Jan, who was eyeing him like the proverbial one-eyed cat in a seafood store, purred, “Uh, Doctor Yee—”
“Please, call me Brigido.” He pronounced it Bree-hee-dough. “Or, as they call me down here, Chino.”
“Okay, Chino. Do they call you Chino because your last name is Chinese?”
“No, actually that’s what Mexicans call descendants of Filipinos who immigrated to Mexico back in the Manila Galleon days. The galleons, although Spanish, were called Noa de China because of all the Chinese goods on board. Porcelain, in particular, was a hot commodity, as the Europeans had not yet mastered the art of making it. Family legend has it that I am descended from two men. Yee, who was Chinese, and Comacho, a Filipine man. They were said to be marooned here in Baja about four hundred years ago when the galleon they were on sank.
“Many Filipinos came to Mexico back then, as deck hands, merchants. Some words used in Mexico, like palapa, a thatch-roofed hut, originated in the Philippines.”
A little light went on in my head. “You know, I never really understood why so much Spanish is used in the Philippines. At least for the town names. I guess by now, though, most speak Tagalog instead of Spanish. I had no idea that Filipinos came to Mexico, but it makes sense, what with the Manila galleons and all.”
Chino settled into his chair and warmed to the subject. “The galleons sailed between Manila and Acapulco for two hundred and fifty years. An exchange of populous was inevitable. I should suppose there are many Mexican descendants over there, as well. As for me, I was born in San Carlos, in Magdalena Bay. I became enamored with whales as a small boy, as I watched them pass by out there,” he pointed out to sea, “by the hundreds. Thousands.”
Jan was sidetracked by something Chino said. “A galleon sank in Mag Bay? Wow. I knew there was one they’re searching for north of San Francisco, up in Drake’s Bay.”
“Well, like I said, the one my ancestors were supposedly on, that is strictly legend. No trace of such a ship has been found in or near Magdalena Bay.” He heard Lonesome blow and looked out into the moonlit bay. “Is that your whale?”
“That would be he.”
“Then Fabio was correct. Definitely a blue.”
“You can tell just from the sound of his blow?”
“Oh, yes. And, I can just make out the spray in the moonlight. From the way it hangs in the air, and the size, I can tell he is large, but not,” he smiled, “friggin’ humongous.”
“Looks huge to me,” I grumbled. “How long can you stay?”
“I am prepared to go with you to Magdalena Bay. I am very interested in your whale’s behavior.”
“Lonesome.”
“Not really, I have my work.”
I laughed. “No, Doctor Yee, not you. We have named the whale Lonesome.”
Jan, with a broad Cheshire cat smile, purred, “No Mrs. Doctor Yee?”
“Sadly, I have not had the time. Or the interest.” He gave Jan a captivating smile of his own and added, “To date.”
Seems as though Lonesome and Yee are both members of the Lonely Hearts Club. Jan, Yee, and Lonesome makes three?
Bahía Magdalena, or Mag Bay, is larger than San Francisco Bay and is protected by over one hundred and thirty miles of sand barriers and islands. Our onboard marine biologist informed us that, during the winter months, the bay is a Mecca for whales. Since it was off season, we brought our own.
Lonesome seemed to sense where were heading. Occasionally he forged ahead as if to lead the way. Maybe he was doing some kind of Roots thing, returning to his birthplace. Or perhaps he was on a soul-searching mission, trying to understand why he didn’t have a meaningful relationship with one of his own species. I could have given him plenty of advice on that one, but I don’t speak whale. With any luck at all, a beach bunny blue had lingered past the season and would lure Lonesome away before a testosterone surge resulted in his taking Raymond Johnson to the bottom.
While my marine biologist—the real one, Doctor Yee, not the fake one, Jan Sims—wasn’t much help in reassurance department, it was a vast relief having him on the boat. He spent hours on the Internet, garnering info from fellow whale dudes worldwide. He did say he doubted Lonesome would trail us into port at San Carlos.
In Abreojos, Lonesome stayed out past the fifteen-foot mark and Fabio assured us that the channel into Puerto San Carlos was mucho shallower than that. Somehow this nautical tidbit didn’t raise my spirits one bit, especially since, to get to this mucho shallow channel, we still had to go back out to sea with a monster on our tail.
Whales aside, I had a job to do and was now in touch with Tanuki, Tokyo, twice a day. Ishikawa told me he forwarded drawings and project details to a small office they maintained in Puerto San Carlos and I could pick them up there. I was not, he insisted, to show the contents of the package or discuss my contract with anyone except my marine biologist, Doctor Jan Sims. Oh, what a tangled web we weave.
After a tense, but pelagically uncontested voyage south, we finally entered Mag Bay and headed for the port. When Fabio is right, he’s really right, and I thanked my lucky stars we had a high flying bridge so we could spot sandbars.
“Say, Fabio, have you been in here a lot?” I asked as we gingerly navigated the winding channel into San Carlos Harbor.
“Sí, much times.”
“You know, you’ve never asked me what we’re going to do here for three weeks.” Not that I was going to tell him.
I got the now-familiar Mexican shrug and answer. “It is you boat.”
Chapter 17
Puerto San Carlos should be renamed Puerto San Maytag. It didn’t seem to matter which direction the wind came from, roiling currents kept us broadside to the fetch. I was thinking, hotel, until Fabio finally put out a stern hook and we quit agitating.
Even if the conditions had been ideal, tying up to the dock was not an option. Unlike docks back home, this stationary structure used by rusty steel shrimp boats for refueling was lined with old tires guaranteed to smear black gunk all over my nice white gel coat.
As the men predicted, our big blue buddy didn’t follow us into the shallow channel leading into San Carlos harbor. We could occasionally see him spout in the distance as he patrolled the bay, waiting, probably pining for nice rub up against Raymond Johnson’s voluptuous bottom.
As soon as we were secured at anchor, Fabio and Chino took off to get up close and personal with Lonesome while Jan and I did womanly things. In this case, washing the decks and cleaning house. Deck mop in hand, Jan stared out to sea. “My,” she breathed, “isn’t he a hunk?”
“I dunno. Looks like any other whale to me.”
She took a swipe at me with the soggy mop. “You know who I’m talking about.”
“Miz Jan, does the name ‘Lars’ ring a bell with you?”
“Lars who?”
“Jezebel.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who is practically salivating over the hired help.”
“Snob. And I am not salivating. Admiring is not drooling. And besides, I sort of have Jenks, and Fabio has a wife.”
“Mmmm-huh.”
“Mmmm-huh, what?”
“I was just thinking. Lars and Jenks are halfway around the world, probably frolicking in some harem. What’s the harm of a little innocent dallying on our part?”
“As long as it stays at dalliance, I guess there’s no harm, but for some reason I feel a little guilty. I must be losing my touch.”
“Well, I don’t feel guilt. Chino is a doll. And he’s a doctor.”
“He’s a whale doctor.”
“Mother wouldn’t care.”
“And my parents would boil me in oil if I dragged home a Mexican boat captain. They adore Jenks.”
“I might remind you, Hetta, that so do you.”
I sighed. It was true. I was smitten, madly in love with Jenks. However, my falling in love with someone has been, historically, a strong signal for
my sig-other to take a powder. Disappear to someplace like, say, Kuwait, from whence he would never return. Maybe I was flirting with Fabio to cushion the blow of what I fully expected to come.
“Jenks is coming back,” Jan insisted. “I guess Lars will, too, but I think we are, like, losing interest? Not like you and Jenks. You two are good together. After all, not every man would be willing to put up with the likes of Hetta Coffey.”
“Hey!”
“Come on, you know you’re bossy and irascible.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“I am not naturally irascible. It’s not all that easy to piss me off.”
“Yeah, but Katy, bar the door if someone does.”
She had a point. I do have a temper, but I also have a long fuse. I don’t get mad, I get pay back. Which brings to mind whoever put the kid in Ensenada up to sending me the URPHAT message. I decided to call Martinez before Fabio and Chino returned. He was in his room for a change. “Anything new, Marty?”
“Naw. Kid has sent three more to you, but I guess you know that. I advised him not to call you P-H-A-T again if he wanted to see twelve. So, what’s with you?”
“We’re anchored in San Carlos and Doctor Yee, the marine biologist, is on board to deal with our whale. Jan’s eyeing Yee like a seafood platter.” She shot me the finger.
Martinez chuckled. “You know, I still don’t know what you two are really doing down there. It just might help if I did.”
If I couldn’t trust Martinez, I couldn’t trust anyone.
Besides, he was looking for someone who threatened me and it was time to give him the whole story. Screw Tanuki. What could they do for us if something went wrong down here? And though I would have preferred to talk to Martinez in person for security reasons, he was many miles away, on the job in Ensenada. I quickly filled Martinez in on the proposed desalination plant at Magdelena Bay, and the pipeline destined to provide water along the west coast of Baja.
“The desal bi-product, sea salt, will be shipped to Japan on barges. They have these specially build barges made to navigate just inside Mag Bay, in fairly shallow water. I haven’t seen any barges yet. Anyhow, what they really want to know is whether there’s any negative talk in town about the project. They’re trying to come in really low key, get set up before some rich Mexican gets wind of the undertaking and tries to profit from the info.”
“Too late, Hetta.”
“Huh?”
“You remember when I retired? I told you I’d spotted a great place to build my dream home on the Pacific? Well, I got down here, went back to the guy I was going to buy the land from and he had already sold it. And everything else he owned. Actually, this guy was head of an ejido, kind of a family or community group who were given land after the revolution of 1910. Anyhow, nobody had any interest in buying the land for over a hundred and fifty years before me, but then this other guy shows up, snaps up everything in sight on the cheap. Poor old guy who sold it never knew why. Wanna guess the why?”
“Water?”
“Clever girl. I was already looking into a personal desal plant and a solar still, because there ain’t no stinkin’ water for miles. That’s why the land was going to be so cheap.”
“So, someone bought up all the land for peanuts. From Mag Bay to where?”
“I checked it out. All the way up to the village of San Juanico.”
“Hang on while we get a map.”
Jan was way ahead of me and smoothed out a Baja road map.
“Okay Marty, where was the place you had your eye on for your retirement dream home?”
“It probably won’t be on your map. Closest place is a small village called San Jorge. I figured if all else failed, we could truck water in from La Purisima. They got a river. Anyhow, doesn’t matter now. Dude got all the land sewn up.”
“You know who?”
“Sure do. I tracked him down and asked if he was willing to sell or lease me an acre or so on the beach.”
“And?”
“He plans to develop later, but he would give me an option on a thirty-year lot lease. For a mere hundred thou.”
“Dollars?American?”
“Yep.”
“Sooo, Tanuki just thinks they have this project under wraps. Sounds like their pipeline’s sprung a leak. But how?”
“¿Quien sabe? as they say down here. Keeping a secret in Baja is well-nigh impossible.”
“So it seems. I’ll talk to you later. By the way, what’s this guy’s name? The one buying up land?”
“Ricardo Lujàn.”
“He must be rich. Even if it was cheap by the acre, there’s over a hundred miles of beachfront involved. God knows how many acres.”
“My guess is Lujàn only paid those poor suckers a fraction of what land was worth, even without water. When you’ve never had two pesos to rub together, any money is better than none. After all, these ejido guys are fishermen, so what did they care about the land as long as they have a place to put up a shack. They aren’t looking to the future. Things move so slow down here that even with water, it’ll probably be twenty years before the fish camps have to move to make room for houses. Typical Mexican deal: the poor get poorer and the corrupt get richer. The way it works. If you have anything of value, some jerk will take it away from you.”
“Don’t the poor ever get fed up? Fight back?”
“Yep. Last time was 1910. After the revolution, the new, so-called reformed government took away their guns.”
Our men, as we were beginning to call them, returned from their whale inspection before dinner. When a panga came calling that afternoon, Jan and I swapped two cans of Spam for four big lobsters. It was another of Jenks’s smart suggestions to bring baseball caps, canned meat, videos in Spanish, and Playboy magazines for trade. By dinnertime the air turned balmy, the wind died, the boat quit rocking, a full moon shown and the four of us, showered and dressed in tropical attire, sat down for a civilized meal. It was a Mexican Chamber of Commerce moment.
Chino, after admiring our table setting, complete with candles, cloth napkins and crystal, seated Jan and me, then began pouring our wine with a flourish. Napkin draped nattily over his arm, he camped it up while chattering effusively about Lonesome’s odd behavior. At least until he lost his train of thought, distracted by Jan’s décolletage. I cleared my throat to put him back on track. Giving me an unabashed grin, he gushed, “A fine specimen.”
“Why, thank you, Chino,” Jan cooed.
“Oh, you also. But I was speaking of the whale. I think he’s about ten years old and bigger than we thought. Seventy-five feet, at least. Magnificent.” I have never seen a man so euphoric over a large hunk of blubber.
Maybe there is hope for we chubbettes of the world.
Chapter 18
“So Hetta, what’s wrong with this picture? Two single women, on a yacht in Mexico, a full moon overhead, two handsome men on board. And what happens? The women, who are straight, leave the men and crawl into bed together? We must be getting older than I thought.”
I smeared extra wrinkle cream around my eyes. “It is disgusting, isn’t it? I miss Jenks. What’s your excuse?”
“I don’t want to appear loose,” Jan said loftily.
I snorted derision, and the last of my Chardonnay, through my nose. “Loose? I don’t suppose Chino thinks you’re a vestal virgin.”
“Well, no. But he does know I date your fiancé’s brother.”
“Date? You live together. And my fiancé? You and Lars are the only ones who’ve actually discussed the M word.”
“Talk is cheap. Lars isn’t ready for matrimony.”
“Miz Jan, you might want to deliberate a tad before you do anything rash with Chino. Can you truly picture yourself living in a palapa on the beach, counting whale sperm?”
“You have no romance in your soul.”
“You have no brain in your head.” I turned out the light. A wash of moonlight flooded the cabin. Upstairs, Chino and Fabi
o talked quietly while finishing off more wine. In the distance, Lonesome blew. Gee, so many choices, so little time.
I was dozing off when Jan tapped my shoulder. “You awake?”
“Barely.”
“What do you think I should do about Lars?”
“Maybe you owe it to him to let him know it’s over before you jump Chino’s bones, but what the hell, would he give you the same consideration?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“Well then, there you go.”
“Fooey.”
It was time to give Tanuki something for the scads of moolah they’d dropped to date, but first I had to know precisely what they thought they were paying for.
All I had so far was an overview, no details. Ishikawa’s message told me to collect a package, hopefully one with an in-depth job description, from an office in Puerto San Carlos. Early the next morning, Jan and I set out to do just that, as well as register the paperwork required by the Mexican government to cruise their waters. Since this was our first port of entry, we had to make our presence legal. Fabio had done all the form-filling and copy-making, put the whole thing in a envelope, and told me to give it to the Port Captain, who would give me back stamped copies of what we needed.
We left Fabio and Chino, who were over-served at dinner, on board nursing hangovers. As we dinghied to the pier Jan and I decided, what with the cyber-age and all, Miss Manners might approve of an on-line breakup with Lars.
“I guess the question is, does Lars have any idea that you have grown weary of his attentions? Or lack thereof?”
“Before he and Jenks left for Houston, I asked him if we should discuss some kind of permanent relationship. He told me he had his whole life planned and commitment isn’t in it.”
Just Add Salt (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 2)) Page 12