Jenks felt a little queasy himself. It was fast dawning on him that the demise of the Hot Idea’s crew was most likely no coincidence.
Chapter 16
The long arm of coincidence has reached after me.—Chambers, Captain Swift
Hot Idea was a sister ship to HiJenks and, to the untrained eye, identical.
HiJenks and Hot Idea were both Californian trawlers, and although Hot Idea was three years newer, they shared a hull mold. Only a check of the production number molded into the transom told the difference.
And the similarity did not end there. Both trawlers had the same mini-panga dinghy, bought within a week of each other in La Paz. It was from Hot Idea that Jenks and Hetta had gotten the hot idea to clip Jenkzy onto their swim platform for easy stowage underway. Hot Idea also flew the Republic of Texas Naval Ensign from her bowsprit. People were always confusing the two boats, and none of this was lost on Hetta and Jenks as the bad news sunk in.
Jenks guided Hetta toward their dinghy and said, “Honey, let’s get you to HiJenks. I’ll come back for the groceries and beer.”
“No, I’m okay now,” she said, walking on rubbery legs back to the dock where others had joined Al and Dave. The group talked in low voices.
Dave rushed to meet her. “Jesus, Hetta, I’m real sorry. I feel like such an idiot. I didn’t know you were friends with the folks on Hot Idea.”
Hetta didn't know what to say because, in truth, they weren’t. Friends. She and Jenks avoided Hot Idea’s owners as best they could without being downright rude. They had known the Goodalls back in the States, even belonged to the same yacht club, but did not socialize with them.
The Jenkins were a little dismayed when, a year after they arrived in La Paz, Hot Idea showed up like a bad centavo. Not that the Goodalls were evil or anything, they were simply no fun to be around. Mary Goodall’s fishwife timbres and strident public put-downs of her affable alcoholic husband were annoying. She could be heard scolding Gary all the way across otherwise tranquil anchorages.
Gary, on his own and not sloppy drunk, possessed an entertaining charm. He was a talented teller of amusing stories and a master at inventing get-rich schemes. Gary’s hot ideas never quite worked out. Always because of bad luck, of course. It was Mary who made enough money in real estate to buy Hot Idea and cruise to Mexico.
Mary Goodall, born in Houston, found out about Hetta’s Texas Navy, and Hetta soon learned how the woman made her money in sales; it was almost impossible to say “no” to her. Hounded by the persistent Mary, Hetta reluctantly inducted Hot Idea into her navy after Jenks convinced her that a flag was a small price to pay for peace.
And now the Goodalls were dead.
Hetta mumbled, “Beware of what you wish for, you just may get it.”
“I read you,” Jenks said.
“What?” Dave, the man on the dock who told them of the murders, asked.
Looking into Dave’s earnest face, Hetta did not think this was the time for true confessions. “Oh, nothing. And, you didn’t do anything wrong. You just surprised me, that’s all,” she told the concerned man. He was so visibly upset that she added a little white fib. “I’ve been a little queasy ever since I ate that fish taco for lunch.”
Dave let out a sigh of relief. If his wife heard he’d made Hetta throw up there would be hell to pay.
Several other cruisers gathered around Hetta, patting her shoulder and offering her a beer or water. Hetta opted for beer. Two, before they left for their boat.
“Well Ollie, this is another fine mess we’ve landed in,” Hetta weakly mimicked Stan Laurel. Her color and humor returned after a third beer back on board HiJenks, but she longed, for the first time in years, for the soothing caress of Valium. Her marriage to Jenks and their cruising life had replaced any need for tranquilizers. Until now.
“Look, so far as we know, no one except us, and whoever was in that helicopter, has any idea we saw a panga full of dope get blown all to hell. We don’t know why they shot at HiJenks, but up until now I hoped maybe they’d been playing with us.”
“Playing? Jenks, they shot a hole in my sweatshirt and Jenkzy. Some playing.”
“Yeah, well, in combat guys sometimes shoot just to see folks run. Sick, but it happens. Anyhow, that was wishful thinking on my part. Now I think we have to tell someone.”
Hetta nodded. “But who? Who can we trust?”
“How about Mark and Martha at Marina del Cortez?” Jenks asked, referring to the marina’s owners, an American couple that had lived in Mexico for over thirty years. It was Mark who designed and built the first mold for the ubiquitous fiberglass panga that replaced the old wooden models. He had even made the mold for Jenkzy. “Or John Colt?”
“Why John?” Hetta asked.
“As I recall, John has a brother-in-law who’s some kind of cop in Sonora, and that’s the state San Carlos is in.”
“We’re gonna trust a Mexican cop?”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Hetta.”
“Sorry. I know many of them are hard working, underpaid, and much maligned, but there’s a lot of money in the drug trade.
“Remember when that Mexican deputy attorney general threw in the towel? He claimed at least half his police chiefs were on cartel payrolls. I mean, it’s kind of a duh situation.” She crossed her eyes and pretended to stick her finger up her nose, “Duh, I can either take a lot of money in bribes, or get my dick shot off. Duh.”
Jenks laughed, leaned over and kissed Hetta on the cheek. “That’s my little sea wench. You might get a little overexcited when you’re scared, but you bounce back fast.”
Hetta smiled gratefully, thinking how wonderful it was to have someone in her life who chose to overlook so many of her glaring faults.
They sat in silence for a while, watching a large sailboat try, unsuccessfully, to set his anchor. HiJenks was moored in sixty-two feet of water in the Waiting Room, an anchorage near the entrance to the harbor. Only boaters who didn’t mind anchoring in water that deep because they had electric windlasses spent much time there. Most preferred shallower water, the main harbor, or if they were feeling rich, even a dock.
“Who is that?” Hetta asked, pointing her beer bottle at the sailboat.
“I can’t see the name of the boat. Looks like he’s single-handing and can’t catch bottom. Maybe we should help him? There’s a spot by the mangroves that’s only about thirty feet deep.”
They dinghied over to offer help, but were rebuffed by the surly skipper. Being treated rudely within the Sea of Cortez boating community was so rare that the Jenkins were caught completely by surprise.
“Jeez, I guess this just ain’t our day,” Hetta told Jenks on the way back to their boat. “I’m adding this one to the B list!” Hetta’s B-list: Boats to Avoid in the Sea of Cortez, was a joint effort by cruisers all over the sea, but maintained by Hetta.
Pam’s old boat, Sea Witch, still lingered on the list, because even though she'd moved onto All Bidness, her ex-hubby still lived aboard, and he was a piece of work himself. Once on the "B" list, it was hard to get off. Unless you left. Or died. Hetta was glad she never added Hot Idea, even though sorely tempted.
She grabbed her binoculars and tried to read the name on the sailboat’s transom, but he was already too far away, headed for the inside harbor. He was back a few minutes later. “Awwww heck,” drawled Hetta, waving gaily as the offending sailboat motored past the Waiting Room and disappeared around a cliff, “I guess he didn’t like us. And since I didn’t get his name, I’ll just have to designate him Alpha Hotel.”
Jenks told her she had better lay off the beer and, to his surprise, she agreed.
At four-thirty Jenks tuned up their ham radio and switched on outdoor speakers so they could hear more about Hot Idea. As they sat on deck listening to the latest news, clues, and wild speculation, Al arrived for dinner but seemed reluctant to get out of his dinghy. “Hetta, if you don’t feel like company...."
“I’m fine, Al. Besides
, Jenks is the one making the pizza. Come on up, we’ve got the net on. Everyone is really upset over Hot Idea. And scared.”
Al tied his rubber dinghy, dubbed Old Paint by Hetta for its myriad patches, to the rail and climbed aboard to hear the latest buzz on Hot Idea. An hour later, tired of rumors, innuendo, and few hard facts, they turned off the radio.
While Jenks kneaded dough, punched it thin after a second rising, then pre-baked it for a few minutes before adding sauce and cheese, they discussed their impending trip to La Paz. If Al thought it odd that Hetta and Jenks had suddenly decided on a bus trip south, he didn’t say so. Cruisers are notoriously spontaneous.
Hetta made a salad and, as she was chopping red bell peppers, asked, “Al, did you see that sailboat come in, cruise around, and leave this afternoon?”
“Yep. What did you do to him?”
“Nothing. Yet. We offered to help him anchor since he looked like he was having trouble, but he was such a jerk I’m adding him to the list. Unfortunately, I didn’t catch the boat name.”
“Oh, no! Not The List!” Al screamed, faking horror. Then he added, “It was something Princess. And it was a Hans Christian.”
“Okay, I’ll move him from the A’s to the P’s.”
“A’s?”
“I had him under Alpha Hotel,” Hetta said with a grin, referring to the ham radio acronym for “asshole.”
While stuffing themselves on Jenks’s famous sourdough pizza, they arranged for Al to watch HiJenks while they visited La Paz. They'd move HiJenks to a mooring next to Norma Jean in the main anchorage first thing the next morning.
“Just start the generator once a day to charge batteries. Oh, and make sure the propane freezer keeps freezing. That’s about it,” Jenks said.
“No problem. I’ll run you up to the highway in the morning to catch the bus.”
Al left, Hetta washed the dishes, and while Jenks checked out the engine room, she dragged out her laptop.
Log of HiJenks, November 12, P.E Clear and Calm
Barometer: Steady
Mary and Gary Goodall are dead and it’s our fault. We’re going to La Paz to see John Colt. Maybe he can help us decide what to do. I’m really, really scared. H.
In bed that night, when Hetta closed her eyes, an unwanted and terrifying picture painted itself in her head. She did not have to imagine the horror of the Goodall’s deaths: she knew.
When she was a child her father moved the family to Haiti, where his company had a construction project. One day, when Hetta was eleven, she rode her horse to a local village to buy fruit, and blundered into a mini-revolution. Before galloping to safety, she witnessed a Haitian soldier hacked to death by a machete wielding mob. Hetta had seen first hand what a heavy, three-foot razor-sharp knife can do to a human being. It wasn’t something one easily forgot.
Chapter 17
O villains, vipers...
—Shakespeare
The American turned down the ham radio chatter and snatched up his cellphone. “Yes?”
“It’s me. How’re things in L.A. Paz?”
The American rolled his eyes. “I know it’s you,” he hissed. “You’re the only one with this number.”
“Sorry, jefe. Will do Mister B.,” Hector said, sarcastically emphasizing the Mister and “jefe.”
“Cut the crap and start explaining. And do try to remember that cellphones are not secure. No details.”
Hector almost dropped the phone. That freakin’ pilot’s got a big damned mouth...couldn’t wait to rat me out. “Sure,” he wheedled, hating the Gringo for making him do so. “It was like this, we had to, uh...weed out a stray and they saw it. We chased, but were low on fuel and had to head for San Carlo—”
“Shut the fuck up, you imbecile,” the American cut him short. “No names, no places.” Jesus Christ, didn’t I just tell Hector that cellular telephones weren’t secure? Why doesn’t the spic just call CNN and make a fuckin’ announcement?
“I was just tryin’ to ‘splain what happened, bro. Anyhow, its all taken care of now.” Instead of giving me a hard time the bastard should be giving me an effing medal. No witnesses, no problemos.
“I’m not your brother, I’m your boss. There shouldn’t have been anything to clean up. Now, I want everything, and I do mean everything, to work as slick as olive oil next week. Don’t make me sorry I brought you in on this. And don’t make me come up there. Am I clear?”
“Oh, yes, Boss. No problemo. You got my word on it. Everything is under control ’cept the weather, and I can’t do nothin’ about no stinkin’ weather,” Hector whined in a Cheech Marin East L.A. accent.
“If I were in your boots, pardner, I'd consider trying. One more screw up and you’re out. And I mean out.”
Hector Lopez slammed the phone shut and cursed under his breath. Then he turned to Martine and growled, “I’ll slit that arrogant Gringo’s throat one day. I make that promise on my mother’s grave.”
Martine smiled nervously at his cousin. Hector was a breed of Mexican unknown to Martine: born in Mexico, but raised in Los Angeles. It would never occur to Martine, who had lived all his seventeen years in the bosom of a close-knit multigenerational household, that his cousin Hector was capable of using family to fulfill his greed. But neither did Martine understand that Hector’s erratic and sometimes violent behavior was due to his cocaine use. Drug addiction was still relatively rare in Martine’s part of the Baja. There was a growing problem around Tijuana, created by cartels paying their employees in dope instead of cash, but in central Baja the spread of drug addiction hadn't affected him or his family.
Hector Lopez returned home to Baja three years before and was welcomed with open arms by his Mexican relatives. Oh, they had heard of Hector’s troubles with the authorities up in the States and were more than a little put off by the teardrop tattooed on the outside corner of his eye, but their prodigal cousin returned with money, and a good story.
Hector had been, he explained, a victim of racial bias. The family accepted his story without a second thought. Everyone knew the North American police has it in for Mexicans. And Hector came with money in his pocket. A rarity in the family.
What his relatives did not hear was Hector’s real story. Martine’s Aunt Alma, deserted by her husband, fled to California with baby Hector years before, and found work as a housekeeper at a Beverly Hills estate. She quickly advanced to cook’s position and was allowed to live in a small cottage on the grounds.
Hector grew up in the wealthy neighborhood, attending good schools, and that justified Alma’s agonizing decision to leave her entire family in Mexico to live the lonely existence of an illegal alien.
By the time Hector entered the sixth grade he was an honor student who carefully constructed an aura of mystery regarding his personal life. He and his best friend, the son of a Colombian “coffee” magnate, were both darkly handsome and irresistible to their yuppie puppy classmates. The tantalizing pair hobnobbed with the offspring of the film and Rodeo Drive crowd and were on everyone’s invitation lists.
Alma and Hector were naturalized under an amnesty allowing working aliens and their offspring to become American citizens if they met certain criterion, then Alma benefited from a new law whereby the elite had to start paying Social Security Insurance Tax for their hired help. The future looked rosy.
Hector was fourteen when Alma died suddenly from a stroke. In her will, she left the guardianship of her son to Isabel Camacho, a childless friend who worked at the estate next door.
Isabel worked for the neighbors, but she lived in East L.A. In a well-meaning attempt to save Hector’s social security benefit money for his college fund instead of spending it on the high rental rates near the neighborhood where she worked, Isabel enrolled him in her school district, in the tough streets of the barrio.
Hector, first devastated by his mother’s death, then torn from his home and friends in Beverly Hills, was ill-prepared for barrio life. Though intelligent, he had no street smarts. But he
was a quick learner and soon found that making the dean’s list would not help him get home from school unharmed. Lonely and scared, he joined a gang and by the time he was sixteen, the once-promising student built a thriving business dealing drugs to his affluent school chums back in Beverly Hills. Since he could talk and dress “Caucasian”, he moved freely across the chasm separating his new neighborhood from his old.
It was when he started using his own product when things began to unravel. As a guest of the Los Angeles county jail, and high on crack and machismo, he and a few other inmates tattooed blue tears near the corners of their eyes. The telltale jailhouse tattoo severely hampered his ability to walk freely around Beverly Hills when he was released; the B.H.P.D. do not believe in any free trade agreements with East L.A.
Busted once too often, Hector faced sentencing as an adult offender when his mother reached out from the grave and saved him; on his twenty-first birthday he received a twenty-five thousand dollar insurance benefit legacy. A few days later Isabel, resigned to the fact that Hector was not collegiate material, gave him another ten thousand dollars she had squirreled away over the years. Instead of fattening the bank account of some barrio lawyer, Hector took his money and ran. South.
Hector’s Mexican family in the Baja cared little about his past, and welcomed him to share in their meager assets. When he bought a panga fleet and put the family to work squid fishing, it seemed as though a blessing had befallen them. Saint Hector.
Then, little by little, Martine and his brothers and cousins found themselves drawn into the drug trade. At first they bought gasoline in small amounts, hid the containers along the coastline and, when Hector gave the word, passed it off to drug runners. They still fished for a living and used the gas money profits to put new retreads on their 1975 Ford truck.
Troubled Sea Page 8