Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 01 (13 page)

There was her face, bright as ever, glowing a little in the reddish light. Her eyes drifted and sparkled. Her lips quivered. For a minute, Hickey shed his meanness and fury. All the terror left him. He put his left arm around her shoulders and she fell tightly against his side. As he turned her toward the table and the doorway, he picked up his rifle. Then he spotted Clifford lying there. He pushed the girl’s head down a little and turned it so her eyes were against his chest. Too late.

“My Clifford,” she whispered.

“Don’t look. C’mon, we’re getting outa here.”

“My Clifford too.”

Hickey shut his eyes and tried to think. Finally he hollered, “Leo, you guys get the kid outa here. Then come back for the girl.”

“No use, Tom. He’s dead as they come.”

“Do it anyway!”

“Well, who’s gonna watch ’em?”

“Me!” Still holding the girl, Hickey moved back his coat, hitched the rifle to his side, pulled his .45 and leveled it around the table. So Isidoro, and finally Leo, hitched their rifles too and came around to the kid. For a minute they gazed down at Clifford. Then the Mexican hoisted the feet, Leo the shoulders. Blood poured down Leo’s right leg from where the kid’s ear and temple used to be. Leo began moaning, “Aw Lord, no,” and kept on every time he looked at the kid, as they dragged him out and down the stairs. He cussed while they passed through the bar and all the way outside. They threw Clifford into the Jeep, parked across the street by the Cadillac. Then they ran back upstairs.

The girl cinched both arms around Hickey as he watched the table, the pistol following his eyes, which kept drifting to where Zarp lay a couple yards from his feet, still except when he made little grunts of breath. Hickey wished any of the rats would twitch, give him an excuse to blast somebody. If not for the girl, he sure would’ve made Zarp’s head like Clifford’s. But she clung to him so tightly that he trembled with her. With each of her breaths, a little shudder and moan escaped. She squeezed so hard he could feel her cool skin through the velvet robe. It made him wild with tenderness—like years ago when he first held his newborn daughter—but now at the same time a part of him kept raging. And another part of him looked at the gold. The chalices and urn. It seemed he remembered them from sometime long past. He stared at the golden cross with its twined serpent, at the men’s coat buttons and shoulder bars. For a moment he got so lost in Wendy and the gold, that when he heard noise on the stairs, he wheeled enough to get off shots at the door.

Leo yelled, “Hey, spare me, you goddamn boob.” He and Isidoro stood in the doorway. “Okay, whatta we do now?”

“Take her down,” Hickey said.

The Mexican slipped by and ran around the table. Old Leo dragged behind, panting. He finally got there and hooked the girl’s arm but couldn’t peel her off Hickey, the way she had fastened like a noose around his waist. And her little moans came higher, faster.

“I’ll take her then. You hold these guys.” Hickey glared around the table. “Waste ’em all, if you feel like. I don’t give a damn.”

Leo made a grim smile, and raised his M-1 and swept it back and forth along the table, as Hickey led the girl to the door.

On the first few stairs, her feet kept missing. So he lifted her into his arms. She felt light as a spirit. He carried her the rest of the way down and out through the saloon, where the people sat frozen at the bar, around the stage, and at the tables. Some of the men looked ready to cheer. A few whores sat beaming. Nobody spoke—except one blond whore, her bottom lip bandaged. “
Andale
,” she hollered, and stiffened in pain. “
Hombres, bravo
.”

When he got through the front door, Hickey saw the Jeep waiting across the street and the Packard with Enrique set to drive, parked a few feet away from him. “Where’d they put Clifford?” he yelled. Enrique pointed at the Jeep.

He shoved the girl into the backseat of the Packard, and had to get tough and shake her to make her let loose of his side. Then he stood on the curb and yelled, full loud, “Now, Leo!”

A few seconds later came screams from upstairs as Leo let go the tear gas. In another few seconds when the tear gas blew downstairs, the screams became a legion. Then Leo hobbled out and nose-dived through the open rear door of the Packard. He pushed Wendy to the middle. Hickey jumped in on the left side, while Tito sprinted past the Packard and across the street and sprang into the Jeep, with Isidoro following. McColgin, the last of them, spun around and beat his chest, gave a cowboy whoop, and piled into the front of the Packard.

Hickey shouted, “
Vamonos!
”

The Packard rumbled down the hill.

They had reached the first cross-street, three long blocks from the river, when they heard sirens. Nobody had sense enough to figure which way they were coming from. Hickey was far gone, sitting still as granite, feeling as though parasites gnawed his insides from the skull down, thinking that Clifford lay dead in the Jeep, and how the kid had asked to die.

“Make a left!” Leo yelled.

The police car sped out of the cross-street just uphill from the Club de Paris. Another one followed, zoomed out from behind the Packard, in front of the Jeep, which leaned one way, then the other, and swerved and crashed through the wall of an upholstery shop. Gunfire rattled, fading as they sped on toward the river. Leo rested his face in his hands and groaned.

“Wait, look, somebody’s running,” McColgin hollered. “Maybe it’s Tito. There goes the boy. They’re getting away.”

The Packard slowed down almost to a stop, with Enrique Peña’s head out the window. Leo pointed and said, “This guy’s kid’s back there.”

“So’s every cop in Tijuana,” McColgin said. “But, I bet they ain’t got one of these.” He lifted the Thompson gun, aimed it through the window, and fired a burst at the sky. “C’mon, you old farts, let’s take ’em!”

Everybody stared at Hickey. Leo. Enrique, with a hand over most of his face. Even the girl, her eyes sparked with fear.

Hickey didn’t know—given a hundred years and a clear head he still wouldn’t know the answer. What finally came out of his mouth wasn’t from his brain. Maybe from his heart.

“We’re taking the girl to the border!”

The driver bowed his head, crossed himself, turned around and drove. He slid left onto the river road and gunned it while McColgin leaned out the window blasting the moon and stars. They swerved through deep sand, then Enrique bent forward and slugged his head on the steering wheel.

Leo reached over, touched the driver’s arm. “So they take ’em to jail, we’ll get ’em out. That’s a promise.”

Enrique just sped faster over the craggy dirt, ruts, and washboard. By now the girl had quit moaning, yet she pressed Hickey as though rooted there with her cheek hard against the front of his shoulder. Her face lifted up. In a voice gentle as a Brahms tune, she asked, “Where is my Clifford?”

Hickey couldn’t say it. He just stared, at her face, like none he’d ever seen but closest, in his eyes, to Elizabeth’s, when she was a child who got hurt and needed him.

The girl’s lips parted and crooked into a smile. “Is he—in—Heaven?”

Hickey shaded his eyes. “Yeah.”

She drew back her arms from around him, put her hands on his chest, and beamed. “Oh—it’s pretty. Clifford likes the big—fish—he can catch them and—can we go there tomorrow?”

They were nearing the bridge. Sirens wailed again. You couldn’t tell from where. There might be a roadblock. Hickey didn’t give a damn, not about anything except holding Wendy Rose. He squeezed her tight as a lover.

Chapter Seventeen

Suddenly, about 3
a.m.
, a gust of wind came howling as though frantic to reach the sea. At Mission Beach, along the sea wall and back on the walkways between the little houses and courts, the wind bent the palms, knocking dead fronds loose. One of them banged on the roof above where Wendy Rose lay.

She snapped awake and looked frantically around for the Devil. When she didn’t see him, or Mofeto or Franz, she caught her breath and closed her eyes for a second. Then they shot open wide. “Oh, oh,” she wailed.

She was lost again. The war and the angels must’ve all been a dream.

The room had big windows. You could see stars behind the curtains. A piano, a mirror, and a chest with many drawers. Two beds and pink blankets. And somebody asleep. Getting up, Wendy noticed the soft pajamas she wore. She ran her hands down her sides, picked up the hem of her shirt and rubbed it against her cheek. Then she tiptoed close to the other bed. A pretty girl lay sleeping there.

Wendy’s chest heaved, fluttered, and she got sad, thinking that somebody else had come to Hell tonight. “Poor girl, poor girl,” she whispered, and touched the long black hair. She’d thought the black-haired girls stayed in Paris and never came to Hell. This one must’ve done something horrid. Wendy kissed her on the cheek. She wanted to climb in bed with her and touch the milky skin.

But she stopped still, thinking of the dream and the angel Tom Hickey who Clifford had brought to carry her out of Hell. She remembered his big, warm hands, his mustache and big nose and kind, pretty eyes. She sat on the edge of her bed and moaned very low. To quiet her heart, she prayed. After a while she saw an image of God. Far away, in a cloud, wearing a dark suit and hat, he didn’t speak or move but watched over her until she got a little warmer, then she heard noises. They sounded like nothing she knew. She tried to say them in a whisper.
Whssh, kalump, shoosh, kaloomb
. Finally she got up and went to the window.

Outside, beyond the sea wall and white sand, red glowing water crashed down. A brand new sight for Wendy. Once, in the Presidente’s house, she’d gotten to look through a window and see, far away, what she guessed was an ocean. It was bigger than the lake in Heaven. But the water so close was a new marvel that gave her a pleasant chill, and she wanted to see it even closer. Beside the window was a door, unlatched, that opened as she touched it. She stepped out, anxious about what she’d find and wondering if she was allowed out here. She stared at the singing, crashing water full of stars, and finally tiptoed across the brick patio and boardwalk and stood at the sea wall. Off to her left little fires burned, crackling on the sand near the tent city. From beyond the tents music began, a swing band in the ballroom where factory workers danced all night.

A man snorted and Wendy gasped. She whirled and saw Tom Hickey asleep in a redwood chair with his hat pulled down over his eyes. Too joyful to hold back, she ran to him and touched his face. The hat lifted and his eyes popped open. “Don’t sleep here,” she whispered.

She helped him up and led him inside. She took off his coat and shirt, trousers, shoes, laid them all across a chair.

Hickey watched her dreamily. Like Clifford used to do. She nudged him toward the bed, and when he’d slid under the covers and moved toward the wall, Wendy climbed in beside him. With a grateful sigh, she reached out and held him the way she had before in the car. He laid an arm around her back, his hand came snug on her waist. Same as the first time he touched her, in Hell. Wendy thought his touch felt like Clifford’s long ago, before he got scared of her. Nobody else ever touched her like Ma and her Clifford used to. Nothing like George, or the Devil or his captains. Or Pa. She closed her eyes, kissed Tom Hickey’s shoulder, and prayed he was like a prince in Ma’s story who would come and take care of her and sleep beside her every night forever. Angels could be princes and they lived forever. In Heaven, with Clifford.

She put a finger to her lips, kissed it, and pressed it lightly on Hickey’s eye. She tightened her arm around him and gripped him tightly with her fingers, as she started remembering too much. It made her breathe hard and moan in little gasps because she couldn’t scream, or the Devil would hear, and tie the bag on her head. But the big hand squeezed gently on her waist and she thought how Clifford had brought Tom Hickey to rescue her. Tomorrow they could drive to Heaven. She saw the emerald water and rocky shore where birds swooped between rustling pines and aspens. She breathed more quietly and soon the wind stopped. She slept without a single bad dream.

Hickey lay still. All he wanted and all it seemed he could do was to feel the heat of her fingers, the press of her knee against his side. Feel the sweet air that breathed out of her onto his cheek. The brush of fine hair against him. Her toes wiggling just down from his knee. He didn’t want anything else, and it felt like bliss, that relief from wanting things.

At 10
a.m.
, Leo sent his daughter Magda in to rouse them for breakfast.

Magda, the pretty girl with black hair, showed Wendy Rose her closet and said she could wear any of the dresses. Wendy picked out a white pleated skirt and a shiny blouse, with puffy shoulders, colored like balloons in a white sky. She pulled down the clothes, laid them on the bed, unsnapped her pajamas and stepped out of them. With a giggle, Magda turned and ran to the kitchen. Wendy finished taking off her blouse, then she looked at Hickey to see how he’d watch her—because people acted different when they saw her skin. Happy. Or scared, like she was ugly. Or mean.

On the bed with his head propped up by an elbow, Hickey smiled a little and his eyes clouded. He wiped one of them. “Get dressed,” he said.

She backed up slowly and dressed, watching Hickey slip on his white shirt and dark gray suit, remembering that last night he’d worn a uniform. Maybe the war got over last night, she hoped, maybe the fighting in Hell ended the war.

Smells of hotcakes and bacon floated in from the kitchen. She thought, This sure mustn’t be Hell, in Hell the food stings, even your nose. She smiled way up to her cheekbones. “Oh, I love this place.”

Hickey led her out to the kitchen, a big yellow room with a white table, flowers, sunny windows. He pulled out a chair for her and Magda brought her a plate of hotcakes dripping with butter and syrup. When Violet brought them coffee and bacon, Wendy started for the bacon with her fingers, but remembered her manners and picked up her fork, and hooked a piece of bacon with it. She ate and looked at Violet, a blond, smiley lady with glasses who finally came over, put a hand on Wendy’s arm and called her Honey, and asked her to feel at home here as long as she pleased. Wendy said thank you. She nibbled the hotcakes so they’d last longer. She was still nibbling after Hickey, Violet, Leo, and Magda had all finished. After Leo went out on business, Violet washed most of the dishes and left to go shopping, and Magda went to answer the phone. Hickey sat near an open window, smoking and watching her. Finally she chewed her last bite, licked her fingers, and said, “Your family is nice and pretty, Tom Hickey.”

“They’re Leo’s family. They like you too.”

“Oh yes. I can cook. Rabbits and fish—and potatoes—and corn. And bread. I’ll do everything like that for you—oh, does she have horses?”

“Nope.”

“Then I can wash all—the clothes. And make pillows. And quilts. They’ll be glad we can stay here.”

Wendy had to turn away, because his eyes got like bullets, the way the Devil’s captains’ eye did. Her chest gripped tight, a cramp shot to her brain—she threw her hands to her face and started to cry. Then Hickey stood above her. He touched her face and she grabbed and clutched his hand. When he asked what was wrong, she said, “Do you have to go to the war like my Clifford?”

“Not much chance. I’ve gotta work for the army, but I’ll be staying here in town.”

“Oh,” she cried, and kissed him lusciously, high on the cheek, which stirred him too much. He backed away a step, patted her hair, and stared at her eyes until they made him dizzy. Then he walked her out to the sea wall. It was Thursday. The tent city people were gone to cut, weld, run machines, building ships and airplanes at Consolidated and Rohr or down the coast at National Steel. Their kids were in school. On a mile of beach, that perfect, breezy summer day in April, you might’ve only found a dozen humans. Palms that lined the sea wall swayed back and forth in the errant wind. The waves arched back like stallions. Wendy stood barefoot, her toes wiggling in the hot sand. She gripped Hickey’s hand and kept smiling. She brushed Hickey’s arm with a kiss. “What is this place?”

“Mission Beach. Swell place, huh?”

“Oh yes. Is Mission Beach far from Heaven?”

Hickey grinned. “An awful long way.”

She hugged herself tightly. A deep frown took her face and her eyes wandered. “Oh look,” she said, and stared at a gliding pelican. After a minute her body uncoiled and she reached up a hand to brush back her hair. Hickey looked out to sea where even in daylight the foam seemed reddish, from billions of plankton drawn to the warm tidewater.

The last thing he wanted was to break this spell, when the world looked harmless and full of bright moments, people and things. But there were questions he couldn’t hold back, the need to find out who she was, and he couldn’t wait. Since last night he’d felt jerked around on puppet strings by his feelings for the girl. As if she’d been split in two. One side was pure as anything he’d touched. The other side, the one that probably killed George and poured blood on Franz Metzger, must be crazy, living in a different world with strange and dangerous rules. He’d known enough crazy people so they spooked him. You couldn’t get peace around them, not knowing any second what they’d do.

He said, “Maybe you can tell me what happened down there.”

She started blinking rapidly and turned away, toward a gust that blew sand at her eyes. “No.”

“Sure, okay. You want to forget it.”

“Yes, and I’m scared.”

He made his voice softer. “Yeah, anybody’d be scared. But you know all that’s over, right?”

“I don’t know,” she said fervidly. “They can hurt me. Mofeto and Franz and the captains can find me—in Mission Beach.”

“Mofeto’s a prisoner. We’ve got him, and Franz is dead.”

Her mouth widened, her eyes pinched closed and then shot open wide. “The captains can find me. Or the Devil. He will. Oh, he told me—the first time my Clifford came to Hell. After three years I can leave. He promised. Before three years is over—if Clifford takes me away, the Devil promised he’d even make a war to take me back there.”

“The Devil, that’s Zarp?”

“Yes. But the Devil or the captains can’t go to Heaven. Can they? And we can drive to Heaven? See my Clifford and be safe there.”

She grinned. Hickey wanted to lie, convince her there was no chance Zarp’s men could jump the border after her, when in truth those Mexicans and Nazis had a better chance of taking her back than he’d had of freeing her. They had soldiers, brains, they were ruthless. He wanted to say he’d drive her to Heaven in a few days, find Clifford. He wished he could say any lie, to keep her happy. But lies didn’t work that way. He muttered, “I can’t take you to Heaven.”

Facing him squarely, hands at her sides, she stared a long moment. Her eyelashes batted erratically and her jaw began to quiver. She raised a hand, ready to cover her eyes. “Why?” she moaned. “You are an angel. They go to Heaven. My Clifford’s there.”

He gripped her shoulders gently, looked so deep into her eyes it seemed he found the source of their light. It looked like a star, miles away yet inside her. He stared a minute, entranced, puzzled, feeling his will to speak slip away.

“I’m not an angel,” he said. A pain shot up from his belly through his heart. Wendy’s shoulders tightened hard as bone. Her lips stiffened and closed. She turned just enough to let her eyes scan the beach and sea.