Authors: Jinx Schwartz
Hetta took the ship’s log from a bookshelf, noted their time of departure, and read off the coordinates for Catch-22 Beach. Jenks fired up the new GPS, and was preparing to add in their destination when he noticed a few waypoints already entered. “Hey, guess what’s loaded in here?”
“What?” Hetta asked, leaning over Jenks’s shoulder to see the illuminated readout on the GPS. He hit another button and the readout bounced back to the list of waypoints. The first one was coded “C” and was totally unfamiliar, but the second, coded “Petrol” was in the anchorage they just left.
Hetta grabbed her logbook to double check, ran her finger down a list she had compiled over the years, and sucked in her breath. In the middle of the page were the exact coordinates from the GPS. And written next to them: Bud’s Mooring.
Chapter 36
Fool: it is you who are the pursued, the marked-down quarry, the destined prey.—Shaw
Pam, naked and bathed in moonlight, sauntered into the bedroom carrying a flute of champagne in each hand. Her bikini line, glowing alabaster in contrast to her carefully maintained tan, gave the illusion she wore a bathing suit. Glancing out the open French doors of the beach house, she checked on
All Bidness
, saw nothing amiss, and handed a glass to her husband, Buzz Gibbs.
“Don’t you think the champagne is a bit premature, Pam? After tonight I’ll fill a bathtub with the stuff for you.” He sipped, and added, “Better stuff. Bud’s taste in bourbon is far better than his taste in bubbly.”
“Gibby, what happened with Hector? I mean it was just a fluke wasn’t it? Him getting busted and killed?”
“I’m sure of it. Something somehow went wrong, but it wasn’t anything we did. Way I understand it, the cops in Sonora just got lucky and Hector got dead. I didn't tell "Colombo" his little brother’s best high school buddy was a coke freak who was doing his best to fuck up the whole Mexican setup. Frankly, I’m glad Hector’s out of the picture. If he’d been taken alive he’d probably’ve sold his soul for a hit of nose candy. And if he talked to the right folks we’d be shark bait by now. Well, I’d be fish food. You’d be servicing some short-dicked Jap in a Tokyo brothel. Ichi has a real crappy sense of humor.”
“But he’s very ambitious.”
“Shit, they all are. Ichi wants the yen to bring back his father’s defunct industrial empire, Colombo and his little brother, what with Mexico becoming the new Columbia, want to crowd out Mexican cartels, Mo’s financing those foamin’ at the mouth raghead terrorists of his, and I think the Aussie just enjoys a good rousin’ row. Harvard trained ‘em right.”
“What do
you
want?”
“Out. I’m just an employee, and after tonight I collect my paycheck from a very discreet bank in the Grand Caymans and go live on a sugary sand beach with you, Sugar Britches. If the Bintu’s will let me.”
“Bintu’s?”
“My name for them. You know, they come from all over the world, but they all been to Harvard. Somehow, though, I don't think Harvard Business School had their career choice in mind. But, hell, bidness is bidness, as Bud would say.”
Pam giggled and sipped her champagne, mentally shopping for clothes, cars, and jewelry. “Can we live in New York City? I’ve always wanted to live there.”
“New York? Have you lost your mind? We can’t live anywhere in the States. If we’re not toast with the DEA by now, we soon will be. It won’t take them long to trace
Water Princess
right back to Bud. We can’t even stay in Mexico.”
“Why not? Bud’s the one they’re looking for, you know.”
“Once they nab him, how long do you think it’ll take them to figure out we’re involved? I mean, you’re his mistress of record,” Gibbs smiled, giving her a mock toast.
“Grand Caymans, huh? Our money’ll be there, so we shouldn’t have a problem staying. The money
will
be there, won’t it?”
“Unless we mess up. And we can’t. Nothing, and I do mean nada, can go wrong tonight because it’s my...our...last shot, Pammy, to take the money and run, cuz if we hang around here, and the DEA or
federales
don’t get us, the Mexican cartels will. That bunch of bad boys in Tijuana don’t like no stinkin’ freelancers. You and me, we’ll leave it to the big boys to duke it out. Once the Bintu’s get confirmation that the stuff’s on the mother ship, our part is done, and the money hits the bank.”
“So, if the pangas only have to go as far as the mother ship, why do they need so much fuel?”
“Decoys. They offload at the ship, then I’ve given each one of them a second destination—way up north. With any luck, the space age boys at the DEA will keep busy tracking empty pangas straight into Tijuana Cartel territory. The Bintus want to keep the feds—ours and theirs—guessing, and fuck with the boy’s heads up in TJ. And speaking of fuel, I guess we’d better get over to
All Bidness
and see how things are going.”
All Bidness
, tied stern and bow to keep her “business” side to sea, and away from prying eyes on shore, bustled with activity. Her crew was filling thirty gallon
mammillas
with gasoline from Bud’s newly installed “diesel” tank, and lowering them into pangas with a motorized davit. The brilliant moonlight alleviated any need for deck lights and the yacht was moored far enough away from shore that the residents of Punta Caracol, including the soldiers stationed at the end of the runway, could not see the operation.
Gibbs climbed aboard and inspected a row of
mammillas
lined up along the forward rails. He coughed. “For God’s sake don’t anybody light a fuckin’ cigarette,” he commanded, then grinned and added, “yet.”
Gasoline fumes permeated the air, and Bud’s normally pristine main decks were slick with fuel.
All Bidness
was a potential floating Molotov cocktail. The boat boys frantically mopped the decks with a liquid degreaser, then hosed it down with saltwater from the anchor chain wash down hose, but every time they filled or moved another
mammilla
, gasoline escaped from the ill-fitting lids and sloshed down the sides. Gibbs carefully worked his way to the bow, slipping and sliding over a mixture of Simple Green and gasoline. He clutched his bag of preset GPS receivers in one hand while hanging on to the rail with the other.
Pam emerged from the galley with a bottle of heavy duty dishwashing detergent in her hand and complained, “Jesus, it stinks out here.” Squirting Dawn in front of her, she made her way forward to where Gibby and Gato were working. Gibbs leaned over the rail, and was handing a GPS to a panga driver when Pam slid against him, almost pushing him overboard.
“Watch it! What in the hell are you doing out here? Get below,” Gibby growled.
“I just remembered something I forgot to tell you. That bitch Hetta? She found a GPS on the beach a couple of weeks ago and from her description of the case, I’d bet my last dime it’s from the panga that idiot Hector blew up. We got all the others back.”
“Holy shit! We’ve got to get
that
one back. If Jenks somehow figures out what’s going on he could blow tonight’s operation. Where in hell did they go?” Gibbs squinted towards the empty anchorage near the hotel.
Pam looked and shook her head. “I guess they left. But it doesn’t matter, baby.”
“It doesn’t matter? Are you nuts?”
“Nope, I had KiKi fetch the GPS from
HiJenks
while Hetta stuffed her fat face full of hot apple pie. I ain’t no dumb blonde.”
“You ain’t no
real
blonde. But you done good. I’ll reprogram that unit and use it for tonight’s run. Let’s get moving, we’ve got pangas waiting.”
Gabriel Gomez, sitting in his panga, heard Pam mention Hector’s name. Since he didn’t speak English, he didn’t know what the
Gringa
said, but he heard, “Hector.”
It was Hector he’d come for.
He'd promised his little brother, Pedro, he would no longer have anything to do with this business, but he had a score to settle, and this was the place to do it. His brother, when he regained consciousness, told him something he told no other; Pedro saw Hector in the helicopter. And he knew Hector saw
him
, knew he was still alive, but blew up the panga anyway.
Gabriel wanted a piece of his
pinche
puto
cousin, Hector.
Gibbs followed his wife back to the main saloon. Out of habit, Pam paused at the door to slip off her shoes, but Gibbs just laughed and pushed in front of her. “Oh, I guess it doesn’t matter any more, huh?” she said. They tromped across the spotless white Berber, leaving a soap and fuel trail.
“Did you check on Bud?”
“Dead.”
Gibbs looked a little startled. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“No, you dork. But he has enough booze and tranquilizers in him to keep down an elephant. And so he wouldn’t be in the way, I slipped Sam Houston a Mickey Finn as well. He’s in doggy dreamland.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t drowned that mutt.”
“I probably would have if I didn’t think Bud would keelhaul me.”
“Losing your touch? Thought you had the old hillbilly under control. After tonight, it’s bye-bye to him, his boat,
and
his stupid dog.” Gibbs turned his attention to the GPS Pam handed him. “We’ve got plenty of time, but I’ll go ahead and load in tonight’s coordinates into this unit. The drop will be at Zero-two-thirty hours. Two and a half hours from now.”
“I love it when you talk military. Want something to eat?”
“Got any turkey left?”
“I think that little shit Sam Houston left some.”
Gibbs turned on the GPS, and then rummaged through his briefcase for the list of coordinates. He read the illuminated display, looked puzzled, then turned the instrument over and blanched. “Pam!” he bellowed, “get your ass in here.”
Pam charged into the main cabin, ready for a fight. “Listen you son of a bitch, don’t you yell at me like that. As a matter of fact, you can get your own damned sandwich.”
“Screw the food,” Gibbs said, waving the GPS. “Can’t you fuckin’ read?” He shoved the unit in Pam’s face, pointing to a black plastic label stuck on the back.
Pam looked at it and read, “‘Property of
HiJenks
. All others will be shot.’ Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh? That’s all you have to say? And now
HiJenks
is gone.” He threw the GPS onto the settee. “We have to stop them. If they try to use
our
GPS to get to San Carlos—and, thanks to you and your KiKi, they probably will—they’ll see the waypoints. The old coordinates don’t mean nothin’ anymore, except for one: petrol. Everyone in the Sea of Cortez knows that drug-running pangas need gas, and it won’t take a fuckin’ rocket scientist to put two and two together. Shitfire, all we needed was a few friggin’ hours.”
“What’ll we do?” Pam whined.
“That piece of crap trawler of theirs can’t do over ten knots, so we can catch them long before they reach San Carlos. Let’s just hope they don’t contact San Carlos by radio and tip off the Feds tonight. There’s no way to call off the drop. The plane’s on the way. Jesus, we can’t afford a screw-up tonight.”
Pam’s face suddenly brightened. “Hey, Gibby, Bud told me something’s wrong with
HiJenks
’s radio.”
“You’re kidding? Finally, a fuckin’ break. Come on, let’s go get them.”
“Uh, what do you mean,
get
?” Pam asked.
“Cut the blonde crap. You know damned well what I mean. Now move it.”
Pam and Gibbs rushed on deck and set into motion a scene of confusion. Gibby screamed orders while pangas were waved off and given orders to go to their rendezvous points. Full mammillas, too heavy to lift by hand, were lashed to
All Bidness
’s forward rails. The rest were thrown overboard.
KiKi and Gato fought a losing battle with mops, degreaser, and salt water, trying to blast enough gas from the deck so they dared start the engines. Pam went below and returned with blankets and sheets to spread over the slick decks and sop up more fuel.
While Gato started the engines, Gibbs flipped on the radar, and waited impatiently for the screen to boot up. When it did, he smiled. He was sure the dot glowing near the edge of the twenty-mile line was
HiJenks
.
KiKi threw off the mooring line, and
All Bidness
roared out of the anchorage at eighteen knots.
“
All Bidness
must be refueling dope pangas,” Jenks said grimly, “from Bud’s new thousand gallon fuel tank. He said it was diesel, but my guess it’s gasoline. That’s the only explanation I can come up with.”
“Bud’s a drug runner? Jenks, I just can’t believe that. He’s never even smoked a joint. And he has all the money he'll ever need. Why on earth would he get mixed up in something like this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s Pam’s doing.”
“What are we going to do? Rat out Bud? We should, I guess, tell Jaime Morales about the GPS thing when we get to San Carlos tomorrow, but...oh, my God!”
“What?”
“Could Bud be responsible for
Hot Idea
? The Goodall’s deaths?” Hetta’s face was pale and her lower lip trembled.
“It’s possible, but if so, he’s a damned good actor. And he didn’t even blink when we told him about the GPS at dinner.”
“But now the GPS is gone,” Hetta said softly.
They lapsed into thought, each trying to figure out what to do next, until Jenks broke the silence. “Oh hell, Hetta.”