Jan, Po Thang, and the e-mail arrived at the boat about the same time, so I quickly clued her in on this mysterious twist of fortune.
"Lemme get this straight. Some shady character wants to hire you and your boat to do...what?"
"Dunno. And who says they're shady?"
"Excuse me? Want to re-read that e-mail?"
I read it aloud.
" 'Subject: Contact.
Need exclusive e-mail address for our correspondence only. Use this e-mail address only one time to reply with this information. Name price for thirty days of services, plus expenses, for Hetta Coffey LLC and vessel, Raymond Johnson. Will require meals for one person, full time, for at least one month. This person will require a cabin. Must have reply next four hours.' "
"You don't find this all a little...odd?"
"Nah. I find this an opportunity to expand my coffers. "
"Or your coffin? And what do you mean when you say you're broke? Hell, you've had some pretty cushy contracts since we left the Bay Area."
"I've also had a lot of expenses. This boat is a money pit, docks are expensive, and I had to buy another vehicle after mine went over a cliff."
"At least you weren't in it. Okay, I am a CPA, ya know. Let's run some numbers."
We went month by month, listing all of my income and outgo, what funds I had left, and what I needed to survive until I got me, and my boat, back to the States.
"You're right, Hetta. You're broke."
"Told you."
"Hell, I haven't been paid but a mere pittance for working at the fish camp all this time, and I'm still better off than you are."
"You don't have boat payments, car payments, dock payments, and a dog that could eat Australia."
"But you have hidden assets."
"Very hidden. Between the gold bullion I liberated from the Japanese goons last summer, the coins we skimmed off the Galleon find, and now the pearls, we probably have over a million bucks in the boat safe. Unfortunately, we have no way of selling any of that loot."
"And when we do, we might get a quarter of what that booty would be if legit."
Jan seized the remote, did a quick search, and punched a key. Garth Brooks loudly singing, "I've got friends in low places" blared from the ship's speakers.
She used the remote as a fake mic, so I laughed and jumped in with our practiced moves to one of our favorite songs. We needed some of Garth's friends about now.
When the song ended, I said, "We need this job, Jan."
"We?" Jan put her arms around Po Thang's neck and said into his ear, "And your mommy is a moron who is gonna reply to an anonymous e-mail, demand a small fortune, and let some stranger on board for who knows what purposes."
Po Thang shook his ear and snorted.
"Exactly."
"You are putting words in my dog's mouth. Think about it. What have you got planned for the next month that entails a bunch of money?"
"Well, I...Oh, what the heck. Add another two—no, make that three—hundred a day for the gourmet chef."
We high-fived, already celebrating a new and profitable adventure.
Putting our heads and calculators together, we made a spread sheet. Jan, as a CPA, is even better than I am at padding a bill. She always thinks of stuff I overlook, and I've spent my entire career estimating costs for large projects so I know how to stick it to a client. We make a great team. Jenks says we'll look good in prison stripes some day.
Jan did a fingernail drum roll next to her keyboard. "Let's start with the basics. What does it cost to operate a boat like this for a month?"
"Depends whether I'm at a dock, or at anchor, or on the move."
"And we don't know what this person wants us to do, right?"
"Right."
"So we nail him for all three. Dock fee, fuel, and all. How much will that be?"
"Dock is easy. About a grand."
"Highway robbery. How can they get away charging these prices in Mexico?"
"Supply and demand. I pay for a fifty-foot slip, a parking space for the pickup, and a liveaboard fee when I'm here. If there are three of us staying aboard, that'll triple."
"Okay." She typed 1200.00 into the spread sheet, hesitated, deleted it and added another five hundred. "CPA fee. Now, Fuel?"
"Lemme think. The fuel tank capacity is four hundred and fifty gallons, and we don't know how much we'll use, so just to be safe, let's gouge...uh, charge for full tanks up front, then if we need more, the guest can pay at the pump. Sooo, with diesel running about four bucks a gallon down here...."
"I'll round that up to two grand. Holy crap, Hetta, I don't think you can afford this tub."
"You're telling me? Okay what else?"
"I'm going online to see what a boat like this rents for from a charter company, you put together a list of other stuff you can think of."
And so it went, until we came up with a grand total of, gulp, thirty thousand bucks! For a thousand dollars a day, I didn't care if our mystery guest was Jack the Ripper.
I created a new e-mail account, [email protected], and sent the estimate to Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. Mystery within the four hour deadline, and thirty minutes later the Trob called to say he had a deposit of forty thou for me, as well as his probably exorbitant fee, solidly in the bank.
"Forty?" I raised my fist into the air and gave it a pump.
"I padded it by an extra ten, even though I am sure you already did some creative math on your own."
"Did you trace the depositor yet?" There is nothing the Trob cannot hack into.
"It was through a third or fourth party, so it will take longer than usual. I'll let you know."
"Okay, transfer...?" I looked at Jan for input. She's the CPA, after all. She flashed all ten fingers twice. "Twenty into my Hetta Coffey LLC account. I'd like to keep the rest off the IRS radar."
After I hung up, Jan shook her finger at me. "Ya know, one of these days the IRS is gonna bust you all the way into Club Fed."
"And I suppose you're gonna report that nine thousand you're gonna pocket this month?"
"Of course not. I ain't a CPA for nuthin'."
We nicknamed our mystery client Señor Deep Pockets, even though we were not sure it was a mister. I mean, it could be Oprah Winfrey for all we knew, but we figured Raymond Johnson wasn't the kind of yacht she'd charter. Nope, this was a guy, for sure. He hadn't demanded the owner's cabin, a dead giveaway.
Jan and I skipped dinner after that huge, late hamburger lunch. We did celebrate our successful day on the beach searching that stinky net for more pay dirt. I broke out the best wine we had on board and we toasted to our newly found good fortunes, but after one glass each our day caught up with us, and we were both yawning.
"It's only six. Too early to crash. Wanna watch a movie?" I suggested.
"Got any new ones?"
"Yep, checked out a couple from the Club Cruseros lending library." I found the DVDs, we picked a rom-com—our favorite genre—and were settling in to watch a flick with a totally predictable ending when, moments after Po Thang growled and jumped off the settee, there was a sharp rap on the hull.
"Dang," I grumbled, and put the movie on PAUSE.
"I'll get it," Jan volunteered, while I tried muzzling a perturbed Po Thang. He hates hull rappers. "It's okay, we'll get back to the movie. Here's a hint, she gets the guy."
Jan went out on deck and returned with an amused expression on her face. "Oooh, men! Even better, men in uniform."
"Oh, dear, do they have a warrant?"
Chapter Eight
In preparation for greeting men in uniform, I tied the gnarling Po Thang to a dining room table leg, asked Jan to turn on the charm to soften up our visitors, and made a pot of coffee for the entourage of officialdom assembled on my GO AWAY, THIS MEANS YOU! dock mat.
While Jan ushered the men inside and got them settled into the settee and a chair or two, I unearthed a bag of chocolate cookies for us humans and a box of Hush Puppies for my dog. After Po Thang quit his
grousing, the Port Captain, a naval officer of some kind, and the chief of police visibly relaxed.
They'd stationed heavily armed bodyguards out on the dock. The guards naturally grabbed the attention of other boaters, and I got radio calls asking if everything was okay. I reassured them all was well and hoped like hell I was right, but it was nice to know cruisers were on the ball lest I had a problem and was forced to go nuts on a bunch of guys with guns.
That crazy gringa thing is only to be used as a last resort; Mexicans just naturally hate it when some nutso foreigner of the female type throws a hissy fit, but it usually gets the job done. Guys? Not so much, as many a male cruiser who has tried going macho on the most macho dudes in the world have learned the hard way.
First off, the men thanked me for receiving them without notice—like I had a choice?—and for towing Carpe Diem into port. Then the questions started. Where had I been when I came upon Carpe Diem? For how long? I noted the Port Captain nodded slightly at my answers, so he must have checked his records for when I notified the powers that be I was leaving port for a few days.
They didn't take notes, so I figured I'd have to do this all again, which prompted me to carefully tell the truth, something I'm not very good at. At least this time veracity didn't require my usual creative embellishments. They seemed fascinated that I, a woman, had taken Raymond Johnson out to the islands solo, and I suspected after awhile that they were fishing for any hint I'd rendezvoused with Carpe Diem at some point. The next question proved me right.
"Did you know Mr. Clark?" The head cop asked.
"I do not recall meeting him, but we could have both attended a cruiser event at some point," I answered, sounding for all the world like some poor soul being grilled by a bunch of self-serving congresspersons.
The cop cut his eyes at Navy Dude.
Never one to let events take their course, I asked, "Why do you ask?"
Navy Dude looked a little uncomfortable and said, "We, uh, found your card on his boat."
"Really? That's interesting. Cruisers dole them out like Christmas candy." To make my point I reached into my pocket, pulled out a few cards, and gave them to my visitors. "He had one of these?"
They all nodded. My boat cards, unlike my business cards with Hetta Coffey LLC on them, were new ones I'd recently had made with a photo of me, Jenks, and Po Thang onboard Raymond Johnson. I had another cruiser climb up on a hill and snap us sitting on the swim platform. With a cactus and rocks in the foreground, and the boat resting in the turquoise water of Agua Verde, the photo epitomized the contrast of cruising where the desert meets the sea.
On the card were printed my name, boat name, e-mail address and Ham callsign.
How Freddie came by my boat card, I had no idea, but I had a desk drawer full of similar cards from cruisers I never even remembered meeting. The only other place I'd seen cards given out with such abandon was when I worked in Japan; my meishi was in English on one side and Japanese on the other. I always suspected the Japanese side, written in kanji, said something like, "Don't mess with this Gaijin nut case."
Jan had been listening carefully, probably on the alert for any signs of entrapment. We both know that in Mexico people are reluctant to get involved with anything that puts them on official's radar. It is for this reason that a car crash in downtown Mexico City during rush hour has no witnesses. We gringos are not that smart, and Jan had already chided me for even getting involved with Carpe Diem. And now, with the direction this chit chat was going—from casual to something of an interrogation—she butted in and asked, in flawless Spanish, "So, have you found him?"
Three heads swung in tandem as the dumbfounded men realized that that this blonde gringa with the long legs and big blue eyes had just nailed them. I love it when that happens.
Not one to be left on the sidelines, I threw in, "And, since you are here asking me questions, I assume he is dead."
Navy Dude recovered first. "Not...officially."
Rather than ask what the hell this meant, at this point I probably should have said something like, "I want a lawyer," but this is Mexico, where lawyers make politicians look like our Lady of Guadalupe.
"Yeah," Jan asked, "so you haven't found him then?"
"No. But we fear the worst. The Red Devils...."
After the men left, we grabbed what was left of our dinner wine, and the few cookies still on the plate and headed up on deck.
"Well, I guess you're off the suspect list, Hetta, unless you're somehow able to morph into a giant monster with murderous tentacles. Oh, wait, there are those who think you quite capable of such."
I shot her the finger.
On a roll, she added, "You oughta send that nasty assed squid a thank you note for leaving a piece of her tentacle behind."
"Yep. About that?"
"What?"
"While I am overjoyed at being off the suspect list, don't you think that clue was just a little too convenient?"
"Hetta Coffey, do not go there. Do not get any further involved. The dude is most likely dead, case closed. Leave it alone. I mean it."
"Okay, okay. Jeez, but what a way to go. It's hard to believe this poor guy was turned into hamburger meat by marauding calamari."
"Chino says that's exactly what supposedly happened off Loreto last year."
"Those were open fishing pangas, but Carpe Diem has at least four feet of freeboard. The whole thing reminds me of "The Creature from the Black Lagoon," except at least the creature was somewhat likeable."
"The Mexican Tourist bureau is gonna have a serious PR problem on its hands."
"If the story gets out, you mean."
"We promised to keep our mouths shut in return for the details, Hetta. No blabbing."
"And we just let another cruiser become Hamburger Helper? No way."
"So, how you gonna let anyone know? The port captain strongly hinted he'd impound your boat and have us deported if we talk about this with anyone."
"Yeah, no more Mr. Nice Guy there. I'm taking him off my Christmas card list."
"Or, maybe he knew we'd spill the beans, and that way he won't have to piss off the almighty tourist bureau?"
"Yeah, well, I'm not betting my boat on it. But we gotta do something. We can't just let cruisers wander around out there without a warning of some kind. Maybe we should tell your Doctor Chino so he can let the cat out of the bag somehow?"
"No way. He won't let me go on our mystery cruise."
"Like you ever do what he says?" Like I can talk? Jenks says he thinks he'll start asking me not to do what he wants me to do so I'll do it.
"Well, no, but why go looking for a showdown? Besides, Hetta, you'll think of something. You always do. Something stupid, of course, but something."
"Thanks, I think. Anyhow, until we do we gotta somehow get a head's up alert out to the cruising world, but mainly we have to concentrate on getting this tub ready for said mystery cruise.
We clinked glasses, toasting the possibilities of a lucrative month ahead, one with the titillating element of mystery and adventure thrown in.
However, later that night, as I was drifting off in my big old comfy bed with my big old furry buddy, it did cross my mind that maybe Jan and I might consider a modus vivendi assessment.
Chapter Nine
An e-mail arrived the next morning, giving us more instructions for what our client needed on board, and a schedule. A very tight schedule, considering all we had to do.
One thing we learned was our deep pockets passenger did not want to stay at the dock, but neither did he give a clue as to where he wanted to go. I say "he" because we now were pretty sure this was a guy due to his grocery list: hamburger meat, steaks, bacon, and beer. Call me a sexist, but that sounds like dude food to me.
Jan and I decided a run to Costco in Cabo San Lucas was in order, mainly because we wanted to expand our wine cellar with our vict...uh, client's moola.
I hired a singlehander/anchorout/sailor on Casual Water, Dick Atkinson, who was p
erpetually short on cash, but had a reputation for being reliable, to dog-and-boat sit for the day because I didn't want to haul Po Thang with us.
As I drove, we went over the cruise schedule and shopping lists, Jan making notes on the clipboard as we came up with stuff we didn't want to forget. Or goodies we normally couldn't afford. By the time we got to Costco, she was on page two.
Luckily I had two chest freezers on board, one in the engine room and one on deck. The deck freezer was for fish only, where we kept bait and catches. Whether living on a boat away from a dock, or keeping food on the table in a remote whale research camp, provisioning for a month is no easy task, but both Jan and I have become master provisioners.
Jan's menu plan for the month included serving seafood as often as possible, but we couldn't always count on it due to weather and our historical bad luck as anglers. We'd even tried our hand at netting our own shrimp, but the barter system is so much easier and successful. During bad weather we were usually holed up in the same anchorage with shrimp boats, their crew eager to trade shrimp and fish for chicken, SPAM, hot dogs, and a couple of magazines from the Playboy stash I keep on board for just this purpose. Someone gave my father a subscription and he saves them for me. After reading all the articles, of course.
Fresh veggies are always a major problem—we'd be down to cabbage and carrots after a month—so we stocked canned beets and frozen peas, broccoli, cauliflower and the like so once the fresh stuff was gone, we'd have side dishes. Mexican boxed milk has the shelf life of nuclear waste, and since their eggs are not refrigerated, a few flats last well over a month if kept in a cool, dark space.
I'd borrowed ice chests from just about every boat on our dock, filled my entire truck bed with them, and we left by seven in the morning.
Just Different Devils Page 5