Just Add Trouble

by Jinx Schwartz

  With a mighty squawk, and a hearty, “Oh, boy! Oberto,” Trouble dive-bombed a couple of Militia Men, then landed on my head and scurried for safety under my jacket collar. Cozying up to my neck, he peeked out to taunt the men who had drawn their weapons, intent on blasting him from the sky. When Trouble took refuge on my shoulder, we both became a target.

  Alarmed at seeing the self-appointed border guards taking aim at an American citizen, the US Border Patrol drew their weapons. Before we had an O.K. Corral kind of moment, with me in the middle, I yelled, “Hey, everybody just please chill!”

  “Oh, boy! Oberto,” Trouble screeched. I had to teach him to say, “Cease fire.”

  After a tense minute, guns were holstered, and an embarrassed silence fell over the entire cadre until someone quipped, “I do declare, I think we got us an illegal avian here.” He broke into a guffaw, so amused was he by his own wit, and we all followed. The tension, so thick it was palpable, dissolved.

  Still chuckling, a BP officer shined his light on Trouble. “Hey, I know that parrot. He’s famous. Saw him on TV.”

  “On TV?” I asked.

  “Yep, jerky commercial. Everyone’s talking about him. Best ad since they did away with that ‘yo quiero’ dawg. He belong to you?”

  “Ye…uh, why do you ask?”

  “Because famous or not, he can’t come into this country. Well, he could fly in on his own, I guess, but if he was with you, we’d have to arrest you for bird smuggling. The fine is about a grand.”

  “I’ve never seen this bird before in my life.”

  “Good answer.”

  “Free at last, free at last, Thank God almighty, we’re free at last,” I sang after the border patrol guy, who was obviously enamored with Jan, dropped us curbside at Bisbee’s historical Copper Queen Hotel. It was almost nine, and we were hungry, thirsty and dog tired, but we were free of Nacho, and on home soil.

  “Ya know, Hetta, I don’t think you should be quoting scripture. At least not while I’m within lightning strike distance. And I also might remind you that we are not exactly free.”

  “It’s a hymn. Or an old spiritual. Something like that. I think it applies.”

  “Whatever. Let’s check in, take really long, hot showers and then make a whole bunch of phone calls.”

  “And get us a cold beer. Several.”

  “Amen.”

  The Copper Queen Hotel, nestled into the historic mining town of Bisbee, Arizona, is indeed a courtly lady. Several stories high, over a hundred years old, and adorned in a Victorian white, green and red paint job, she boasts being the oldest continually run hotel in Arizona, and even claims an in-house ghost.

  I was just glad she boasted a bar, which we planned to head for as soon as we were cleaned up and made a few phone calls.

  Jenks was first on the call list.

  “Hetta! Thank God! Are you all right? I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Jeez, I’ve only been gone a day.”

  I’d never heard Jenks even close to anxious, but there was definitely a panicky edge to his voice. “Are you okay, and where in the hell are you?” he demanded, that edge inching towards anger.

  Not liking his tone, I growled, “Since you ask so sweetly, Arizona.”

  Someone in the background asked him something I couldn’t quite make out. He said, “Arizona.” Then, to me, “Is Jan with you?”

  “Yep. Right here.”

  I heard a rustling, like he was shaking his head, affirming the question. “Hetta,” his voice softened, “are you…safe?”

  “Far as I know. We’re in a hotel in Bisbee, Arizona.” Under house arrest by several federal agencies. How safe is that?

  “Okay, stay put. Martinez can probably get to you by sometime tomorrow.”

  “Martinez?”

  “I called him when you went missing.”

  “I did not go missing,” I insisted. After all, I’d only left my boat this morning.

  “Hetta, you need to tell me the truth. What happened?

  We were kidnapped by a drug thug, who crashed us through a US border fence, and then we were arrested for illegal entry and bird smuggling. Okay, so they let the bird smuggling thing go.

  “Hetta?”

  Oh, what the hell. “We were kidnapped by a drug thug, who crashed us through a US border fence. And then we were sort of put under house arrest here at this hotel. They let the bird smuggling thing go, for now.”

  Jan threw a pillow at me and hissed, “Have you lost what little mind you have?”

  I waved her off. “Jenks, you still there?”

  “Yes. I hope that was a joke.”

  “‘Course it was.”

  The phone line crackled, like he was muffling it against his body. I could hear him arguing with someone, probably his brother, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I did catch something that sounded like, “You don’t know her like I do.” Finally, he said to me, “I have to tell you something, but only if you promise me you will not, under any circumstances, go back into Mexico.”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “Lars. He doesn’t think I should tell you, well, what I have to tell you. Knowing you like I do, though, you are not just going to follow orders and not return to Mexico because I tell you not to.”

  Orders? “That was some string of ‘nots’ for me to not follow. Jenks, my boat is there. I have to go back, but, FYI, I first plan to go to the Bay Area, get my car, do a down and dirty project that shouldn’t take more that a month, then drive back to Margaritaville.”

  “Who did you leave in charge of the boat? Who has the keys?”

  “The marina office. Port Captain. Smith, this sailor—oh, no.” Maggie’s sweet face suddenly popped into my mind. In all the excitement, I’d forgotten about the calls Nacho was supposed to make to keep Maggie safe. “Something has happened. What is it?”

  “We don’t know exactly. The marina office called my cell phone and left a message this afternoon—your afternoon—because you gave them my number as a contact in case of an emergency. When I returned their call, Isabel answered and sounded very upset, then she handed the phone to someone who identified himself as federal police. I…you’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, honest. Jan and I are perfectly fine. Are you gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to go find out for myself?”

  “No! You stay put until Martinez gets there, you hear me?”

  Marty Martinez is a retired Oakland cop turned PI, who lives in the Baja, and has been called to my aide more than once. Just recently he’d helped Jan and me out of a jam at Magdalena Bay. Now, it seems, he’s back in the fray, thanks to Jenks. This better be good. “Start talking, Buster. Did something happen to Raymond Johnson?”

  “Sort of. Something happened aboard. There’s blood all over the deck, and inside. Signs of a struggle. The saloon door was left wide open, and you were missing.”

  “Jenks, we locked that door when we left. What else?”

  “They…I…thought…” his voice trailed off, then he recovered. “No one knows what took place, but whatever, it isn’t good. If you go back down there now, the federales will most likely arrest you.”

  “They’ll have to get in line.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Sorry. I just don’t know what to say.”

  What Jenks said was true; under Mexico’s antiquated Napoleonic law, suspicion of a crime taking place can land anyone involved, or even in the near vicinity, in jail. For that reason, Mexicans, normally the most helpful people in the world, scatter like chickens when they witness any crime, even a traffic accident. Witnesses? No way.

  “So, all we have is an open door, and some kind of bloodbath.”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  Jan had moved beside me. “Bloodbath?”

  “That’s what they told me. If they know more, they aren’t saying. You were missing, that’s why I called Martinez, hoping he’d go to San Carlos, get some answers. I tracked him down on his
cell phone. He was in San Diego picking up supplies for his home building project in Baja, said he’d leave immediately. He left around seven tonight, your time. He’s probably past Yuma right now. I think I can catch him, divert him to Bisbee. You two sit tight until he gets there.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Not negotiable.”

  “I can’t go anywhere anyway, until we clear up our, uh, illegal entry.”

  “I thought you were joking.”

  “Of course I was. Anyway, we will wait for Martinez, I promise.”

  “Cross your heart?”

  Jan was jumping up and down on the bed, demanding to know the story. “Okay, okay,” I said, speaking to both Jan and Jenks.

  “Good. Hetta?”

  “Yes, Jenks?”

  “I’m really glad you’re safe. You scared the crap out of me this time. You’ve got to stop…Oh, never mind. We’ll talk later, but don’t leave me hanging, okay? Give me your phone number and the name of your hotel. Do you have your US cell phone with you?”

  “No, I was going to renew when I get back to Oakland.” I gave him the particulars of our locale, then told him I’d call him as soon as I knew more.

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “You can hold me any way you want.”

  He chuckled. “By the way, since you’re in Bisbee, do you plan to check in with the home office?”

  Huh? “Huh?”

  “You know, the Sierra Vista Observer, just a few miles away. Hetta Coffey, star reporter at large? I’m sure, after your story made the big time, they’d like to meet you.”

  “You know how we reporters are. Elusive. However, now that you mention it, perhaps they owe me money.”

  “Wouldn’t bank on it. Stay safe, and call me as soon as you know anything, okay?”

  “Will do. Love you.”

  “Me, too.”

  I hung up and Jan pounced. “What the hell is going on? Bloodbath? Martinez?”

  I told her what little I knew, then called the marina office. No answer, but what did I expect? Crime or no, they close at five. Smith didn’t have a phone on his boat, so calling him was out. I tried the port captain’s office. No answer. No surprise there, because I’d been told that the week before Christmas the entirety of Mexican bureaucracy goes on alto.

  “Oh, Jan, I hope Maggie is all right. You don’t think that bastard, Nacho, actually had her killed do you? On my boat?”

  “I don’t think Nacho would hurt a fly.”

  “Your judgment, when it comes to men, has to be worse than…mine. He’s a drug dealer. A gang member. He kidnapped us. How can you think anything good about him?”

  “Maybe he saved our lives?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Hetta, your boat is bloody. Whose blood, we don’t know. If he hadn’t kidnapped us, it might have been our blood.”

  On that specious bit of logic, I gave up. Doing verbal battle with an unarmed blonde was beyond me at this point. Right now, I had bigger problems. Like finding out if Smith, Maggie or Captain Reyes were missing a few pints of blood. Dammit! Where was a ham radio when you needed it?

  While Jan called her mom, I took a long, hot shower and then rummaged through my duffle bag for my least wrinkled pants and a tee shirt. If the hotel had a dining room dress code, they’d have to get over it. We world famous journalists travel light.

  Chapter 33

  Since my parents were on the RV trail and steadfastly refused to get a cell phone, Jan’s mother was our contact point. In the past, if they couldn’t reach me, my mom called Jan’s mom to track me down, and vice versa. Jan finished speaking with her mother, hung up the phone, and handed me a note written on hotel stationary. “Your folks are in Florida. Here’s the number. They’re in a hotel this week.” She headed for the shower.

  I dialed, it rang and, miracle of miracles, Mother answered. “Hi, Mama, how’s Florida?”

  “Hetta Honey, it’s just full of Yankees. Where are you?”

  “Arizona.”

  “Not in Mexico?”

  “No, why?”

  “Your Aunt Lillian has been trying to call you on your Mexican cell phone.”

  “Oh, no, you gave her my number?”

  “She said it was urgent.”

  “What can be so urgent as to sell your daughter down the tubes?”

  “She wants her parrot.”

  Too bad, Lil, your parrot’s a jailbird. “I don’t have him.”

  “I know that now, I saw him on TV. You sold her parrot?”

  “No. I gave him away to a good home.” From which he escaped, but I wasn’t gonna let my auntie from hell know that. The last thing I needed was for the old bag to show up in Bisbee.

  “Lil thinks you sold Trouble for a bunch of money, what with him being famous and all.”

  “Well, then, she’d be wrong. Is the old sot back home yet?”

  “That’s my big sister you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, let me rephrase that. Has the aging dipsomaniac returned to the scene of her many crimes?”

  A loud guffaw emanated from the bathroom, but from the silence on the other end of the line, my mother was not so amused by my keen wit.

  “Mom, I gotta go. Just tell Aunt Lil that Trouble has a happy home and a good job. Something she could aspire to, by the way.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Bye. Give Daddy a —” The line went dead.

  “Ya know, Hetta, calling your aunt a drunk might not be real great for family relations.”

  “Spade’s a spade.”

  “And a kettle probably shouldn’t be calling the pot black.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “I rest my clichés.”

  There’s nothing like a few ice cold beers to inspire one to greatness.

  Unfortunately, the cozy and inviting Victorian bar at the Copper Queen Hotel was jammed with a private party of Christmas revelers by the time we went downstairs. The dining room was already closed for the evening.

  Tromping out into the cold night in search of a warm bar and that cold beer, we were drawn by neon to St. Elmo’s Bar, appropriately located in Brewery Gulch. No cowboy bar, this, unless cowboys in Arizona ride Harleys.

  Eyeing the lineup of shiny motorcycles parked outside, Jan pulled on my arm.

  “What?” I growled. Getting between me and a cool one when I’d been highly mistreated for an entire day is never a good idea.

  “Perhaps we should find another bar.”

  “Guy at the desk said this is the only one within walking distance that’s still open.”

  “Looks like trouble to me.”

  “Trouble’s in the lockup.”

  “You know what I mean. I don’t think I can handle much more excitement right now, and the men who hang—”

  “Last guy I met on a motorcycle turned out to be a handsome, single, dentist from the Bay Area.” Okay, so I don’t know if Mad Dog is single, but Jan sometimes needs inspiration.

  She perked up. “Oh, well then.”

  The minute we entered, I fell in love. Neon, beer fumes, loud music and best of all, a dog sat on a bar stool.

  Home sweet bar.

  We made a lot of new best friends, most of them aging hippies and gays who had migrated from northern California, notably Santa Cruz, and my old stomping grounds, San Francisco.

  It was a slow night at St. Elmo’s, according to the patrons, so we were able to secure a bar stool and slurp down a few while being regaled by the locals about the wonders of Bisbee. The wonder is that we lasted until midnight before agreeing we were plumb wore out. By the time we’d stumbled back to the hotel and crashed, we’d long since forgotten about getting any dinner, and were too fatigued to worry about what the morrow would bring.

  Somewhere around two a.m. I sat straight up in bed and yelled, “Stephanie!”

  Jan, startled awake, sat up herself. “The hotel ghost? Is she here?”

  “No, doofus. Stephanie, the ham operat
or. She lives in Tucson. We can call her and find out if Smith and Maggie are all right.”

  “Shouldn't we wait for, say, dawn?”

  “No way. I can’t sleep another wink. If I can’t, you can’t. We have to think.”

  Jan rolled back down into her bed, pulled a pillow over her head and shot me the finger.

  Left to do all the thinking, I decided that maybe Jan was right, and Nacho wasn’t all bad; he’d let me bring my laptop.

  Firing it up, I accessed the ham operator list someone gave me, and came up with Stephanie’s phone number. On the third ring, the machine picked up. “Hello,” said the recording, “we can’t come to the—” “Hello,” a sleepy voice answered.

  “Stephanie?”

  Evidently she’d had a chance to look at the clock. “Who the hell wants to know at this hour?”

  “Uh, it’s me, Hetta Coffey.”

  “Hetta! Oh, jeez, where are you? We’ve got the coast guard, the federales and everyone else looking for you.”

  I was starting to feel mighty popular. “I heard about my boat.”

  “How did you hear?”

  “My, uh, boyfriend told me. He’s in Kuwait, but the marina called him. Do you know what happened?”

  “No details. We were all so worried about you, and feared the worst. When the phone rang just now, I was afraid they’d found your—”

  “Body?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, since they already found Herbert’s.”

  “Herbert’s body?” I said dumbly.

  Jan threw off her covers, sat on the edge of her bed. “Herbert’s body?”

  I shushed her with my hand so I could hear Stephanie.

  “In the desert. He’s dead and it looks like someone, uh, well, cut him up and then shot him. Or vice-versa. His boat is clean, well, clean for Herbert’s boat, I guess. Anyhow, rumor has it someone did a serious knife job on him, then dragged him into the desert and finished him off.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Huh?”

  I know, hearing that someone was probably butchered on my boat shouldn’t be good news, but we’re talking Herbert, here. “Sorry, Steph, I’m just so relieved that it wasn’t someone…I was afraid it was Smith, or Maggie, his dog. Or even the port captain. They all have keys to the boat. Well, Maggie doesn’t.”