Santa Fe Edge

He had removed her handcuffs, then closed and locked his office door. He poured himself what was, apparently, not his first shot of tequila of the morning and sipped it while he watched her undress.

Barbara had done so without hesitation, and had even managed to be alluring during the process. Alvarez had dropped his pants, sat down on his office sofa, taken her by the hair and pulled her to her knees, where she did what was expected of her. Such was her skill that it did not take long for him to reach a successful conclusion. He sagged sideways onto the sofa and, after a few minutes of her caresses, fell asleep, snoring loudly and breathing tequila into the close atmosphere of the small room.

Barbara did not waste time putting on her clothes. She went to the interior door she believed led to his quarters, opened it as quietly as possible and entered the apartment.

It consisted of a living room with a dining area, a bedroom and a bath. There were bars on the windows of the living room and bedroom, but an exploration of the bathroom revealed a small window over the toilet that had not been fitted with bars. She stood on the toilet seat and unlatched the window, which swung outward. She found herself looking a dozen feet down into an alley, which ran off a larger street to her left that a sign revealed to be Camino Cerritos. Directly across the street from the alley was an establishment named, on a large sign, Cantina Rosita.

Barbara closed the window, then inspected the bedroom. Inside a closet she found a wardrobe of dresses perhaps two sizes larger than her own, and shoes slightly smaller than her feet.

She looked through a chest of drawers and a bedside table, hoping to steal money but finding nothing except some awful costume jewelry. There was something else she was very glad to see: a telephone on the bedside table. She closed the bedroom door and found the phone book. Her Spanish was poor, but she managed to divine how to call the United States, so she dialed a number she knew very well, belonging to her dear friend, the film producer James Long.

“Hello?” a sleepy male voice said.

“Jimmy, it’s Barbara,” she said softly.

“Good God! I read in the paper you were in a Mexican jail!”

“I am-in a prison called El Diablo, in a little town east of Acapulco, called Tres Cruces. Write all this down.”

“Okay, I’ve got a pen.”

“Listen to me carefully,” she said. “Do you still have the same cell phone number?”

“Yes.”

“I have some clothes and some identity documents in a suitcase in the apartment over your garage, remember?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ve found a way out of here. Can you come to Acapulco?”

“Yes.”

“Charter a small airplane. I’ll pay for it. Ask the pilot to wait, for two or three days, if necessary.”

“All right, when?”

“Now, today. Book a room at the Acapulco Princess, and check in. I’ll call you on your cell when I’m ready. Tomorrow, rent a car from the hotel, drive to Tres Cruces and find Camino Cerritos and a bar called Cantina Rosita. Park near there. There’s an alley across the street. I’ll call you on your cell, then drive into the alley, and you’ll see a small window about ten or twelve feet above the pavement, on your right. Park under the window. Got it?”

He repeated the instructions.

“Buy me some hair dye, auburn, in the hotel shop, and some good scissors.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, baby,” she said. “I’ll call as soon as I can.” She hung up and returned to the office, where Alvarez still snored away, and began searching the room for useful items. There was a cabinet containing guns, but it was securely locked and grilled with ironwork. There was also a substantial safe with an electronic keypad lock.

She went to the desk and methodically searched the drawers, but the only thing of use to her was half a dozen of what appeared to be handcuff keys. She took one and put it into her mouth, under her tongue, then she looked at the sides and bottoms of the drawers, finally finding what she was looking for, taped to the bottom of a pull-out typewriter shelf. It was a piece of paper with a six-digit number written on it, and she did not doubt that it would open the safe. She also did not doubt that if she used the code now, it would cause electronic beeping that would waken the warden. She memorized the number.

Alvarez stirred. She ran back to the sofa, sat on the floor beside him and pretended to be asleep.

“Hey, you, girl,” Alvarez said, shaking her.

Barbara raised her head. “Hey, you,” she said in a low voice.

“You’re pretty good, you know?”

“I know.”

“Get dressed and get out. I’ll send for you again.”

“I’d love to see you again,” she said. “When?”

“You want some more, eh?”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

“When does your wife return?” she asked.

“What do you know about my wife?” he demanded.

“Just that she’s away.”

He looked at her for a moment. “Sunday,” he said.

“Then we have tomorrow to play,” she said, standing up and slowly putting on her clothes.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said.

“Yes, Capitan,” she replied. “I will be ready.”

He handcuffed her, then unlocked the office door and turned her over to the guard who waited outside.

The guard marched her back down the dirty hallways and put her back in the small cell that she shared with five other women.

“Have a good time?” one of the women asked suggestively.

“Shut up, bitch,” Barbara replied, and lay down on her bunk. Tomorrow, she thought. Saturday at the latest.

Later, she got up and motioned to the guard in the hallway.

“Eh?” the woman said.

“I can’t sleep,” Barbara said. “I need something to take.”

“Sleep is expensive,” the woman replied.

“Twenty dollars American for Ambien or two Valiums.”

“Show me the money.”

“When I see the medicine.”

The woman went away and returned with two yellow pills. “Valium,” she said. “See the writing?”

Ten milligrams, Barbara thought. Ideal. She retrieved the money from a capsule in her vagina and paid the woman. Now all she had to do was survive tomorrow.

3

It was nearly noon before the guard came for Barbara in her cell, and she had been getting nervous, thinking something had gone wrong. The guard finally opened the cell door, and she didn’t handcuff Barbara.

The guard took her down the corridors, let her into Alvarez’s office and closed the office door behind her. Barbara locked it herself.

This seemed to please Alvarez. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“Sure,” she replied, walking toward his desk, where a bottle of tequila reposed, along with some glasses. “Let me get you one.” She was unbuttoning her blouse as she walked.