Just Add Trouble

by Jinx Schwartz

  “Jan?”

  “No, Jenks.”

  “Oh.”

  “Gee, your response makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. Jan called and she’s left Chino and needs to get over here, but she doesn’t have a passport or Mexican visa.”

  “What happened to her papers?”

  “They were burn…uh, burgled.” I didn’t think Jenks needed the ugly details, especially since it would only reinforce his silly idea that I’m a disaster looking for a place to happen.

  “Burgled?”

  “Her purse.”

  “Ah. And Chino? He was burgled, too?”

  “No, he was dumped. If he calls you, tell him Jan’s all right, and on her way here.”

  “You think he’ll call me?”

  “He might. I guess she just kinda left him a Dear Chino note.”

  “At least she called my brother, Lars, to dump him for Chino. Do I detect a pattern here?”

  I laughed and it felt good. It also felt good to know I had Jenks to confide in, laugh with. It wasn’t what I was used to.

  Being a single, professionally successful, highly independent female of a certain age has many pitfalls, the most dangerous of which is being stubbornly single, sovereign, and solo. I won’t even address the certain age part.

  As the years roll by, insecurity builds, despite one’s secure facade. Ever more on the defensive, even the slightest hint that your life is not absolute perfection sends you into an increasingly defensive mode to protect your dirty little secret, which is that you would rather be helplessly dependant on a significant other, but you don’t know how.

  It is just this conundrum that led Gloria Steinem to quip, “I have yet to hear a man ask for advice on how to combine marriage and a career.” It’s women like me who keep the Dr. Phils and Lauras of the world in bidness.

  My personal defense mechanism is flamboyancy in the extreme, which is a great attribute when amusing your friends, but a risky trait when attempting to attract and keep a soul mate, or whatever they call them these days.

  Right now, my defenses were down. “Jenks, I miss you. Can’t you come home?”

  “Sure, in a month.”

  “I mean now,” I whined. I hate whining.

  “Hetta, are you in trouble again?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “You whined.”

  “I did not. I do not whine.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  This conversation was destined for derail. There were a couple of ways to handle the situation, one of which was sweetness and diplomacy, perhaps exercising a little non- defensive self-control for a change? It could happen, but where’s the fun in that?

  “Screw you, Jenks, and the camel you rode in on.”

  “That’s more like it. Gotta run. Love you.”

  “Yeah? Well come home, then.”

  “Bye.”

  Chapter 26

  The afternoon rolled by with no call from Jan, and my calls to the marina office at Santa Rosalia went unanswered, so I put myself to work, decorating Raymond Johnson for Christmas, just in case I stayed longer than I should. It gave me something to do instead of fretting and waiting for Jan’s call. Smith came by and gave me a hand with the lights, said he’d turn them on for me if I wasn’t here, and even volunteered to take them down after the season.

  Satisfied that both the strings of white lights lacing the rails and a wreath gracing the bow pulpit passed muster, I tuned up the ham radio, poured myself a glass of wine and waited. On the dot of five, familiar voices started chattering about boat parts, weather, the price of diesel, and the latest gossip. After ten minutes with no call from Jan, I grabbed the mike. “Edgewise,” I yelled.

  “That sounded like Hetta. That you, Hetta? Did you finally get a license, or is this another emergency?”

  “This really is an emergency.”

  “Okay, everyone stand by while I get formal. Station calling, what is the nature of your emergency?”

  Why hadn’t I thought this through? Think, think. “I don’t have an emergency per se, but I do have a sort of important message for a friend who may be on a boat in Santa Rosalia, listening in and waiting for this, uh, traffic.”

  The net manager, Gene, sighed. “Name of person you are trying to contact?”

  “Jan Sims.”

  “Boat name?”

  “Raymond Johnson.”

  “Not your boat name, Hetta. Jan’s.”

  “Oh. I don’t know. She was supposed to look for a boat with a ham radio.”

  “Okay, then, standby. CQ, CQ, CQ, Santa Rosalia.”

  Silence.

  “CQ, CQ, CQ, Santa Rosalia.”

  A booming voice straight out of a Grade B WWII war movies answered, “Tango Lima, Santa Rosalia. Ist Herbert here.”

  “Herbert. Haven’t heard from you in a dog’s age.”

  “I listen. You haf need of Santa Rosalia?”

  “Roger. Okay, Herbert, finish your call sign, and Hetta, stand by until he finishes, then talk to him.”

  I jotted Herbert’s call down sign as he checked in, then raised the mike. “Tango Lima, Santa Rosalia, have you seen a tall blonde wandering around the docks there?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well, can you ask around, or put out a VHF call for someone who may have seen Jan Sims? It’s real important.”

  “I vill look.”

  “Thanks. Back to you, Gene.”

  There was a cacophony of voices, all trying to talk at once. Gene finally regained control by virtue of his signal strength. “Okay, everyone who isn’t a singlehander wanting to find the blonde, don’t talk.”

  Dead silence. “I thought so. Now, where were we?”

  The net went on in normal fashion for what seemed like hours until I heard the Santa Rosalia station break in. I hunched closer to the radio and held my breath.

  “I haf your friends here. Vee vill arrive in San Carlos tomorrow morning.”

  “Wow! Thanks.”

  “Ist not problem. Out.”

  Gene cleared him, then quipped, “Gee, Hetta, that must be some blonde. Herbert hasn’t left port in a year.”

  “Jan has that affect on the male populous. Thank you all so much. And I am studying for my test, really. I’ll be uh, QRT.”

  The net went on, but I was pulled away by a call on VHF. “Raymond Johnson, Raymond Johnson, Taiwan On.”

  “Raymond Johnson, here.”

  “Switch seven-two

  “Seven-two.”

  I switched the channel, as most likely did the entire boating population within range. “Reading the mail,” as we call it, is what folks do for fun, especially during happy hour. There are no secrets in the Sea of Cortez.

  “You there, Hetta?”

  “Yep, how you doin’ Smith?”

  “I’m fine, but are you going to be on the boat for awhile?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Need to talk. I’m walking your way right now. I’m on my handheld. See you in two seconds.”

  “Okay.” I switched back to channel sixteen, wondering what this was all about, as were, I’m sure, the rest of the mail readers. The boat dipped, so I walked to the door to meet Smith and Maggie. He had an almost empty beer in his hand, so I got him a fresh one, another glass of wine for myself, a dog cookie for Maggie, and we settled into deck chairs.

  “Your Christmas lights look great, Hetta.”

  “So do yours. Doesn’t the marina look festive with all the boats lit up?”

  “You gonna be in the lighted boat parade?”

  “Don’t know. Depends on when Jan gets here, and when we head north. So, what’s up? You called me.”

  “Well, uh, I really don’t know how to…uh, well, I…”

  “Spit it out, sailor boy. Can’t be that bad.”

  “I hope not. Okay, here’s the deal. That guy you were just talking to on ham radio, Herbert?”

  “Yes.”

  “We
ll, I know Jan’s a big girl and can handle herself pretty well, but I’m not sure she should be alone at sea with this guy.”

  “What is he? A serial rapist?” I quipped.

  “Actually, I’ve heard rumors something like that.”

  I almost spit out my wine. “You’re kidding. What kind of rumors, exactly?”

  “Several women have answered his ads for crew, and everyone of them left the boat the day they arrived. One of them, one I actually met, had a black eye. She didn’t want to get into details, but evidently this skoady toad has a seriously twisted porno library on board.”

  “How old is this guy?”

  “Gotta be pushing seventy, and makes no bones about being an ex-Nazi. And that ex-part? Some say not so. God only knows what he did in the war.”

  “Oh, that’s just great. The net is over, and we have no way to contact them. Too late now for a warning, I guess.”

  My apparent lack of concern had him looking at me like I was a bug.

  “I thought Jan was your best friend. This could be really serious.”

  “I know. Poor guy doesn’t know what he’s in for. I just hope Jan doesn’t kill him before she gets within VHF radio range. She can’t sail, you know.”

  It was Smith’s turn to spit beer. Actually, some bubbled from his nose. I’ve never seen anyone laugh so hard in my whole life, and I come from a long line of serious laughers. When he finally gained control, he managed to gasp, “My god, but you two are a pair to draw to.”

  When Smith left to take Maggie for her evening walk, I found salad makings, added a chopped boiled egg and ham, the last of my hard to come by feta cheese, and went out on the back deck to watch the lights glow ever brighter in the fading light.

  Despite my joking with Smith, I was very concerned for Jan’s safety, but like he said, she’s a big girl. She would arrive safe and sound, but we still had to get out of Mexico. I was mulling over our avenues of escape when something from my conversation with the alleged deviant popped into my head.

  Did he, or didn’t he say, “I haf your friends here?” Friends, plural. But then her also said, "Vee vill arrive in San Carlos tomorrow morning.” Maybe his English is just bad?

  I finished my wine, did some boat chores and went to bed early with Carl Hiaasen. I love a funny guy.

  Sometime during the night I woke to howling wind. Jan was not only out to sea with some kind of sexual deviant, she was out in a blow, in a boat that hadn’t left the dock in a year. I said a little prayer that she didn’t have to kill Herbert until they were on this side of the sea.

  Wide awake and worrying, I decided to go on line, search for options to get us to the border. Without a passport, air travel was out of the question. Without a Mexican visa, the bus was iffy. That left hitchhiking or driving, and hitchhiking is not my cup of tea. Since a real rental car was out, the only thing left was the VW Thing I’d been driving. Impractical or not, it seemed the only way. We’d have to make the two-hundred or so mile trip north in it, ditch it at the border, then try walking across.

  I’ve walked across the border a few times and it used to be that the customs guy generally asked if you are a US citizen, you say yes, he asks what you are bringing back from Mexico, you say rum, and across you go. Easy as pie. No longer. Now you need a passport. Period.

  Worst case? They won’t let Jan in, I go across, get her birth certificate and driver’s license sent to me, then come back and get her. Who knows, maybe Jan would enjoy a month or so in Nogales. Or a Mexican jail? What if she’s turned back, and then the Mexicans demand ID? I decided not to bring that scenario up. Why worry her?

  I Googled car storage places in Nogales. No luck. I’d just have to find a car repair place, pay them to store the Thing until someone picked it up.

  I crawled back into bed, but not before sticking my head outside. It was blowing at least thirty knots from the northwest. Poor Jan was having a seriously bumpy ride, but that might be a good thing. If Herbert was busy steering the boat, he’d keep his hands to himself and Jan might not have to toss him over the side.

  I left the VHF radio on, just in case Jan had to put out that dreaded May Day.

  I hoped she’d remember to weight the body before dumping it overboard.

  Chapter 27

  “Raymond Johnson, Raymond Johnson, Manga Manga here,” Jan’s voice warbled through the cabin.

  I jumped up, almost overturning my morning coffee into my keyboard, and dove for the mike.

  “Manga Manga, go channel eighty-eight.” I chose eighty-eight because it was seldom used, and unwelcome listeners wouldn’t have it readily programmed into their radios, giving me a few seconds to speak with Jan in privacy.

  “Hetta, you there?”

  “Yes. Don’t say anything that can be used in court.”

  “Huh?”

  “Let me rephrase that. Is everyone all right?”

  “Yes. All of us,” she said in a deliberate fashion that told me something was amiss.

  All of them. Who is all? I thought this Herbert character was a singlehander.

  “And,” I drawled, “where’re all y’all at?” Texan grammar, granted, but only in Texas does one get away with working two all’s into one short sentence, ending in a preposition that has no object, and still be clear. Jan would know immediately that I’d caught the extra all, meaning more than two. But who?

  “We should be arriving at your marina in a couple of hours. We made fantastic time. Can you arrange a spot near you? Like, right next to you, if possible?”

  I looked out and saw the slip across from me remained vacant. “I think so. I’ll call the marina office when they open and get back to you. We’ll be waiting to catch your lines.” I caught her all, she’d catch my we’ll.

  “Great. Ice down a Corona for me, will ya?”

  Corona? Jan hates Corona. She says it tastes like a skunk smells. Something was definitely wrong, but I’d have to wait a couple of hours to find out what. Perhaps I should try to find a body bag, just in case the all in y’all got offed?

  The wind dropped to nothing, so I took my coffee on deck to contemplate my next move. Smith sauntered up, laughing softly.

  “Good one, Hetta.”

  Huh? “Glad I’m so amusing. What did I do to put you in such good spirits this morning?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  I shook my head.

  “Eighty-eight?”

  I must have looked as bewildered as I felt, so Smith explained. “It’s an inside joke down here. Lots of Germans emigrated to Mexico after the war, and in La Paz they use channel eighty-eight to chat in their mother tongue. One year, this very clever boater who was some kind of radio broadcaster was down here for a season and came to the conclusion that the Germans used eighty-eight, achtundachtzig, because H is the eighth letter in the alphabet. HH. Heil Hitler. You just called Herbert, the Nazi, on the Hitler channel. You’re the dock hero."

  I chuckled in spite of my worry over Jan’s plight. Boaters evidently have way too much time on their hands. All they really worry about is food, and where—

  “Hey, Smith, how’d you like to help me host a little brunch this morning?”

  “Sure. I picked up two dozen eggs yesterday.”

  “And I have plenty of frozen English muffins. I’ll even throw in some Bloody Marys. You alert the troops…say brunch on the dock in about two hours?”

  By the time Manga Manga motored into her slip and Jan threw me a line, there were a dozen people milling around the dock, munching on free brunch.

  Smith grabbed the stern line while I tied off the bow. Jan stood woodenly on deck, twitching her eyebrows and rolling her eyes to the right. Herbert, stone-faced, cut the engine and went below, then Jan turned and, zombie-like, followed. What were these folks on?

  I walked to the back of the boat, leaned over the lifeline, and spoke to the black hole that was the open cockpit hatch. “Jan? Y’all want some breakfast? And I have that Corona good and cold for you.”
r />   “Oh, good. Uh, could you bring it to me?”

  What the hell? “Ooo-kay.” I looked around at the disappointingly empty dock, hoping for backup, but with Manga Manga safely in her slip, and the majority of my McHetta muffins and bloody Marys scarfed down, my welcoming committee had vanished. Only the dock dog, Marina, remained to pick off the scraps.

  Dammit, I should have told Smith of my suspicions that all was not well aboard the German’s boat, but typical of me, I didn’t. Now I sensed it wouldn’t be a great idea to call in the troops, either in person, or on the radio. I’d just have to wing it.

  Trying to sound cheerfully nonchalant, and not the least bit suspicious, I called to Jan, “I’ll be right back with your brekkies and beer.” I headed across to Raymond Johnson for food. And ammo.

  Shrugging on a lightweight jacket in spite of midmorning warmth, I slipped a loaded flare pistol into a deep inside pocket. Rummaging in a locker, I pulled out a roll of duct tape, known to the boating bunch as “hundred mile an hour tape,” and grabbed my handheld VHF radio.

  My next move had to be really fast. I wrapped the tape around the radio, but not so it would hold down the transmit button…yet. Then I opened the door, stepped out onto the deck and reached back in for the fixed radio mike.

  “Manga Manga, Raymond Johnson.”

  I waited. Finally, Jan answered, “Raymond Johnson, Manga Manga here.”

  “Switch to eighty-eight?”

  “Eighty-eight.”

  “How many beers?”

  There was a delay, as if she were asking for a beer count. “Just one.”

  If I’d hoped for a clue, that wasn’t it. “Okay, uh, stand by on eighty-eight.” By now, surely we had radio lurkers galore. Sunday’s a slow news day.

  I threw the mike back in the door, pulled the tape over the transmit button on my handheld, scurried to the dock, dashed across, and leapt aboard Manga Manga. The sailboat rocked violently while I, hoping for an element of surprise, launched myself down the stairs, into the saloon.

  As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw a pale-faced Jan seated at the nav station, radio mike still in hand. Scoady Toad perched on the edge of his settee, blotchy faced and rather green. Unhappy, I’d guess, but then maybe he always looked that way. I took two steps in. “Now, what…?”