Knowing this, she has little confidence in me or the weapon in my hand.
Before she can say anything, I reach out and grab her, pulling her toward the wall.
“My baby’s in there,” she whispers.
“I know. Besides Saldado, how many are there inside?”
She looks at me like she doesn’t recognize the name or understand the question.
“The man inside with your baby, is he alone?”
She nods slowly, in a trance. I’m wondering if she’s drugged or just in shock.
“Where’s your husband?”
She points toward the door.
The child is crying again.
“My baby. I need to get my baby,” she says.
I have to hold her by one arm to keep her from going. “Does he have a gun? The man inside?”
She shakes her head, shrugs. She doesn’t know. “A knife,” she says. “It’s all I saw.”
“We have to figure some way to get him to come out,” I tell her.
She shakes her head and tries to pull away again.
“Listen, if you don’t help me, I can’t get your baby out of there.”
This seems to focus her attention.
We don’t have much time. Saldado had to hear her when she opened and closed the back door. He’ll be watching through the prism right now, wondering what she’s doing out of view.
“Walk past the door as fast as you can,” I cup my hand over her ear and whisper. “Get the briefcase and take it back to the apartment door. When you get to the door hold it up for him to see. He’ll be watching you through the peephole. Tell him I went to my car to get some papers for your husband to sign, but the money is in the case. Understand? The money is in the case. Then put it on the floor right outside the door. Whatever you do, when he opens the door, don’t go inside.”
“My baby’s inside.”
“I know. I’ll get your baby for you. Do you understand?”
She turns her head and looks up at me. I’m not sure she does.
“Will my baby be all right?” She almost says it out loud.
I put my hand over her mouth.
“I’ll take care of your baby. When he opens up you just step to the other side of the door and stay out of the way.”
She nods.
Before she can ask another question, I send her on her way. She looks back at me over her shoulder, now clearly in the visual compass of the prism. I motion for her to look the other way. She does it, making it appear as if someone is pulling the strings on a marionette. She is in shock. My fear is, after she gets the briefcase and returns to the door, she will have forgotten everything else.
But before she gets there, she stops in front of the door. I hold my breath. If he opens the door and pulls her in, there is nothing I can do. My mind wants to send her telepathic messages to move.
I hear the chain slide on the door from the inside. I start to move, trying to close the distance to the door. The noise from the chain seems to jar her back to reality. Her feet begin to move, a kind of slow shuffle on down the hall toward the stairs and my attache case.
I take a deep breath and settle into my hiding place. I can pray that Saldado is alone and without a gun. If not, he’s gonna be pissed when he gets the drop and finds out I only have sixty bucks in my wallet and some change in my pocket.
She picks up the briefcase and turns this way. Robot in a trance. I’m nodding, motioning for her to come this way, back to the door.
She walks like a zombie. She is in shock. She could be suffering a concussion from the blows to her head. She carries the empty briefcase in her left hand. When she gets to the door, she turns and stands there looking straight ahead at the blank wooden door.
Saldado has to be watching her through the prism right now. I motion to her, grip one wrist with my hand, and raise the other hand still holding the tire iron. “Lift the briefcase and show it to him.” I do everything but say the words.
Finally she does it, hesitates for a moment, then says: “The money’s inside.”
I hear the security chain come off. Then he pauses. “Where is he?”
She shakes her head a little. Clears the fog. “Went to his car,” she says. “Some papers to sign.”
He thinks about this for a second. Then the dead bolt turns. Open sesame. I work my way around the pilaster, and hugging the wall with my back, I’m at the door in three long sideways steps. Watkins is still standing there in front of it holding the briefcase. She’s in a daze.
Holding the tire iron in both hands, I motion with my head for her to move aside. She doesn’t see me or it doesn’t register.
The doorknob turns. There’s no time. With my back against the wall I raise my left leg, put my foot against her arm holding the briefcase, and push as hard as I can with my foot. The briefcase comes out of her hand and drops. Watkins sprawls to the floor six feet away down the hall. An instant later, the door opens a crack.
I throw my body against it, shoulder first, and push with my legs. I trip over the briefcase, lose traction, leather soles on a wooden floor.
The door opens halfway before Saldado knows what’s hit him, his eyes wide, two black olives floating in a sea of white. I get just a glimpse of his face before he reacts. Quick as a cat, he throws himself against the other side of the door and stands me up straight. Suddenly the momentum shifts. Leaning, he has leverage. He reaches around the door, something in his hand, shiny and flashing, a straight razor. He swipes at me, catches my right arm, and slices the thin sleeve of my cotton shirt as if it were tissue paper.
In the instant it takes me to regroup, he has the door closing like a mountain has fallen on it from the other side.
I push with everything I have. I’m losing. The door is closing inch by inch, until it hits something hard and stops. I look down. Robin Watkins, bleeding and bruised, is huddled at my feet. She has jammed my briefcase into the opening.
I throw my shoulder against the door and it budges. Saldado knows he can’t win. He can push, but he can’t close the door. He tries kicking at the case, but Watkins is holding it in place with both hands.
He tries to reach out with the blade again. This time I deflect it with the tire iron, catching his knuckles with the lug end of the steel. He pulls his hand back in. For a few seconds, he holds me. I throw myself against the door, once, twice, three times. Each shot transfers the blow to his body on the other side. He absorbs several more of these, then suddenly steps back and the door flies open.
Saldado retreats to the center of a small living room. He backs up and nearly falls over a low, flimsy coffee table. He flattens one of the legs and kicks the rest of it out of the way. Splintered pieces of wood fly across the room. The tabletop crashes into a large package wrapped in plastic and lying on the floor by the end of the sofa.
The Mexican crouches, knees flexed, holding the razor blade out in front of him, his eyes fixed on the tire iron in my hands.
Off to my left is the child, a little boy sitting in soiled Pampers on the couch, wide-eyed, staring at me. For the moment, his crying is stopped by the surprise of my entry. He has one little fist wet with saliva in his mouth.
I look at Saldado, and the thought reaches both of us at the same instant. He makes a move toward the child. I lash out with the iron, missing him by a few inches, but it’s enough to make him step back and to his left. As he does I move into the breach, circling to my right, putting myself between him and the boy. He continues this circular dance of combat and forces me farther to the right. He’s looking at the open door and Robin Watkins kneeling on the floor. I’m where I want to be, and I don’t budge. He has the blade, but I have greater reach with the iron. If he slashes at me and misses, I’ll break his arm. If I get lucky, I might nail him in the head.
Saldado studies the situation, dark pupils darting back and forth between Watkins kneeling in the doorway and her child on the sofa. Either one of them will do. He feints toward the mother and catches me leaning. I lash out. Nothing but the swish of air. He goes the other way toward the child. The tire iron cuts a figure eight through