Baker's Dozen

by Amey Zeigler

  Just outside the backdoor of the docked boat casino, she found an array of dumpsters. She paused.

  She could leave it all. Let the garbage man throw Brad’s codes in a landfill. Wash her hands of the whole deal and just be Andrew Baker. Did she really want to risk her life for this?

  A uniform truck idled by the loading dock. A man in a gray suit patrolled the dock with a walkie-talkie on his hip, surveying the area. And there were cameras. Lots of them. One near the back door, focused on the point of entry. One scanning the courtyard and at least one more focused on the alley. It rotated to span the length of the back lot, including the green oozing garbage containers. Her heartbeat quickened realizing this was all recorded.

  The trash might have already come. It might already be gone. Then fate made her decision for her.

  A little lump in the pocket of her pants pressed against her thigh. Brad’s tie-tack.

  Her eyes stung with tears. She had to do it. For him. He wanted to be free. He wanted justice to be served. She had to make it happen. This had to be her best performance yet.

  It pained her to shuffle slowly across the bottle and litter strewn asphalt when she wanted to run. But shuffle she must.

  She had to suppress her gag reflex when the stark odor of the trash reached her nose. It was worse than expected, sweeter. It smelled like alcohol and rotten fruit mixed with week-old diapers. All she had to do was jump in and rummage through the flotsam for a bag with purple tape on it.

  Jumping in the dumpster required fifteen minutes just to scale the side of the first looming green beast. She searched for a foothold. The truck tine hole sat waste high. She slid her feet inside the holes. A giant first step. The bulk around her midsection made it difficult to grab the top of the container at first attempt. Falling, her ankle knocked against the metal making a resounding clang. She was glad Hugh wasn’t around to witness this. Not her most flattering of moments.

  Usually she had the agility of a cat, the grace of a swan. Right now, she resembled a renegade, greenish marshmallow scaling a metallic mountain. Her second attempt proved successful, launching her bag over the top to lock her into place like a grappling hook.

  The trash had not come yet. In the first container, she rummaged neck high in plastic bags. The sides of the stained garbage bags had bits of discolored, matted paper towels stuck to them. Dozens of bags filled the container. The bathroom plastic bags would be easy to identify. They were clear with bunches of white paper in them. She searched top to bottom, tossing each inspected bag to the other side of the canister, grateful she had the protection of layers of clothing and gloves. She was sure there was some needle usage going on inside the casino, and she didn’t want to accidentally get stuck with something toxic.

  After throwing several sticky bags around, her bag was nowhere to be found. Her arms ached, her neck hurt.

  Not in the first dumpster. Rubbing her neck, she wasn’t discouraged. Four more awaited. She scaled the bags to slip into the neighboring dumpster. A startled cry scared her when she landed.

  “What are you trying to do, kill me?” A toothless mouth flapped open in accusation. A tallish man—or perhaps he only seemed tall because he was so lean—dressed in a ratty sweater and with a tangled mess of hair and scraggly beard, holding a chipped glass ashtray. Andy had to pinch back a laugh. She wasn’t expecting anyone else to be rummaging around in the dumpsters.

  “Oh, sorry,” Andy murmured, her quick eye noticed at once this one was filled with black bags from the gaming floor. It was awkward with the two of them; she couldn’t be quite as systematic and quite as vigorous. She gave up and headed for the next one.

  With a thump, she landed on a not so soft bed of trash. What if her tote was stolen? Throwing bags around, she continued scouring until she spied it. Tucked in a dimmed corner sat the marked bag. The tape hadn’t been necessary, although it was there, hanging off. A smear of red through the diaphanous plastic gave it away. She tore at the plastic, grateful to be there before the guy next door found it. What a relief! Peeling her tote out of the bag, she plucked used paper towels from off it. After hugging it, she slipped it inside her carrier bag.

  A noise above her sounded familiar. It wasn’t helicopters. One time, when she was doing a story on homelessness, the first time she used this costume, she had a run-in with the ghetto birds. Not pleasant.

  No, this wasn’t a helicopter. Andy blinked in sober recognition. It was a truck.

  A garbage truck.

  Andy’s heart seized. She had to get out and now. There weren’t as many bags in this one as in the other two. Anxiously, she piled them to help her scale the wall. Easy to get into, hard to get out of. The bags rolled and refused to stay stacked. The first dumpster landed to the ground with a horrid clunk—emptied. Metal scraped against the asphalt as the truck returned it.

  Beep! Beep! The truck backed up. Her dumpster was next.

  Then the close sound of the motor and the sound of metal scraping metal was louder than the boom of the heartbeat in her ears. As she climbed the hill of rolling bags, the dumpster rose off the ground. She climbed to the top, just in time to see the whites of the eyes of the driver as she floated above the windshield in her chariot of trash.

  The mechanism stopped with a jolt and a whine. Andy breathed in silent relief. The dumpster lowered. Andy fell back again, the ground becoming suddenly steady under her. Maybe he would come and help her out.

  “Hey, you,” the driver yelled. “Get outta there! I’ll call the cops.”

  Or not. Andy did her best to scale the garbage and leaped an eight-foot jump to black asphalt. But she lost the trash bag around her red weekender tote as she hitched it to her shoulder.

  “Crazy lady! You could’ve gotten killed.” The real homeless man was yelling at her now, too.

  The scene garnered the attention of security. The man on the loading dock faced her way. Andy, clutching her bag to her chest, glanced up in time to notice him. He recognized the bag. The security man raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth, following after her with his gaze.

  Andy’s heart lunged, spurring her to a run. As she rounded the first corner, pattering feet followed her. The security detail was after her. Andy’s adrenaline zoomed, powering her through the extra bulk of the costume as she ducked right through a darkened alley. With a great lead, she managed to withdraw the smokescreen from her pocket, igniting it as she ran. She tossed it into the debris collecting in a doorway. A small stream of smoke billowed from the canister until it began to fill the compact space between the two brick buildings, making her lungs hurt and obscuring her sight. Hidden from view, Andy dashed to the next street, crossed, and entered another alley.

  When she was sure she no longer had a tail, she hugged the bag to her chest. She made it. The codes to the jump drive and the office were in her bag, safe. She sank down and breathed for a few breaths to rest. She rubbed off the glue and make up, pocketed her teeth, combed her hair into a pony. Then, transformation nearly reversed, she stuffed her coat into the trash and ran for the rendezvous point.

  ****

  “Did you find your bag?” Hugh asked when he picked her up.

  “Yup.” She climbed in, her face grim, slightly out of breath.

  “You got it?” He was impressed. She outsmarted the mob. Maybe she would be an asset in this case after all.

  Biting her lip, Andy hugged the red bag on her lap. He smelled bathroom tissue. She shrugged and inspected the contents.

  He glanced at her again. She should’ve been happy to have just rescued her bag. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I was spotted.”

  “By security?”

  “Yup.” Her frown deepened as she faced away from him. Even with her disguise, facial recognition on the security cameras was terribly accurate. Casinos had top of the line stuff. “I always thought this bag was my greatest asset. But no more. It’s an obvious tell.”

  “They’ll go back and review the camera footage.”


  “Yup.”

  Though focused on the road, he frequently glanced over at his companion, at her sunken eyes. “Can you remove your makeup now?” He wrinkled up his nose. Traces of bronzer and charcoal clung to bits of glue, like a leper. “I’d really like you to be beautiful again.”

  “I’ll have to wash it off,” Andy said, glancing at herself though the window to the passenger-side mirror.

  “At least you don’t smell as bad,” he said, checking his rearview mirror. “Want me to drop you off at your place?”

  Andy swallowed hard.

  Hugh detected her silence. “You’re nervous about going back there.”

  Andy nodded.

  “I’m also the only one with food.” He glanced over to Andy seated next to him in his car. “You’ll just have to shower at my flat.”

  ****

  At the loft, Andy showered in his micro bathroom, exited in his bathrobe over the top of her sports bra and a pair of his unused boxers. He glanced up from his omelets.

  “You don’t need makeup,” he said.

  “I do, so I won’t get caught.”

  “No, I mean, the makeup you usually wear,” he said. His expression was earnest. “I prefer you au naturel.”

  Andy couldn’t decipher her feelings. She couldn’t be super attractive with a shiny, red nose. Her eyes appeared smaller without mascara, too. But she was flattered by the compliment. She mumbled a thank you and loved feeling his eyes shining on her, taking her in. A glow germinated in her heart. She stepped closer to him in the kitchen, standing in front of the stainless-steel fridge. Nearly touching, his breath warmed her.

  “How do you want it?” he asked, peaking his eyebrows, propping his elbow up on the corner of the fridge, and leaning into her. Andy blushed, feeling a physical rush. Her heartbeat quickened. They were close enough to kiss. She caught him staring at her lips. Her brain turned to mush. What was he talking about?

  Oh, the omelet.

  She should push him away. But she welcomed his lusty glances, returning with her own appreciative smile. It was like she’d been living in a foreign country and finally found someone who spoke her native language, passing some innate understanding between the two of them. If Fred would just call and tell her what an awesome guy Hugh was, the nagging in her gut could relax. As if on cue, her phone buzzed in her bag. Andy, let it go a few times, clinging to the moment with Hugh, then stepped away. He caught her arm, stopping her.

  “You don’t have to get it,” Hugh said.

  “It might be important.”

  She just needed confirmation before she can truly let herself be free. Hoping it was Fred, she fished through the bag for her phone. Carla’s mom. Sighing, Andy held it in her hand. She’d procrastinated long enough. She should take it, no matter how much she wanted a hot…Omelet.

  The call had already gone to voicemail.

  Andy faced Hugh, who was opening cupboards. “Is there someplace private I can go to listen to this?”

  He pointed the spatula to the second door.

  Andy opened the door and stepped into the darkness, playing the voicemail. Mrs. Vehemia was brief. “Amanda, call me at your earliest convenience.”

  Andy forgot all about Mrs. Vehemia with the trauma of Brad. Andy hesitated, her finger over the redial button, but she was in a new, unexplored room in Hugh’s flat. Curiosity burned within her.

  Switching on the flashlight app on her phone, she inspected the room. Wooden hat rack-like structures lined the walls. The ceilings climbed about thirty feet above. It was bigger than she supposed. Bigger than the other two rooms combined. The floor gave under her feet, her light reflected off mirrors on the walls. He’s either vain or…

  She knew what this was.

  Searching the walls, she found the switch behind the door. She flipped it on, her eyes blinking, adjusting to the light.

  “This is a martial arts gym.” A serious martial arts gym. The “hat rack” stands were places to practice forms. Mats for sparring.

  Hugh opened the door.

  “You’re a master,” she said with awe and wonder. She had to change her paradigm. Here she was thinking he was some two-bit cop with a little training.

  He smiled broadly, arching his scarred eyebrow. “Depends on your definition of a master.”

  “How many?” she asked, gulping.

  His eyebrows peaked. “Years? Seventeen.”

  And she thought she was going to teach him something. In the light, she discerned more equipment, shurikens, swords, and a ball and mace. “No. Disciplines.”

  “Depends on how you break it up. Do you count Muay Thai different from Tomoi? Is Taekwondo separate from Tang Soo Do? If you count them all individually, nineteen.”

  Andy ran a hand over her face to hide her embarrassment from her first conversation with him. How she must’ve sounded like an idiot.

  She faced him, poking his solid shoulder. “And you wanted to learn karate? You lied!”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  “You said you didn’t know martial arts.”

  “No, I said I wanted karate lessons. It’s true. I do.”

  “But you implied you don’t know any.” Andy’s face burned.

  “I’ve never taken karate.” He shrugged. “Even I can learn something.”

  Andy’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even try to sound humble.”

  He cocked his blondish head toward the mats, grinning wickedly. “Like to run a bout? I recall you bragging about your superiority.”

  Andy wanted to die. Her ears burned but she kept her chin high. She was not going down without a fight. It was on! She was a sixth-degree black belt with judo training and a little Taekwondo. “I can totally take you.”

  His eyes brightened. “Let’s take it to the mats.”

  “Fine.”

  He removed his shirt with slow and deliberate effort, his challenging gaze never flinching from hers. Muscles rippled down his back as he tugged his shirt over his head and off his arms.

  Andy caught her breath. Every inch of his body was perfectly toned, his abs flat, his latissimus dorsi the perfect shape. He was attractive with clothes on, but with clothes off, he was chiseled art.

  In the small of his perfectly sculpted back, she caught sight of a tattoo of a black seraph with words written above each of the three paired wings as well as the head and tail.

  “Rules?” she asked, stripping down to her fitness bra and shorts, hoping she affected him. His gaze absorbed her, passing up and down her body. She savored the moment.

  The muscles in his shoulders rippled as he gave a little shrug, then crossing his arms, warming up his shoulders. “Shinkyokushin rules, then?”

  Without admitting she didn’t even know what he meant, Andy agreed.

  “Anything goes,” he said, smirking a little.

  “Anything goes,” she agreed.

  She began limbering up, purposefully striking the most seductive poses, clasping her hands behind her back, thrusting out her chest. “How will we determine the winner?”

  “Last man standing.”

  “Or woman.”

  He barely peaked an eyebrow to express, what? Doubt in her ability? No, confidence in his own. But there was something else. A sly smile. If she hadn’t been paying astute attention, she would’ve missed it. He enjoyed this.

  “Before I engage in any sport, I always provide the proper protection.” He tossed her boxing gloves.

  “So gentlemanly of you.”

  He nodded in the direction of some pegs on the wall. “Wrap up.”

  On the pegs were hand wraps. He grabbed a multi-colored, woven band, looping it over his thumb. “Given to me by a monk when I studied Muay Thai at a Buddhist temple in Southeast Asia for several months.”

  He was only bragging to try to intimidate her. It worked. A little tickle of anticipation sprung inside her.

  She grabbed black straps encircling her wrists, threading them carefully around her knuckles. Quick movement caught her out of th
e corner of her eye. Wrapping exceedingly fast, Hugh eyed her in goading competition. She stepped it up a pace, binding her fists and starting on her right hand, where she had more practice.

  Her practiced fingers could’ve threaded this blindfolded, and she was quick. Maybe it was her smaller hands, her nimble fingers, her ample repetition but whatever it was, she finished weaving the cotton through her fingers just as he’d finished. Hugh still smiled smugly, smacking his fist into his other hand, but there was a nod of admiration.

  But she didn’t want to get cocky. Boxing gloves on, the only protection needed, they faced each other on the tatami. Bowing to each other, they each formed a stance. She recognized the dragon stance from kung-fu.

  “Want me to go easy on you?” he asked, just as she crescent-kicked at his head. He easily avoided it, lithely stepping to the side, but she smiled at his bemused expression. It was momentary, but it was there. He quickly recovered and blocked her right hook. “Woah, where’s the respect?”

  “No rules,” she said, huffing as she blocked his attack then did a sweep of his leg. He grinned wide. Right before she socked him in the face with a right feint followed by a left uppercut. Now it was time to get on to business. Next, she used a judo hold and flip, grabbing him by shoulder but he escaped. He wasn’t a novice after all. Music thrilled in her. Far from it. It was nice to have someone outman her.

  She couldn’t just use standard attacks. She’d have to plan a strategy. Catch him off guard. A man with this much training had almost pre-cognition. With a swift step around him, she attacked with a strike to his back. But he swiveled in time to block it, missing her with a kick, but knocking her off balance.

  “Did you use Krav Maga?” she asked when he attacked in an unfair but vaguely familiar form. Krav Maga was the big guns of martial arts, with no formal katas. They trained recruits how to fight with the odds of ten to one, how to use the M-16 as a weapon, even after the bullets were spent. Kill or be killed. Certainly not standard repertoire for an undercover street cop in St. Louis. “Where did you learn that?”