Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 5) (17 page)

Silence, another ragged sigh, then Ozzie says, "You are right, I do not."

The guilty never escape unscathed. My fees are sufficient punishment for anyone.—F. Lee Bailey

"Po Thang, you are an incredibly bad judge of character. Your BFF, Safety, is indubitably guilty of something. I'm just not sure what yet."

Raising his head from his blankie, he cocked it hopefully, one ear raised. He had been sleeping for six hours while I listened to the entire recording from Ozzie's office. Absolutely nothing interesting happened after Safety told him about Rosario and the boat, and Ozzie called the port Captain instead of the police, which is exactly what I would have done in the same situation.

It was hard to keep my eyes open while hearing those long hours of droning conversations with vendors, calling the home offices in Mexico City and Canada, blowing his nose, chomping on lunches, farting, singing off key (Julio Iglesias fan, so he can't be
all
bad) and talking to his kids every morning. After two days, the bug thankfully reached capacity. 

Boring or not, I downloaded the whole thing into my computer as Rosario instructed, erased the thumbdrive and plugged it back into Ozzie's computer.

Well after midnight Po Thang whined to go outside. I knew he was bluffing because in the short time I'd had him he'd slept through the night, but what the heck. We walked outside and while he sniffed around and gave a rock a half-hearted squirt, I admired a starlit canopy seemingly within touching distance and marveled at the intense luminosity of the Milky Way. On the horizon glowed the lights of Santa Rosalia, as well as El Boleo, that nearby mine. Across the Sea of Cortez, some eighty miles away, Guaymas lit the sky despite a moon just a slice off full.

Much too close, a coyote cut loose and was answered by what sounded like an entire pack, sending a shiver down my spine and raising the hair along Po Thang's. "It's okay boy," I whispered as I bent down to rub his trembling back and latch onto his collar in case he decided to do something stupid as dogs will when frightened. I wondered what his nights out on the lonely highway were like and whether he ever had to defend himself against critters out there.

I began backing into the office building, hauling Po Thang with me, when I spotted what looked like headlights jouncing along between us and El Boleo.

"Po Thang, there's a vehicle out there. I didn't even know there was a road."

The dog stared at me, evidently forgetting about the coyotes and wondering whether there was food involved in this one-way conversation.

Once inside, I pulled up Google Earth, pinpointed both Lucifer and El Boleo, then zeroed in and found not only one road, but dozens of them crisscrossing the desert like spider webs. From previous experience I knew some were little more than goat paths, and the vehicle I saw could belong to anyone. Drug runners came to mind, but I dismissed that; why would they be back in these mountains that had so much mining activity? Some small time miner still eeking out a little gold once in awhile? These mountains had been mined for centuries by locals and abandoned tunnels and pits honeycombed the region.

I made a note to ask about those lights and roads, then yawned and shut down the computer. As much as I wanted to go home, there was no way I was going to drive down
Cuesta del Infierno
in the dark, so I stretched out next to Po Thang on his blankie and conked out.

That dog is a cover hog.

"Hetta, what in the hell?"

Po Thang's exuberant tail slapped me in the head several times before I fully woke. Safety was standing at my office door, hands on hips and a sardonic grin on his face.

I was tempted to say something I would regret when thinking back to what sounded somewhat, but not exactly, incriminating on that bug the night before. Instead I asked him to take Po Thang out for his morning constitutional while I went to the Ladies and brushed my teeth. By the time they returned I had coffee made, something I badly needed. I felt like, well, I'd slept on the floor with a dog. I fished a dog hair from my coffee, finished it off and set it down on a low table where Po Thang slurped the dregs and whined for his breakfast.

"Sorry, Buddy, I ain't got no food for you this morning. We cleared out the fridge last night."

Safety looked surprised. "You two stayed here all night?"

"Yep. Didn't want to drive down the hill after dark."

"Well, then, let's go over to the mess hall and get you and Po Thang some victuals."

"Okay," I agreed lamely.

I know, I know, here was a guy high up on my suspect list and I was driving off with him, but hey, we're talking
breakfast
here. Besides, I had a dog to think of.

Po Thang was not welcome in the mess hall, so we scored him his breakfast first, then left him asleep in the pickup while I devoured a breakfast for two. As we ate
huevos a la Mexicana
it was hard to ignore Safety's baby blues. My resolve not to trust him took a little setback when eye-to-eye with this Robert Redford look-alike, but that didn't mean I wasn't going to investigate anything he touched on this project. I wanted to start with something he had a large hand in: Equipment.

"I suppose ChaCha has recovered from her scare yesterday," I said casually, easing into where I was headed.

"She's fine. The shop is checking out the hauler's braking system, trying to see what went wrong."

"Isn't that a pretty new rig?"

"Just been on the job six months."

"I mean, new, new. A new model straight from Caterpillar?"

"Um-huh." I'd caught him with a mouth full of eggs, a timing talent that waiters and waitresses worldwide must learn in serving school.

"Could I get a ride in one? I've been trying to imagine how a little gal like ChaCha can handle a monster machine like that."

"It's really an oversized truck. Hydraulics help a lot. In this case, size really doesn't matter."

"On the truck, or the operator?"

He grinned. "The driver."

"So, how about a ride, cowboy?" I said this with a purr. I've learned a thing or two from Jan over the years.

Safety actually broke out in a blush, which on a redheaded man I've always found endearing. "Uh, sure. I can set it up with the heavy equipment manager. When do you want to go?"

"Too tired today. Tomorrow? I may work from the boat the rest of today. I feel like I've been run over by one of those dirt haulers after sleeping on the floor. And Po Thang snores."

"Don't blame you for wanting to head for your nice soft bed. I mean, I guess your bed is soft." He blushed again and cleared his throat. "I'll send you an email later, after I've set up something with the equipment guy. Shouldn't be a problem. I doubt he'll want to send you out with ChaCha, however. And Po Thang can't go."

"Just as well, he'd probably want to drive. I'm stuffed, please dump me at my pickup so I can head for a nap."

"Want company?"

My mouth fell open, but before I could say anything—I had, after all, been flirting seconds before—he reddened again. "Uh, I meant later, uh, this week after work. Maybe for a beer and some dinner?"

"Sure, why not."

What exactly was happening here? I needed the complication of a flirtation with Safety, even an innocent one, like I needed an altimeter for my boat.

Once back on the boat I called Jan and Rosario, asking them to return to Santa Rosalia later in the week. We needed a serious powwow and work session. Meanwhile, Jan forwarded that bunch of info on heavy equipment purchases, operating costs and the like.

Then I called Jenks, because this thing with Safety was getting a little weird and I needed reassurance from Jenks that we were still in love. I know, how fickle does that sound? But when your sig-other is thousands of miles away and you are being wooed (I think) by Robert Redford for crying out loud, what's a gal to do?

Even though I knew for sure Safety was at best a lying skunk, I still didn't know
why
. Not that being a lying skunk is always a
bad
thing; it has worked for me many a time.

What I didn't get was that Safety knew me through the Trob, so that must mean Wontrobski wanted Safety to know what I did. If Safety is dirty, wouldn't knowing my mission give him an insider's ability to lead me down the old proverbial garden path? Maybe that was exactly what he was doing.

Two can play that game.

I talked with Jenks for over an hour, after which I felt empowered to lead Safety a merry chase without any danger of makin' whoopee. I'm such an amazingly simple person when it comes to men: one at a time, so long as I feel secure.

Safety was in for a bumpy ride, but not, if I was reading him right, the kind he evidently hoped for.

It's women like me who give women like me a bad name.

Jan's latest info arrived with a ding on my computer just as I woke from a two-hour nap, which was interrupted several times by Po Thang trying to sneak into bed with me. I guess he figured since we'd shared a blankie the night before, I owed him. Males! They are all the same.

I spent the rest of my day poring over equipment purchase orders and researching prices on the Net. I zeroed in on the heavy duty off-road haulers like the one ChaCha almost flattened me with.

The Caterpillar 777G, I found out from the company's website, is the newest star in 100-short-ton size class.  According to the blurb this huge yellow Cat is a workhorse for mining and large earthmoving application and "delivers greater levels of production and fuel efficiency as well as enhanced safety, operator comfort and service convenience" than earlier models. Evidently they never met ChaCha.

After reading the glowing reports on this big baby, I was really looking forward to my ride the next day. Maybe they'd let me drive? After all, I do operate a forty-five-foot yacht with Caterpillar engines.

Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly.

I was next to a tire, looking
up
at the tread.

No I wasn't lying on the ground, but standing fully upright, or as fully upright as someone five-four gets.

The Caterpillar 777G, as its black and white cab insignia declared, was a yellow behemoth covered in dust and mud, but still had a few shiny places showing through despite the best efforts of ChaCha and her fellow drivers. Because only a limited amount of mining from the old strip mine site was underway, this big baby was being used as a dump truck for building roads and the like, so it hadn't suffered the dings it would later, when serious stuff began. Not that the women weren't doing their damnedest.

The front tire I was standing next to was over six feet high, which is pretty danged impressive. I knew, from the purchase orders we'd downloaded, that the base price was over a million and a half dollars and then there were extras, bringing it well into the 1.7 million dollar range. And they had five of them already on site, with another five due in any day. They were arriving in pieces for the most part due to the impossibility of driving a completed one down Mex 1. Reassembled on site, they were just getting broken in by now and, unfortunately, broken down, reportedly because of the novice operators.

My driver, an American I'd met in Pedro's van my first day on the job, was both the site's heavy equipment manager, and driving instructor. I couldn't help but admire his hard hat slogan: NOTHING BEATS A GOOD DUMP! I requested one of those stickers for Po Thang's hat.

I didn't recall his having such a headful of bright white hair when we'd met, but I could see where a daily commute with Pedro could have that effect on a person. Or maybe it was ChaCha and the ladies' dubious driving skills taking a toll on Mr. Warren. Teaching a bunch of Mexican women, most of them first-generation drivers, to operate these huge trucks had to be a nerve-wracking experience. No, I am NOT being  anti-feminist here, I happened to have almost been flattened like a tortilla by one of his students.

"So, John, did you figure out what went wrong with ChaCha's brakes the other day?"

He looked startled. "How did you know about that?"

"Unfortunately I was in her path."

"Oh. Sorry about that. But no harm no foul, I guess. Looks like a brake line suffered fatigue."

"Fatigue? These are brand new machines."

"I think they use that term, fatigue, when they can't figure out what went wrong. Maybe one of the operators whacked into something and didn't report it. Who knows? I'm thinking of installing cameras on these big guys, what with all the problems we're experiencing."

"This one looks good on the outside, anyway. Where are we going?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Maybe on a typical run? Take on a load of dirt or whatever it is you're hauling? I like to get a feel for the daily happenings on jobs I'm on."

"You're the boss."

"I am?"

"Safety says you are, so you are."

"Gee, I didn't know he is so important."

John grinned. "Oh, you have no idea."

I let that slide. I might not have any idea, but you can bet your sweet bippy I was gonna find out just how important Safety was, and why.

"You ready to saddle up?" John asked.

When men ask me something like that I usually bop them one, but I detected nothing untoward in John's question.  I eyed the two-step swinging ladder leading to a set of steel steps and lamented not having done squats of late. "Uh, does that first ladder lock down? It looks like it's kind of dangling there."

"Don't worry, it won't move until we get aboard. Then I'll get her folded up  and out of the way. Up you go. Follow me and put your hands and feet where I do."

One thing I hate about climbing anything is my feet leaving a good solid base. I'm not so much afraid of heights as I am uneasy when both feet are on a rung. Ladders, as you might surmise, are not my favorite things, which is one reason I love the real steps on my boat. Many boats have ladders instead. Jenks, having been in the Navy and on large ships can clamber down a twelve-foot ladder, facing away from it, with a cup of coffee in each hand and never spill a drop. Me? I do one rung at a time, facing the rungs, and make sure both feet are firmly on one before attempting the next, all the time hanging on for dear life with both hands. I also use this method when climbing. I might look like a five-year-old, but I sure as hell wasn't going to fall.

I needn't have worried about this particular ladder. Made of solid steel, the fold-up steps on the big earthmover's were about as secure as any can be, so I was quickly (for me) up the more user-friendly perforated steel stairs, and the cab's entry level. I held onto a railing and looked down, which might have been a mistake as a bit of vertigo set in. Or maybe I had one little bitty glass of wine too much the night before. I couldn't get into that cab, and my seat, fast enough.

Once settled into what I learned was a fold-down instructor's seat I buckled my lap belt. As jump seats go, this one wasn't too bad in the comfort department. I took in my surroundings. "Wow, this is freakin' huge!" I exclaimed. I have a flair for the obvious.

"Actually there are much larger models, but this one is no slouch. It's over five thousand five hundred millimeters wide, just for starters."

I did a fast calculation in my head. Okay not so fast, but I broke it into meters and did some rough division and came up with a number. "Eighteen feet?"

He nodded.

"No wonder it arrives in pieces. No way would this get down Mex 1. I figure both lanes can't be more than twenty feet wide, with no shoulders, and there are places where even that's being generous."

"You're right. And at over fourteen feet high, that's another problem. Ready?"

We started the day by picking up a load of rocks, taking them to a drainage ditch project and dumping them. The ride was amazingly smooth and quiet for such big diesels.

"Want some music?" John asked me.

"You have a stereo on this thing?"

"Yep. Far as I can figure, that's about the only thing different from the older models I've operated, but the powers that be wanted newer and better, so you're riding in it."

"I like it. Maybe I'll consider a new career."

"You couldn't do much worse than the trainees."

"Oh, I think I can do much better. My dad taught me to drive a D-8 when I was ten. And, after all, I do operate a forty-five foot motor yacht with Caterpillar diesels not unlike the ones on this machine,
and
without the benefit of brakes. So you gonna let me operate this big boy today?"

John looked doubtful, but when I reminded him that Safety said I was the boss for a day, he reluctantly showed me how to run through all seven forward gears, using a digital readout telling me when to shift. We were far away from anything remotely dangerous, in a flat field that was being prepared for a building. No ditches, rocks, trees, or even a cactus in the way of a threat. I drove around in circles for twenty minutes until I was familiar with all of the levers—and there where a lot. I even practiced dumping the bucket, even though it was empty.

After driving the big Cat I couldn't wait to get back to the office and tell Jan all about it. She commented it was a miracle the machine was still in one piece, a dig I chose to ignore, but stored in my
get even
file for later.

She and Rosario were getting ready to leave Camp Chino for the boat, she said, and should be there by the time I was. "We're packing up right now. Chino's so glad to get rid of me he's driving us over instead of making us take the bus."

"I've felt that way a time or two myself. What have you done?"

"Nothing, honest. Well, to
him
."

"Let me guess, Doctor Dropdeadgorgeous has had a bad week?"

"You might say that."