Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series)

by Schwartz, Jinx

  Jenks had tweaked the indoor motion detectors because, after all, a boat is constantly moving, especially where fishing pangas streak in and out of the harbor at Mach speed. Yes, the Port Captain posted a 5km per hour sign on both a buoy and the harbor breakwater, but like all speed limits in Mexico, they are merely a suggestion. Like stop signs.

  So, what with Santa Rosalia being the bouncingest (nautical term) harbor I'd ever been in, the camera's motion detectors were set on low sensitivity, but a human would set them off. Outside motion detectors were useless due to critters, but if I want to see what's going on, I can manually engage them and even record the action. All in all I was feeling mucho better about my ham thief.

  According to the marina office manager, no one could have gotten their hands on my boat keys, so whoever broke in was a lock picker.

  A hungry, neat, lock picker.

  Since I held the title of Materials Manager (Liaison) on the project, I tackled managing materials, which I do well, and liaising, which I do badly.

  Not one to take anyone's word for anything, I started at square one: drawings. On a project this size drawings are in the thousands, each one more detailed than the next. Think of building a car. You could start with a rendition of the finished product, all shiny, sitting on the showroom floor, then start taking it apart, piece by piece, down to the last nut and bolt. Once that's done, you rebuild the whole damned shebang, hoping for no leftover parts.

  What I do is sort of the same thing, starting with an overall layout of the entire site, broken down into what's done in each area. On a mine there are pits, processing plants and the like. At some point there is a material takeoff list of the area's needs, with every single bolt accounted for, unless a piece of equipment is built off site, somewhat like a radio for that new car. I don’t need to know what is in that radio, only that it does what I want to do and that it fits in the hole size allotted on the drawing. My job is not to design the radio, or the hole, but to make sure the radio is delivered on time and fits into the hole so the car can be assembled and I can listen to Michael Savage rave. You gotta love a guy who hates everyone equally.

  Since I was walking into a job where some of the areas were already up and running, I had to backtrack, ferreting out who done what to whom, as it were, to see if things went wonky. Luckily, everything was also uploaded into the computer, making life easier, but I still like to look at drawings I can hold in my hands. Like I love my Kindle, but once in awhile, I just gotta hold a book.

  I live by the old proverb:

  For want of a nail the shoe was lost.

  For want of a shoe the horse was lost.

  For want of a horse the rider was lost.

  For want of a rider the message was lost.

  For want of a message the battle was lost.

  For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.

  And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

  Since a lost nail leads to a lost battle and thus a kingdom, it is my job to ensure the keys to the Kingdom of Lucifer are kept intact. Boy, if that doesn't have an odd ring, I don't know what does. Hetta Coffey in charge of Lucifer? That's rich. Although there's some folks out there who consider me his spawn.

  Anyhow, if something stinks in the kingdom, or is missing, it is my job to find out what and why. So far, I figured all was not well in the kingdom of Luciferville, but no one knew why. The Trob doesn't send me in to babysit anything that's going along just fab; he says there's too much risk factor involved.

  So far, all I'd been told is there are cost overruns. Gee, really? In Mexico? Where every single stage of anything has someone out front with his hand in your pocket? What a surprise.

  When I estimate any job for Mexico (and to be fair, many other countries) I build in a huge percentage for mordida—the bite, or bribe—as well as for theft and bad management. If that sounds uncharitable, sue me. It is a way of life south of the border and anyone who thinks it isn't needs to take Doing Bidness in Mexico 101, better known as How to Steal Gringos Blind and Become a Mexican Hero.

  But the Trob knows all that. Sooo, if there are overruns worth worrying about on the Lucifer project, they must be effing humongous. I didn't want to call Wontrobski from the office, nor use the office computer for an email to discuss the details. Besides, he sent me to snoop, not ask him about what. I sighed and went back to seeking out invisible dragons to slay, flying blind and hoping not to get my armor singed.

  By Wednesday I'd practically forgotten about that little b&e on my boat despite a dearth of Velveeta. And my morning commute was so much better, thank you. Pedro passed me in a flash daily, but I kept a nice large, slow truck in front of me, running interference from the Pedros coming down the hill. I used that same tactic going home, thereby figuring all that metal in front of me was a little insurance. It was seriously slow going, but I left in plenty of time to get into Santa Rosalia before dusk. I do my best to never drive on Mexican highways after dark, and I sure as hell wasn't planning on challenging the Hill of Hell during non-daylight hours.

  It was during this daily twenty-miles-per hour commute that I spotted the dog.

  In the middle of nowhere, on a two-lane road with no shoulder to speak of, and few turnouts, this dog was somehow surviving. He looked to be some kind of retriever, fairly young, and not your typical Mex mutt of indefinable lineage that I call canardlys because you can hardly tell what they are.

  Because I couldn't stop or, for that matter, even watch him for more than a few seconds, I only caught a glimpse, but the picture of him sitting there skinny, filthy and forsaken, was burned into my brain. How he was managing to survive was a mystery, but one thing was evident; if he didn't get hit by a car he'd starve to death. He crept into my thoughts all day at the office, but as I searched for him on the trip back home, he wasn't there. Hopefully someone had picked him up. At least, that is what I wanted to think.

  I decided to visit Jan and Chino, my little whale-watching love dovies, over the coming weekend, so I called to make sure they were up for a visitor.

  "Are we going to be home? Surely you jest. We never go anywhere that doesn't involve one of these oversized guppies Chino loves so much."

  Uh-oh. Sounds like Dr. Yee buying Jan a couple of luxury fifth-wheels trailers for his lonely stretch of beach didn't do much to soothe Miss Jan's restlessness. "Uh, are the mothers and babies still in the lagoon?"

  "They're beginning to leave now, but there are still a few. Wanna go out and pet 'em?"

  Pet a whale? I'd have to think about that. I petted a snake once, but it tried to bite me. The snake dude said I must have given it bad vibes. Do whales pick up on stuff like that? Nah. "Yes, I do," I said with far more conviction than I felt.

  Saturday night at Camp Chino we sat around the fire drinking beer. I'd driven over on Friday afternoon, even though most everyone else at the mine worked a half day on Saturday. I'd put my foot down on that one. Who ever heard of working weekends, for crying out loud? Not that I still indulged in my former Friday night bar-hopping habit, but still and all, Saturday?

  Jan put me in my very own trailer, a forty-foot job with all the amenities. Chino, in an effort to keep the Janster from taking off like one of the sea birds surrounding the camp, had eschewed his grass shack on the beach existence and built what I dubbed the Chino Hilton. Not only were there the two brand new trailers, but a huge generator, and a one thousand gallon water tank. Water was trucked in over more than forty miles of bad road, as was propane for water heaters and cooking. Solar panels ensured lots of power for an inverter (who knew when Jan would need to dry her hair?) and a Hughes network system ensured twenty-four hour television, Internet and telephone.

  The neatest things were the toilets. Forbidden from installing a septic tank in the eco park (although they'd been squatting in an outhouse before, so go figure) they'd installed composting toilets that required no water, no plumbing. Chino's bank account had taken a heavy hit, but I guess he figured Jan is worth it.

 
That Saturday night at Camp Chino, I was so stoked not even a third beer calmed me. I was on an adrenaline high almost better'n sex. I think. It had been awhile.

  I'd spent most of the day in a twenty-four foot, open skiff, the ubiquitous panga found all over Mexico, communing with creatures three or four times the size of our boat. And because I was with Dr. Chino Yee on a research vessel, I was allowed in areas the poor grunts who paid a fortune to go out commercially were not. Chino first took us looking for Sheba, his favorite whale mom.

  Sheba had her calf close by her side and when she spotted Chino, made a beeline for us. Gently nudging the baby—if you can call any twenty foot creature a baby—alongside, she allowed us to pet it. Then, and I swear I saw it, she gave Jan the evil eye, dove, and came up under the panga on her back, gently cradling us on her tummy as she would her baby. Well, gently cradling Chino, anyway. Maybe I'm projecting here, but it looked to me that if Sheba had her druthers, she'd have dumped Jan into the drink and smacked her with her tail. I moved to the other end of the boat, away from Jan, and sent what I thought might be good vibes at Sheba, which wasn't hard because I was experiencing a rush like no other I'd ever felt. Sorry, Jenks.

  "…and I think I'll go back to school or something, you know, I could be a marine biologist in a few years, then I could—"

  Jan blew a strand of blonde from her eyes and cut me off. "Hetta, for God's sake, cool your jets. You're babbling,"

  "And you are…ungrateful. Do you have any idea how lucky you are? People all over the world would kill to be here, living like you and Chino. Hell, they fly in, at great cost I might add, to experience once in a lifetime what you get to do every day."

  "Seen one whale, seen 'em all. Hugged one whale, hugged 'em all. Petted —"

  My turn to cut her off. "No wonder Sheba hates you. When did you get so cynical?"

  "Learned it from you."

  "Oh."

  We burst into giggles, drawing Chino our way. "What's so funny?" Firelight glistened on his tanned, handsome face. I detected a hint of his Yee ancestor, a shipwreck victim who washed up on Baja's shores over four hundred years ago. Jan stood to get another beer or three and he pulled her to him. They made for a stunning pair. He was a couple of inches taller than Jan's five-eleven and his dark looks complimented those of my Meg Ryan look-alike friend.

  She squirmed away and headed for the fridge. Chino flopped down next to me and sighed deeply. Oh, dear.

  Hoping to lighten his glumness, I said, "You have a truly wonderful place here, Chino. So beautiful. And what a great job you have. No bad guys, only nature. No offices, time clocks, alarm clocks. I love it."

  "Were that Jan did." He spoke English with a slight British accent, a result of his UK education. Chino is a genius who, still in his mid-twenties, holds two doctorates in what I call, Animal Stuff. Along with his degrees, his dedication to onsite studies and a passion for marine life have earned him international recognition. His funding, less than generous because he refuses to glad hand and kiss ass, allows him to live in harmony with the whales, but Jan? Not so much. I feel a little guilty that I played a large part in his meeting Jan, because their relationship is plumb doomed for several reasons, not the least of which is the age difference.

  It was my turn to sigh. "You know, Chino, sometimes even people who love and respect each other aren't totally compatible. I know that sounds a little odd, but both Jan and I need more…responsibility. We've been single for a long time. Well, forever. We've fought the battle to succeed in our own careers and giving that up ain't all that easy."

  "You mean Jan needs a job?"

  I grinned. "That would be a start. Making beds and flippin' torillas ain't her style."

  He finished his beer. "Maybe I need to spend more time with her. I am getting a new assistant next week, so with another marine biologist on board I might be able to get away, take Jan on trips. She never said—"

  Jan grabbed his empty and shoved a full bottle in his hand, "Hey! Am I the she of whom you are speaking?"

  I barked a laugh. "Dang, Chino, we can't talk about her anymore. She's here."

  7

  Old sailors never die, they just smell that way.

  Jan packed a bag and rode out of camp with me on Monday morning.

  Chino waved a little forlornly as we drove away, even though the plan was for him to pick her up at my boat in Santa Rosalia on Wednesday, after he fetched his new assistant from the Santa Rosalia airport. She'd be gone only a few days, but I think he feared Jan would hop a plane out of Dodge before he could retrieve her.

  Seeing the worried Chino in the rearview mirror, I told Jan, "You're gonna have to do something about this Chino thing. The way you're messin' with him isn't right, and not good for either of you."

  "Hetta Coffey giving advice on relationships?" she scoffed. "That's rich."

  I could have scoffed back, setting us up for a little dustup. Over the years we've had our moments, like sisters do, but sometimes no comeback is the best comeback of all. Besides, the washboard road, one of the worst I'd ever been on, didn't lend itself to conversation. I concentrated on keeping us from skittering off the road, and my teeth from cracking each other. My Ford Ranger pickup is built for roads like this, but the tight suspension is hell on the butt and gut. Jan stared out the window for the next hour, while I tried missing the worst ruts. It is no wonder Jan and Chino rarely go into town.

  The asphalt, when we hit Mex 1 over an hour later, felt like Red Velvet cake does on the tongue. I decided to lighten the mood and punched on the stereo, finding "All the girls" with Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias. This is one of my and Jan's favorite duets, and we've memorized all the words. I whanged the Willie parts, she crooned with Julio, then we harmonized. Where they sung about girls, we loudly overrode them with boys. Someone else's wife became someone else's strife. We just crack ourselves up.

  When the song ended Jan punched down the sound. "You're right. I am messin' with Chino and I hate myself for it. What is wrong with me?"

  "I don't have time to answer that. It's only another hour to the jobsite."

  "Smartass."

  "So if you don't know what's wrong in Chinoville, how can you fix it? I mean, other than acting right, which we both know ain't gonna happen so long as you're feeling sorry for yourself." I actually was feeling sorry for Chino. He is an honorable, hardworking man who adores Jan. The cad.

  "I think I'm depressed. And since I've never been depressed before, I don't know what it feels like, but if this is it, I don't want it."

  "There're pills for that."

  "I don't wanna take pills, I want to be happy, not medicated."

  "Medicated always works for me. Okay, tell me what's really bugging you."

  "Thank you, Doctor Coffey. Here's the deal. I love Chino, but not enough to live in a fish camp the rest of my life. I wish I liked whales and all that marine stuff, but I don't. Hell, I don't even like salt water. I hate to snorkel, much less scuba dive. I'm such a mess the poor guy would be better off with you."

  "Hey, watch it."

  "You know what I mean. You like all that stuff."

  "Yes, I do. Look, he's done everything he can to make you comfortable, far as I can see. Those new living quarters of yours are a sight better than many apartments we've lived in. And the setting! Falling asleep at night to the sound of waves that don't even come out of a machine. What's not to like?"

  "Hetta, have you ever had to shake sand out of your sheets every night?"

  "Uh, no."

  "Well, let me tell you, it's hard to get real romantic with grit everywhere. We built an outdoor rinse down shower and that helps some, but sand gets everywhere anyhow. And I do mean everywhere."

  "Okay, that’s way too much information. Let's talk about something else."

  "How about your birthday?"

  "How about you walk back home from here?"

  My birthday.

  It had to happen, of course, considering the alternative.

 
I read an article about women's fears of aging, and in a nutshell we are terrified of being old, broke and alone.

  The old thing? With me, it's not vanity. As a matter of fact, I've always considered not being beautiful a good thing, having witnessed women who are, and what aging does to their egos.

  Broke? I'm not the best money manager in the world, but it's not like I'll end up a Walmart greeter. I do have skills.

  Alone? Been there most of my life.

  So what is it about turning f-f-f…not in my thirties anymore that has me grabbing for the Pepto-Bismol bottle? I do know that anyone who tells you that fort…uh, over thirty, is the new twenty is full of refrieds, but that's certainly nothing to obsess over. My twenties sucked.