Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 01 (20 page)

There were two black Chevys across the street. Behind them a Federale’s head popped up now and then. Like in a shooting gallery. Somebody’s hat blew off and bounced along the road downhill. No sign of the Army yet but they had to be close. He didn’t see Leo or what had become of the gold the Indians had thrown over the wall. Finally he stepped back into the bedroom. He wanted tobacco or liquor, so he walked out to the landing, called one of the Kickapoos on his way downstairs with gold and told him to send up a cigarette. Then he went back and sat on the bed, the softest he’d ever felt. Maroon silk sheets. He picked up his M-1, and began stabbing the bed with the bayonet, easily at first, then harder until clouds of down flew and hung in the air.

Finally he tossed the gun, clicked on his radio. “Hey! Leo? What’s going on out there?”

After a long moment of silence, the balcony door clattered—Hickey dove for his rifle, spun around, and almost started firing at the wind. He sat back, caught his breath. A few seconds later, the rumbling started. He jumped to the French doors and looked toward the sound, just in time to see the tank roll over the crest of the hill.

It stopped there, at the highest point in Tijuana. The turret swiveled. Then the gun flashed. An instant before the clap like an earthquake.

Hickey folded his hands and sat staring at the radio. He looked at his watch. 3:40. He wished that damned Indian would come back with his cigarette. And he wondered what things would be like in hell.

Chapter Twenty-seven

The shell flew directly over the prisoners and landed twenty yards beyond the wall, a warning shot. It blew flack and dirt, set off panic in the swimming pool. Santiago del Monte waved his arms, throwing curses at the sky, while the police chief and a burr-haired German ran to the edge and tried to leap out of there—an Olmec swung his rifle butt at Buscamente’s head and conked him squarely. The German had to fish him out, hold his head above the water.

The Otomis—who’d lived so far out they didn’t know much about such things—gaped at this monster on top of the hill, like a giant black roach with an elephant’s trunk, spitting dynamite. Two Otomis ran for the wall and scaled it, would’ve jumped and fled down the hillside, across the plain toward the Playas. But first they saw about fifty soldiers climbing the hill and two Jeeps carrying turreted machine guns, one on each flank of the infantry. The Otomis dove back into the yard and squatted at the base of the wall. A Kickapoo ran out through the kitchen door and told Crispín that the general had ordered them to march all the prisoners inside, upstairs. Soon the ricos came wading to dry land. A woman with long, plaited hair towed old del Monte by one arm while his other arm splashed at the water like a swimmer.

Tom Hickey still sat on the down bed near the balcony in the southwest bedroom. He finished the cigarette, ground it out on the carpet, and looked at the radio. “How much more gold?”

Leo took a minute to consult the Feds, and came back, “How much is there?”

“Look,” Hickey growled, “first I wanta know does the commandante believe you? About the Nazis.”

“He’s thinking it over, Tom. But the colonel just stands there. Looks like the son of Zapata by Goliath.”

A Kickapoo ran in with news of the soldiers climbing the hill. Hickey barked, “Get everybody on the wall—Crispín tells ’em when to start shooting.” The Indian ran out. “Leo? Tell ’em this gold makes the Pope’s collection look like a dime store. And I’ll dish out a fortune, soon as you get in here with the rest of us.”

His voice high, straining, Leo answered, “I better stay here awhile.”

Hickey stiffened, wondering if his partner could sell him out, if he thought all of them inside were doomed anyway. But if he couldn’t trust Leo, he couldn’t trust anybody, including himself. Then life was a sentence he didn’t care to serve. Finally he said, “Tell ’em to get that tank outa sight, and they’ll get more gold.”

He switched off the radio, hung it over his shoulder, and stepped into the hall where he ran into some Otomis herding the last of the prisoners, Santiago del Monte and two of his sons. The old man lunged at Hickey with claws out and shouting gibberish in a stiff, guttural language, maybe Russian.

Hickey turned toward the landing. “Where’s Tito?”

“
Con el oro
, Señor,” an Indian said.

Hickey walked slowly, listening to the fading yells of old Santiago, eerie wails like a Moslem praying. In the gold room, the shelves and the wall sat bare and all that remained were the bed, a pole lamp, and the three trunks. Somebody had busted the locks off the trunks, and Tito stood there with his hand hitched into the back of Malu’s frock as they bent over looking into a trunk—at a lode of brooches, pendants, coins, bracelets, letter knives, daggers. When Hickey stepped near, Tito startled and wheeled around. They all turned to gawk at the trunk, and up at each other, and Hickey muttered, “You figure most of the Indians want to risk it, or try to get out of here with their skins?”

As he contemplated, Tito unhanded the girl and lit a smoke. “I think they crazy, boss. Like a man, or a dog, don’t matter, he gets beat all the time but he don’t fight back until one time he does and then it sure don’t matter if he gets killed, not to him anymore. Maybe that’s how the Indios thinking. Maybe so, maybe no. Who knows these Indios? But for me, I think it don’t matter, boss. The Army got us surrounded, we going to die, we don’t got something to lose no more.”

“How many cars we got?”

With a rapturous grin, Tito declared, “Oh man, we got some cars. We got two Cadillacs, five limos, a pickup truck, and that old Studebaker.”

“Fire ’em up, make sure they’re gassed and ready. Then load up all the gold. Don’t make any one of ’em too heavy.” He waved at the bed where Zarp lay gulping air. “Take the Nazi too. Let’s bring enough big shots for one in each car, use ’em for shields.”

The cabbie clicked his heels, saluted.

“And give me another smoke.”

Tito passed over three brown cigarettes and a gold cigarette lighter, then hurried out to round up his Indians. Hickey lit up and kept flickering the lighter as he walked out, up to the landing and down the spiral stairs, across the great hall to the kitchen. There he sniffed out the liquor cupboard. Scotch. Brandy. Cognac. The best Cuban rum. Spanish liqueurs. Not a drop of mescal. Rich folks didn’t go for that swill. It’d give them nightmares, Hickey thought—sweet dreams were mostly for the poor. He settled for a half-empty liter of cognac.

Then he walked out back, waving his arms and shouting, “Soy Hickey,” so the wild Indians wouldn’t blast him down. They stood positioned every twenty or so feet along the wall, on ladders, tables, stacks of chairs. Hickey sat on a bench by the path that led to the citrus grove. The wind looked dark reddish. All but a thin slice of moon had dropped behind the hill. In a half-hour or so it’d be down, and then they should run—in that darker span between the last of the moon and the first glow of dawn. Maybe there’d be an hour of dark. Until 5:30 or so. If they could speed out of here by 5:00, they’d reach Otay mesa before first light, when they wouldn’t likely get chased by calvary.

A siren bellowed. He spooked, as if from a trance. Its wail carried across the wind, picking up an eerie vibrato. From way up there in another land, at Ream Field, nine miles away, four miles over the line. Hickey gazed out over the sea, and thought how weird it would be if the Japs showed up right now. Then he thought, No, it’d only make sense to attack when daylight was near and the lookouts off their guard, just after the full moon dropped on the hottest night of a Santa Ana. There couldn’t be a more perfect time.

When he heard noises like the German Army rumbling over the coastal plain toward the border, Hickey dashed around the pool, climbed the diving board ladder, and looked down the hill.

The only army he saw was aimed at him. The tank up the hill. Artillery down the hill. And about two hundred soldiers lying in position all around.

He stood a long time, and thought—What if they got captured, and Zarp still wanted the girl so bad he’d trade for a ton of gold? What if it came down to choosing between a million and Wendy?

The wind’s noise making him shudder, he climbed down and stood by the wall, lit a cigarette, and imagined Wendy sleeping with just a sheet over her, shoulders bare, her head to one side, eyelids fluttering, her bottom lip pushed out slightly like it always was, a little crooked with worry.

With a sigh, he turned back to the bench, to the cognac and the radio, and sat down wishing that lousy siren would quit before it torched off the last cool nerves and his army and the Mexicans started blasting each other and everything in sight just for relief. He lit another brown cigarette and took a long slug of cognac. As a rule, he didn’t like rich guys for much. But their liquor was okay.

He sat there awhile figuring out how they’d die as they tried to break through that army. Or if they gave up now, they’d rot dead in a slimepit Mexican prison. There was no way out of here alive, it seemed, without giving up all the gold. And then, the Mexicans would probably slaughter them anyway. Twenty dead men. Himself deadest of all. There might not be a hell for folks who minded their own business, but wise guys like Hitler, Mussolini, Tojo, and Hickey would sure get burned. He took another slug of cognac, thought once again about Wendy. He saw the two of them in a big car driving up a mountain. She was leaning on his arm and shoulder. She breathed like kisses.

Damned if he was ready to die.

An idea struck him. A simple one he must’ve had before. He thought—you go along being a loser, but just win big one time, only once, then you’re no loser anymore. One big score can carry a guy through his lifetime. Like a big enough loss can finish you.

He couldn’t see the moon but he sensed when it fell behind the mesa.

The radio clicked. “Tom, I got their terms. A split of the gold, and they’re leaving it to your honor.”

“Think it’s a ruse?”

“Ten to one.”

Hickey only pondered a second. “Well, I’m sending out a car full of gold. Soon as you and your boys get over the hill, past that tank. Then they’re gonna move the tank off the road. Clear so far?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then—we’re holding the del Montes and some other big shots. They’re going for a ride to the border. Tell the colonel we’re a bunch of crazies, Leo, and if they want to start shooting, tell ’em I don’t give a damn.”

For a half-minute the radio sat quiet, before Leo croaked, “Guess you made up your mind.”

“That’s a fact.” Hickey switched off the radio, strapped it to his shoulder, picked up the cognac, and walked toward the house, wishing to Christ that siren would quit screeching like the high end of a buzz saw. He lifted the cognac, stopped, looked at it a moment then smashed it on the ground, cussed, and walked inside.

He passed through the pantry and kitchen to the garage that ran down the whole east side of the building. There stood a Chrysler limo and two Cadillacs, with motors running, Indians perched all over the hoods and fenders. Tito leaned against a tangerine-colored limo, flanked by his servant girl. He threw a grimace at Hickey. “What you think about this—we got two more cars than we got pinche Indios that know how to drive.”

“I’ll drive one. You drive one.”

“Sure I’m going to drive. That makes one more we need.”

“Teach somebody, quick. We got five minutes. And send up for a prisoner to drive the old Studebaker, and fill it pretty good with gold. About half the junk. That’s our ticket outa here. Give ’em the biggest stuff, chandeliers and all that. We’ll take what’s easiest to carry.” He nodded toward the servant girl. “She going with you?”

“She’s wanting to, all right.”

“You tell her we’re probably gonna die?”

Tito rolled his eye. “You don’t have to tell a woman everything.” But Hickey kept staring. Finally the cabbie turned to Malu and talked in Spanish. She bowed her head a little, then raised up and grabbed tight hold of the cabbie’s arm.

Then the radio sounded. “Tom?”

“Wait a second,” Hickey snapped. He called over a Kickapoo and told him to get a few guys and race around and bring the troops, and make sure all of them got out here. The Kickapoo ran off and Hickey said to the radio, “What?”

“I’m in the Phaeton, Tom. Getting ready to take it over the hill. But damned if I could tell you what these Mex guys plan to do. They’re yelling at each other. Be easier if the saps talked English.”

“Listen, pal,” Hickey said. “If I don’t make it, do right by Wendy, will you? Instead of just figuring she’s a moron. Give her a chance.”

When he got no answer, Hickey wondered exactly what that could mean. Then he heard the Packard start before the radio fell silent.

Soon the Kickapoos ran in with the Otomis and Olmecs, and a minute later, Indians sat pointing guns out all the windows of five cars, while Hickey and his captain walked around giving the drivers instructions. Then each of them jumped into his car. The first one, Tito’s limo, pulled out. Stopped in front of the gate. The others lined up behind. Hickey’s Chrysler came fourth, behind the Cadillac driven by the Kickapoo who’d just learned to drive. At the end of the line, the fifth car, was the old yellow Studebaker, a del Monte chauffeur at the wheel. It scraped along the ground from the weight of a trunk and backseat full of floor lamps and parts of a golden bedframe.

A couple Otomis threw open the gate, which squealed above the wind, and scampered back into the tangerine limo. Hickey yelled, “Go on,” and the cabbie pulled out.

Keeping half an eye on the row of heads that poked up behind the two police cars, he swung a sharp left up the hill and eased along, riding low, an inch off the ground from the weight of his Indians and gold. Then the second car pulled out, turned left and stalled, right across the road from where the Mexican colonel and the commandante of Federales crouched in hiding behind a Jeep. For a moment, while the Cadillac was stalled, between revs of big motors you could hear the men shout roughly at each other.

All up the road to the crest, Mexican soldiers kneeled in a line about an arm’s length apart with guns readied, eyes flashing, their fingers trembling and set to bust free and get with the killing. On the field behind the soldiers sat two troop-carrier trucks, another police car, and a Jeep with a bazooka mounted.

Finally the stalled Caddy moved, lurching up the hill after Tito’s limo. The third car pulled out jerkily but made the turn all right and started upward. Then came Hickey. And in the limo’s middle seat, old del Monte kept trying to scream through the gag Renaldo had lashed so tightly that blood ran down from the corners of his mouth and the gag or his fury had turned him purple, with his eyes bugged out and red tears streaking down his face.

Hickey idled through the gate, made the turn, and stopped. He leaned over two Kickapoos to the shotgun window and yelled, “Hey! Who there speaks English?”

“We hear you,” someone in hiding, a baritone, shouted.

“Okay. Gold’s in the Studebaker back there. But see, we also planted a bomb in the car. And another right next to the ladies and gents we left tied up in the Casa. See, I got a radio hooked up to the bombs, so if anybody’s gonna shoot, he better plug me first, or they’re gonna lose a bunch of gold and the cream of high society.
Comprendes?
”

When no answer came, Hickey shouted, “
Adiós
,” and pulled away.

Creeping along, then stopping to wait for the cars behind, Tito’s limo finally neared the crest, a quarter-mile up the grade. Twice more the second car stalled and rolled back a little before it fired again and lurched up the hill. The third car bumped the second car.