Authors: Jinx Schwartz
Nicole opened her mouth to compliment Jaime on his surprising sensitivity, but was drowned out by approaching helicopters. “Oh, boy, news do travel fast. Here comes...well, everybody.”
Four helicopters, carrying the quickly reassembled remnants of the Black November Task Force, settled into a cloud of sandy dust nearby. Russ Madden, packing power tools, chemicals, and all manner of paraphernalia for detecting and testing drugs quickly went to work on
Water Princess
.
Jerry and Nicole moved to the dust-free front seat of the boat hauler’s truck while Russ drilled holes in the sailboat’s keel. Nicole repeated, “I’m famished.”
Jerry nodded. “I could use a bite myself. There’s nothing like a shootout on a Mexican highway to whet the old appetite.”
“I wish I’d eaten a bigger breakfast. Hey, maybe Leslie Stahl is packing pizza,” Nicole said, pointing to a television crew spilling from the latest helicopter.
“So, “60 Minutes” gets a scoop after all,” Jerry groused. “If they don’t have pizza, maybe Leslie can at least save my career.”
The test hole into the boat’s lead keel yielded a bonanza of pure cocaine wrapped in sheets of plastic smeared with automotive grease to throw off the dope detecting dogs at the border. Russell plugged the hole with epoxy, and when a crane, a lowboy trailer and the boatyard manager finally arrived,
Water Princess
left for federal police headquarters in Hermosillo. A phalanx of black and whites accompanied her, clearing traffic as if she were true royalty.
Jerry unashamedly cadged ham and cheese sandwiches, potato chips, and root beer from an RV with Oregon plates, and they ate while watching tow trucks haul off what was left of Jaime’s Mercedes and the eighteen-wheeler. Then the helicopters lifted off, and within six hours of the debacle, only skid marks, a patch of dried blood, a blob of chile paste, and thousands of bread wrappers signified that something of importance had occurred at kilometer 151 on Mexico’s Highway 15 on the twentieth of November.
Juan commandeered a police car and drove the exhausted team to San Carlos.
“We don’t need no stinking drugs,” Nicole slurred, then sipped her rum and coke, “we’ve got sleep deprivation and adrenalin hangovers.”
Nicole, Jerry and Jaime sat on Jaime’s balcony at Hotel Marinaterra in San Carlos. It was well past midnight, and after almost three days with little sleep, they teetered on the edge of giddiness.
“Well I, for one, am going to turn in,” Jerry said, pushing himself up with some effort, “before I get any sillier. I’m getting too old for this shit. See you two in the morning. Late.”
Nicole and Jaime sat finishing their drinks and staring at the moon over San Carlos Bay. “This is such a beautiful place, Jaime. I swear, I’m coming back here for a long vacation one of these days. I haven’t had one in five years.”
“You deserve a five-year vacation after today, Nikki. I, like Jerry, must also be getting too old for this
caca
. If it had just been Juanito and me in the car today, we would have driven right past that sailboat. You were
magnifico
.”
Nicole waved away the compliment, but was secretly pleased. “Chalk it up to feminine intuition. I’m just glad we’re on the verge of putting this case to bed. And speaking of, I think I’ll crawl to mine,” she said, standing.
Jaime jumped to his feet and their faces almost touched. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Nicole, her voice husky, said, “Later, Jaime. When we finish this business, I think we have unfinished business.” She whirled and walked quickly out the door, leaving Jaime stunned and confused. Too tired to think about what had just occurred, and too realistic to hope Nicole just came on to him, he shook his head, smiled and whispered, “
Gringas
.”
As Nicole snuggled up to her pillow, a phone rang far to the south where, on a mountaintop in Colombia, two men played cards. One of them answered the phone, listened, then spat, “Handle it yourself,” and hung up.
“Problems?” his brother asked.
“It’s the Mexican thing.
Aguas
. Your old school chum, Hector, is dead, the shipment lost. The American in La Paz will handle Phase Two personally.”
“Hector dead? Well, we knew going around the Mexican cartels was an iffy proposition.”
“It wasn’t the cartels, just bad luck. We will have a full report soon.
Aguas
was just a trial run anyway.”
“Should we be worried about Phase Two?”
“It always pays to worry. But La Paz says everything is in place on his end, and we have our end on the move. Your deal.”
Jaime found Nicole refreshed, and Jerry still ragged, when he joined them for a late breakfast.
“Good news, my friends,” Jaime told them while pouring himself a cup of coffee. “The young Mexican, Martine, who hid under the trailer during the shootout? Once started, he never stopped talking. He told us his cousin, Hector of the blue tear, was the one who attacked
HiJenks
. Evidently Bluetear panicked when the Jenkins witnessed the panga being blown up. Not very clear thinking, of course, but according to Martine, Hector was using a great deal of his own product.”
“Never a good idea,” Nicole said dryly. “Then Hector set some goons on
Hot Idea
?”
Jaime sipped his coffee and nodded. “Yes, Hector decided to hunt down the witnesses because he was afraid they would report the attack to the authorities. And with this shipment coming so soon, focus un-wanted police surveillance in the Sea.”
“Which he did anyway, because he got the wrong boat. So, sadly,
Hot Idea
was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Zactly.”
“Well, then, I guess that wraps the Goodall case,” Nicole breathed. “How about our good friend, the American captain of the
Water Princess
? Did he ever fess up to knowing who owns the boat?”
“I honestly do not think he knows, other than what is on the papers. We contacted the owner of record in California, and he says he sold it to a guy in Ensenada, but that guy sold it again and the paperwork hasn’t caught up. I understand the captain’s lawyer in the United States has arranged for someone to represent him here, but the captain does not know that as yet.”
“Keep him in the dark and worried. So, he’s sticking to his story that he picked up
Water Princess’s
keys and papers from a marina in La Paz, and he never met the owner? Old
or
new?” Nicole scoffed.
“He insists he was hired on the phone and sent tickets, instructions, and money by courier. Thanks to the information your agency provided about his past not-so-clean record, he finally admitted to meeting pangas and loading drugs onto
Water Princess
, then drilling out the keel and filling it with coke in the boat yard. The outside repairs on the keel were strictly for show, to cover the sound of inside work. He says he never met Hector until he got to the boatyard, and knows nothing of the
Hot Idea
murders.”
“We’ll find out who owns
Water Princess
soon enough,”
Jerry said. “What about the guys who killed the Goodalls? Any idea who they were?”
Jaime nodded. “Martine gave us enough information to find them. Hector told him who he hired. If they are still alive, which I doubt, we will have them soon.”
“Why doubt they are alive?”
“Martine told us that Hector eliminated the helicopter pilot who flew the attack on
HiJenks
. And, when he blew up that panga? He blew up his own cousin, a thirteen-year-old. Looks like Hector screwed up there, though. The boy is still alive, and expected to recover. Hector, it seems, has a dislike for all witnesses.”
Jerry mentally ticked off his list of unanswered questions and said, “Martine is lucky to still be breathing himself. Does he know who was pulling Hector’s chain?”
“Someone named Mr. B. who Hector called on the phone and spoke with in English.”
“Oh, please,” Nicole groaned, “don’t tell me it was Mr. Big.”
“Excuse me?” Jaime asked.
Nicole explained her joke, then turned to Jerry. “Well, Boss, it looks like we can fold our tents and go home.”
“Not today. After all, we have paperwork to complete, and I think we should do it by the pool. We can fly home tomorrow.”
“Bless you, oh wise one. Jaime, care to join us for an afternoon of indulgence? Perhaps a few margaritas around the pool?”
“Yes. But I cannot. I have a personal matter to attend to. Perhaps later.”
Chapter 33
Suspicion is rather a virtue than a fault,
As long as it doth like a dog that watcheth, and doth not bite.—Lord Halifax
“Come on, Canardly, “pick up the pace or I’ll cut your weenie ration. Look at you. A few days of
Gringo
food and you’re porking up big time. Next thing you know you’ll look like your Aunt Hetta.”
Canardly trotted close to the plastic mesh bag dangling from Hetta’s left hand, led along by the tantalizing aroma of hot dogs. He stopped to scratch at his new flea collar.
“Oh, the trials and tribulations of the pampered mutt. And by the way, how do you like your new digs? I think it has just the right touch of Bohemian charm. An aura of post-Depression Mexicanism,
verdad
?”
Canardly’s new home, a plastic box lined with an old towel, was nailed to a piece of plywood for stability, then weighed down by rocks. It sat on the seawall overlooking the dinghy dock. Location. Location. Location.
Boaters doled so much food into the little dog’s bowl each day that he was becoming picky. Wieners, however, remained his favorite. He cut his eyes at Hetta and whined, wagging a hopeful tail.
Stopping in the middle of the road Hetta said, “Oh, all right, just one. Heck, I bought ‘em for you anyway. A little going away present. Just between you and me, they’re cheaper than dog food, but I don’t know what all this salt and fat is going to do for your love life.”
Canardly watched in nervous anticipation as Hetta dug through the plastic grocery bag and fished out a large packet of hot dogs wrapped in white paper. She gave one wiener to the dog, then looked up and down the road, checking for traffic while he wolfed it down. Still skittish after her scare on Sunday, she hadn't left the boat since, not even to accompany Jenks to Loreto for provisions the day before. Today, though, she boosted her courage enough for a last minute walk before they left for La Paz. And to buy a kilo of hot dogs to leave with other boaters for Canardly. Jenks volunteered to go with her to the store, but then their VHF radio developed a problem and Hetta decided she’d rather he got that fixed.
“You know, Canardly, I’m not one to talk, but you should at least try to chew your food once or twice before you swallow. Oops, there’s a car coming.”
Hetta moved off the pavement and continued to walk. Canardly followed, his nose crowding her grocery bag. Hetta was close enough to the dinghy dock to see Jenks waiting for her, chatting with a few other boaters. She waved to him just as a car passed her, then rolled to a stop. Hetta turned, expecting to see a fellow boater, and watched in horror as one of the Plaid Twins jumped out and trotted toward her.
Hetta screamed, “Oh, shit!” threw her grocery bag at the man and ran for the dinghy dock. Canardly, his loyalties divided, quickly darted at the grounded bag, grabbed a hot dog and a candy bar and gobbled them down, paper and all, before tearing out after Hetta.
Jenks’s head snapped around when he heard Hetta scream. As she ran and yelled, he rushed to meet her. “What is it, Honey? What’s wrong?” he asked as she almost tackled him.
“They...there are...men, after me again,” Hetta gasped, almost hysterical. Canardly, who caught up to her, barked in excited agreement.
“Who? Where?”
“There. Oh, hide, they’re coming,” Hetta screamed as a Mexican man in a plaid shirt loped toward them.
“Hetta, calm down. The man is just bringing you your grocery bag,” Jenks told her, pointing to the mangled plastic bag the Mexican was waving in front of him like a white flag. “
Lo siento, señora, lo siento
,” the man called as he neared.
Hetta was looking for his gun. “You should be sorry. You scared me!”
The man handed her the groceries and she shut up, feeling a little foolish. “
Uh, gracias, señor
. I guess you did nothing wrong. I just—”
“She just wants to know why you two followed us from La Paz, and then have been dogging her all over Puerto Escondido,” Jenks growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Hetta looked at Jenks in surprise. Now who’s being paranoid?
The man looked at a boater who was standing just out of earshot, then back at Jenks and Hetta. “Perhaps, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, we should speak privately,” he whispered, all vestiges of a Spanish accent gone. “Jaime Morales sends a message regarding
Hot Idea
.”
Jenks’s mouth fell open. He looked back at the yachties gathered on the dock and softly replied, “Go to the restaurant at the RV Park. We’ll be there in a few minutes.” Then, for the benefit of the curious, he raised his voice. “Thank you,
señor
. And sorry for the misunderstanding.”
The man nodded, then joined his companion waiting back in their car. As they drove away Jenks patted Hetta on the shoulder and said, “How about if I buy you and Canardly breakfast? Then we'll haul anchor.”
Hetta nodded dumbly, still in shock over the sudden change in the so-called Mexican’s demeanor and accent. Who, or what, is he? And should we be meeting with him? How do we know we can trust him?
Or
Jaime Morales?
Jenks, as if reading Hetta’s thoughts, said, “That guy has cop written all over him. And if Jaime sent him, we should hear what he has to say. I have a feeling it’s good news.”
“Why am I thinking good news usually doesn’t come from people who scare the bejesus out of you?” Hetta frowned, but followed Jenks, practically trotting to keep up with his determined gait. Canardly followed close on her heels. Hetta glared back at him with mock scorn and chided, “And you, you fickle Fido! Don’t think I wasn’t so scared I didn’t see you grab those hot dogs and candy bars instead of defending me.”
The dog cowered at her rough tone, cutting Hetta’s heart with regret. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” She knelt to pet him, but he shied away. “I’m not going to hit you,” she cooed, “come here. Come on.”
The little dog carefully advanced, low and sideways in a subservient crawl.
“I feel like, well, dog crap,” Hetta told Jenks. “His whole short, crappy life has revolved around fear, hunger, and survival. Maybe we’ve done him a disservice by feeding him.” Not trusting humans was an essential survival instinct in a country where stray dogs were often objects of abuse by both children and adults. Dogs without owners were often kicked, stoned and run down for sport. Jenks waited while Hetta squatted down and scratched the dubious dog’s ears, then they continued towards the restaurant. “I feel awful. Canardly didn’t know I was teasing. God, I hope someone adopts him soon, before something happens to him. We transient
Gringos
fatten them up, teach them to trust in the kindness of strangers, and then sail off into the sunset. Probably a mistake. I wish we could take him, but heaven knows where we’ll end up.
“Do you really think these guys are cops? Whatever they are, they aren’t Mexican cops.”
Jenks shrugged. “We’ll soon know.”
“You mean it’s all over? We’re really safe?” Hetta asked.
“So it seems. I’m sorry for what we put you through, but someone on high from the Mexican Attorney General’s office considered you suspects.”
“Suspects?” Hetta yelped. “For what?”
“Arms smuggling.”
“You’re shittin’ me,” Jenks said.
Both men smiled and one said, “I shit you not.”
“Would you care to fill us in?” Hetta asked, her sense of relief quickly changing to chagrin. “And how about starting with just who in the Sam Hill you are.”
“Just call us Pat and Mike.”
“I guess that’s better than
los dos
Shiftys, which is what I’ve been calling you. Redeem yourselves.”
Pat grinned. “I’ll tell you what I know. You were questioned by a PGR official at a security check station last week and—”
“Oh, now I get it,” Jenks said, digging out his wallet. He handed Pat the army officer’s card from the roadblock on the way to La Paz.
“This guy?”
Pat nodded.
“They thought we might have something to do with the van they found full of guns?”
“Bingo,” Mike said.
“Bingo? What kind of talk is that for a Mexican? And what’s that got to do with Jaime?” Hetta huffed.
“Nothing whatsoever,” Pat said with a grin. “Let me explain.”
“Please do so,” Hetta said, dryly.
“First of all, we have apprehended the gun smugglers and as far as, uh, Mike and I are concerned, we are no longer interested in you.”
“Well, ain’t that a relief,” Hetta growled.
Pat shrugged a “just doin’ my job, ma’am” shrug. “We were about to leave here when we received this message and instructions to pass it to you. I told Commander Morales that there was a possibility you’d spit in my face, but he told me to take my chances.” He handed Hetta a piece of paper.
“So it’s over,” Hetta said after she and Jenks read Jaime’s summary of what happened to
Hot Idea
, the busts in Sonora, and the deaths of the men who shot at them. “It all looks so simple on paper. Almost two weeks of sheer hell, at least three, maybe more, people dead. And all it boils down to is a few lines on a piece of paper?”
“That’s the gist of it.”
“Well, then, that’s that. Thank you. You don’t know how relieved I am. But it’s all so sad. Poor Mary and Gary.”
They all stood and shook hands. Hetta started to stuff the paper in her pocket, but Mike shook his head. “Sorry, we have to keep that.”
“Oh, sure,” Hetta said and looked at it once more before handing it over. “Drugs in the keel of a sailboat? How unoriginal. It’s been done.”
“I believe so. In Florida, but not here. Also, the Mexican and American authorities suspect the smugglers may have had a little help waiting at the border, but that’s impossible to prove now, unless the boat captain gives them up.”
“Our border? I thought our guys were above bribery,” Hetta said.
“Don’t bet on it. Border Patrol and customs agents don’t make huge salaries, you know. We do have a check and balance system, but there’s always a chance someone can get to a weak link. In this case, we may never know because
Water Princess
never made it to the border.”
“You’re sure using a lot of ‘we’s’ here,” Jenks said. “Just who do you work for?”
The two men looked at each other and smiled. “We’re not at liberty to say, Mr. Jenkins.”
“I feel like we’re in the middle of a spy novel,” Hetta said. Then she asked, “Hey, is the
Water Princess
a Hans Christian?”
“Yes, I believe it is. You know the boat?”
Hetta laughed and said, “I sure do. That’s the jerk we saw here the other day.”
Mike looked at her sharply. “He was here?”
“Yep, but he didn’t stay. Cruised right on through.”
“Thanks for the info, and sorry your lives were so disrupted.”
“Disrupted?” Hetta huffed, then she sighed. “Never mind. So, there’s no reason to go to La Paz? I mean, now we can go on to San Carlos?”
“No reason not to. And
Comandante
Morales said to tell you he'd like the opportunity to thank you personally for your help. I’m sure, if you contact him when you get to San Carlos, he’ll buy you a margarita.”
“Secret agent man, I think I love you,” Hetta said.
Late that afternoon, Jenks went into the main saloon to mix drinks, leaving Hetta on deck. She sighed deeply, taking in the beauty of the Puerto Escondido anchorage and the sun lowering behind the jagged Gigante Mountain Range. Dark volcanic peaks jutted into a peach sky and pelicans kamikazed into turquoise water. An osprey shrieked and swooped to snag a pipe fish dinner in its sharp talons.
“What’cha thinking?” Jenks asked, returning to the back deck with their drinks.
“Oh, how much I’ll miss this when we go back to the States.”
“Me too, but our cruising kitty is dying of starvation. We can put the boat on the hard in San Carlos, go back to do the ‘W’ word for a while, and then come back. Plenty of other cruisers have.”
“I guess we have to.” Hetta let out a deep breath. “Oh, well, we’ve known the time was coming for five years. On an intellectual level, I know we need to jump back into the rat race, but emotionally, I just hate the idea. Maybe I’ve gotten lazy.”
“Hetta, you’ve never been lazy. We both worked hard before we left, and we can do it again. Tell you what, we’ll make a two-year plan. If we get good jobs and live carefully, we can put away enough dough to come back in two years.”
“Heck, I can stand on my head for two years. Thanks, I feel better. Let us get the dirty deed done. The sooner we put
HiJenks
high and dry and we get back to work, the sooner we'll be cruising again. Let's leave tomorrow at oh-dark-thirty, maybe spend the night at San Juanico and be in Caracol...oh rats, Jenks, day after tomorrow’s Thanksgiving and we don’t have a turkey. Bud's expecting me to cook.”