by Sylvia Sarno
The boy waved his hand, indicating that Ann should follow him. Remembering the beggar that morning, she turned and quickly retraced her steps. There was no way she was going down there. A gang of kids could be waiting to slit her throat. She wasn’t about to tempt fate a second time.
As she hurried away, a plan began to take shape in Ann’s mind. Her nemesis, the artist Chuck Blackmart, lived in Tijuana. He sold his own work and that of fellow artists out of his gallery here in the city. Blackmart had a reputation for hobnobbing with others who, like himself, were rich and famous. Living in Tijuana, he probably knew the local players. Though they had never actually met in person, they had talked on the phone once. Once he heard that her son was missing, the artist might be willing to help her.
Her heart sinking, Ann remembered that Blackmart had accused her of encouraging Nora March to dump his work—several of his early pieces that Nora’s late husband had purchased—in order to harm his reputation. The truth was Nora hated Blackmart’s work so much she didn’t need any encouragement from Ann. When Ann tried to explain that she had nothing to do with Nora’s decisions, Blackmart had switched gears and accused her of belittling his work to the auction house staff that handled the sale of the collection. Untrue of course. But she had trashed his work on her blog. And here she was thinking of seeking Blackmart’s help in the hopes he would forget their past.
She would do anything to bring her son home, even beg Blackmart’s forgiveness.
Several blocks from the gathering crowds that had frightened her earlier, Ann stopped in front of what appeared to be a closed auto body shop. She pulled her phone out and turned it on, hoping for a connection so that she could look up the address to Blackmart’s gallery. Thankfully her phone was cooperating. After a few minutes of searching, she found the address and plugged it into Google Maps. The gallery appeared to be located southeast of Avenida Revolución, an area she was now fairly familiar with, having spent a good portion of the afternoon there. She figured that as long as she avoided the crowds in that vicinity she would be fine.
Heading east, Ann glanced over her shoulder to see if the boy was following her. There was no sign of him. Despite her annoyance at the child’s obvious attempt to ambush her, she felt sorry for him. A street kid, he probably had no family and no one to teach him that his young life was precious.
A precious life. She remembered when Travis was small. The wonder of him. His delicate fingers, soft ears, and his buttery skin. His eyes taking in the world in that serious way that was uniquely his. Please be safe, Travis.
6:30 P.M.
Finding the Blackmart Gallery was proving to be difficult. Street signs were few and far between. The phone map had led Ann away from the main roads into a maze of smaller ones. When the occasional sign she did come across didn’t match the map, she walked on a ways hoping that she was off by a street or two. Ann finally stopped by a small fenced-in field to get her bearings and to rest. She wished she had someone to talk to. She considered calling Richard but quickly put that idea aside. Her husband had made it more than clear he didn’t support her choice to come to Tijuana.
She lowered herself to the pavement, her back to the fence. For the first time in her life, Ann felt like praying. She remembered when she was twelve-years-old. Her mother had moved all of her clothes out of the house the week before. It was just Ann and her dad, alone in that big house by the river. Her father was rarely home for dinner. And when he was around, he would sit in the family room and stare at the muted television, a bottomless whiskey at his side. When she tried to talk to her father, he would answer in one-word sentences, his eyes forever glued to the television screen.
Ann’s best friend, Christy Balen, the daughter of devout Christians, would often have Ann over to her house after school. The Balen home was everything Ann’s was not. Mrs. Balen was home every afternoon helping her three children with their homework. She never missed any of Christy’s dance or piano recitals. The Balen children were never scolded or made to feel inadequate.
One night Mrs. Balen had prepared Ann’s favorite meal of cheesy lasagna, buttered corn, and chocolate milk. Ann felt awkward when Christy, her siblings, and their parents had bowed their heads over the family’s special pre-dinner prayer. Ann didn’t know the prayer so she mumbled a few incoherent phrases. Looking up, she saw that Mrs. Balen’s smile was gently reassuring. When her father came to pick her up later that evening, Ann had cried. The thought of leaving the warmth of her friend’s home for the emptiness of her own had filled her with a bewildering loneliness.
The following week, Ann accepted Mrs. Balen’s invitation to join her family at church. Ann had had little exposure to religion; she had been to church only once before. On Christmas Eve of the prior year, the local Episcopalian choir had performed the Christmas program. One of the Olsons’ neighbors had been talking up the experience to Ann’s mother for years. Ann’s mother finally relented, not because she was religious—she was not—but because she thought that hearing Christmas carols in church would be a quaint experience for herself and her young daughter. Ann’s father had declined to come.
The chanting and the music that evening had filled Ann with a sort of awed hope and a feeling of belonging, the likes of which she had never before experienced. At the end of the evening, the softly falling snow mingled with Ann’s tears as she and her mother, their heads down against the wind, made their way across the white parking lot.
But Ann’s visit to church with the Balen family did not go well. Though she was only twelve, she couldn’t help but feel that the preacher was talking down to his congregation. She didn’t appreciate a stranger telling her she had to make right choices or the Lord would be disappointed in her. “If you don’t know what to do, consult the Bible,” the pastor had said. Ann remembered thinking, why should I turn off my mind and accept what you or the bible say? When Mrs. Balen invited Ann to church a second time she politely declined. After her disappointing experience the first time she had decided she was pretty much done with the whole subject of God.
A few weeks later, when Christy asked if Ann had heard about the little boy in the next town who was killed, Ann admitted she had heard the story. It was all over the news. The poor child’s parents had beaten him to death with a “Biblical rod.” Ann remembered feeling two distinct emotions: horror that parents could do that to their own child, and relief that her own family was not religious. God, the parents had told police when they were arrested, had told them to punish their child to instill in him a proper fear of the Lord. Ann recalled the worry in Christy’s face, her hushed tone, when she talked about it. Ann remembered thinking that her friend was probably afraid to talk to her own parents about the tragedy because they were really into God.
Ann shut the door on her memories. It was getting late, and she had to find the Blackmart Gallery. The phone map in hand, she stood up and resumed walking. A few minutes later, the screen on the device went suddenly blank. The battery had died. She was lost without the map. The sun had dipped below the quiet street, revealing the long shadows of evening. Like the day, the hope in Ann’s heart was dying. Searching for her son had turned up absolutely nothing. And now she was pinning her hopes on a stranger whose work she had publicly ridiculed. What was she thinking?
Ann heard what sounded like a gunshot. Glancing around nervously, she wondered how she would find her way out of this maze of empty streets. It was almost dark. It seemed like hours since she had seen anyone go by. But she knew that they were out there. Their shouts, the popping sounds, and the wail of sirens in the distance, gave them away. The darker it got, the closer the noise seemed to get, until Ann felt she could barely breathe for the fear pounding in her chest.
She pictured Richard in their house, worried sick about her and their only child. Would he ever forgive her this madness? The familiar need for purposeful action slowly kindled inside of Ann. She knew she had to move or she would be caught in this web of darkness—an American woman alone in one of
the most dangerous cities in the world.
She hoped that the padded sounds of her sneakers on the pavement didn’t seem as loud to any chance passerby as they did to her. Keeping close to the darkened buildings, she crept along, the dimness of the occasional streetlight providing barely enough illumination to see by. Her only consolation was that the lack of light would make it difficult for anyone to see her. Ann passed a stray dog with matted hair and what appeared to be open sores on its back. The limping creature was a sad reminder of her own aloneness.
Ann re-traced her steps a street or two, then stopped. She tried to remember if she had come from the road to the left or the road to the right. The sound of fighting—gunshots, and shouting—in the distance were growing louder. There was a faint glow in the sky above the low-slung buildings to the left. She was afraid of what she would find when she reached the main roads, but at least there would be light and deliverance from this suffocating isolation.
She crossed the street to the left. Hurrying along, she passed another darkened building. Suddenly one of its windows lit up. Ann let out a cry of surprise. Through the yellowed window shade the silhouette of a man had emerged. She heard angry voices, then silence. The figure lunged at the open window. The shade snapped up revealing a heavyset man in a sleeveless undershirt. Leaning out, he turned his head from side to side, peering out into the darkness.
Ann pressed her body to the rough stucco to the right of the window, hoping the man wouldn’t spot her. She heard voices again. A door creaked open. She didn’t wait. Footsteps pounded the pavement behind her. Her pursuer was shouting for her to stop. She kept going. The sky was getting brighter. She heard a car horn, sirens, more shouting. The buildings she passed had fewer broken windows.
The voices and the running feet had stopped. Gasping for air, Ann slowed her pace. All of a sudden she heard a loud crack. Then she felt it. A heavy object hit the back of her legs. She fell to the ground face down, her left arm pinned under her body. A sharp pain stabbed her wrist. She rolled over trying not to scream. Through the tears of pain in her eyes, Ann glimpsed four men standing over her in a semi-circle. One of them held a baseball bat spiked with nails. His eyes glaring, he moved the weapon back and forth between his thick hands.
She blinked in disbelief as the cries died in her throat. Each of her attackers wore a tee shirt emblazoned with the image of Santa Muerte. The figure’s skeletal mouth mocked Ann with a diabolical grin. She tried to stand up but the man with the bat pushed her down with his foot. His voice a snarl, he spat out a stream of incomprehensible Spanish. She caught the words, “Puta Americana.”
The three boys—Ann realized by now that that’s all they were—snickered as their leader vented. When she fumbled in her jacket for the picture of Travis, the bully with the bat leaned down and shoved her shoulder back.
“Wait!” Ann pushed herself to her feet. Something in her newfound confidence must have shown, as the boys let her get up unmolested. She reached into her pocket. “I’m getting a photo.” She pronounced the word “photo” with a Spanish accent so they would understand her meaning. She waved Travis’s picture at them. “My son. My niño. Do you understand? My son’s been kidnapped. I believe he’s here in Tijuana. Please help me.”
Before she could stop him, the boy with the bat ripped the picture from Ann’s hand and crumpled it in his fist. Throwing it in her face, he shoved her to the ground. Scrambling to her knees, Ann bulldozed her body at the leader, knocking him over. Her aggression momentarily stunned his accomplices, giving her the chance to reach for the bat that was lying a few feet away, unattended. Survival instincts on full tilt, Ann lifted the nail-studded weapon over her head and smashed it down onto the bully’s face. His bloody mouth roared. Before she had a chance to run, the bully reached up and tore the weapon from her hand. On his feet, he swung the bat at Ann’s head, narrowly missing. Seeing their chance at her, the three boys lunged at Ann, pushing her to the pavement. She took blows to her face, her chest, her abdomen.
A gunshot at close range sounded, followed by a voice booming in Spanish, “Cesar! Cesar!”
The beating ceased. Ann was lying on her back, her shirt torn from one shoulder. Warm blood trickled down her face. She rolled out of reach of her assailants who, distracted by the noise, stood in stunned silence. Standing up, she saw a man emerge from the shadows. He held a bullhorn in one hand and gun in the other.
Squinting against the glare of the street light, Ann took in the man’s form. Short and stout, he wore a black and yellow striped sweater, dark pants, and patent leather shoes. She blinked. The man’s clipped hair was bright yellow and spiked. He wore a pair of black-rimmed, rectangular glasses perched on a small nose. He looked to be about sixty-five-years-old, possibly older.
Unsure whether she should run while she had the chance, Ann glanced around to see what her attackers were doing. She was alone. A quiet wonder washed over her that she should be so suddenly and inexplicably delivered from a brutal beating, by this apparition, dressed like a bumblebee. She would have fallen if her savior had not caught her in his arms.
7:45 P.M.
Ann glanced around the silent, cavernous space. Canvasses of painted shapes, some discernable as human figures, others not, covered the black walls. Sculptures of wood, of metal, and still others of cloth, were spaced evenly across the concrete floor.
“This way.” The man in the striped sweater stood by a red velvet curtain at the back of the room. His accent was distinctly American. There was something familiar about his face, but Ann couldn’t place him.
Looking around the space, she murmured, “An art gallery…” Turning, she peered at the man. “Who are you?”
The small eyes behind the eyeglasses crinkled. “I’m Chuck Blackmart.”
The paint-splashed canvasses. The untitled pieces. It is him.
Chuck Blackmart pushed the curtain back and invited Ann into a small kitchen. He pointed to two leopard-print chairs at a square glass table in the corner of the immaculate space. “Have a seat.”
Wincing, Ann eased herself onto a chair. Blackmart returned with a bottle of mineral water and a glass. He didn’t exactly invite her to partake, but Ann did anyway. She chugged the cold water and poured herself another. After emptying a second glass, she poured a third and emptied that too. The smell of brewing coffee made her stomach growl.
Her thirst slaked, Ann’s fears started to mount again. Though she had spent the last two hours trying to find Chuck Blackmart, now that she was face to face with the artist, she was afraid that when he found out who she really was he would turn her out. Maybe the attack had made her wary or maybe it was just the sudden realization that she was asking the impossible of a man whom she had publicly derided. She tried to push her fearful thoughts back. Her own suffering was not important. All that mattered was finding her son and bringing him home to safety.
Blackmart was at her side with a first aid kit, looking her over critically. “You look like you could use some food, but first your face and hands need tending. You want to do it or do you want me to?”
Touched by the artist’s gruff kindness, Ann’s eyes started to fill. Her hands shaking, she fumbled with a box of antiseptic pads. Seeing that she was having some difficulty with it, Blackmart took the box from her hand. He opened one of the pads and started wiping blood from her forehead and cheeks. After spreading antibacterial ointment with a single pink finger, Blackmart covered her cuts with layers of white gauze. He secured the bandage with medical tape, stood up, and went to the refrigerator.
Ann closed her eyes. Her cuts cleaned and covered, she felt better. She heard the scraping of a knife on bread, the opening and closing of cabinets, and the clinking of glass. When she opened her eyes she saw a plate of sandwiches on the table in front of her. She smelled the fresh bread and the pungent pickles. Relieved that the moment of reckoning with the artist was not imminent, she picked up a sandwich and bit into it. She moaned inwardly. Cold turkey, mayonnaise, and crunchy lettuce
had never tasted so good.
While she ate, Blackmart moved about the kitchen, straightening things out. After her third sandwich, Ann felt her strength returning. The aspirins the artist had given her were easing the soreness in her limbs and her abdomen.
Blackmart sat down and folded his pink hands on his lap. “Now tell me. Who are you? And why are you in Tijuana?”
Remembering her blog post about his work, Ann cringed inwardly. She had written:
Chuck Blackmart fancies himself an artist. He’s more like an undertaker with a sick sense of humor. One look at “Contemplation” dubbed, “The Blackmart Dummies” and you’ll know what I’m talking about. On display at the Museum of Modern Day Art in La Jolla, The Dummies are a series of twenty-nine, full-size, rubber corpses each modified to show progressive stages of decay. Every morning before the museum opens a staffer gaffs the corpse in the tank and replaces it with the next corpse in the series, a slightly more decomposed version, where it will bob in the tank for the next 24 hours. And so on. Until the last corpse in the series is displayed—a skull and a few bones dangling from a gibbet. I urge everyone who cares about true art to denounce this trash. Contact The Day to voice your outrage. I know I did.
“Is your identity a secret?” Blackmart said, his voice lilting upward. “Is there a reason why the street gangs should be beating you up in front of my gallery? Or were you just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
It was time for Ann to make her appeal to the man who had just saved her life. She looked at the artist fearfully. No need to tell him my full name. “My name is Ann.”
Blackmart’s eyebrows lifted. “Ann,” he repeated. “Well, that’s a start. What’re you doing in Tijuana, Ann?”