Listening to the table talk, Hetta made a note to find out how it was that Buzz Gibbs had managed to get his finances together enough to not only move back into the marina, but to worm his way into Bud’s circle of friends.
Boarding All Bidness after midnight, Hetta and Jenks were worn to a frazzle by the trip and dinner entourage. Hetta and Jenks wanted to go to a hotel, but Bud wouldn’t hear of it. Jenks helped the boat boys pour Bud into his king-sized bed, and then joined Hetta in one of the guest cabins. Overdosed on bus diesel fumes, wine, prime rib, and too much loud company, Jenks passed out while Hetta took a shower.
Hetta, who had been on edge all evening, waiting to see if Pam mentioned seeing them at Caracol the night of the panga incident, stood under the hot water, hoping to melt some tension. Was it that Pam didn’t see us? Was she even there? Or, was she there with someone and afraid we’d see her? She cut the water, toweled off, slipped on a clean tee shirt and plucked Sam Houston from Jenks’s stomach. “Oh, that tangled web, Sam-dog,” she whispered in his ear. Sam twitched the ear, wagged a sleepy tail, and licked her nose. He smelled like prime rib.
While the terrier and Jenks snored in unison, and rock music blared from a local cafe, Hetta read. Then, longing for the serenity of Puerto Escondido and her own boat, she turned out the light.
Standing on the dock, shadowed between two boats, a man watched until, one by one, the cabin lights on All Bidness were extinguished. He put out his cigarette and left.
Chapter 19
One can advise comfortably from a safe port.
—Schiller, William Tell
John Colt’s gray mustache twitched as he blinked at Hetta and Jenks through smudged glasses. He threw open the door and a toothy grin creased his weatherworn face. “Well for cryin' out loud, look who’s here,” he said, kicking the screen door open with a skinny leg while he pulled on a shirt.
Talking nonstop, he ushered them through a dark foyer, a darker dining room, and out to a sunstruck courtyard. “I thought you two moved north. Hey, ain’t that something about Hot Idea? You know, it’s kinda like a thing that happened at Turtle Bay a few years back. Sit down and I’ll get us some coffee. Or a beer?”
Jenks and Hetta chorused, “Coffee,” and John looked slightly disappointed. With his wife, Yolanda, gone for the morning, having company afforded the perfect opportunity to indulge in a morning beer.
While John went to the kitchen, Hetta checked out the 1920’s Spanish Colonial-style home. Square, with few outside windows and all rooms facing onto the open courtyard, it resembled a one-story fortress. The whitewashed walls splattered with vivid fuchsia and orange bougainvillea blossoms, along with brightly upholstered rattan furniture, caged birds, and the tinkle of a tiered fountain reminded Hetta of a summer she spent in Madrid.
A huge flame tree shaded the Saltillo tile patio, and fluffy pillows thrown onto the aging cane furniture mirrored the greens, reds, pinks, and whites of the courtyard. It was an outdoor room to live in, one that could be found in Puerto Rico, California, or where ever the Spaniards left their mark in the New World.
The Colt’s hacienda gave Hetta a moment of longing for a home of her own. On land. A shrill wolf whistle cut through the tranquil setting and she spotted an un-caged parrot pacing on its perch. She laughed and extended her finger.
“Hetta, it might bite,” Jenks warned.
“Nah,” Hetta said, holding her hand steady. The Double Yellow-headed Amazon parrot climbed onto Hetta’s hand, made its pigeon-toed way up her arm, and once on her shoulder bobbed his head and said, “‘Alo, pinche puta.”
John came back to the courtyard balancing three mugs of coffee, and scolded, “Lucy, you are a very bad bird.” Then to Hetta he said, “She’s bilingual, you know. Rude in both Spanish and English. She was Desi’s. We both miss that wild Cuban.” He nodded toward a wall of moments captured on black and white glossies: fishing, drinking beer, and eating lobster with assorted celebrities at the Desi Arnaz estate in the exclusive community of Las Cruces, south of La Paz. John was Desi’s boat captain and drinking companion for many years before the colorful Cuban celebrity died.
At John’s mention of Desi, Lucy blushed pink around her eyes and whistled an earsplitting rendition of the theme song from “I Love Lucy.”
“Too loud for me, Miss Lucybird,” Hetta said, putting the disappointed parrot back on her perch. In consolation, Hetta scratched the fluffy feathers around the bird’s neck.
“Guess you know your birds there, Hetta. Lucy doesn’t cotton to just any old one.”
“I owned parrots when I was a kid. Lucy, do you want to sit on Uncle Jenks’s shoulder?” Hetta cooed with a wicked grin.
Jenks eyed Lucy warily. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll pass.”
“Chicken,” Hetta teased.
“Puto,” Lucy squawked.
“Bad Lucy.”
Lucy looked pleased with herself and began to preen. Hetta sat down next to John and, recalling John’s earlier comment at the door asked, “What did you mean when you said a ‘thing like Hot Idea’ hasn’t happened in years?”
“Folks being attacked on a boat. A few years back, at Turtle Bay on the Pacific side, some cruisers, a man and his wife, spent an afternoon boozing it up in a local bar. They invited a couple of Mexican fellas back to the boat for a drink and somehow things got out of hand. The Mexes stabbed the guy to death, raped the wife. They stabbed her too...thought she was dead and dumped her overboard. But she lived and made it to shore. The Mexicans were caught trying to sail the boat south a few days later. By then they were sober and real sorry for what they did.”
Hetta and Jenks exchanged glances, then Jenks said, “This is different, John. We think Mary and Gary were killed by drug runners.”
“Oh? How come?”
They told him their story, recalling and recounting every detail.
“Holy moly,” John said when they finished. “Who else knows about this?”
“Just us. And whoever shot at us. We thought about telling Mark and Martha, but then we remembered you had a brother-in-law that’s some kind of cop.”
John frowned. “No use getting Marina del Cortez involved unless you have to. They’d be obligated to report it to the port captain and I think the fewer folks who know, the better. You’re pretty sure those guys in the ‘copter didn’t see the name of your boat?”
Jenks said, “Nope, covered up by the dinghy.”
“Good. And you didn’t use the radio?”
Jenks and Hetta shook their heads. Lucy shook her head as well.
“Even better. And you say it was getting pretty dark. Seems to me like you got awful lucky. Lucky for you, not so for Hot Idea,” John said. He saw a look of dismay on Hetta’s face and added, “It’s not your fault Hot Idea was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You were lucky and smart.”
Hetta smiled weakly. “We were lucky. But why? I mean, why did it happen at all? And, at the risk of offending a member of your family, how do we even know it was drogistas, and not the police, who shot at us? Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s who down here.”
“You’re right, of course. One thing’s for sure though, you can trust my brother-in-law. Jaime’s clean. Hell, I had to lend him money to buy a used jalopy a couple of years ago. ‘Course, since then he was promoted and got a car with the job, but believe me, he don’t take no mordida. And because he won’t be bribed, he ain’t real popular in certain circles. But his time has come, I think. The new government is trying to clean up its act. Anyhow, I’d stake my life on him. I have.”
“You have?”
“The whole family, even me and Yolanda, live with the constant threat of repercussions because of Jaime.”
“Okay, so we can trust him. What next?” Jenks asked. “Call him?”
“Don't have to, cuz he’s here in La Paz. Him and Yolanda went to visit an ailing aunt this morning, but they'll be back soon. Boy, is he in for a surprise when he hears what you have to tell him.”
/> “I thought he was a Sonora cop.”
“No, he’s the Sonora cop. Head fed: commandant of the federal police. He’s just visiting here right now. He’s the one who told me the Goodalls were killed with machetes. Pretty gruesome. But Jaime and the Sonora police thought maybe Hot Idea might’a just run afoul of pirates looking for money.”
“Pirates? You’re kidding.”
“Well, pirates is a translation of vagabundos. It’s a little confusing to Gringos because most think that vagabundos means vagabonds, which, of course, it does. Sort of. Down here they used to call freelance panga fishermen vagabundos, meaning not affiliated with a family group, an ejido. Real vagabundos are rare anymore, because they can’t make much of a living on their own. This new breed of so-called pirates are just punks who get their hands on a panga and a gun, then go on a crime spree. Kinda like American kids who carjack, then go rob convenience stores. These Mexican juvenile delinquents usually prey on other pangas, steal their catch, stuff like that.”
“Panga punks,” Hetta said.
Lucy did her version of the funky chicken and squawked, “Punks.”
“Good bird. Me ’n’ Jaime were talking about Hot Idea this morning, and he admitted the case puzzles him. For one thing, it’s out of the ordinary for pirates to attack a large vessel like Hot Idea. Especially a Gringo yacht. Most Mexicans think you people are armed to the teeth.”
“I wish we were,” Jenks said. “The only weapon we have on board is a flare gun. And, of course, Hetta.”
Hetta playfully slapped Jenks’s hand, and Lucy sang, “Bamba, bamba.”
John told the bird, “No bamba right now, Lucy. I’ll play the bongos for you later.” To the Jenkins he explained, “She likes to dance while I play.
“At least now ole Jaime will know it wasn’t pirates who killed the Goodalls. Well, maybe they were panga punks, but hired to do the drogistas dirty work. What I can’t figure is why that copter fired on you, then hunted you—or rather, Hot Idea—down.”
“That’s what Hetta and I keep wondering. One thing’s for sure, the cruising fleet had better be damned careful.”
“Already are. Port captains all over this part of Mexico have issued a warning to circle the wagons, suggesting that cruisers flock up like wagon trains to cross the Sea this year. At least until the bastards who did Hot Idea are caught.”
“If. Did Jaime mention chupacabras?” Hetta grinned.
“You must have run into that nut case, Pepe. Crazy as a loon. But he’s not alone. I’ve heard theories of everything from space aliens to suicide.”
“I fear many in the fleet don’t have enough to keep them busy,” Hetta said dryly. “A scenario of suicide by chopping oneself to pieces with a machete would challenge even Stephen King’s warped imagination.”
While waiting for Jaime and Yolanda to return from their family visit, they raided the kitchen and made ham sandwiches. Lucy was given a jalapeño pepper, but was eyeing Hetta’s lunch when Yolanda and Jaime returned.
The brother and sister, dressed to the nines in deference to the elderly aunt they visited, could be twins. Hetta, always fascinated with genealogy, detected only a hint of Aztec cheekbones and hair in their otherwise undiluted Hispanic gene pool. The elegant pair, standing shoulder to shoulder with John and Jenks, made Hetta feel like a mushroom in the forest.
Yolanda spotted the sandwiches, admonished John for serving cold food to guests, and went to the kitchen to make up for his social blunder with coffee and flan.
Jaime Morales listened carefully to their story, stopping the Jenkins occasionally to ask a question. Hetta, although instinctively suspicious of Mexican authorities, found herself drawn to the handsome, articulate policeman. But remember, girl, you’ve been snookered by Latin looks and charm more than once.
“... and that’s why we think Hot Idea was a case of a mix-up,” Jenks said.
A solemn Jaime nodded. “You have acted very wisely. I do not believe in coincidence, so I am certain you saved yourselves by your actions. Unfortunately, in order to take the appropriate steps to find these killers, I will have to report this—” he was stopped in mid-sentence by Hetta’s stricken look and exclamation of alarm. “Hetta, I will make certain no one knows the name of your boat, and very few, only those I am certain I can trust, will hear of the incident at all.”
Hetta nodded, but didn't look completely assured, so he added, “I am shamed that you did not feel comfortable reporting this incident to Mexican authorities, but I understand. My country is not yet like Colombia, but if we do not take serious action soon, we are doomed to be ruled by drug money. They attempted to kidnap the president's son. And editors of Mexican newspapers have been murdered for daring to speak out against these criminals. It is shameful and must not continue. He then flashed straight white teeth, gave the Mexican shrug, and added, “I am not zactly doing much to make you feel secure, am I?”
Hetta stifled at grin at Jaime’s pronunciation of exactly, and shook her head. “What can you do, Jaime, with all that money and power operating under the nose of Mexico City? With all due respect, one federal policeman does not an army make.”
“All too true, but I must try,” Jaime said, looking every inch the conquistador of his ancestry. Then he grinned again and said, “This is where I break into my version of “To Dream the Impossible Dream”.”
Hetta and Jenks exchanged surprised looks then laughed. Jaime was a charmer, all right, a real live Man from La Mancha. “Maybe we should just call you Don Quixote? Jaime, there’s more to our story. We didn’t tell John yet, but there might have been a young boy involved in this whole mess. A panguero. He turned up on the beach near where the panga blew up, and he had a couple of bullet holes in him.”
“The one the port captain put out a missing panga bulletin on? They found him?” John asked.
“They did. But a soldier at a roadblock on the way down here told us this boy was in pretty bad shape, and still unconscious. When, and if, he wakes up, there’s a possibility he may have seen us, even though we didn’t see him.”
Hetta, who hadn’t thought of that possibility yet, shook her head in dismay. “This is getting worser and worser.”
Jaime nodded. “I will check this out as well. Please, you must trust me. I will do everything I can to make sure you are safe. There are many besides me who want these cartels out of Mexico. We are not yet totally corrupted.”
John Colt broke in. “The problem is knowing who the good guys are.”
Hetta hoped to hell she and Jenks were talking to the good guys.
Hetta and Jenks turned down a ride back to the marina, preferring to walk along the malecòn, a low seawall fronting La Paz Bay. Many shops and restaurants lining the boulevard were closed, resting up for an early evening bustle of locals and tourists. At twilight a parade of teenagers, many of the girls shadowed by sharp-eyed dueñas, promenade along the waterfront. Some of those with more modern, tolerant parents drove cars, cruising in a ritual Hetta labeled, Zorro meets the Fonz.
“Looks like our master of vegetables, Don Vincente, was right. We’re getting another norther,” Hetta said, pointing to whitecaps ruffling the bay. As if in answer, a gust swayed the palm trees above them. “Let’s go back to Puerto Escondido. Tomorrow morning. We’ve done what we came to do and I’ll feel better aboard HiJenks if we’re gonna get a blow.”
“Fine by me.”
“Honey! Do you see what I see?” Hetta yelled.
“I sure do. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Jenks asked.
“Ab-so-tively. Let’s do it.” She hustled to keep pace with Jenks’s long strides as they rushed down the city pier. Tied to the end, her gleaming white hull emblazoned with a distinctive red stripe, sat the United States Coast Guard cutter, Endeavor.
Sanctuary!
Chapter 20
...you landed me safe on the coast
When I Needed You Most.—William Benson Gray
“Captain, an American couple just arrived on b
oard. They say they have an emergency.”
Captain Bill Xavier sighed into the intercom handset, regretting the Coast Guard motto hanging on his wall: Always Ready, Always There.
“Take them up to the XO, then he can bring them here.”
He hung up and muttered, “Damn, so much for my afternoon off.” Then he rubbed his chin. “Double damn.”
Stepping into the head, he mowed at a bluish three o’clock shadow with an electric razor, then slapped his thick black hair with a damp comb. The hair sprang right back where it had been, and he knew the shadow would reappear by early evening. He shrugged, shed his Hawaiian shirt and chinos, and put on the uniform he took off earlier in anticipation of an afternoon’s liberty. One last inspection in the mirror, then he went to his desk to catch up on paperwork until his visitors arrived. Maybe I can still get out for a walk around town later. Unless being “always there” throws a monkey wrench into my plans.
Xavier had steadily climbed the Coast Guard career ladder rung by rung and was destined for flag rank if he managed not to screw up. This year’s assignment in the Sea of Cortez, which he normally looked forward to, leaned heavily towards the aw shit column. If ever there was a chance for a foul-up, it was this tour.
Relations between the United States and Mexico remained shaky ever since Mexico gained its independence from Spain two hundred years before. During the two century span, the United States invaded Mexico more than once, and a recent incursion by DEA agents who crossed the border in pursuit of a drug lord had some Mexico City politicos hopping mad. And then, of course, there was the border issue.
Nonetheless, Xavier’s 210-foot, Reliance Class, Medium Endurance Cutter, Endeavor, and her crew were assigned to liaison with the PGR, Mexico’s Attorney General’s forces equivalent to the FBI, in a semiofficial operation to crack down on escalating drug traffic in the Sea of Cortez. It was labeled a courtesy visit.
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