Read Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 01 for Free Online Page B

and yelled at Perez to get out.
    When they were alone, Metzger told Consuelo what she already knew, what they’d talked of many times in the last year. He said Perez would surely command them to leave the finca, to go and report to the Capital, where they’d be ordered to stay as long as the government willed. Their land could be stolen by the Indios and left as a socialist commune, an ejido . That was what had happened to Germans in Mexico, in one state after another. But Chiapas was the farthest state south, a land of its own, a wild place, and its Germans had been there for decades. Most had never seen the fatherland. So they’d been spared this far—until Franz arrived with his mad speeches.
    Consuelo only wept for a minute or so. Then she lay with her cheek on her husband’s lap and spoke of how, after six years she’d grown to love this place, the jungle, the smells of coffee, flowers, rain, and the mountain sky. But poor Juan, she said—all his life was here. She thanked God that he was a brave, wise man who knew how to protect her and the babies. Since last year, Juan had been sending the money they could spare to her sister in Baltimore. Now if, like the stories they heard about Queretaro and other places where Germans had been dispossessed already, the government allowed them ten days to settle business before sending them to the Capital, where they’d have to stay with other Germans in one neighborhood, under house arrest—before ten days, Consuelo, Juan, and the babies could get to a boat in Juchitán, and sail to Baja California. Where Lázaro Cárdenas would leave them in peace.
    This fellow was like himself, Hickey thought, a drunken guy who’d worked hard, loved somebody, gotten kicked around. The German had only broken easier. Hickey wanted to stay for a couple more beers, console the man a little, but his watch kept ticking. At 5:40 he asked, “So can you help me…help the girl out?”
    Metzger shrugged, sighed deeply, placed the heels of his hands on his eyes.
    “Okay then, tell me about the del Montes.”
    The German shook his head. “No, it would be unwise for me to tell you anything.”
    “Unwise. You mean dangerous?”
    “Unwise.” Metzger looked at Consuelo. For another cervesa, for help sending Hickey on his way? Or both. Then he leaned back into the stuffed chair, stiffly as though he might as well die.
    Hickey checked his watch, sighed and gave up for now. As Consuelo showed him to the door, he gave her a business card and left, thinking what a lucky fellow this Metzger was, compared to most, having a wife so rare, who kept him alive. That German better snap out of this funk, Hickey thought, before she walks, leaves him there to aim the gun at his ear, hitch his finger and pull.
    Hickey asked Tito if they could make the border by six. The cabbie jammed the gas pedal. They flew over washboard, north between the hills and the sea.
    As they neared the border and crossed the bridge, Hickey watched the poor squatters along the river. One guy stood all alone on the bank, shaking like he had St. Vitus dance. Many of them cramped together under cardboard roofs, five or six deep around low, smoky fires. Others were at work, heading out with gunny sacks to search for treasure, old batteries, Coke bottles, mushrooms that thrived in the rain. Hickey wanted a drink.
    “You think this world’s worth living in?” he asked the cabbie.
    “Maybe,” Tito said. “What you thinking?”
    “Not when you’re sober. Not this year anyway.”
    “Yeah. That’s right, man. It’s a stinking place. Hey, I got to tell you. I guess you owe me about seven more dollars.”
    “Stop at Coco’s.”
    Hickey got a bottle, gulped enough to cut the chill he had, then walked back across the border with some time left before his duty. He went into the office shack, sat on the desk by the phone, and dialed Weiss’ home number.
    “What?” Leo snapped. Hickey could hear he was gobbling food.
    “What’d you get