Chapter Two
Calling in The Saints
As I got out of the shower, I heard Erika enter the bedroom. I slipped on a robe and dried my hair a bit. Entering the bedroom I heard a horrified gasp and a "fuck!" from Erika, who was sitting on a white recliner chair in the corner of my room. I sat in the matching recliner across from her and looked her in the eyes. She studied my face, the deep bruises around my eyes, the swollen and strangely jagged look to my broken nose, a cut in my lip. Her eyes showed more fury as she looked at each wound he had inflicted upon me. "He broke your nose. That fucking piece of shit broke your nose! Why do you let him treat you like this, Christa?"
"You have a lot of fucking room to talk, Erika. I've seen Marco do the same exact thing to you! We both know there is nothing we can fucking do about it. Not a single god-damned thing!" I replied, infuriated and frustrated.
"We could leave them," she whispered looking down at her hands folded into her lap. I could see tears glistening at the edge of her eyes. We couldn't protect eachother, as much as we wanted we couldn't protect eachother from the husbands we'd been forced to marry. Day in and day out we called eachother for comfort when they got physical. Threatened to kill them. To leave them. But we both knew we could do nothing. Not by ourselves, anyway.
"What did you want me to come over for?" she asked finally looking up and wiping a tear from her cheek. Erika had long deep brown hair. Chocolate brown eyes. A big italian nose that you could see had been broken once or twice. High cheekbones. She was lovely. She deserved so much better. So did I.
I leaned forward in the chair with a heavy sigh and rested my elbows on my knees. I had formed a plan while I was in the shower but to pull it off would take a lot of work. Most of it would have to be pulled off while our husbands were out of town. The question was: was I willing to go to that extreme? I looked at various scars Erika had, the mishape of her nose from being broken, scars from Marco splitting her lips. And many scars on her arms and hands that I didn't have to see to know were there. Tears welled in my eyes for my dear friend. She had been my only ally since I had come to America and been tossed into this world and marriage I hated so. It was then I knew I would do this for her, not for myself and only a bit for the people they had hurt and killed in their way to power. But no, this was for her, to protect her. "I want to call in The Saints."
Erika didn't look surprised by my idea. Not even swayed. Her eyes held a quality that said she had been thinking the same thing. "They'll kill them," she said. Not so much to persuade me to change my mind. More a simple stated fact. As if saying it out loud would make it seem different. Like it might seem wrong.
"I know," I whispered. Standing, I crossed the room to my vanity and fished a business card out of the top drawer. I stopped to look in the mirror before me. My hair was a deep shade of mahogany that hung to my shoulders. My eyes stone blue, with flecks of green and my skin a light tone. I had an irish accent but it had weekened over the years, mostly because my father and husband had insisted on it. As I went to close the top drawer of my vanity I noticed my rosarie, tucked away and hidden. The cross was beautiful, carved from pine with my mother's maiden name written in it in Irish. My mother had given it to me when I had turned 16. She had died shortly afterwards. I brought out the rosarie and draped it around my neck. I would not hide it from my husband any longer.
"How are we supposed to get a hold of them? The FBI can't even find them," Erika asked inturrupting my thoughts.
"I met a man in the FBI shortly after I came to America. We became close friends. After I married Eduardo and he began to beat me I had lunch with him and told him what had been going on. He gave me this card," I handed Erika the business card from the vanity. "This guy is an FBI agent. He helps out The Saints, gives them names of guys to hit. Stuff like that. He's the best way to get The Saints on our side.
"Agent Paul Smecker? Is this up to date?" she asked studying the phone numbers on the card.
"I don't know for sure. It should be. I hope it is," my voice was soft and filled with desperation as I said the last. If we couldn't contact Smecker, we had no way out. Except death.