Free Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) by Jinx Schwartz

heels. Neither looked amused.
    Number two soldier leaned down, peered into the window, chuffed his cheeks, and demanded, “Why are you on this road?”
    My first response would have been, “Because I prefer driving on pavement?” or some other smartassed comeback, but for once common sense prevailed. “I am on my way to Cananea.”
    “Why?”
    I didn’t think, because it’s there, would win friends, so I blurted, “To visit the mine.”
    He did a double take. “Excuse me?”
    “I consult at the mine,” I explained, then remembered I didn’t a have work permit. “Temporarily.”
    Obviously having a problem wrapping his mind around the concept, he didn’t know what to say, so I explained further. “I am an engineer, and I was just hired by the mine.” I handed him Señor Pretty One’s business card. “You can call my jefe, Señor Orozco.”
    He snatched the card and went back to his tent. I was sleep-deprived, hungry, and needed to pee, so the ten minutes he was gone seemed interminable. Finally, as I was eyeing a nearby bush as a possible pissoir , he strode back, gave me my business card, actually smiled, and said, “You may pass, but you must be careful on this road.”
    “Can I ask what the trouble is?”
    “Please, you go.”
    “Okay, thanks, I think.”
    I made a pit stop at the next Pemex station, paying their exorbitant five-peso bathroom fee. The military presence on the road was heavy, but no one messed with me again until I reached the mine’s main gate. The old man and dog who normally slept there were gone, replaced by soldiers.
    Once again, I went through my song and dance as to why they should let me pass—don’t these people talk to each other?—and was told to wait. If this was the kind of commute I faced every day, the Trob and I were in for some serious renegotiations on my contract.
    I waited, sandwiched between a line of what looked liked sullen fourteen-year-olds packing automatic weapons, and glowering miners hopefully packing nothing but attitude. Both groups eyed me suspiciously, making me feel guilty of something. By the time a bedraggled Maria arrived on foot fifteen minutes later, I’d broken into a light sweat despite the almost freezing temperature.
    Maria convinced the military dudes that I wasn’t some kind of norteamericana subversive, and as we headed for the office in my car, she clued me in.
    “When the troubles started yesterday afternoon, Señor Orosco told me to call you not to come here today, but you did not answer. I left a message.”
    “Sorry, my Mexican cell phone doesn’t work in Arizona. I’ll give you my new US number. Did you call Mr. Wontrobski?”
    “Yes, he said he would tell you. He did not?”
    Crap, I’d turned off my cell after talking with Jenks and was so groggy this morning I flat forgot to turn it on. “He probably tried, Maria, but I missed his call. Oh, well, here I am. What is going on?”
    “After the judge in Mexico City ruled this strike illegal, the strikers are very angry because they can now lose their jobs and be replaced. They have control of some facilities, and would not allow us to leave last night. We slept here, but the soldiers have arrived to stop… el alboroto .
    I grabbed my Spanish-English dictionary. Alboroto : uproar. “Why are they, uh, uproaring now? Haven’t they all quit work anyway?”
    “Oh, yes, they do not work, but most still receive pay from the union. Now, they might never work here again. They have homes and family. Some have lived here for many years. And now there is a problem with the union. The leader left for Canada with all the money. It is very complicated.” She looked about nervously, moved closer, and whispered, “Poison.”
    “Poison?”
    “They say bad things are in this air, and maybe the water. We are not to speak of it.”
    Poison? I looked around for a facemask and oxygen cylinder, but finding neither, went online to see what she was talking about. Between a Mexican newspaper