I sprinted down the alley, crossed the street, and flew by a muffler shop, a tattoo parlor and a Mexican bakery, my ears straining to pick up any sound of the late model caddy. I’d missed a lot of training with my injuries and my legs were heavy, my lungs already burning, and it felt like I’d been smoking two packs a day. The Mexican bakery had its lights on. Must be time to make the empanadas I thought. I backtracked to the bakery and tried the door, it was open and the two guys wearing white t-shirts and aprons were startled when I lunged in.
They argued in Spanish while I tried to catch my breath. “I thought I told you to lock the door?” the taller one said.
“How could I lock the door if you have the keys?” responded the shorter one.
At least that’s what I thought they said, my high school Spanish augmented only slightly by living in the barrio the past few years.
“Guys,” I said, as I approached them, “I need help, can you hide me?”
The taller one, the one with the keys looked at me for what must have been five seconds, weighing the decision in his mind. I was close enough to touch him and when I reached out and rested my fingers on the back of his hand I noticed he had beautiful brown eyes with long dark lashes. I’d read that waitresses who touched their customers received bigger tips. I was playing for much higher stakes and wondered fleetingly if the science applied when more than just money was on the table.
“Use the Women’s Restroom,” he said finally in English, jerking his head to the left to indicate the direction.
“Thanks,” I said, and ran down the hallway before he could change his mind. The last thing I heard was him telling his partner, “Cierra la puerta.”
I had been in the restroom only a minute or so when I hear someone rapping at the now locked door. I heard him call out, “Estamos cerrados,” shortly followed by, “No estamos abierto.” This was quickly followed by the sound of glass breaking. My heart rate, which had fallen dramatically with the chance to rest and catch my breath, quickly climbed back into the triple digits. My life was now in the hands of two complete strangers who had absolutely nothing to gain by protecting me.
I held my breath and put my ear against the crack in the door, straining to hear what would happen next. I heard the sounds of footsteps on broken glass followed by the metallic click of the hammer of a gun being pulled back and someone saying, “We’re looking for a girl, tall, brown hair, you seen her ese?” I recognized the voice. It belonged to the gravel truck in the back seat of the car.
“No,” came the voice of my newest and dearest friend. “The door has been locked ever since we got here,” he said.
“I noticed that you’ve suddenly developed the ability to speak English amigo,” gravel voice said.
“If someone is pointing a gun at you, you could probably speak French if you had to. But no one is here but us. You can look if you want,” he said. Huevos, I thought, this guy has huevos. I’ll give him that.
“That’s mighty generous, amigo, I appreciate it.” Then a long pause. “How about you, ese, you seen anyone?” gravel voice said.
“No, no one.” A different voice this time. Must be the junior partner I thought. An even longer pause
“You two have a good night now.” Then the sound of footsteps retracing their steps on broken glass, the door opening, and then silence.
I exhaled slowly, my heart still beating wildly. Must be an easier way to make a living I thought. I waited for several long minutes and slowly opened the door and stepped out just as the tall one came down the hallway.
“They’re gone,” he said.
Maybe I was just wound up from everything that happened in such a short amount of time; maybe I was just plain scared, but even though I tried to resist the impulse, I failed miserably, and I found myself wrapping my arms around him.
“You are so brave,” I said. I wondered how much waitresses made if they hugged their customers. I imagined that was not something contemplated in the survey. I decided I better let him go. He was probably married with three kids and an adoring wife, and maybe wasn’t used to having a gun in his face and women throwing themselves at him, at least not all on the same night.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Staring into those big brown eyes made it hard to concentrate. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
He shrugged, smiling slowly, “It’s okay,” he said.
“Thank you so much,” I said, finally. “Please, tell me your name.”
“Carlos,” he said, “Carlos Montoya.”
“I’m sorry about your door Carlos,” I said.
He nodded. “We have insurance,” he said.
“I better go. I’ve already caused you enough trouble,” I said, as I turned to go down the hallway towards what was left of the front door but he stopped me before I came anywhere close to reaching it.
“Don’t go,” he said, from behind me, “It’s too dangerous. I’ve got a car in the back, let me take you wherever you need to go. Besides, they’re looking for someone on foot.”
“Are you sure?” I said, turning to face him.
“I’m sure,” he said.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CARLOS SAVES THE DAY
H e led me through the hallway past the restrooms to the back door. He took off his apron and hung it on a hook by the door and grabbed a lightweight jacket off an adjacent hook and put it on. “Wait here,” he said, “I’m going to take a look around.”
He unlocked the door and walked towards a car sitting in the back parking lot. It looked like a dull green ‘54 Chevy sedan, squatting heavily under the street light like a giant metal frog. He went to the car and unlocked the door, slid behind the wheel and reached for the glove compartment, pulled something out and slipped it into his pocket. He got out and closed the door behind him and walked slowly across the parking lot towards the back door.
I took the opportunity to size him up. Mid to late twenties, five foot, eleven inches, 177-178 lbs., solidly built with nice shoulders, looked like he boxed, or maybe been in the service. Just the way he moved, kept his weight balanced, confident, not cocky, but self-assured. Like he knew things, knew something you didn’t.
“It looks good,” he said, “I didn’t see anyone. You ready?”
I nodded and we walked out the door towards the car. He opened the door for me and I slid in. The upholstery smelled new, but looked original, The interior was spotless and gleamed even in the dim glow cast by the streetlight.
When he got in, I said, “Nice car. Yours?”
“My Uncle’s, I’m restoring it one step at a time and he lets me drive it,” he said. He started it up. It purred.
“Where we going?” he said.
“The Global Hotel and Casino,” I said. “I need to find my Dad.”
I nodded towards the bulge in his jacket pocket. “Is that what I think it is?” I said.
“Just in case,” he said, looking straight ahead, watching the road. “It’s my brother’s, he wanted me to have it, in case we were ever robbed, but I never wanted to take it inside.”
“And the bakery?” I said.
“It belonged to my other Uncle, the one on my mom’s side, he died last year and my cousin had no desire to run it. So I bought out his share. I promised my mom I would stay. It pays the bills.”
“Sorry about your Uncle,” I said.
He nodded. “Thanks,” he said.
“So let me see if I have this straight,” I said, “the car is your uncle’s, the gun is your brother’s. The bakery belonged to your other Uncle. You have anything that’s yours?”
He turned this time, looked straight at me with those beautiful brown eyes, “Just you,” he said.
I turned away, my face flushed. I hadn’t blushed in years, no need, I thought, until now. When I regained my composure I said, “Are you into sports, box maybe?”
“I used to box,” he said. “When I was sixteen, I traded boxing for swimming.”
“Military?” I said.
�
��Navy,” he said. “SEALS, four years.”
That explains a lot, I thought. The quiet confidence, the huevos in the bakery, staring down the barrel of a gun. All right girl, I know this is beyond crazy, but you better get the answer to this next question before you throw yourself into his arms again.
“One more question and then it’s your turn okay?” I said.
“Okay,” he said.
“You married, have a wife and three kids, a fiancée, a girlfriend, any of the above?”
He smiled. “None of the above,” he said.
“You’re not gay are you?” I said.
“That’s two questions, not one,” he said.
“Sorry, I got carried away,” I said.
“But no,” he said, shaking his head, “To answer all your questions, I’m not gay, just busy. And, I had a girlfriend, but it turned out that she had some bad habits and as a result, maybe took up a whole page of the DSM all by herself. She was, what’s the ten dollar word?”
“Psychotic is the first thing that comes to mind. But that might actually only be a five dollar word,” I said.
“Well, for now,” he said, “let’s just say she had issues and let it go at that. So, what about your Dad, and why are those guys after you?”
“Look,” I said, “I promise no more than the allotted number of questions from now on, but those guys are dangerous and maybe the less you know the better, because it’s safer not to get involved.” As much as I needed his help and wanted him to stay for suddenly emotional reasons I needed to give him the chance to go while the going was good.
“It’s too late,” he said. “I’m already involved. Besides, it’s personal now.”
“Yeah? How so?” I said
“They broke my door, didn’t they?” he said, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
DAD GOES M.I.A.
W e never did find Dad. What we did find, in the back of the parking lot, was a car with a smashed windshield with a rounded indentation in the center, and a spider web of cracked glass radiating outwards, as if somebody had tried to put someone’s head through it. I hoped it meant Dad had not gone quietly. The car next to the one with the smashed windshield had a dented fender. There was some blood on the ground between the two cars, and most telling of all, underneath the car with the dented fender, we found a wallet, Dad’s wallet, with all his I.D. and the $880 dollars he’d won at blackjack still in it.
Dawn was breaking, the sky streaked with crimson and gold. Carlos suggested breakfast at Denny’s and on the way there I gave him the Reader’s Digest condensed version of what had happened up to this point, including what transpired the last time I tried to have breakfast at Denny’s.
He was kind enough to let me sit facing the door and over scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast and orange juice he told me the bits and pieces that make up a life.
“So you’re not from here?” I said.
“How can you tell?” he said.
“Maybe it’s that grits smothered in gravy accent,” I said.
“I was born in West Virginia, which explains the accent,” he said. “We moved here when I was sixteen. I went to Las Vegas High School, varsity swimming, debate team, worked in the bakery in the morning before school and most weekends.”
“Debate team, huh? So you were a nerd, right?” I said
He smiled and shook his head, “I like to think being captain of the swim team and state champion in the 100 and 200 meter freestyle more than made up for my being on the debate team.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But that’s okay, I did the same thing. Marching band in the fall, track team in the spring, 800 meters, but definitely not a state champion. I finished first once, but I think the other girls were sick, or fell down, maybe both.”
He smiled at that. “Marching band? Oh please, nerd alert,” he said, playfully slipping back into high school slang. “Please don’t tell me you played the tuba.”
“I like to think it wasn’t that bad, and just for the record, it was the clarinet. I went to Pueblo High School in Tucson. You probably heard of us, “ ‘Two bits, four bits, six bits a peso. All for Pueblo stand up and say so.’ Our claim to fame was if we didn’t win the game we would win the fight afterwards.”
“Somehow,” Carlos said, trying not to laugh, “I didn’t get the word.”
“That’s too bad, because we used to beat up goody-goody kids like you who were on the debate team, take your lunch money, and maybe your shoes if we liked them.”
“That’s what happens when you hang out with Mexicans,” Carlos said.
“It’s a slippery slope, I said, “You start to hang with them because there is this one guy with big brown eyes and a nice smile and before you know it you’re a chola gang banger with an attitude, wearing Converses, a flannel shirt, and carrying a box cutter in your back pocket.”
“You’re pretty funny for a white girl,” Carlos said.
“That’s what they tell me,” I said. “So what happened after high school?
“After I graduated I went to UNLV, because I wanted to stay close to help my Uncle but wasn’t very motivated about school. Dropped out after just one semester while working full-time at the bakery. I got bored and decided I needed a change. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life at the bakery, without ever doing anything else.
“ So I joined the Navy, because I wanted to be a SEAL, and before I even went to boot camp I started swimming laps again, running, lifting weights, and after boot camp I added more. Eventually all that fitness and clean living must have paid off, because when I applied for the SEALS, I passed all my tests and was accepted. So what about you?” he said.
“First of all,” I said, “I’m jealous that you had what sounds like such a normal upbringing. I was almost thirteen before I found out that nobody else had to do squat thrusts at 0600 if their room didn’t pass inspection, so let me just say upfront that my childhood was not the American dream. My parents divorced when I was eight-years-old and I split my time between my Mom in Tucson and my Dad in Las Vegas.”
“I hate squat thrusts,” Carlos said. “But just to set the record straight, my upbringing was anything but normal, we were poorer than church mice. My Dad died in a mining accident when I was two-years-old, so it was just me, my mom and my little brother.”
“I’m sorry about your Dad, and it sounds like neither one of us had an idyllic childhood, but believe me,” I said, “no one hates squat thrusts as much as I do. In my Dad’s defense though, let me say that Marines are acutely aware of their proud tradition, and believe that they owe it to the discipline and obedience first instilled in boot camp. Dad didn’t know how else to raise me and it didn’t help that I didn’t like boot camp so we were always fighting. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I didn’t turn out like most girls.”
“So,” Carlos said, “what you’re trying to tell me is that this won’t be your typical relationship.”
“Not a snow ball’s chance in hell,” I said.
“Well, I guess the good news is I won’t have to teach you how to swear like a sailor,” Carlos said.
“I think that’s one thing you won’t have to worry about,” I said
“So, can you tell me what happened after you did all those squat thrusts and finally managed to graduate from boot camp? Carlos said, smiling again.
“After high school, and all those squat thrusts,” I said, “I went to the University of Arizona, also in Tucson. While I was there I took a boxing class just to fulfill a P.E. requirement. I fell in love with boxing, the conditioning, the psychology, the physical and mental challenge of having to use your head to outsmart your opponent while they are trying to separate it from your shoulders. Took every boxing class they offered and stayed with it after I graduated and it became a full-time pursuit. I miss it.”
“So you’re not boxing now?” he said.
“No,” I said, “I was up until I got hurt. I supported myself
by being a part-time personal trainer.”
He nodded, “So you have a ring name, the whole nine yards?”
“Oh, of course, I was always a big fan of Rubin ‘Hurricane’ Carter. And my first name is Katrina, so it was almost a given that I became Katrina ‘Hurricane’ Johnson,” I said.
“Sorry, never heard of him,” he said, shaking his head.
“He fought before your time, back in the early to mid-sixties. A middleweight. His biggest fight was defeating then world champion Emile Griffith. But he’s most famous for being wrongly convicted of a triple homicide and spending 19 years in prison. Bob Dylan even wrote a song about him. He was eventually freed back in 1985.”
“I wasn’t even in daycare when he got out, so that might explain how I missed it,” Carlos said.
“You have heard of Hurricane Katrina though, right?” I said.
He laughed. “Yeah, that one I know. My hero, growing up was Julio Cesar Chavez, I used to work out every night before bed and pretend I was him. You know him, don’t you?”
“Are you kidding? Six time world champion in three different divisions. Longest undefeated streak in boxing history. Yes, I know him,” I said.
“So sounds like a match made in heaven right? Both of us like boxing, Mexican bakeries and hanging out with gang bangers. Look, I belong to a gym just a few blocks from the bakery, I’ll get you a guest pass. Maybe we can work out, you can teach me how to set up a left hook?”
I reached for his hand across the table. “Look, you’re a great guy, I’d love to work out with you, and I’d love to get to know you better,” I said, almost blushing again. “But I’m so worried about my Dad, I don’t know where he is. If he’s still alive and I think he is, I need to find him. I can’t begin any sort of relationship with you while my Dad is missing. And it’s not only him, they’ve got Jamie, my best friend in the whole world. You can understand that can’t you?”
But Nobody Wants To Die Page 11