Authors: Jinx Schwartz
Bud had the soapbox. “Dammit, Hetta, Bowie was already in Texas. He was even married to a Mexican gal whose pappy was a government honcho...didn’t just come in like those land grabbin’ Yankees.” He stopped and looked apologetically at Jenks. “No offense intended.”
“None taken.” Jenks smiled, and meant it. He no longer considered himself a Yankee. He’d left New York more than thirty years before, and on top of that, he was now, officially, a Texan. Hetta called him a recovering Yankee.
When they married and left California, the Jenkins established legal residence in Hetta’s home state. There was no state income tax and the State of Texas, unlike the greedy bureaucrats in California, wasn’t interested in collecting property tax on a boat that wasn’t in the state. And, Hetta's beloved gun collection was welcome.
Hetta and her family put Jenks through a good-natured residency test before declaring him fit to join the Republic and giving him official papers. Jenks, baptized in Lone Star Beer and having forsaken his Yankee ways, was presented with Hetta’s calligraphic “Texas Citizenship Commandments” he still kept with his other important documents.
1. The only finger aimed at other drivers will be the index finger, respectfully lifted from the steering wheel in greeting to passing motorists.
2. Never pass on a cattle guard.
3. It is mandatory to pull to the side of the road and stop when meeting a funeral procession.
4. Always drive forty miles an hour in the fast lane, forcing traffic to pass on your right. Or one-hundred. Nothing in-between.
5. Never stare at ladies wearing large pink hair curlers and huge diamond rings in the Piggly Wiggly supermarket.
6. Never blow your nose in the Dairy Queen.
7. Do not, under threat of severe shin bashing, applaud a religious song.
8. Always jump to standing when a lady enters the room.
9. Switch from scotch to bourbon.
He also learned to heap lavish praise on the skills of whichever uncle has spent the entire night roasting baby goat over mesquite coals for whatever family reunion attended.
Jenks mentally ticked off those humorous commandments, added one of his own: Yankees shalt not offer opinions on Texas. Listening to Bud and Hetta, he feared THE WAR would continue, unabated, right through dinner. Or worse, instead of dinner.
“Hey, you two. You ended up on the same side. Bud’s even vice admiral of your own private navy, Hetta, so let’s call a cease fire so I can fire up the grill.”
The combatants nodded, but then continued their rehash while preparing burgers for the grill and making salad. Hetta, whose family had sided with Mexico and Santa Anna until the fall of the Alamo, blasted that rascally Andrew Jackson for sending his land-grabbing puppet, Sam Houston, the politician to take advantage of the Mexican turmoil. Hearing his name, Sam Houston, the terrier, flew into a fit of expectant barks and wiggles, ending the Mexican standoff.
Hetta noticed that Bud wasn’t eating much at dinner. “Bud, is your ulcer acting up again?”
Bud took another slug of Wild Turkey. “Naw, I just ain’t hungry.” Sam Houston took note of Bud’s lack of appetite and generously finished off his master’s hamburger. To save him the trouble, of course.
Hetta let the subject drop. “So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving this year?”
“I already bought a big old bird and was hopin’ you’d be around to roast it, Hetta. Pammy, she isn’t much of a cook.”
Hetta let that understatement slide. “I hope we will be. We plan to be, anyway. I’ve got everything else we need, right down to the pumpkin pie mix. Let’s plan on it. Maybe at Caracol?”
“Deal. Well, me ’n’ old Sam better hit the trail. If I can get my big butt out of this chair. I guess I might’a had one too many.”
“Jenks will take you and your dinghy back, Bud. I’ll follow in
Jenkzy
.”
“Don’t have to...I’ll have one of my boys bring him.”
Hetta was relieved that Bud didn’t give her any trouble. Even though she had surreptitiously watered his drinks most of the evening, Bud was so drunk that Hetta had no intention of letting him drive his dinghy back to
All Bidness
. The Natalie Wood tragedy years before at Catalina Island highlighted the dangers of booze and boating. The slogan, “Alcohol and water don’t mix,” is all too true.
Hetta recognized the boat boy when he brought Jenks back. He was called KiKi, one of the dock rats who hung around the marina, picking up odd jobs and always on the lookout for
Gringos
like Bud who drank too much and threw money around. She dubbed these young men wannabes because they wanted to be anything but what they were: kids from poor families who longed for another life, dreamed of becoming captains on a rich man’s boat. They picked up American slang, dressed in yachty castoffs, and eventually moved on to more menial jobs.
Sitting out on deck after Jenks’s return, Hetta and Jenks finished their dinner wine and watched
All Bidness
raise anchor and motor out of the harbor.
“Bud must have told them to get underway,” Jenks said. “He said he’s anxious to get up to Caracol to see Pam.”
“God, I can’t tell you how much I hate hearing that. Do you think I’m just jealous that she’s stolen my friend?”
“Maybe a little too protective, Hetta. Bud’s a big boy, you know.”
“I know, I know. It’s just...what do you honestly think of Pam?”
Jenks finished his wine. Unlike Hetta, he was cautious when forming and voicing opinions of others. And far more tolerant of human foibles. “Is this a trick question?”
“Come on. I promise not to go ballistic on you. Tell,” Hetta coaxed.
“I feel sorry for her.”
“What?” Hetta yelped. Of all the answers she could have imagined, that wasn’t one of them.
“No ballistics, huh?”
“You surprised me, that’s all. Okay, Jenks, you feel sorry for her. Why?”
Jenks, against his better judgment, struggled to explain his reasoning. “She doesn’t have any substance. She’s pretty, but I don’t think she’s kind. No kindness. And I think she’s smart, but she uses it the wrong way.”
“So, let me get this straight. You feel sorry for this shallow and manipulative bimbo?”
Jenks grinned and asked, “Is this a trick question?”
Addendum to Log of
HiJenks
,
November 10, Puerto Escondido
Wind: Calm Sky: Clear Barometer: Steady
We made it here without further incident and everything has been quiet. No helicopters. Nada. Maybe that’s the end of it. We’ve decided to keep the whole thing to ourselves and take a “wait and see” attitude; we wait to see if someone shows up to kill us?
Bud showed up today and said Pam was at Caracol when we were. But I wonder. If she was, did she see us? And if so, why didn’t she radio us? Unless she had company she didn’t want us to meet? Bud looks like hell. His color is bad. Under his tan, he’s gray, and he’s not eating. Maybe I can talk to him at Thanksgiving and try to find out what’s wrong. Like I don’t know! Lord, I hope that bitch doesn’t break his heart in a way the doctors can’t fix.
Chapter 15
O, what a tangled web we weave when we practice to deceive—Sir Walter Scott
“When did you arrive?” the officious young man in crisp khakis wanted to know. According to his badge, he was Garcia, J. Assistant Port Captain.
Garcia, J. did not look up when he asked the question, but continued rummaging through a desk drawer. Finding a ballpoint pen, he then began to shuffle through a stack of papers containing
HiJenks
’s United States Documentation Certificate, Jenks and Hetta’s Mexican entry visas, passports, and a receipt from their stay at Marina del Cortez. Except for Hetta’s papers, the battered metal desktop was bare.
“We arrived Tuesday afternoon. Around four,” she lied. If things went as she hoped they would, the official record would show
HiJenks
at anchor in Puerto Escondido on Thursday night instead of under attack many miles to the north.
“Tuesday?” Garcia’s head snapped up and he took a list from a desk drawer. Perusing the printout, a scowl marred his handsome face. “You did not check in by radio, señora? We no longer require you come into the office in person. But, five days....”
“Yes, sir,” Hetta said with a rueful sigh, “I apologize, but we had amoebas.”
The day after they arrived in Puerto Escondido, Jenks and Hetta cadged a ride into Loreto with a friend from the cruiser fleet. The thirty mile trip into town, and the port captain's office, was no longer a requirement, as it had been in the past, but Hetta wanted to be remembered.
That old paper chase was been the bane of the cruiser's existence, with trips to immigration (which may or may not be open) and then to the port authorities, was even more of a pain in the butt for Puerto Escondido that most anchorages, due to the distance and cost. It was an expense most cruisers’ budgets could not bear, and were thankfully rid of.
Back in the day, many a boater stole into Puerto Escondido, took on water, hit the
tienda
for groceries and beer, and slunk back out. Port officials seldom monitored the anchorage, a good thing for those who chose to bend the rules, for if caught, a hefty fine and confiscation of the vessel or both were valid, albeit rarely levied, punishment.
A cruiser showing up in the
Capitanía de Puerto
these days was probably a rarity, and this man acted as though it was also a great imposition.
“Amoebas?” Garcia, J. huffed. Amoebas, Mexico’s all-encompassing excuse for anything from being late to work to missing a cousin’s wedding, usually evoked a compassionate response. This young official, however, looked skeptical. Hetta did her best to look both parasitically infested and sorrowfully remiss.
She must have been convincing for he held out his hand for the paper she offered, looked it over, asked a couple of questions, and extracted an inkpad and four or five rubber stamps from a drawer. Garcia carefully inked one, raised it, and then arrested its descent two inches above the paper. Hand hovering, he eyed Hetta again and said, “You left La Paz one month ago?”
“
Si
, señor.”
“For San Carlos?”
“
Si
, señor.”
“Where have you been, señora?”
Hetta was stunned. In all her years of cruising in Mexico no one had ever questioned the time it took to get from port to port. It was not at all out of the ordinary for a boater to while away more than a month or so cruising the one hundred and twenty miles between La Paz and Puerto Escondido. Her mind raced through logical excuses, discarding them. She coughed to buy time. Did we use the radio when we passed by here two weeks ago? If so, what did we say? Did someone from the
Capitanía
hear us?
“Sorry,” Hetta said, patting her chest, “what did you say?”
“Where have you been during these weeks?” the young man repeated, cutting his eyes slyly at the cute secretary across the room.
Hetta almost swooned with relief. The jerk is playing macho man to make brownie points with the girl. Fine, if he wants to flex a little muscle to impress
la muchacha
with his intolerance for
Gringo
dilettantes who could spend over a month going nowhere, so be it.
Hetta tilted her head and shrugged a Mexican shrug. “Oh,
las islas
.” There were at least seven major islands between La Paz and Puerto Escondido.
Grunting, Garcia re-inked the stamp and flew into a frenzy of pommeling and signing. This done, he issued a command to the object of his admiration. The young Mexican beauty, who evidently did not rank high enough for a name badge, gathered the paper from his desk and noisily settled into a metal folding chair. Beauty carefully inserted overused carbon paper between six blank forms as if each sheet were gold leaf. Then, on an antediluvian Royal, with two-fingered resolve, she typed still another set of documents doomed to undergo flagellation by rubber stamp.
Hetta discovered several interesting cracks in the ceiling, and watched a small lizard corner a spider breakfast. While studying an ancient map of the Sea of Cortez on the back wall, she heard the unmistakable sound of papers being unrolled from a typewriter, and she began rummaging in her fanny pack for pesos.
The girl saw money in her hand and said, “No money. You sign?"
Once Hetta signed by the X, the girl deftly removed all carbons with a single sleight of hand. Tilting the typewriter onto its backside to clear a space, she did a bit of stamping herself before asking Hetta to sign once more on all six copies. After doing so, she reached for the papers, but the girl raised her hand, her thumb and index finger a pebble’s width apart in the Mexican “
momento
” sign. A receipt was written, stamped, signed and a copy given to Hetta.
Finally, the young lady passed the papers back to Garcia. After he added his signature, Hetta once again stuck out her hand for the documents.
“Receipt, please,” Garcia demanded.
Hetta bit back a giggle and dug the receipt from her pocket. Garcia studied it carefully, mumbled something about procedures, and then, at last, offered the papers to Hetta.
She took hold, but he did not let go.
“How long will you stay in Puerto Escondido?” he asked, still firmly grasping his end.
“Maybe a week, maybe a month. We are not certain.”
“If you stay more than a month, let us know.”
“Of course,” Hetta smiled and added, “
Capitán
.” She knew he wasn’t a full captain, but figured a little brown-nosing never hurt.
Garcia let go of the report, said if they found her dinghy that blew away during the storm, they would contact her by radio. His tone left little doubt there wasn't a chance in hell of finding the rubber raft. Hetta knew it wouldn't be found, for it did not exist. However, now they were on record as being in the area during the norther. Just in case.
Jenks and their friend, Al Kanady, waited outside next to Al’s battered Volkswagen bus. Al was semiofficially sanctioned by the Loreto port captain to keep an eye on boats for owners who needed to leave them on moorings, or at anchor, in Puerto Escondido. Without Al’s quasi-official presence, a boat left at anchor, unattended by the owner, could be deemed abandoned. Al’s ability to somewhat legally baby-sit for the absentee owner worked well for everyone involved. Even so, every few years—usually coinciding with a change of staff—the Mexicans rattled their swords and a brigade of boat owners rushed back from all over the United States and Canada to thwart bureaucratic folderol concerning their vessels. Pesos and paperwork resolved the problem.
“All done?” Al asked when he saw a smiling Hetta leave the
Capitanía
.
“Stamped, re-stamped, re-re-stamped, carboned, and done,” Hetta told him, then sang, “in low tech harmony.”
“With that voice I'd keep my day job. I still don't know why you went through this drill, cuz you know that dinghy is long gone. Lucky for you it was a spare.”
“Yeah, lucky,” Hetta agreed, thinking,
What a tangled web lies do weave.
“Uh, can we stop by and get some fresh veggies, Al? I’d like to see what Don Vincente has in his bountiful garden today.”
“Sure can.”
Vincente, a weathered gardener of indeterminate age, gave them a snaggle-toothed grin and a loud greeting. He and a friend were playing a game using cards that barely had numbers left on them. They were betting with chile peppers. Vincente left a huge pile on his side of the table.
“I cannot refrain from making the obvious comment about a pepper pot,” Hetta quipped.
As Vincente proudly guided them around his garden, he pointed out which crops were ready to pick, then watched closely as Hetta harvested tomatoes and chiles. Vincente himself pulled tiny, sweet carrots and dug small red potatoes. As he washed the vegetables in his spring water well, he threw in free weather advice along with a sprig or two of parsley and cilantro.
“I will have snow peas later this week. The north wind will blow, so I will pick the them the day before.”
“Ah, the wind and pea report. What day will the wind blow, Don Vincente?”
“
Sabado, senõra
. And then again on
la luna llena.”
“Jenks, you heard him. Don Vincente says there will be a big blow on Saturday, and again on the full moon. We can’t cross to San Carlos that night.”
Jenks and Al exchanged a look that told Hetta they preferred to rely on more sophisticated weather reports from the ham nets.
An hour later the Volkswagen chuffed along Mex 1 toward Puerto Escondido, its engine straining under a huge load of beer, cokes, laundry, gasoline jerry cans—the on-again, off-again fuel dock was off...again—and freshly picked vegetables.
On one steep hill, Hetta sang out, “I think I can, I think I can,” from
The Little Engine That Could.
“You know, Hetta, if you'd get out and walk it'd lighten the load.”
Hetta threatened to sink Al's boat with him in it, and they all had a good laugh, a much needed one on Hetta's part. The strain of the past few days was taking a toll.
Arriving at the dinghy landing, Al switched his handheld VHF radio to channel sixteen and announced, “
Norma Jean’s
at the dinghy dock. Come and get it.”
All over the harbor skiffs were launched and eager boaters streaked towards shore to retrieve goodies picked up for them by Al. Jenks and Al unloaded the bus, handing down lighter items to Hetta on the dock.
Dave, a forest fire fighter from Alaska arrived first at the dock, threw his line to Hetta and, with an excitement belying his profession, blurted, “Did you hear about
Hot Idea
?”
“No, what now? They lose our mail?” Hetta asked sardonically. Hot Idea and her slipshod crew were always good for a bit of good-natured gossip.
“They’re dead! Murdered!”
“What?” Hetta croaked. Dave’s wake rocked the floating dock and Hetta, her normal sense of balance thrown off by shock, almost fell into the water.
Jenks saw Hetta pale and sway, so he rushed down the steps and grabbed her arm. “When? And where?” he asked Dave.
“Well, there’s not a whole lot of details yet. It’s just now coming in over the ham nets. Seems the Goodalls were murdered sometime Friday, somewhere just south of San Carlos. And with machetes.”
Hetta broke away from Jenks, bounded up the undulating dock steps, ran across a dirt road and threw up. Jenks was right behind her, patting her back while she tossed up fish tacos.
“Here, try some of this, Hetta,” Al said, handing her a lukewarm Pepsi from the van. Even warm, the fizz in the drink settled her stomach, but she still shook and tears stung her eyes.
Jenks felt a little queasy himself. It was fast dawning on him that the demise of the
Hot Idea’s
crew was most likely no coincidence.