The Fourth Rising by Martin Hill

Author:Martin Hill [Hill, Martin Roy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: 32-32 North via Indie Author Project
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

IT WAS STILL DARK when we set out from La Playa de Cortés. The Land Rover’s headlights bore through the darkness, but there was little to see once we were outside of town. Guzman had brought along a thermos of Café de Olla—strong dark coffee sweetened with piloncillo, cinnamon, and orange peel—and some frijoles wrapped in tortillas for our breakfast. We ate in silence. When we finished, Guzman shattered the quiet with a loud, contented belch.

“Pardóname,” he said.

“So, Manuel,” I said, “did you ever consider those boxes your father helped hide might be filled with something valuable?”

“You mean like gold?” he answered. I nodded. “Sí, from the beginning. I was a child and, until my father was murdered, I pretended we were on a pirate adventure—we were off to bury stolen treasure. Because of that, I assumed the boxes held gold or some other treasure. Now, as an old man, I am certain of it.”

“Why is that?”

He gave me a side-long glance. “Because you are not the first gringo—excuse me, my apologies again”

“De nada,” I said.

“You are not the first Yanqui to come asking questions about the German ship.”

I didn’t exactly slam on the brakes, but I slowed down enough to look at Guzman. He was leaning back in his seat, his hands folded over his paunch, grinning at me.

“Somebody else asked about the German ship?”

“Sí.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?”

“You did not ask me, Pedro.” He grinned again.

“Who was it?” I asked, though I was pretty certain who it was.

Guzman shrugged. “I did not speak to him,” he said. “He was not like you—agreeable and…” He patted his pocket holding the money I paid him. “Generous.”

“Then how do you know he was asking about the German ship?”

“I overheard him asking,” he said. “I was in the cantina when he came asking, like you did, but not so nicely. He dressed in very fine clothes—not a suit, but the same clothing the narco capos wear. Expensive. And he did not enjoy dealing with Mexicans. When he spoke to Jorge, the barman, he did so with obvious distaste. I do not think he would like anyone with skin darker than his. He asked about the German ship and Jorge glanced at me. I shook my head to tell him I did not want to talk to the man, then I left.”

“That was the last time you saw him?”

Guzman shook his head. “The next day he drove out of town in a truck with two other Yanquis. They were hard to forget. They both wore black military pants—the type with the baggy pockets on the legs—and black T-shirts. And they wore no hair.” Guzman pointed to his head.

“Skinheads?”

“I do not know,” Guzman said with a heavy shrug. “One had a swastika tattoo on the back of his neck. The other had a zig-zag tattoo on his arm here.” He tapped his left forearm. “Two of them, side-by-side.”

“Skinheads.” I said. “The second tattoo was SS lightning bolts.”

“If you say,” Guzman said. He pointed at a spot in the road.

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