Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 5) (9 page)

Rosario was taking a gulp of beer when his nose went numb. Seconds later he was suddenly stuporous—

Someone, please, just shoot me. Better yet, shoot Jan lest she be unleashed upon an unsuspecting reading public someday.

—unable to talk, much less walk. He curled up on the settee and passed out.

The last thing he remembers as he rolled into a fetal position was the smiling supervisor finishing off his own beer and tipping the bottle in his direction.

He now wondered if he hadn't been gazing into the face of pure evil.  

The End

The End?

A little shriek escaped my lips.

Okay, I was going to get in my pickup, drive to the boat and strangle my best friend. Right then and there.

Which supervisor? Who sent Rosario to fix the boat radio? I didn't want a friggin' novella, I wanted facts.

Actually, I wanted a cold beer, but a fact or two would suffice.

LOOSE CANNON
(Nautical term): A piece of artillery that is not secure and therefore can cause damage or injury when it rolls on its wheels from the ship’s movement or from its recoil after being fired (out of control or unpredictable).

In this case, my life?
 

"You okay?" Safety asked from behind me.

Yikes
! I quickly hit the DELETE key and swiveled my chair to face him, hoping he hadn't caught a glimpse of Jan's budding and annoying novel. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"You yelled or something."

"Oh, that. I was cussing my computer, which I do a lot. Swearing at inanimate objects can be somewhat cathartic."

"Somewhat like ex-lax?"

I laughed. One thing I appreciate is someone who knows the multiple meanings for words and uses them in humor. "Good one. There's a thought; ex-lax as a cure for operator malfunction."

"Let me know if it works."

"Not."

"You need a ride to work tomorrow? I can pick you up if you want to leave your pickup for Jan."

"That'll work. Chino's picking her up sometime on Wednesday, so I'll drive myself in that day."

"This Chino her boyfriend?"

"Yes.
Doctor
Brigido Yee." I then added, "The world-famous marine biologist." Okay, so I laid it on a little thick there, but nothing bursts a guy's crush-bubble like some seriously potent-sounding competition. "He has to pick up his new assistant at the airport Wednesday morning, then he'll collect Jan and take her home."

"Oh."

Safety's little "Oh," spoke volumes of dejection.

My office needed rearranging if I didn't want
my
bidness to be everyone else's.

The way it was, my back and therefore my computer screen were turned toward the door, making me unable to see people behind me and allowing them to read my screen. Shutting the door was out of the question because there was no room for it to swing. It had to go.

I fetched a small tool chest from my pickup and removed the door. Laura, after watching me almost flattened by the unhinged and unwieldy door, rushed to my aid and helped me drag it outside.

After I changed the desk's direction, I got lucky, for the snake's nest of cords all reached their plugs and connections. The downside was I now only had about one foot of clearance to enter my office. Sucking it all in and holding my breath helped a little, but losing ten pounds would do wonders. However, I could squeeze in and slide into my chair. I'd accomplished my goal of deterring inquisitive eyes, but sincerely hoped I didn't experience any cathartic intestinal emergencies, because exiting my office in a hurry would be just about impossible. That thought, of course, sent me scurrying to the
Mujeres
room as a safety measure.

I rechecked my email for an update from Jan, maybe with some actual facts gleaned from Rosario, but
nada
. Trying to work remained a bust. I was too distracted by this unfortunate twist on what I thought was going to be a relatively mundane job. Waiting for Jan to fill me in was driving me nuts. I sat, glaring at the screen, willing it to
do
something.

Hearing the welcome ding announcing an incoming email made me smile and I was only slightly disappointed to see it was from my veterinarian buddy, Craig, in Bisbee, Arizona.

Doctor Craig Washington and I had been friends back in the Bay Area, when he was a hundred pounds heavier. Craig and I have a lot in common; we both love dogs, struggle with our weight and have a lousy history with men.

One would think, what with Craig being highly successful monetarily as well as tall, black and gay, he'd have been a rock star in the San Francisco Bay Area, but he was also extremely overweight, insecure, and gentle natured, leaving him prey for opportunists who used his bank account and broke his heart. His nickname, Craigosaurus, didn't help out in the self-esteem department. I never called him that. I know about weight.

Finally when one of these little exploitive pieces of ca-ca he dated went too far and demanded Craig buy him a snazzy red Porsche, he dumped both his crappy old van and crappy old boyfriend and kept the sports car for himself. He then hired a personal trainer—the one I had also hired, but refused to mind—did what she told him to (what a concept!) and dumped a hundred pounds. Now divested of both that little French twerp of a boyfriend and sporting a new look, he also decided he worked too hard and needed a change.

While visiting with me at the golf course home I'd rented in Arizona, he'd been attracted to a cowboy who hung out at the clubhouse bar. When I left for Mexico, I still had time on my lease so Craig stayed on while the miner's shack he bought in Historic Bisbee was renovated. He also took up golf.

Now the original house he renovated is rented out, and although still deep in the closet, he and his new pardner own a successful cattle ranch, a fleet of mobile vet clinics, and a large animal practice serving ranches on both sides of the border.

He has traded in the Porsche—the one Frenchie the Freeloader wanted—and bought a diesel dually pickup the size of Texas. His wardrobe now comes from the local Feed, Seed and Fertilizer store. His partner, Roger, is a fourth generation Arizona rancher. Neither man is anxious to openly share their relationship with their very conservative families. They still do not share quarters, per se, but instead have two separate houses on the same bajillion acres. To see them together, few would guess they were anything other than good old boys—albeit one of them being a
black
good old boy—sharing a business partnership and, on occasion, a beer or two at the golf club.

Craig and I also share an address, as I established a residency in Arizona while I was working there. I mean, California made two of my favorite guns illegal, for crying out loud. I should have sued for alienation of affection.

My car is registered at Craig's house and my snail mail goes to his post office box. Jan is also a paper resident, so for all practical purposes, Craig and Hetta and Roger and Jan all live happily on the ranch together.

Craig's email read: Need to talk, ASAP. SKYPE ME!

Jeez, I hate emails like that. I couldn't Skype him until after work from the boat. Was I doomed to sit here all day, unable to concentrate on work, waiting for Jan to email another inane missive and obsessing over what Craig, who is not one to use terms like "as soon as possible" loosely had to tell me?

Patience not being one of my strong suits, I let out another little screech and pulled my hair, but this time Safety ignored me.

By noon my nerves were frayed.

I had had one glass of wine too many the night before, hadn't gotten enough sleep, and left Jan with a complete stranger, an admitted cheese thief, alone on my boat. It was all too much to take sitting in my office. I decided to pack it in.

Bert Melton, my big boss, was out of the office for the day so I figured I'd let Ozzie, the Chicano purchasing prick, know I was going AWOL. Not that I really needed anyone's leave to leave, but it seemed the right thing to do. Unwilling to take a chance on Ozzie pissing me off, since I was already in a evil mood, I decided to save his life and send him an email.

Before I headed out, I raided the fridge in the break room, found a couple of sandwiches I hadn't eaten and snitched what looked like some burritos. I unwrapped them all, put them into a paper bag and set it on the passenger seat, just in case I spotted that dog again. The best I could hope for, since there were so few turnouts, was to toss the poor thing some food.

Halfway down Hell Hill, there he was, hugging a small space on the edge of a blind corner, but at least there was no one behind me. I hit the brakes and moved into the oncoming lane. Rolling down my window, I had one hand on the steering wheel and was tossing out the bag when an air horn blast ricocheted off the cliffs. A humongous Kenworth logo loomed in my windshield, but luckily he was moving at a snail's pace uphill so I was able to regain my lane before becoming a splat on his bug screen. In my review mirror I caught a glimpse of the dog demolishing bag and all. Tomorrow, with Safety driving, maybe I could get water to him, as well.

"Looocy, I'm home," I yelled in my best Ricky Ricardo/Desi Arnaz accent as I climbed aboard
Raymond Johnson
.

"Oh, goodie. You're just in time, we're making lunch,."

Jan had untied Rosario and they stood side by side at my galley counter.

Rosario wore my favorite chenille bathrobe, the one with cowgirls lassoing calves.

"Is there something I need to know here?" I asked, hoping Jan hadn't gone robbing cradles again.

Rosario pulled the robe tighter around his body and gave me a silly grin. "Jan washed my clothes and they are still in the marina dryer."

"Yep," Jan added, "if he's gonna live here he has to smell better."

"We need to talk about that
living here
thing, but right now I have to call Craig. Sounds like something's up."

I fired up Skype and caught Craig in his office.
Who wears a cowboy hat at his desk
? I asked myself, but I had to admit he looked very cowboyerly. His face is a smidge off homely, but his big droopy eyes and a keen resemblance to his redbone hound, Coondoggie, give him an endearing look. All in all, Craig is a large, tall, black, handsome dude and, were he not gay, women would fawn. Actually they fawn anyway, every one of them wanting this big old Teddy bear in their—and their animal's—life.

"Hetta, you're looking well."

"And you are looking…Western. It suits you."

"So, I guess you want to know what I emailed about."

"Yep."

He pulled a piece of paper from his desk drawer and held it up to the camera. I squinted and rummaged in my desk drawer for a pair of cheaters. "Hold still, Craig, I can't read it. What is it?"

"You have been served."

"What? Why? Who?"

"You forgot How."

Jan and Rosario had drifted over to see what I was screeching about.

"Looks legally to me," Jan said.

Craig lowered the paper and nodded. "Exactly."

"Legally? What kind of word is that? What is it?" I wanted to know.

"Right now, all they want is a deposition."

"They? Who, they? Deposition? Isn't that some kind of thing they do before they lock you up or something?"

"It's a questionnaire, of sorts, I guess. Anyhow, my partner, Roger, talked to his cousin the local district attorney and says you can do it over the phone since you are out of the country. For now. You answer the questions. Give your side of the story."

Okay, this was getting annoying and Craig seemed to be enjoying it way too much. "What story?" I practically screamed.

I guess he figured he'd monkeyed around with me enough. "It seems someone is considering filing a suit against you."

"What the hell for?"

Craig grinned way too wide and leaned into the camera. "A hate crime."

Jan guffawed behind me, and Craig finally gave in and laughed out loud. Jan said, "That makes sense, Hetta hates everybody."

"I do not. I don't hate you, but if you keep laughing I'll work on it."

Rosario asked, from over my shoulder, "What is a hate crime?"

Craig squinted. "Who is that behind you, Hetta? I kinda like his get up. Is that chenille?"

"You're taken, remember? Anyhow, don't pay him any attention. He's dead."

Craig shook his head. "If you say so."

I took a long, ragged breath. "Who filed this ridiculous thing?"

"One Muhammed Ali. Ring any bells?"

"The boxer? I never even met him!"

"Oh, not
that
Muhammed Ali. This one's had a name change. Used to be Gustavo Espinosa, a.k.a. 'Flaco'. Now is your bell ringing?"

Jan giggled. "Hetta, isn't that the gangbanger you shot in the nuts with a load of bacon rind?"