Just Needs Killin (12 page)

"Okay, Hetta, I've thought of one good thing about Dickless," Jan said after I told her about the Santa Rosalia incident.

"I cannot wait to hear this. The only good thing I want to hear about him is he's a goner. And I mean that in the absolutely most permanent way."

"Yeah, that'd be just dandy, and save us a lot of work. But my bit of good is that at least we know, as of last week, he evidently didn't know you were here in Mag Bay. Maybe he wasn't really looking for you. He knew you had been at the marina before, he had to pick up a package, and so he engaged in a little info fishing."

"One can hope he now thinks I'm in La Paz. By the way, I got the address for the package he picked up, and it matched the one Abuela Yee gave us. I took a little detour on the way back, and swung through Constitución for another gander at the house he's supposedly rented."

"And?"

"Didn't see him, but there were signs of life. Before, the place looked uninhabited, but now windows were open and the driveway swept. No car, but still..."

"Field trip?"

"Yep."

Coming up with a legitimate reason for both of us to be away from
Nao de Chino
at night wasn't easy to come by, considering we were now anchored out three miles from Lopez Mateos.

Jan and I decided the optimum time for spying on that house in Constitución was about nine p.m. and it takes about forty or so minutes to drive from Lopez Mateos, which was a fifteen minute panga ride from the dive ship. None of the crew ever did anything like going into town for dinner, so we had to come up with an overnight shopping trip or something. Ideally, we'd get a room in Constitución, do our spying, then very early the next morning head for La Paz, hit Walmart, and get back to the panga landing before dinnertime the next evening.

One of our problems was my bright red pickup with Arizona plates. It practically screams Gringo! Constitución is an agricultural center with, as far as we knew, zero Gringo inhabitants, and few tourists. Skulking around in the Ford Ranger at night, in a residential area, was an invitation to get noticed. Not only that, I was certain that by now Dickless knew my ride.

As for our room, I figured our best bet was a
hotel de paso
, literally a
transit Hotel
, actually a cheap motel resembling what my dad called tourist courts back home, where rooms are rented by the hour for those wishing to not be seen with a person other than with whom they were supposed to be in a hotel.

Your first clue that perhaps you've chosen a
hotel de paso
is there is no lobby, but one checks in via a drive-through à la McDonald's. You never see the attendant's face, nor he yours, because of one way glass. Business is conducted by microphone, paid in cash, with no ID required. Each room has a private garage, with a door into the room, and the price? About thirty-two dollars, for twelve hours.

Since we'd told everyone we were going to La Paz, we had to leave Lopez Mateos by three or so in the afternoon in order to supposedly make the two hundred mile drive to La Paz and arrive before dark. In the Baja, driving over fifty miles an hour is not advisable, and even though we all do it, I use that speed as an estimator of driving time between points.

So, with only forty miles to drive, instead of the two-hundred, that put us into Constitución way too early for a twelve-hour stay. Rule of thumb in Baja: Never, ever, drive at night if you can avoid it. If we planned to scope out Dickless's pad around nine that night, we had some time to kill.  Messing around in Constitución all afternoon was too risky; Lujàn or his minions might spot us, or my truck.

A skulkmobile was required.

Abuela Yee is the materfamilias for Chino's kinfolk, and her home the familial epicenter. Her house, located at the edge of Lopez Mateos, is better than average for the area. The cinderblock abode, set on a couple of acres, is painted a tasteful, for Mexico, shade of purple, and is festooned with every color of bougainvillea imaginable. It also boasts a large vegetable and flower garden, which is carefully tended by a cheap labor pool; grand kids.

Most of the family adults have a job of some kind, either in the agricultural business in Constitución, operating small
tiendas
with various services
,
running whale watching tours in the winter months, and fishing tours or simply fishing for food during the summer. Like so many families in Mexico, they live life on a rocky fiscal plain that would give most Americans ulcers, but they never seem to lose their good cheer, and besides, somehow children are fed and cars get repaired, so why worry?

Because both parents work, Abuela Yee's house is something of a family enterprise. Outside her chain link fence is her taco stand with picnic tables, open from six a.m. until one p.m., and conveniently across the street from a Tecate beer
deposito
run by a nephew, where one can get a cold beer to go with those fabulous tacos made with fresh fish dropped off by some relative every morning.

The house overflows with kids, all of them busily engaged in child labor, like chopping onions, cilantro, tomatoes, and chile peppers for the taco stand, and tending the garden, or doing homework, playing soccer, sewing clothes, and through it all, laughing. It is the laughter that so characterizes the place. These kids are loved, well cared for, proud of their contributions to the family, and have never heard the word, "allowance."

Computer time is limited, as there is only one computer and so many people. And, after all, Granny Yee is still on the search for that perfect man.

Part of the yard is compartmentalized by a run of chainlink fence that keeps her precious house pet, an ill-tempered, overweight goat named Preciosa, out of the veggie garden. Preciosa has the run of the house, and she and Po Thang have had a dustup or two, so I leave him in the car when I visit.

Within the compound are several vehicles in various states of repair, but Grammy Yee's old van is always clean—that child labor thing—and runs like a top, thanks to all the mechanics in the family.

Chino called ahead, so one of the cousins picked us up at the dock, and drove us to Grandma Yee's, where I keep my pickup. On the way over, I groused, "Dang, the taco stand's already closed, but maybe we can raid Abuela's kitchen. There's always something simmering there, and if nothing else, there are those fantastic tortillas she makes."

"Okay, now you've gone and made me hungry. Gotta have something to eat before we hit the road."

"I hope my pickup starts," I said for the sake of our driver. "I kinda worry about driving it to La Paz, what with the way it's been running."

Jan looked puzzled. "I didn't realize—"

I cut her off with a squint. She shrugged, knowing I was up to something.

Jorge, at least I think it was Jorge—I can't keep them straight—said, "You truck no run good? I fix it."

"Thanks, but we have to leave for La Paz soon."

"Is okay, you take Abuela's van."

"You think she would mind?"

"You ask. She let you."

We pulled into the compound, he took a deep sniff in the air and winked at me. "I think she cooking something
muy
good."

Two hours later we were on our way to Constitución, driving Abuela Yee's van.

I was suffering slightly from an overabundance of
birria
, a savory goat stew made with chile peppers and all sorts of spices. It was a Yee specialty, and Abuela made a pot for a clan birthday party later that day.

"Jeez, my ears are still ringing. Where in the hell do all those kids come from?"

"Hetta, do we have to have a little talk about the birds and the bees?"

"Very funny. You do realize, of course, that could be you in forty years?"

"What?" she screeched.

"Think about it. Chino is already looked up to as a sort of family leader, his grandmother will almost certainly leave the house to him, and guess who will have to step in and pick up the slack? Grandma Jan, that's who."

"Oh, goodie. By then you will have turned into your Aunt Lillian, and we can live together."

Well, that is a depressing thought. I had to remember to call Jenks and tell him how much I love him, and that I was never, ever, going to do anything that might piss him off, ever again.

Oh, wait, too late.

Stalking Dickless, while it sounds like the title of a tasteless romcom, really was a dangerous business. No one knew where Jan and I were, nor what we were up to, so if things went badly, it would be many days before we were tracked down. If at all.

We checked into our love hotel around six and had three hours to kill before our reconnaissance mission. Reconnaissance sounds ever so much more sophisticated than stalking.

I have this quirky travel habit. Whenever possible, I carry my own bed linens and towels. And since we were bedding down in a by-the-hour hotel, this was one of those times. I am especially suspicious of bedspreads and blankets, so at the very least I try to pack a duvet cover. This time, I had it all.

We stripped the king-sized bed—I instinctively knew there would be no twin beds in this kind of establishment—and remade it, plumped our own pillows for backrests, and turned on the television.

Since we were on a mission, we sadly forwent our usual beer while watching movies, which was too bad because the only ones available in English were cleverly entitled Forrest Hump, Hung Frankenstein, and Twelve Horny Monkeys. We watched part of each one, but they were so annoying we really could have used that beer. Giving up on the porn-cinemas, we dug out the cards and played Baja Rummy until time to snoop.

Balaclavas being in short supply in the Baja, we dressed in dark clothes and baseball caps.

I had already scoped out Lujàn's house a couple of times before during daylight hours, so the drive was quick and uneventful. We drove by once, not too fast, not too slow, and saw lights on. Unfortunately, there was about an eight-foot stucco wall hiding the bottom floor of the two-story house from the street. Fortunately, there was also a metal double-doored gate into the driveway, which stood wide open. The Lincoln Navigator was there.

"Bingo! Jan, that's the car I saw Lujàn's goons load Ishikawa's body into at the resort."

"We don't know for certain that it wasn't just a sack of garbage."

"What are you, his defense lawyer?"

"Just stating the facts, ma'am. Ya know, maybe driving a white van wasn't such a great idea. Why didn't we just go to Loreto and rent a car?"

"Because the last one we rented got blown up. I'm persona non grata with every car rental agency in Mexico. And so are you."

"Because you used my credit card. That was kinda sneaky."

"You mean, kinda like signing someone else's name on a hotel register?"

"Hetta, stop!"

"Okay, then, I forgive you."

"No. I mean stop the van."

I pulled over. "What?"

"Turn around and drive by again. I saw something that might help us out."

Sure enough, just across the street from the house was a weedy lot with no permanent structure, but hosted a rusting, wrecked, hulk that maybe started life as a school bus. On both sides of the lot were boarded up, unlit houses.

"God I love Mexico. Luján's house looks classy, and across the street you got crap. Works for us." I drove slowly over the crunchy weeds, wincing at what sounded like tiny explosions to us, and parked the van behind the bus, using it for cover.

When I cut the engine, we rolled down the windows and watched and listened, trying to determine if anyone at all had noticed us. Crickets chirped, dogs barked, but otherwise the neighborhood was quiet.

With no street lights, the only thing illuminated on the whole block was Dickless Manor, and it was lit up like a cruise ship. There was no way anyone inside could see anything outside.

I took my key chain from my knapsack, flicked on the attached tiny penlight, then we made our way to the open door of the bus, which luckily was facing the van. I went in first, not real happy with the idea of what might live in there.

Some windows were broken out, giving us an unimpeded view of the house, the Lincoln Navigator, and the street in front. Once in awhile soft music wafted our way from across the street. Willie Nelson? Maybe Luján wasn't at total a-hole?

We cleared a couple of rotting seats, and watched. Nothing. Surveillance is highly overrated in my book.

After a couple of hours, Jan whispered, "Hetta, I gotta pee."

"Me, too. Wanna risk a squat in the weeds?"

"Not no, but
hell
no! Remember the time that asp bit me on the butt?"

I smiled, recalling that evening in Texas. We'd been out drinking beer and shooting the cans with a couple of cowboys when nature first called, then yelled. It was spring, and with it comes a particularly nasty caterpillar we Texans call an asp. Its proper name is pus caterpillar, and if that ain't repugnant enough all by itself, these furry, inch-long critters are venomous. And, they don't have to bite. They hang on bushes and when something, like, say, Jan's butt, brushes against them, they discharge their venom.