Authors: Jinx Schwartz
“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 board. 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.
It was the
semiofficial
part that bothered Xavier. With no real authority in a country where many high-ranking military officers were proven dirty, the chances of a career-tarnishing incident were pretty good. His orders, and those of the twelve officers and sixty-three enlisted men and women on board, were, in addition to their regular mission of law enforcement, to “observe, aid, and assist as necessary.” This nebulous directive left a lot to be desired when one was interested in preserving one’s ass. The word,
observe,
had a disturbing ring to Xavier. So-called observers during past military conflicts often took it in the shorts. The difficulty of his mission made him wonder just who he’d pissed off.
The phone rang again; his XO was on his way up with the expats. Expats with an emergency.
In Xavier’s nineteen years in the Coast Guard, he encountered U.S. citizens all over the world. Grinning, he remembered some of the more outrageous requests he’d handled. One guy wanted a ride home from Italy because his wallet and airline tickets were stolen, and an elderly lady from Tennessee’s emergency turned out to be a request for buttermilk. She couldn’t find any in Greece. “I hope these folks just want buttermilk,” he muttered.
The rap on his door brought him to his feet. “Enter.”
“Cap’n, this is Robert and Hetta Jenkins. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, Captain Bill Xavier. Bill, the Jenkins have a very serious matter they want to report. I thought it best to bring them to you straight away,” said Rich Arrington, his Executive Officer.
Uh-oh. If Arrington says it’s serious, it must be a doozy
. “Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins,” Xavier said, “please, have a seat. Rich, would you call for coffee?”
Arrington picked up the phone, ordered coffee for four, then sat down next to the Jenkins. Xavier settled in behind his desk and asked, “Now then, what can I do for you?”
Hetta blurted, “Someone shot at us. On our boat. From a helicopter. With a machine gun!” As she spoke her voice trembled and tears welled into her eyes. Jenks patted her hand.
Xavier had seen this reaction before. It was amazing to him how stoically people faced disaster, only to break down when they felt safe. He figured it was a combination of his uniform and his authority as a representative of his country. Seen by many as a sort of a floating cop, his ship represented sanctuary. A safe haven, he constantly reminded his crew, built by the citizen’s tax dollars. Ironically, many boaters were royally pissed off when boarded for a safety inspection, but expected quick rescue when their unsafe vessel was sinking.
“A helicopter fired on you?” he asked, moving to the other side of his desk and offering a box of tissues to Hetta. She nodded and sniffled.
“Mrs. Jenkins, you’re safe now. Just take a deep breath, and when you’re ready we can start again. And I think we should record this, if that’s all right with you?”
Hetta nodded and gave him a crooked smile. She snuffled, “Please, call me Hetta. And I think Jenks’d better tell the story. I seem to be unraveling.”
Lieutenant Commander Arrington offered her a glass of water. “Ma’am, anyone who’s been shot at has a right to come a little undone.”
Hetta took the water and told him he looked like Jenks’s handsome son, right down to the red hair and freckles.
The XO grinned, but knew he’d take a ribbing from Xavier later. He was placing a voice-activated tape recorder on Xavier’s desk when, after a sharp rap, the door flew open and a young man arrived with a tray of coffee and cookies. He smartly set the coffee service on a sideboard, and left.
“Coffee now or later?” Xavier asked. When they all agreed on later, he nodded towards Jenks and turned on the recorder. “Ready, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Bob. Or Jenks,” Jenks said, then launched into a blow-by-blow account of the panga incident.
“You say they had automatic weapons?” Arrington asked when Jenks finished.
“At least one. My guess is an AK47.”
“And,” Hetta added, “that helicopter? It was just like those on M*A*S*H.”
Jenks nodded. “Maybe a little more modern. Probably a Bell.”
Impressed with Bob Jenkin’s self-confident composure and familiarity with weapons, Xavier asked, “You were in the military, weren’t you?”
“Twenty years. Navy. Flew P3’s.”
“Is there anything more?”
“Well,” Hetta huffed, “they killed the wrong people.”
Arrington and Xavier exchanged glances. Had they missed something here? Confused, Xavier asked, “What people?”
“Mary and Gary. On
Hot Idea
.”
Xavier felt a tightening in his gut.
There it is, the beginnings of that “incident” that could dump
my career
. “I think we could all use some coffee about now. Rich, why don’t you pour while I look for something. It’ll just take a minute,” Xavier told them.
“Sure, Cap’n.”
Bill Xavier shuffled through his papers, extracted a two-page report he read earlier, and re-read it carefully. He found what he was looking for, took a gulp of coffee, and asked, “Mary and Gary Goodall aboard
Hot Idea
?”
“That’s them.”
Arrington returned to Xavier’s office after escorting the Jenkins from the ship. “What do you think?” he asked.
“I think I’m pissed off. I don’t take kindly to bad guys opening fire on one American documented vessel, and then turning the crew of another into chopped meat. I believe every word the Jenkins told us. They have no reason whatsoever to lie.”
“What’s the next step?”
“We’ll get this report to Pacific Area Command, ASAP. I’m circling the wagons and calling in the cavalry. And, you should pardon the expression, I think the shit just hit the propeller.”
Chapter 21
Confession of our faults is the next thing to innocency.—Publius Syrus 42BC
“It must be true that confession is good for the soul, ‘cause...I feel good now!” Hetta loudly sang the last part while dancing down the dock in her best James Brown imitation. Several boaters looked up from their tasks and smiled.
“I’m feeling better myself,” Jenks told her, then lowered his voice so the whole of Marina del Cortez wouldn’t hear, “and if the Coast Guard, John, and Jaime are right, whoever got to the Goodalls won’t be looking for us because they think they got us.”
“Well rats, there goes that marvelous feeling.”
“Sorry. I didn’t put that right. I just meant we’re safe. The rest was just bad luck.”
“I’m not so sure about that part. Maybe if I had gotten on the radio—”
“We might be dead,” Jenks cut her off. He was growing weary of Hetta’s remorse over something not their fault.
“You sure know how to make a girl feel better, sailor,” Hetta said between her teeth, immediately regretting the gibe. She took Jenks’s hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be taking shots at you, of all people.”
Jenks relaxed his tightened jaws and hugged Hetta. “We’ll get through this and then we can deci—” He looked past Hetta and smiled. “Look, here comes someone sure to restore that marvelous feeling.”
Sam Houston, his tail spiraling water like a lawn sprinkler, dashed towards them as Bud bellowed from his aft deck, “Come back here, Sam, you little—oh, howdy, you two. I should’a knowed who it was when Sam took off like that. I think that dawg likes Hetta better’n he does his ole Pa. And a damned sight better’n Pammy, here.”
Pam rolled her eyes at Bud. “You should give that furry piece of shark bait to Hetta before I dropkick the little bastard overboard.”
Bud guffawed, slapping his knee. “Ain’t my honey a hoot?”
“Oh, yeah, a real hoot,” Hetta said dryly, cradling the sodden dog.
More like a Hooter
. “Looks to me like someone already tossed Sammy in the drink.”
“Naw, the little fart jumped in after a fish,” Bud told her. “One of the boat boys netted him.”
“Why don’t you use his life jacket?” Hetta asked, unable to mask her chagrin.
Bud shrugged and looked at Pam, who smirked and said, “The clips jingle and annoy me.”
Jenks, fearing a serious confrontation in the making, gave Hetta’s shoulder a warning sqeeze.
Although it took considerable self-control, Hetta let Pam’s cavalier remark go unchallenged. No sense in engaging in a verbal battle with an unarmed bitch. She brushed past the blonde and growled, “I’m gonna go dry off this dog.”
Jenks watched Hetta storm off and, seeing Pam’s satisfied smile, regretted he'd muzzled Hetta.
Bud noticed the smile as well, and warned, “I’d watch it if I was you, Miz Pam. Hetta don’t get mad, she gets even.”
Pam tossed her hair and sashayed away, leaving the men to pass that look that men pass when women do what they do.
“Gee, that went well,” Jenks quipped.
“Don’t imagine they’ll be sending each other birthday gifts, huh, Jenks?”
“Nope. Bud, I’d like to borrow your Jeep. Hetta wants to go back to the boat tomorrow and I want to buy advance tickets to the first class bus so we don’t get stuck on another dinosaur like the one we rode down on.”
“Dammit, you just got here,” Bud complained, “but I know if Miz Hetta wants to head for the barn there ain’t no stopping her. You know, I can have one of my boys run you back up to
HiJenks
.”
“No thanks, Bud, we really don’t mind taking the bus. A ride to the station tomorrow morning would be great, though.”
After Jenks returned from the bus station, he and the freshly bathed and dried Sam Houston curled up for a nap.
Hetta rummaged through a few boat lockers, found what she was looking for, then spent an hour sewing canvas and leather strips with a large hooked needle and waxed thread. Giving her handiwork a hard tug, she declared it sound and went off to find Bud. He was holding court on the aft deck, surrounded by loyal subjects quaffing free booze, while he, King Bud of the Tall Tale, regaled them with embellished yarns of his wildcatting days.
Hetta spotted a barnacle—her name for the anchor-out derelict population in La Paz harbor—pouring himself a generous glass of Bombay Sapphire Gin. She sauntered over to him, saying, “Evening, Scott. I see you ran out of that rotgut tequila you usually operate on.”
The barnacle had the good grace to look sheepish, and the good sense to sidle away from Hetta’s disapproval. Unlike Crazy Pepe of
chupacabra
fame, this boating burnout still retained a couple of brain cells. They wouldn’t last.
Bud heard Hetta’s scold and bragged, “That’s my girl, always lookin’ out for my best interests. And Hetta’s right, Scott, stay away from my goddamned Bombay.” Turning to Hetta he asked, “Where ya want to eat tonight, Johnson Grass?”
Hetta grinned at Bud’s pet name for her, although she'd never been quite sure she liked being nicknamed for a pesky Texas weed. “Why don’t you let me cook something here on the boat? Jenks and I are kinda tired, and have that oh-dark-thirty bus to catch in the morning.” Raising her voice she added, “I think it would be nice to have a quiet dinner on board. Just the
four
of us.” She was rewarded with disappointed looks from the groupie moochers. Good, let them buy their own damned dinners. For a change.
“I’d really like that. How’s about some of your five-alarm chili? I still got all the fixin’s you left from last time. And jalapeño cornbread?”
“You’ve got it,” Hetta said, heading for the galley. “It’ll be ready in a hour or so. Why don’t you wake up Jenks so he can have a drink before dinner?”
Pam declined chili, saying she wanted to go for a run, and at any rate she, unlike some, didn’t indulge in all that high fat and cholesterol. Hetta let the insult to her, and her Texan haute cuisine, pass, figuring having her chili snubbed was worth getting rid of Pam.
“How is it, Bud? Hot enough?” Hetta asked after Bud took his first bite of the thick red concoction.
“Like the devil’s own. Someday you’ve gotta give Pam the recipe.”
“I’ve named it Eclipse Chili, the one that gets you where the sun don’t shine, and I would dearly love to give Pam the recipe, right up—” Hetta stopped when Jenks caught her eye and shook his head. “Uh, it’s all in the chile powder, Bud. Get the really red stuff. They’ve got it in fifty-five gallon drums at the farmer’s market downtown.”
Bud scooped out seconds. “Damn, I love this stuff.”
“I made extra for your freezer.”
“I appreciate the favor.”
“Bud, do you think you could do me a big favor?”
“Name it, JG.”
“Keep Sam Houston’s vest on him? It’s so easy for dogs to fall overboard. I taught him to swim to the boat ramp here at the marina last year, but if you’re at anchor he might swim in circles until he gets tired and sinks. It happens to boat dogs and cats all the time.”
“Tell you what, I’ll make sure he’s duded out in his jacket when we leave port. But, heck, I ain’t even seen his vest lately.”
“I found it,” Hetta said, producing a little yellow vest from under the table. She picked up Sam Houston, strapped on his doggie life jacket, and handed the terrier to Bud for inspection. Sam Houston licked Bud’s nose, happy to be the center of attention instead of hanging out under the table waiting for something like prime rib to drop.
Bud laughed and held the dog at arm’s length. “Damn, Sam, you’ve got headlights.”
“Not exactly headlights, Bud,” Jenks said with a grin. “You know those armband strobes we gave you? Hetta dug them up, sewed ‘em to Sam’s vest, and I replaced the batteries. They’re water-activated, so if Sam goes in the drink his strobe lights come on automatically. Neat, huh?”
“I’ll be,” Bud marveled, then grabbed a glass of water and dumped it on the vest. Sam Houston yelped in protest, but the strobes began blinking. “Hey, do y’all think we could add a si-reen?”
Jenks shook his head. “I don’t know of any water activated alarms available, but I guess you could buy him a personal EPIRB if you want to spend several hundred bucks on a dog.”
“I just might. My Sam’s a special pooch.”
“I can hear it now,” Hetta said as she stood and grabbed a cucumber from the counter. Lowering her voice, she spoke into it like a microphone. “Coast Guard Cutter
Endeavor
, we’ve picked up an Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon transmitting in the Sea of Cortez.”
Throwing her make-believe mic to the other hand she drawled, “That’s a Roger, good buddy. Name, type, and location of vessel?”
“Sam Houston, terrier, off Punta Caca.”
“Carrier?”
“No, sir, terrier. Canine class.”
Pam, still panting from her run, returned to find them engrossed in laughter. She grabbed the water pitcher, refilled Bud’s glass and was getting ready to drink it when Sam Houston, fearing another sousing, yipped and ducked. This set off another round of hilarity.
Pam sipped the water and asked, “What’s so funny?”
Hetta gasped, “You had to be there.”
Pam was eyeing Sam’s life jacket, so Hetta added, “I fixed Sam’s vest so it won’t rattle. I know you badly need your beauty sleep.”
Pam actually smiled. “Thanks, I think. You know, he does look kinda cute in that little vest,” she admitted, leaning over to scratch Sam’s ears.
Sam warily wagged his tail.
Fickle little shit
, Hetta thought, but was actually pleased by Pam’s show of affection for Sam Houston. Maybe under all that silicone there lurks a heart? Hetta put a lot of faith in the way people treat animals.
But then again, Hitler loved his dog, right up until he tested a cyanide capsule on her.
Bud pulled Pam into his lap. “I promised Miz Hetta we’d keep that vest on him when we’re away from the dock, Pammy. I’ll rely on you and the boat boys to help me keep my word.”
“No problem, Bud baby. You know, that chili smells good. Any left?”
Hetta was stunned.
Who is this woman? And what has she done with her evil twin?
Hetta and Jenks, stuffed with chili, cornbread, and beer, fell into bed at eight-thirty. Jenks was instantly asleep and Hetta hoped to follow suit soon. She considered asking Bud for a Valium, but talked herself out of it. Although she never developed an addiction, she knew from past experience that pills are an easy crutch.
It was her own perceived weakness that made her understand how people could get hooked on drugs. Playing devil’s advocate, she tried explaining the problem to Jenks once, but since he never even smoked a joint, he found drug addiction totally unfathomable. On the other hand, he refused to accept that nicotine is a drug.
Selective addiction
, Hetta thought before drifting into a troubled slumber bristling with helicopters, dogs with sirens, and twin blonde sea creatures.
The twins dissolved, dispersed by loud voices rousing Hetta. The clock read four. “Shit.” Turning over, she waited for the ruckus to subside and sleep to return. No luck. She sat up, cocked her head and strained her ears. Probably some boaters staggering home after the bars closed. Then she recognized Bud’s angry drawl, and Pam’s mewl.
Slipping from bed, Hetta tiptoed to a metal door, swung it open on well oiled hinges, and padded down a wooden walkway between tons of shiny white machinery. At the other end of the dimly lit engine room Hetta leaned against the door she knew led to Bud’s stateroom, and listened. Rigid with tension, she jumped and kicked when something brushed her foot. Sam Houston whimpered.
“Oh, Sam Baby, I’m sorry,” Hetta whispered, scooping him up. “You scared me.”
“I don’t give a big rat’s ass if you was in church,” Bud boomed, his voice carrying clearly through the metal door. “You ain’t got no bidness running the streets until four in the friggin’ mornin’ unless I’m with you.”
“I wasn’t running any streets, Bud. I couldn’t sleep, so I had a couple of glasses of wine on deck, then went for a walk. I never even left the marina.” Pam’s speech sounded slightly slurred.
“Says you.”
“Why would I lie, Buddy? You know I’d never do anything I thought would upset my big ole Texan.”
Pam’s cloying coo moved Hetta to mock-stick her finger down her throat in a
gag me
gesture.
Bud’s tone softened. “Well dammit, when I woke up and couldn’t find you on the boat I got worried. I’ve been layin’ here waitin’ for you for more’n an hour.”
“My poor baby. Let me take a quick shower and I’ll make it all up to you. You just lay there and think about what your naughty Pammy’s gonna do when she comes back all hot and steamy.”
Disconcerted and embarrassed, Hetta intended to leave before she heard more, but had only taken two steps when she heard Pam say, “Oh Bud, honey, I forgot to give you your pills tonight.”