A Fighting Chance (32 page)

“Come on…almost…got it,” Drew whispers. I wince as I apply pressure to a spot below the
edge of my collarbone, trying to push the metal rod’s broken end farther out of my shoulder so she can grab it. Finally my fingers find the pointed tip beneath my skin and I press it. “Got it!” she says with excitement, and I bite back my yelp as she pulls the broken screwdriver piece out. We’ve been trying to dislodge it for close to twenty minutes now in an alleyway under the glow of a streetlight. My shoulder still hurts, even without it, but it’s soreness and not blinding pain, and it’s not bleeding enough to be worrisome.

“Thanks,” I say when she hands it to me, but our victory is bittersweet. This is the
same weapon that killed our friend, and I can’t bring myself to just toss it. I pull a shirt off someone’s low balcony and tie a towel around my forearm.

“No problem.” There’s
no expression on Drew’s face. My own emotions are dull, too, even though my mind seems to be permanently paused on the moment of Miguel’s death. I think we’re both in survival mode right now, which has left us numb.

H
opefully, we can find a safe place to stay until morning. Miguel drove us to the fight site and his car keys are still on his body. We have some cash on us, but I don’t think it’s enough to get us back to our hotel if we can track down a cab.

I
wrap my arm around Drew’s shoulders, conscious of where her injured hand is, and pull her to my chest. She hasn’t been complaining about her fingers but while we were walking, I saw her clenching her teeth and wiping tears from her eyes as she cradled her hand. She leads the way out of the alley and past the flimsy houses haphazardly built from cinderblocks, metal scraps and plywood. We’re deep in one of Ciudad Neza’s shantytowns, trying our best to be inconspicuous, which shouldn’t be terribly hard in a city where more than a million people dwell.

We emerge on a street cluttered with low rent brick apartments and colorful bodegas shuttered for the night. All the buildings have graffiti on them
, and the homeless are bundled up on nearly every store step. Laughter crackles through the air from a group of people playing a game of dice near an old car with missing tires. We catch the attention of a few passing people but no one’s eyes really linger. Once, when Sandrine was telling us about possible fight locations, she described Neza as a part of Mexico’s megaslum, the biggest one in the world, with a frighteningly high crime rate. So, I’m cautious but not jumping out of my skin, because after a night like the one we’ve had, I’m not sure my heart has a place for fear right now.

I pick a direction and we just
start walking. The neighborhood shifts gradually the farther we go—parks, tree-lined streets, offices, and gated apartment buildings with newer cars parked out front. We’re moving toward a city center that is revealing a more modern cityscape, without any of the colonial structures we’ve seen in other places. We come upon an aging mansion behind a brick wall, with its gate propped open and a sign advertising rooms available for rent. Sandrine told us about these places, which were abandoned years ago and then turned into hoteles de paso.

The woman inside
, Carmen, receives us without any questions, though, I see her occasionally gawking at our injuries. She’s young, maybe a few years older than we are, pretty, and talkative. When she hears that we’re Americans, she explains that she went to high school in New York. Apparently, a lot of people from Neza end up there, but the recession forced her back to her hometown.

There’s very little evidence still here
that this house was once a real home. The downstairs is arranged like a hotel lobby—there are worn couches and coffee tables, with a reception desk just past the foyer, and two sets of staircases curve up to the second floor. We check in with a man behind the front desk, paying for one night, before Carmen leads us upstairs to an empty room. Inside there’s a queen bed with an ugly floral comforter set, lounge chair, and a bureau with a television on top.

“We need to stabilize my fingers,” Drew says.
Her hand looks worse than it did before; it’s completely swollen and bruised. I’m not naïve enough to believe that I’m invincible purely because I’m young, and I knew this quest was completely dangerous and reckless going into it, but Miguel dying and Drew getting hurt were the furthest things from my mind. “Think you can grab some liquor?”

I cock my eyebrows but I go downstairs and buy a miniature bottle of vodka. When I return to the room, Drew has torn the sleeve off her shirt and ripped it into smaller strips. When I hand her the bottle, she drinks it all down in one gulp.

“Ready?” I ask. She nods confidently but there’s nothing but sheer terror in her eyes. Shoving a corner of a pillow into her mouth, she extends her fingers to me. She handles the pain like a champ as I use the cloth to bind her fingers together. And after I’m done she tries to get some sleep.

We need a doctor,
I think as I grab her phone from her pocket. There’s barely any charge left.
Sandrine.
I walk out into the hallway so that I don’t disturb Drew. Sandrine answers on the first ring. “What the fuck? What the fuck?” she shouts.

“I take it you heard?”

“Yes, about thirty minutes ago…are you guys okay?”

“Miguel’s dead—”

“Oh God. Oh my God.” She sucks her teeth and her voice falls into a whisper. “No matter how many times you hear about this happening, it’s completely different when it’s someone you know. Sixteen died last year in a fire during a fight after some dumbass guard tossed a cigarette onto generator fuel. Jesus. Miguel was a good guy. A
great
guy. I’m so sorry to hear. How’s Drew?”

“
We need a doctor. Someone who can treat broken fingers and stab wounds. We’re in Neza. Stranded. But I think—” A man’s raised voice from downstairs cuts me off, and I pick up another voice, too: the woman who gave us the room. I creep down the staircase as quietly as I can and peer over the banister. The two of them are arguing in Spanish in the lobby. The conversation is too fast for me to even attempt to follow the few words I know, but I comprehend one clearly.
Policía.
He’s saying something about the police. My gut says it’s about us, and I clench my jaw as cold fright bites down my back. I wonder how long we have?

“Shit,” I whisper as I walk up
backward.

“I have a doctor friend who can probably help you.
Majandra Tippetts. Bleeding heart American type. We worked at the same NGO years ago, getting HIV-positive pregnant women on antiretroviral meds. She runs a small clinic for low-income people now. Cash only. Up front. She’s nearby…not walking distance, though. Maybe half an hour by car. I’m nowhere near you right now.” My shoe hits a creak on the landing and Carmen’s gaze lifts.
Fuck.
“Jesse? You still there?”

She
and I only hold eye contact for a beat before I turn for the door to my room. “I think I can get us a ride. Emphasis on
think
. Text me the address. Hurry, phone is dying,” I say to Sandrine as I end the call.

The toilet flushes and Drew comes out of the bathroom wiping her hand across her mouth
. “This shit hurts too much to sleep…and more bad news, the liquor didn’t let dinner stay down.” Her brown eyes narrow on me. “What’s wrong?”

“We gotta go.
I think the cops are on the way.”

“How do you know?”

I make an urgent gesture at her. “The guy from the front desk is downstairs arguing with Carmen. I think he called the police. And whether they’re the good ones or not, I don’t want to sit in a police station and try to explain why I’m so beat up and have stab wounds, and why you have broken fingers.” I ease the door open just as footsteps barrel up the stairs. I don’t even bother to look. Drew runs toward me, and we both slam the door shut . My tired muscles tense up and I fight to suppress the fiery fear lashing my lungs and inching me toward a panic attack.

Soft knocks vibrate our backs. “Please…open…”
Carmen whispers in desperation. “I can help you.
I know the girl with you is hurt. Her hand looks bad.”

“Are the police comin
g?”

“Please,
just open,” she repeats, sounding as panicked as we are.

“What if the man is out there, too
? What if she’s trying to set us up?” Drew asks, and it’s a good point, something I’m considering, too. Maybe they’ll try to hold us here until the cops arrive. A hotel in a city like this probably has a gun at the front desk.

“
Please.
While he’s waiting outside. Come, I’ll show you the back way…” she urges, knocking still. Drew goes to the window and hauls the curtains open, but makes a disappointed groan when she faces me.

“There
are bars on them.”
Fucking shit.
We can’t stand against the door all night. We’re out of options, so I draw it open slowly.

Carmen’
s out there alone, anxiously shifting her weight between her feet. “He saw the blood on you. He thinks maybe somebody bad will come looking for you. He doesn’t like trouble,” she explains as we follow her down the steps. “Go through the kitchen. There’s a door to the veranda. I unlocked it for you.”

“Where can we go from there?” I ask.

“Oh, shit,” Drew says, and Carmen and I see what has her attention. Swirling red and blue lights penetrate the room, and Carmen drags us into a closet under the staircase marked “Employees Only.” She shuts the door behind all three of us and shoves us behind hanging housekeeping uniforms. The room suddenly awakens with voices, and footsteps traipse across the floor.

“He gives the cops free rooms to spend time with their lady friends, so they come when he calls,” she explains. “
But I think I can get them into the kitchen. I’ll put on a pot of coffee. They like my coffee. I’ll tell them you’re sleeping and there’s no rush. But you’ll have to go out the front now.”

I nod. “
Go where?”

“There’s a church. Two blocks
straight ahead. It’s locked but there’s a garden in the back, away from the street. If you can wait an hour, I can put you in the guesthouse I sometimes use when I have to work overnight. But only for a few hours. You’ll have to leave by dawn.”

“Okay, thank you. We will if we need to. But,
Carmen, I need you to call this number,” I say before I recite it. “Tell her where we’re going to be…and tell her Jesse says she better not
ever
ask about her debt again.”

She repeats the number out loud
over and over. “Okay. Here goes. Please be very quiet.” She steps out of the closet, clutching a bag that was on the shelf over our heads. “Oh! Hello!” she says nervously to an unknown person. The door rocks back hard against the jamb, and Drew and I both jump but manage to control any startled outbursts. “I always forget when I put my bag in here. Sometimes the guests steal when you leave things out.” Carmen switches to Spanish and for a moment, I wonder if she’s double-crossing us, but there’s a sudden boom of laughter and the footsteps fade as they move to our right.

I squeeze Drew’s shoulder. “If someone opens this door, I’m going to tackle them. And then you run, okay?”

“Maybe they’ll just talk to us and leave, Jess.” She aims a tired, irritated look at me, but the doubt in her tone outweighs the meaning in the words. She knows that’s completely bullshit.

“Maybe they’re friends of Carlos. Maybe they’ll recognize us. Maybe they’re great cops
, but they’ll radio this call in to someone who’s not. Maybe they’ll hold us at a station in suspicion of
something,
and the asshat cops who do security at the illegal fights will
take care
of us. I don’t know. The thing is, we have no idea, Drew, and I’m not taking the chance. If someone comes, you get out.”

“So then
…you’ll be killed? Haven’t we
fucking
lost enough today?” she fires at me, irritation and sadness heavy in her expression. She turns away. Too bad, the irritation rubbed off.

“
You’re
still here…” I turn her head toward me, cupping her chin. I lean in so close our noses are almost touching. “And that means I still have something to protect
,
and I’ll do it with my life, even at the cost of it…anytime,
every time.
So if being shot to death by Mexican police gives you a chance to get out
alive,
then that’s what it’ll have to be,” I say. “Hate me all you want. But you can only do that if you’re alive. And that’s all I care about, Drew Rebecca Hallisay.
All.
” Her jaw pulses under the pads of my fingers, and she tears my hand off her but stays silent. We don’t speak again, not until the smell of coffee wafts in under the door. “Okay…I think Carmen’s ready. Are you?”

She nods haltingly and I push the closet door open as quietly as I can, keeping my ears tuned in to the conversation from the kitchen. It’s still lively and still
in
the kitchen. I go out first then motion for us to head for the door, and we move in quick, quiet strides, taking turns peering behind us. Carmen is good at this. I can hear her just chatting away in Spanish, laughing every few seconds. Probably at lame cop jokes—