Just Add Trouble

by Jinx Schwartz

  “Hold on.” I heard a rustle of paper. “It’s a hotel on a beach.”

  “Gee, that should be easy to find down here. Let’s see, I’ll put out an APB for a silver haired tourist in some beach hotel in Mexico. That should take us right to…hey, what is Aunt Lil’s last name these days?”

  Silence.

  “Lemme guess, Mom, you don’t know.”

  “Yes I do, but I don’t like your tone of voice. Her name is Lillian Seagren, and if you’re going to be sarcastic, I’m hanging up.”

  “Seagram? That’s appropriate. Sorry, don’t hang up, I’ll be good. Is there a postmark and date?”

  “Let me get my glasses. Looks like…two weeks ago from M-a-z…”

  “Mazatlan?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Hotel name?”

  “El Cid.”

  “Who’s she with?”

  “Why do you assume she’s with someone?”

  “Mo-ther. Who’s she with?”

  “I think his name is Frank. No, here it is. She writes, ‘Sorry I left so fast. How is my baby bird? Having a wonderful time, water is warm and margaritas are cold. Should be home in a few weeks, since Fred’s due back in rehab. Love, Lil.’”

  I choked back a guffaw, barely managing to gasp goodbye between spasms of laughter. Sometimes it’s either laugh or cry. Or both. I let loose a melange of tears of self-pity, and laughter at the situation.

  The next day I rode the crest of a soaring learning curve. Right off the bat I discovered what my mother meant when she said to keep Trouble away from Mexican men.

  I let Trouble out of his cage, maybe secretly hoping he’d escape through a conveniently open door. Through the door he went, all right, not to escape, but to perpetrate a vicious attack on a hapless dock worker. Trouble turned tail feather and soared into the boat when the worker attacked back. A couple of hours later, however, the tiny terror went after the dock dog, Marina. I heard the ruckus and whistled for Trouble. He sailed back into the boat, but poor Marina, who innocently nosed around for her daily handout, was so traumatized she didn’t return for days. What I had on my hands was an airborne bully who harbored a deep-seated dislike for Hispanic men and dogs. So, quite naturally, my mother sends the pint-sized, anti-Hispanic, dog hater to Mexico? Maybe figuring that all the Mexicans were working in Texas?

  Another thing I learned? Hair coloring in Mexico is different.

  After studying dozens of boxes at the local farmacia, I finally zeroed in on one that possibly might do the job. I like my hair a coppery, peachy sort of hue, with golden highlights. Lucky for me, I found just the thing. According to the box, the color, durazno—peach—was also, rubio oscuro cobrizo. In my Spanish-English dictionery, that translated to dark red copper. I figured the peach part offset the dark part.

  I guess I overlooked the words, rojissimos and extremo.

  After a sleepless night of listening to howling wind, clanking sailboat halyards, and a parrot screeching, “Let ‘er blow!” I groggily climbed into the Thing and headed out to meet Jan’s ferry in Guyamas. I made Trouble fly all the way as payback for keeping me awake. As I waited on the ferry landing, he settled onto my shoulder and promptly dozed off. Jan was the last passenger off the boat, and looked plumb tuckered out herself.

  I waved and yelled. She headed for me. “You didn’t have to yell, Hetta. I could see that florid hair from two miles out. And what, pray tell, is that attached to your shoulder?”

  I took her bag, gave her a hug, and Trouble roused enough to gently peck her cheek.

  “Oh,” Jan trilled, “how sweet. Aren’t you just about the cutest thing I ever saw.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “I meant the parrot. He is cute.”

  “Actually, he’s a parakeet, and he’s a royal pa…” I caught myself as an idea formed. “Parrot. Everyone calls them parrots. Very smart, and up for adoption.”

  “Really? Who wouldn’t want such a baby doll?”

  All of Mexican maledom? All dogs? Maybe the thirteen states that, according to the Internet, ban his species? Me! I held up my finger, Trouble roused and jumped aboard. I transferred him to Jan’s shoulder, where he nuzzled her neck. Good, let them bond.

  “What a darling boy. Is he a boy? And what’s his name?”

  “Trouble. Oh, but he’s no trouble at all, not really. I think he is a male because of his bright coloring.” While Jan tickled the grey feathers ringed with white on his neck and chest, I continued my sell. “That bib look, that’s why he’s called a Quaker or Monk parakeet.”

  Jan gave Trouble a kiss, and I upped my praise. “And guess what? He can talk, sing and dance.”

  Trouble nuzzled himself into Jan’s hand, making contented chirping noises. Jan seemed positively smitten. Yes!

  “So, how was your ferry trip?”

  “Horrible. It was really, really rough and everyone was sick. The toilets backed up right off the bat. Thank God you told me about getting a cabin with it’s own bathroom. I holed up, read, and dozed.”

  “Port Captain here clued me in on that cabin. Looks like he knows what he’s talking about.”

  As I guided her towards the parking lot and she asked, “Hetta, how’s your head?”

  “Very, very, red.”

  “I mean the, uh, brain thing?”

  “Oh, that. You know, now they think I simply need better reading glasses.”

  Jan’s eyes narrowed. “Let me get this straight. Five days ago “they” thought you might have a brain tumor, and now you only need glasses? My, my, incredible diagnosticians, these Mexican doctors.”

  In mock high dudgeon, I sniffed. “One would think you’d be overjoyed that I was not going to die.”

  “Umm-hmm. One would, wouldn’t one?”

  It was time for a diversion. “Hey, here’s my car.”

  Jan stared at the Thing. “If you say so.”

  Jan threw her bag into the back and we piled in. She did her best to fold herself comfortably into the caved-in passenger seat, but ended up with her knees up against her chin. Giving me a brave smile, she said, “Let’s boogie.”

  As soon as we left the parking lot, Trouble flew out the window opening.

  “Oh, my God, Hetta! Stop. You lost your parrot!”

  No such luck. “Let him fly. He’ll be good and tired by the time we get home. We want him that way, trust me on this one.”

  “I think I’ve done that a few times too many, Hetta Coffey, and have paid the price.”

  Friends. Ain’t it marvelous how they can make you feel all warm and fuzzy?

  Chapter 9

  Trouble quickly figured out that the fawning blonde was a patsy for attention—and jerky—and shamelessly sucked up to by minding his Ps and Qs. Which in his case involved remaining on his Perch, Quietly. He didn’t dive bomb a single man or dog on the way home and, when we settled in for a Bloody Maria on deck, didn’t even steal our celery stalks. After serenading us with "The Yellow Rose of Texas", he preformed a little ditty I’d taught him.

  “Hetta, Hetta, she’s our gal. If she can’t do it, nobody shall,” he chanted, then after one ear-splitting demand of, “Oh Boy! Oberto,” he devoured the two strips offered by Jan, and settled in for a nap. No doubt resting up for a late afternoon blitzkrieg on the local marina staff. Jan remained enchanted. Yes, yes, yes.

  We spent the next few hours catching up. I filled her in on the so-called Puerto Nuevo Tucson-Guaymas Corridor report I was working on, then asked her about the search for the Spanish galleon, San Carlos.

  The afternoon wore on and we switched from Bloody Marias to Cuba Libres while discussing family news, our men, our lives. Much had changed for both of us over the past year, plus we shared a twenty-year history to rehash.

  As the sun set, Jan gushed over the Sedona-red color of the Tetakawis, the volcanic peaks resembling goat teats that are San Carlos’s crowning glory. Happy at being reunited, but tipsy, we were in no shape to drive anywhere for dinner. We watched the sky c
olor fade and stars come out before moving inside in search of food.

  I was putting together our favorite meal of macaroni and cheese with Rotel tomatoes and extra Velveeta cheese, when my new Mexican cell phone chimed La Cucaracha. Trouble awoke up from his third nap in three hours, and sang along, which stuck me as uncommonly funny. Grabbing the phone, I singsonged, “Hi, you’ve reached the voicemail of Hetta and Jan. If you met us in a bar, we didn’t mean it.”

  Jenks laughed. “Gee, you’re in a good mood. Obviously missing me terribly.”

  “Actually, I did. Do. Jan arrived today, and you know how we are.”

  “Oh, yes, I do. What’s that racket in the background?”

  “We got Trouble.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  While I strove for a suitably rude reply, a crackle filled the dead air. Or was that a cackle? Perhaps we were amusing someone in the CIA or FBI, or whoever listens in on calls from the Middle East?

  “What kind of trouble?” Jenks broke the silence, sounding slightly anxious. He knows me all too well.

  “The feathered kind. Mother sent me Aunt Lil’s damned parrot and both he and his name are Trouble.” I saw Jan eyeing me, so I added, “Just kidding, he’s actually a darling little thing.”

  “You are kidding, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. And no. Later for that. How’s Kuwait?”

  “Same old.”

  “Tell that idiot brother of yours that Jan has a fab allover tan. Looks like she stepped out of a Sports Illustrated calendar shoot.” I smiled at Jan, who was in her panda bear pj’s, with cold cream slathered on her face and curlers in her hair. Purple ones.

  “I’ll do that. His loss. How’s her love life with Chino?”

  “Getting married as soon as his Granny says yes.”

  “Still seems awfully fast. Then again, I never rush into anything.”

  You can say that again, buster. “Hmm-hmm.”

  “And Granny?”

  “No word yet from her. Guess the phone’s still out. Think old Grans is being held prisoner by those panga thugs we saw? Maybe Jan and I should go over to Agua Fria, kick some thuggy butts, and free Granny.”

  Jan began to chant, “Free Granny. Free Granny,” as did Trouble.

  “Hetta,” Jenks raised his voice over the racket, “that is a really bad idea. You’d best stay right where you are, at the dock, where you belong. Out of trouble.”

  I broke into my own song, with, “Ha! Ya got trouble, right here in River City.” Trouble harmonized, Jan cracked up. Jenks gave up on having a sensible conversation, and ended the call with a lame, “Love you.”

  “What a spoilsport,” I said into the dead phone.

  “Yeah, no fun at all,” Jan agreed. “What’d he say?”

  “We should stay here, out of harm’s way.”

  “Hey, if we wanna go find Granny, we’ll by-golly do it.”

  “You bet we will. Soon as we eat all this macaroni and cheese.”

  “I’ll open more wine.”

  Trouble was sitting on my head when I woke up, chewing on my fuchsia bangs. His beak made little grating sounds, which syncopated with the thump between my ears. The lingering taste of macaroni and cheese, and red wine coated my mouth. I checked the clock. Ten.

  Ten! Damn, damn, damn.” I sat up, dislodging Trouble from my forehead. Screeching loudly, he flew a few feet. “Oh, shut up, before I ring your scrawny little neck,” I screeched back. And he did.

  I headed for the shower. I had a meeting with some port authority guy from Topolobampo in fifteen minutes, and Guaymas was a thirty minute drive. I didn’t want to make the port captain, who’d gone through a passel of hassle to set up the meeting, look bad. I was headed for the phone to give him a call and a lame excuse, when I noticed it was dark outside. I checked the ship’s digital clock. Ten o’clock, p.m.

  Relieved, I coaxed Trouble into his lair with a fresh jalapeño pepper, covered the cage with a beach towel as per one of the many instructions, written in my mother’s hand, that accompanied the little bugger.

  I checked on Jan, who was passed out in the guest cabin, then went around closing doors and hatches. The wind had died during the day, but it was still chilly outside. I cast an eye on the mess I’d made in the galley, but gave it a mental rain check. The melted cheese was already hardened, glued to the plates, and probably my arteries.

  I vowed I’d dig out the dreaded resistance band and DVD that Pam, or as I call her, the Paminator, sent from California, along with a cheerful note that if I stuck to the routine even I could get into shape. Gee, I didn’t realize that once you hire a personal trainer, they never let you escape their clutches.

  I was crawling into bed again when I remembered Jenks’s call, and that I’d best call him back the next morning, apologize for being so silly. Or not. I am woman and therefore reserve the right to silliness at will.

  Jan, sipping her third cup of cappuccino, moaned, “What in hell were we celebrating last night?”

  I shook my head, very gingerly. “Damned if I know. But then, have we ever needed a reason to drink and eat too much?”

  “Nope. You going to work?”

  “Gotta. I requested the meeting when I heard this guy was visiting Guaymas, and so far the port captain has been a doll, so I don’t want to piss him off. Wanna come?”

  “I’d rather eat the newspaper from the bottom of Trouble’s cage.”

  “I understand that. We shouldn’t be gone all that long. Take it easy. Get some sun. Check out the docks. Wash the dishes.”

  “You takin’ Trouble out for a fly on the way?”

  “Oh, yes. He gets cranky if I don’t let him go with me.”

  A loud, “Oh Boy! Oberto,” split the air. I opened the cage and gave him a strip of jerky.

  “How can you tell the difference?”

  “Oh, believe you me, he can be…” I remembered my endeavor to fob the bird off on her, “…so sweet, but like the rest of us, he needs his exercise.”

  “Hetta, you hate exercise.”

  “And I am generally cranky. I rest my case.”

  “If you say so. Want some breakfast?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s a great place in town that serves breakfast enchiladas, just like the ones we used to eat in Austin.”

  “Well, I was thinking granola.”

  “Well, I was thinking of putting you back on the ferry.” She grinned and we went in search of cheese and onion enchiladas with that wonderfully bitter red salsa Colorado we were raised on.

  Heaven.

  Chapter 10

  The man I wanted to meet with worked at the port authority at Topolobampo, a busy little port on the Sea of Cortez. Not only did they have a thriving port, but one with a successful railway link called the Texas-Chihuahua-Topolobampo Corridor. The similarities to the project I was scoping out were too good to pass up, and besides that, I just love saying Topolobampo.

  If I could get a feel for their overall operation, and especially how freight and paperwork flows, or doesn’t, I could use the info for recommendations in my own report.

  My contact, who turned out to be a wizened little Aussie who’d lived in Mexico for forty years, was very cooperative, probably hoping I’d mention him favorably in my newspaper article. We journalists sure do wield power.

  After the meeting I asked the port captain if he thought someone taking Trouble on the Baja ferry would pose a problem. He frowned, not a good sign. “The bird would be required to stay in a car. I know it is so with dogs and cats. Without a car, I do not think pets are permitted.”

  Rats. So much for that idea. On to plan B. “Capitán, do you know of a small village on the Baja called Agua Fria?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You been there?”

  “No. The road is very bad, I hear, but some say it is worth the trip.”

  “What do they do there?”

  “Do?”

  “Yeah, you know, how do they make a living?”

  “Fis
hing. And they raise goats. Like most villages along the shores of Baja, they get along as best they can.”

  “No industry?”

  “Industry? No. Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged. “We anchored there briefly before coming here. The little village seemed, well, prosperous, compared to others we saw.”

  He shrugged. “I have not heard of anything that would make it so, but sometimes gringos discover these small, charming places and move there. With them comes prosperity. I can inquire of the port captain in Loreto if you wish.”

  Charming? Not in my book. “Oh, that’s not necessary, I just wondered, that’s all.”

  “It will be no problem to inquire. I must call him today on another matter.” He seemed to be mulling over something, then asked, “You were sailing near the Baja coast recently?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see other vessels?”

  “Not many. Mostly pangas, a few shrimp boats, a sailboat or two.”

  “Do you remember seeing a blue panga. It is named Maria.”

  “Maria? No, I think I would remember a blue panga, since most are white. Why?”

  “The panga was found on a beach, without the panguero. There have been other, similar, incidents of late, as well, on the Baja side of the Sea of Cortez.”

  “Incidents?”

  “Missing fishermen. The boats are found, but not the men.”

  “Did someone steal their motors?” Outboard motors are a prized possession in the Sea of Cortez, and many a cruiser has lost his to thievery in the dead of night.

  “No, only the gas containers.”

  I must have looked shocked, because Captain Reyes reached out and grasped my shoulder. “Miss Coffey, are you ill?”

  “No, just surprised. When we were at Isla San Francisco, a new panga, with a large engine and two men, approached our boat and asked for gasoline.”

  He shrugged. “That is not unusual.”

  “Maybe not, but these two? I think they were planning to…I don’t know…they were threatening. They frightened me.”