Authors: Jinx Schwartz
“Pepe, how would you like a nice cup of coffee?” Samantha suggested.
“You think I’m drunk, but I’m not. I know all about this monster. I really do,” Pepe insisted. He got up and wandered away to find a new audience.
“Sam, I think perhaps Pepe has been down here alone for too long.”
“Could be,” Samantha said, “but he’s not alone in thinking...oops, there’s the radio.” She reached over and turned up the volume on the VHF.
“Dawg House, Dawg House, this is
All Bidness
,” Bud’s boom reverberated through the palapa.
“
All Bidness
, this is Dog House, switch to channel seventy?”
“Seven-O,” Bud responded.
Sam hit a button, then Bud asked, “What’s fer grub tonight, Sam? We’re just pullin’ into Marina del Cortez and’ll drive out there as soon as we can get this boat in her slip.”
“Prime rib, Bud. And guess who’s here? Hetta and Jenks.”
“Those two are harder to git rid of than ticks on a hound. Tell ‘em to stay put and I’ll be right there,” Bud boomed.
True to his word, Bud steamed through the door less than an hour later, a group of hangers-on, his boat crew, Pam, and, of course, Sam Houston, in his wake.
Jenks, roused from his snooze, groaned when he saw the crowd. Bud was hard to say no to, and it was starting to look like a long, loud, boozy evening ahead.
By the time they were seated around a large table by the swimming pool, twilight faded and the lights of La Paz glittered across the bay. Their candlelit table, covered with bright cotton tablecloths, was set with a pleasing array of mismatched English Rose porcelain. The eclectic mix of European and Mexican designs and colors gave the palapa an air of sophistication. Not the same could be said about Bud’s entourage. With the exception of Bud, Sam Houston, and several expectant dogs gathered under the table, Hetta and Jenks found themselves in the company of undesirables.
Bud held court at the head of the table, flanked by Pam and Hetta. Jenks took a chair next to Hetta, and scattered down the sides sat a mix of Mexican boat boys spouting
Gringo
slang, and an assorted group of what Hetta called dock leeches and barnacles: freeloaders and drunks plucked from the parking lot at Marina del Cortez by the ever-generous Bud. Hetta was especially appalled to see, sitting next to Pam, her not even ex-husband, Buzz Gibbs. No one could ever accuse Bud Killebrew of discrimination.
The big Texan was almost too drunk to eat by the time his prime rib arrived, but Hetta coaxed him to finish at least half of it before the doggie groupies got the rest. Pam, Hetta noticed, nursed one glass of white wine throughout the entire evening, but ordered refills for Bud as soon as his drink was half empty.
Hetta remained fairly civil towards Pam, only taking a couple of irresistible verbal shots.
Pam, much to her chagrin, had to tread lightly where Hetta was concerned. Easy to manipulate in most matters, Bud tolerated no bull when it came to Hetta. The subject was closed early on when Bud firmly planted his size twelve boot and let Pam know he would not abide any attempt for her to come between him and Hetta. Or Sam Houston. On the other hand, Hetta and the terrier seemed free to growl at Pam as long as they didn’t bite. Or at least leave visible marks.
Ever since Pam and Gibby sailed into La Paz and Pam jumped ship to
All Bidness
, the lines of battle were clearly drawn between the two women. Hetta, who knew a buy-me, take-me, bring-me broad when she saw one, conceded there was little she could do until the smitten Bud saw the light. She worried, however, that his heart, money, and liver wouldn’t hold out that long.
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.