water pipe with an old woman.

  “Welcome to No Name Bar. A classy joint. It would fit right in Desperation Hollow,” says Sammy.

  “Give me the rifle and go charm him.”

  “Charm who?”

  “The guy behind the bar. The one filling that rusty bucket with beer. Make small talk. Turn on the charm. I need you to cover for me.”

  I stand with the rifle in the shadow of the door and no one seems to notice me. It doesn’t take long before Sammy’s in an animated conversation with the bartender. They’re both laughing. He’s a natural born salesman. I don’t know why he wants to go to medical school.

  Slipping the rifle inside my shorts, I put the end of the barrel inside my sock and un-tuck my t-shirt and let it hang over the butt. I cover the rifle with one arm and put the ammunition boxes in the opposite hand. Keeping my rifle side to the bar where Sammy is distracting the bartender, I limp through the dirt and sawdust toward the back. Everyone is either too drunk or stoned to pay any attention to me until I get to the smokers who are blocking the entrance to what must be the restroom.

  “Excuse me, I need to use the facilities.” Best to start out formal.

  The three guys can’t be older than eighteen. They look up at me like I’m from another planet and I can see identical, very bad, spider web tattoos on their necks. Their eyes are dreamy and dilated. It’s clear that’s not tobacco in that pipe and obvious that they’re the ones on another planet.

  The woman, who I can now see is old enough to be their grandmother, smiles at me. Some of her teeth are missing and the ones remaining are crooked and yellow. “Sit down, sweetie,” she says. “Always room for a young, tender girl.”

  “Gotta go.”

  “No need to go, stay with me. Got good stuff and I like young girls.”

  “Not that kind of go. This kind.” I tap between my legs with the hand holding the ammo.

  “Aha . . . aha . . . aha . . . go that way.” I don’t know if it’s a screech or a laugh but she points to a dirty curtain in the corner behind her.

  I move behind the curtain, gag, and fight hard to keep my breakfast down. The room consists of a hole in the ground, a pile of newspapers, and a bucket that’s half filled with a yellow-green liquid. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to wash my hands or pee in it. There are a few large black flies hovering around the pit. I watch one dart under the curtain to freedom “Can’t blame you. This place isn’t fit for a decent fly,” I say to him.

  I see two rusty beer kegs and a mildewed cardboard box stacked in a corner. The kegs are dented and one has an open crack. The box is on top and is half filled with candy wrappers, crushed paper cups, and cigarette butts. It’s topped off with one dirty white sock and a used condom. Holding my breath to shut off the smell, I put the rifle behind the kegs, take a newspaper from the pile beside the pit, wrap the ammo boxes, and put them on the floor next to the rifle.

  I can’t hold my breath any longer and am forced to inhale. I think I’m going to be sick and bend over the hole. I somehow manage to hold it in and, as I’m turning, notice the headline in the English language newspaper on top of the pile. I pick up the paper and follow the fly’s wise example, and get out before I’m forced to take another breath.

  “Pleasure to meet your good looking girlfriend,” I tell the three pipe smokers as I step over them. Granny gives me a wink with a rheumy bloodshot eye and a farewell yellow smile.

  Sammy’s still gabbing with the bartender. “Time to break this love fest up, charm boy,” I say.

  “Ibrahim, I want you to meet my friend, Layla.” Turning to me he says, “We can call him Abe.”

  “Nice to meet you, Abe. Come on Sammy let’s get out of here.”

  “One question,” says Abe. “What are two, young Americans doing in a place like this?”

  “Leaving,” says Sammy, giving him a knuckle wrap.

  The traffic jam has broken up and we cross the street easily. Before we enter the post office Sammy asks, “Once again, what’s with the 30-30?”

  “It’s evidence. I didn’t want the guy in the Nissan driving away with it.”

  “If the truck still runs.”

  “No reason why not. It didn’t get here by itself. I took the keys just in case.”

  “Why hide it?”

  “I can’t carry it around the street or in the post office. Constable Clarence hasn’t told me I’m in the clear yet. If he sees me carrying around the gun that shot Zack and Tim, he could come to the wrong conclusion.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “First we do what we came here for, get the package from Gus, then we find Clarence—police department’s in the same building—take him to the truck, show him the empty casings and blood stain. Then we go back to your favorite bar, get the rifle and turn it in.”

  “Let’s make it so, oh, clever one.”

  * * *

  We stand in line for ten minutes before getting to the post office window. The clerk is a skinny bald man with thick glasses and a long, grey, scruffy beard. Sammy laughs at his green eye shade. I tell him there is a package for me sent by Augustus Black Bear.

  “I sure remember that name. Don’t have any Black Bears in this part of the world.”

  “So you’ve got the package?”

  “Had. It was addressed to a Layla Peterson care of North Star Girl’s School. We contacted the school and you picked it up two days ago. You don’t remember?”

  “I’m Layla Peterson and this is the first time I’ve had the pleasure of standing in your line.”

  “We needed identification and you showed me a Minnesota driver’s license. First time I’ve seen one. You sure you don’t remember?”

  “Did you l
ook at the picture, compare it to the girl who came for the package?” says Sammy.

  “Those pictures are usually of fuzzy and my eyes aren’t perfect,” he pushes his glasses higher up his nose. Come to think of it, the woman who picked it up looked a little different than her.” He points at me. She wasn’t as tall and had narrower shoulders.”

  “Mia.” I slap my hand down on the counter, pick up a stack of forms, and throw them across the floor. “She stole my identification, now she steals my package.”

  “Hold on a minute. Calm down young lady. Follow me.” He takes us to a small office and shuts the door. “Wait here, I’ll straighten this out.” I stand clenching and unclenching my fists while Sammy goes back and picks up the scattered forms.

  “No sense irritating them,” he says when he returns.

  “Like Mia didn’t irritate me.” I slap the table in front of me, this time with both hands, just as the clerk comes back. A clock falls over and he picks it up.

  “Sit, Control yourself!” The eyeshade and glasses are gone. He seems bigger, tougher.

  “I’m not a goddam dog, but I can speak if you give me a treat.”

  Before he can respond, a wrinkled old man in a rumpled blue suit and with a stain on his red tie comes in. The little room is crowded. I don’t sit, but move to a corner to make room.

  “You say someone with false identification claimed your package?” says the old guy.

  “No, someone stole her legitimate ID and used it to pick up the package,” says Sammy.

  “She got any ID now?”

  “Hey, I said I can speak, even talk for myself, and, no, how can I have any ID when Mia stole it?”

  “Who’s Mia?”

  “The one who stole his ID,” says Sammy, flashing a grin.

  Sammy puts me in a better mood. “I’ve got a suggestion. The pudgy national cop who calls himself, Constable Clarence, is in this building. He knows who I am. Mia has the package and I’m not going to get it back from you. To set the record straight, why don’t we get Clarence? I also need to talk to him about something else.”

  Rumpled suit and baldy go to find Clarence and I finally sit. “Good girl,” says Sammy, petting my hair.

  The replaced clock is in front of me and it tells me I’m not going to make it back in time. “Sammy, take the jeep back before you get in more trouble. Constable Clarence can give me a ride back. I’ll need him to get my ID and the package back from Mia anyway.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’s going to take a while and it’s better for you to stay out of it. Go now before they get back.”

  I take a quick glance at the newspaper I took from the bar stink hole. When I look up, Sammy’s gone. If he doesn’t become a doctor or a salesman, he’ll make a great cat burglar.

  * * *

  The front page is all about Boko Haram. A break away rogue band headed by Husain Al-Jeffari—the English paper calls him, Jeffery—has moved south and captured a village north of Tugo. The army doesn’t seem to be doing much to drive them out and the paper warns people to be on the lookout. Not my problem. People are trying to kill me. I’ve got enough to worry about.

  Baldy comes back with Constable Clarence. Rumpled suit must have gone back to his cave. Clarence greets me with a salute. “Nice to see you again, I’ve been meaning to reconnect with you.”

  “Tell this guy who I am and that he gave my package to the wrong person. Then I want to show you some evidence about Tim and Zack’s shooting. After that, you have to take me back to school and get my package and ID away from Mia.”

  “You’ve got it backwards. I’m the one who tells you what to do, not the other way around.” He turns to baldy, “We’ll take over, thanks for turning her in.”

  When baldy leaves, three large cops squeeze in. One pulls the chair out from under me, another pushes me against a wall, while the third cuffs my hands behind my back. Their badges say National Police Force, so I guess they work for Clarence.

  “Yes, indeed, Miss Layla, It’s sure good to see you again,” says Constable Clarence as they march me out.

  Once inside the constable’s office I see the guy I ran down in the bean field. He’s wearing a uniform and sitting in a wheel chair. “Remember this guy? He sure remembers you,” says Constable Clarence. “Meet Nigerian Police Officer Mohammad Al-Sheiff. Seems he was the victim of a hit and run last week.”

  “I should have finished the job. I had him lined up but turned around.”

  Mohammad wheels across the room, props himself up, and whacks the side of my head with the fat end of a heavy wooden cane. I fall to the floor and hit the other side of my head. I try to get up but my hands are cuffed behind my back and Clarence has a big foot on my stomach. “Now it’s our turn to do the finishing.” says Mohammad. He swings the cane again and I feel blinding pain, then nothing.

  * * *

  I wake up with a throbbing headache in the back seat of an Audi with a different cop beside me and Clarence at the wheel. I’m groggy and it’s hard to focus but I see familiar buildings. We’re pulling out of town.

  “I want you to meet another fan,” says Clarence. Youssef, the officer beside you, was driving the truck you tipped over. He doesn’t like you any more than Mohammad. He gets the pleasure of putting a bullet in your head.”

  My tongue is thick but I’m finally able to unscramble my brain enough to make words. “Where’re you taking me?”

  “Out in the country. Far enough so that if they find ever find you, they’ll never connect you with Tugo or The National Police.”

  “Why?”

  “The answer is simple: money. There’s a thirty thousand dollar bounty on you. That’s big money in this country. The guy who’s paying is an important drug and arms dealer. He compensates us well look the other way and protect his interests. I certainly couldn’t afford this new Audi on my salary. He wouldn’t be too happy if we let you slip away again.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “I don’t know, and I feel safer not knowing. We work through a guy in Lagos.”

  “His name wouldn’t be Ahmed would it?”

  He brakes hard, pulls over, and turns toward me. “Where did you hear that name?”

  “Just popped into my head. Maybe I got brain damage from when that cripple bashed me with his cane.”

  “Help her remember, Youssef.”

  Youssef swings a Glock 18 pistol. He misses my temple and connects with my jaw. Good thing because another blow to my head would really scramble my brains and I need to think fast.

  I slump down on the seat and put my head on Youssef’s lap. “Going to be sick . . . going to pee . . . going to barf,” I say.

  Youssef pushes me away and Clarence runs his fingers over the leather seat of his Audi.

  “Going to do it . . . have to do it now.”

  “Get her out, keep the gun on her.”

  “Why don’t we just do it here?”

  “Too close to town. Get her out before she messes up my car.”

  We stand over a muddy ditch on the side of the road. “Make it fast,” says Youssef.

  “Got to pee—got to pee first.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Can’t get out of my shorts. Can’t pull down my panties. Hurry, take them off. Then you’ve got to hold me. I can’t squat with these cuffs behind my back. Hurry before I wet myself and sit on Clarence’s nice leather seat.”

  “I’m not doing that for some American whore.”

  “Help, can’t hold it.”

  He shrugs his shoulders, reaches in his pocket, gets the key, moves behind me and unlocks the cuffs. He’s facing the road with his back to the ditch. The instant the cuffs are off, I launch my body backward and land on top of him. The impact throws him in the ditch and knocks the wind out of him. He drops the Glock and I repay his hit to my jaw with a kick to his head. We’re in six inches of muddy water. I turn him face up so he won’t drown and pick up the Glock and the cuffs from the bank.

 
I’m not a fan of handguns but I know how to fire a Glock 18. It’s an automatic and I get off four shots at the Audi before Clarence drives out of range. I try for the tires and miss, but my last shot shatters the rear window.

  Youssef is dazed but with prodding from the Glock, I get him out of the ditch and the key to the cuffs from his pocket. We march fifty yards away from the road into a scruffy stand of trees bordering a farm field. After a short search, I find a tree the right size. He has to stretch his hands behind him and take off his backpack to get around it, but I get the cuffs on and push him down into a sitting position. He has an extra clip in his pack. I drop in the Glock, put, it on, and step back. No one will find him until morning and they won’t be able to unlock the cuffs because I take the key.

  “I was honest about one thing,” I say, standing over him. “I did have to pee.” I pull down my shorts and underwear, climb on a log, squat down, position myself, and soak his face. “I’m sure Zack and Tim, my two friends you almost killed, join me in wishing you a pleasant evening.”

  * * *

  It takes an hour to walk back to town. The closer I get the better I feel and the angrier I get. By the time I get to the outskirts, the ringing in my ears almost stops, and the white spots that dance around my eyes are dimmer. The cops are out to get me and I don’t know who to trust anymore. That makes me mad. Not the kind of anger where I flash and it dies down. This is different, a Jack kind of anger that lingers just below the surface and doesn’t go away. I have to get my hands on that package and see where it leads me. While I’m at it, I’ll get back my ID and deal with Mia—can’t wait to, as Gus put it, externalize some of that anger.

  Clarence may have put out an alarm so I stay in the shadows and walk close to the buildings until I get to the No Name Bar. Once inside, I pay no attention to the beer drinkers along the wall, ignore Abe’s replacement’s wary look, and stride down the center aisle. The pipe smokers are gone and I think granny’s sleeping on the floor. I’m wrong. She opens her wet, bug eyes and gestures. “Welcome back honey, you’re looking a little rough but come sit next to me.” She slides to the aisle and blocks my way. Come on, cutie, I’ve still got some of that good stuff stashed.”