Just Follow the Money

by Jinx Schwartz

  “And,” Nacho handed me an official-looking document and something that looked like a credit card, “here is your Mexican permit to carry.”

  “Who do I have to kill? You do know this gun is only effective at close range, right? I try not to get that near anyone who just needs killin’.”

  He grinned. “Café,” he said in that knee-melting accent of his, “this is not a license to kill.”

  “Rats.”

  “Let’s drift and bottom fish, and I’ll tell you what we want from you.”

  An hour later we’d snagged four good-sized red snappers, and I had a new job. I made a mental note of Nacho’s GPS reading so I could come back another time and raid his secret fishing hole.

  While I was filleting a snapper, I said, “So, just to be clear. I am the only one on this job? No Jan? No Cholo?”

  “Just you.”

  “Why is that? You know you can trust them.”

  “Of course. The problem is, you are the only one of our group who had not yet returned to Mexico until the day before yesterday. Everyone else involved in the rescue has been here since before Christmas.”

  “And that is important why?”

  “The ransom money we paid for Juanita is showing up in Mexico.”

  I almost filleted my finger. “What? You marked the money? How?”

  “If I tell you, I shall have to kill you.”

  “Har, har. How much has shown up, and where?”

  “Here in La Paz. Only about twenty thousand.”

  “Nowhere else?”

  “No. At least as far as we know.”

  I was picturing that skiff I’d lowered into the water off Cannes. It was packed to the gunwales with over three hundred pounds of twenty-dollar bills, wrapped in plastic like marijuana bales so they’d float. I remember thinking how compacted three million can get when vacuum packed: there were twelve bundles, a little over six inches wide and four feet long. If we could have snagged even one, it would be worth a quarter of a million.

  “Did you guys mark all of them?’

  “Every single bill. It was a long flight from Mexico to Cannes.”

  “So, where in La Paz are they showing up?”

  “Vista Hermosa.”

  “Vista Hermosa? You’re kidding me?” I pictured the dirt-poor part of town, well hidden from a tourist’s eyes. Poverty rules, tarpaper shacks dot the dusty hillsides, and although they have a stunning view (thus the name, Beautiful View), sanitation is nil, no electricity, and water is trucked in. This is where children have no shoes and go to school hungry. And where, every year, gifts are given by the community to those kids. “Let me guess. Jolly old Papa Noel?”

  Nacho nodded. “How’d you know?’

  “Before I left for France I was recruited to help drum up money and gifts for them. It’s a big deal every year.”

  “Bigger this year. Twenty-dollar bills were distributed with the toys, fruit, and clothes. When local merchants started depositing them in their bank accounts, our phone lines lit up. We are trying to keep a lid on the story, but it is only a matter of time before someone asks where all this money came from.”

  “Like you are.”

  “Exactly. We are afraid the kidnapping story will get out somehow. El Jefe isn’t concerned with the money itself, only about what will happen if the whole story somehow is unearthed. Right now, it’s still a feel-good mystery Santa story.”

  “Except this Santa/Robin Hood snatched the young granddaughter of a prominent Mexican businessman, held her captive, and tore a hole in her ear before getting a three-million-dollar ransom.”

  I grabbed the last fish from the cooler and got into a tug of war with Po Thang. I won, but only after offering up one of Nacho’s chips in trade.

  Nacho removed his Tostitos from my reach. “Here in Mexico, men like El Jefe do not report this type of crime.”

  “Makes them seem less macho?” I snarled. For some reason, this type of cover-up in the name of not seeming vulnerable made my blood boil. All it does is embolden these bastards.

  He looked startled, then nodded slowly. “I had not thought of it that way, but you could be right. At any rate, we want Santa bagged. Quietly.”

  “I wonder where the rest of the moolah is.”

  “My guess is that it is being laundered as we speak. It will show up, but certainly not in Mexico, and it might take months.”

  “How does that work, exactly?’

  “Offshore investments. Building large hotels in the middle of nowhere is one way. You’ve seen them all over Mexico.”

  “Sure have. You can fire a shotgun through the lobby and not hit a soul, but they show fully booked. I’ve gone into one for lunch. Dining room empty, huge and impressive menu, but they are out of everything. And try to order one of those wines from their list? Also strangely not available.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, our only hope is to track down who added the marked twenties to all those packages for the kids.”

  “It is our only clue.”

  “Looks like I’ll have to re-volunteer. Several groups are still planning more events and gifts for Three King’s Day. Same people running the show, so if nothing else I can maybe get a list of past volunteers. My guess is they have an appreciation lunch or something for everyone after the dust settles, as well.”

  “That is my thought. Shall we go look for nautilus shells on the beach?”

  “Sure. Po Thang would love a run, but after that I’m looking forward to a cool drink and a soft bed for an afternoon lie down.”

  He leered at me.

  “Alone.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I am terrible at keeping secrets. Especially from Jan, of all people, but Nacho was adamant about me not sharing what I was being hired to do. Perhaps a little more than insistent; I distinctly remember the words, “Great bodily harm.”

  Since Rhonda and Jan were staying for New Year’s Eve, I convinced them to join me in volunteering to wrap packages, put together fruit and popcorn bags, and the like, for the onslaught of kiddies who would come into downtown La Paz for Three King’s Day.

  The Christmas event was held out at Vista Hermosa, but Three King’s Day included a broader spectrum of needy kids, from even farther afield.

  Jan was already an old hand in these endeavors, as she was a part of Chino’s family now, and they made certain families in poverty-level fish camps all over the peninsula received gifts and food on special occasions. As she told us on the way to sign up, “You cannot imagine the gratitude and joy on these little kids’ faces when you give them a bag of oranges and a cheap toy. Or the older ones a pair of tennis shoes. It will break your heart.”

  I felt a little guilty that I was being paid to do what the others were doing out of the goodness of their hearts, but hey, a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do. However, to assuage my guilt some, I had a fat wad of 100 peso notes in my pocket to add to the packages.

  I recognized many boaters among the busy volunteers, as well as many local business men and women. Even my favorite fish taco lady, Maria, was there, feeding us worker bees.

  Wealthy Mexicans have not, in the past, been noted for their charity to their impoverished countrymen, but that is changing; even Carlos Slim was finally convinced to share his wealth, and is especially involved in making the internet available and educating people to work in the industry. Scoffers consider that a little on the self-serving side, but hey, whatever works.

  And, admittedly, I have been a little lax in the do-gooder thing; I can be generous to a fault, according to my parents and Jenks, but not in any organized manner. I figured working to give little kids joy would do me some good, and if I made money, as well? Charity begins at home, as they say.

  Looking at the smiling people filling bags, chatting about their Christmases and making sure each package was exactly equal so no child drew a short stick, it was hard to imagine that any of them had some kind of connection to a kidnapping for ransom. But someon
e did, and it was my job to ferret them out.

  I volunteered to make up the packages for the older kids, as I figured a tween or teen was much less likely to just hand over a hundred pesos to their parents. My contribution was for these kids to use as they wished, something many of them had never been allowed to do. Luckily, those bags were not filled as yet; they were concentrating first on the little ones.

  Jan joined me, while Rhonda was put in charge of toddler packs; baby food, diapers, and other necessities. After witnessing beautiful beaches littered with filthy diapers, I questioned the wisdom of doling out even more disposable nappies, but then again, most of these people didn’t even have running water, much less a washing machine.

  Jan, black marker in hand, labeled the package I’d just handed her: BOY, SIZE 5 ,for the sneakers inside. Each one contained—besides those athletic shoes donated by Walmart—soccer socks, a toothbrush, toothpaste, hand sanitizer and a bar of soap. I could just imagine the look of dismay on an American yuppie puppy’s face if handed such a gift but was assured the Three King’s Day kids would be delighted. On a long table, another woman, a boater I knew, sorted the sacks by shoe size. On another table were fine mesh bags of oranges, hard candies, and caramel corn.

  During a break, I sauntered over to one of the harassed-looking organizers.

  “Wow, there must be fifty volunteers here today. Is that the norm?” I asked.

  She blew a stray blonde hair out of her eyes. “Just about, take twenty or so. On the sixth we’ll have twice as many, thank God.”

  I stuck out my hand. “Hetta Coffey, I’m a boater.”

  “You boaters are a godsend every year. You aren’t worn down like some of us who live here year-round.”

  “So, when did you put together the Christmas packages and give them out?”

  “Lemme think. Christmas is always a blur. Between Club Cruceros, and all the other organizations that have events far and wide, I lose track. I know blankets were handed out before Christmas. Some of these kids sleep on dirt floors without one. We start working December first to assemble all these donations, and try to hand them out just before Christmas. We used to do it Christmas Day, but got some flak from church groups.”

  “I heard you took loads of packages up to Vista Hermosa on December twenty-first this year. So, when were those assembled?” Realizing I was starting to sound like someone with an agenda, which I was, I added, “I’m just trying to get my calendar set for next year.”

  “You’ll be here? Great. We started assembling Vista Hermosa gifts on the fifteenth, and were working right up until the day we handed them out. We shouldn’t have waited so late, but we had that unseasonable storm which messed up our schedule. But, I guess you know that, since you’re a boater.”

  “I was in France. Just got back.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Do you keep a contact list for volunteers? I’ll be happy to put my name on it.”

  She hollered for another lady and waved her over. “This is Hetta, and she wants to sign up for next year.”

  “Praise the Lord. Okay, follow me, I have the list in my pickup.”

  The older woman, who said she’d lived in La Paz for thirty years since her husband died back up in California, led me to a battered Nissan truck and rummaged around in the front seat, which was chock-a-block with all kinds of paper. “My office,” she said with a laugh. She saw me eyeing the jump seat area, which was crammed full of silver soccer balls still in their boxes. Waving a hand in that direction, she sighed. “Another day. Another delivery.”

  I was starting to get a serious case of the guilties. These women were tireless in their efforts to add a little comfort to the indigent, and I was…not. My Mother Teresa moment was quickly erased when she handed me a three-ring binder, said, “Find the right page, give me your email address and name, and then put it back into the pile. I gotta get back to my post.”

  Taking my camera from my pocket I quickly located a divider labeled Vista Hermosa, Christmas, and started snapping pictures of the ten pages of volunteers, hoping they came out. I was just putting the book back inside when someone said, “Can I help you?”

  I whirled around. “Jeez, you scared me. Donna asked me to sign the volunteer list. I was just putting it back.”

  “Oh, you must have gotten here late. We have a sign-up sheet near the gate.”

  “I signed that one. I guess she wanted me on next year’s list.”

  “Great.” She introduced herself. “I’m security, so to speak. You would not believe the people who try to sneak in and pilfer stuff. Not that you look like a soccer ball thief.”

  Little did she know.

  After my scare at almost getting busted taking photos of their volunteer log, I went back to work beside Jan, and by five or so we made up the last packages. “I’m plumb worn to a frazzle, Hetta, and I have writer’s cramp. We gotta go spring Po Thang, and I’m going to stretch this numb hand around a big old margarita or something.”

  “You’ve got my vote. I’ll walk el dawg, if you’ll mix the drinks.” I looked around for Rhonda and saw her headed our way. She waved and we signaled for her to meet us at my pickup.

  Once we were headed for the marina, Rhonda said, “That was so fulfilling. I’ve done tons of volunteering—well, we teachers are kind of volunteered whether we want to be or not—but this was great. I can’t wait for Three King’s Day.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t wait for a drink. And we still have to decide what we’re doing tomorrow night. El Molokan? Stay on the boat? What?”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m going out with Cholo.”

  “What?” Jan and I said.

  “Sorry. He sorta invited me to a homegrown celebration in the hood. I think it will broaden my horizons.”

  “You’d better not broaden them too far with him. We don’t even know who he is. Who are his people?” I demanded, then added, “Oh, hell, I sound like my mother.”

  “Mine too,” Jan said. “You go ahead and have fun. I’ll stay with poor Hetta.”

  I bit back the retort that remark screamed for. After all, my best friend was giving up her New Year’s Eve with the man she loves to be with me, so I certainly didn’t want to sound like the ingrate I normally am.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  After our day of do-gooding, the three of us dragged our exhausted, dusty, and sweaty selves back to the boat, looking forward to a hot shower and a cold drink.

  I was surprised that Po Thang didn’t set up a howl when he heard us coming down the dock—that dawg has better hearing than a bat—and I soon discovered why. He was nowhere to be found.

  “Crap, the little turd must have escaped somehow while we were gone,” I grumbled. “And I’m too damned tired to go find him.”

  Jan raised a shoulder. “He’ll come back. It’s dinnertime.”

  “True, that. I’ll put out an AWOL call on the radio, but first I need a Margarita Grande. Pronto! Get to work, barkeep.”

  Jan said something rude and I went to my cabin to wash a layer of dust off my face and change into warmies, for a slight evening breeze over the water was cooling things down rapidly.

  I took two steps into my cabin, did an about-face and rushed back into the main salon. “Okay, everybody pack up and abandon ship!” I commanded.

  They both looked alarmed, and Jan asked, “What’s happening? Are we takin’ on water or somethin’?”

  “Nope. Jenks is here! His bags are on my bed!”

  Jan fixed me with a look. “Hetta Coffey, I told Chino I couldn’t make it back for New Year’s Eve because I didn’t want to leave you alone. And now Jenks shows up and you dump me like five-day-old fish? That is just so wrong.”

  “Oh, come on. Look on the bright side. You don’t have to listen to me sing Auld Lang Syne, and you still have plenty of time to beat feet to Mag Bay tomorrow and join Chino and familia. And Rhonda, you can just stay in La Perla Hotel until Jenks leaves. And Jan comes back.”

  “Who says
I’m coming back, my not-so-steadfast friend?” Jan demanded, a look of disdain painted on her comely face.

  Jan and I clown around a lot and trade insults, but her disapproval is something that really gets to me. “You know, you’re right. I’m a self-centered, lousy friend and I apologize. Never mind, you two stay here. Jenks and I will move into La Perla.”

  Jan laughed. “Gotcha, Hetta. I was just messin’ with ya. Far be it from us to disturb Hetta’s love nest, right Rhonda? Especially since she’ll be springing for our hotel rooms.”

  I gave Jan a hug. “You’re the best.” She grabbed my shoulders and gently pushed me to arm’s length.

  “Yes, I am. Now, go do whatever you did to yourself the morning of our breakfast party, before that man of yours returns. While you make yourself beautimus, we’ll pack some jammies and toothbrushes. And, call La Perla to book the most expensive rooms they have available.”

  “If they have a penthouse, book it! It’s the least I can do in return for your selfless acts,” I said over my shoulder as I rushed to my cabin. I had not properly unpacked since I arrived back in Mexico, and still had one suitcase full of new French wardrobe items like black silk underwear and other lacy unmentionables that I’d never even worn. Yippee!

  When I emerged thirty minutes later, dressed in yet another of those colorful gauzy caftans Jan and I bought in Cannes, I felt downright glamourous. With my hair fluffed up, a little makeup applied, and that gorgeous, flowing caftan caressing my body, I made my grand entrance to the main salon, only to find it devoid of people and dogs alike. Voices drew me to the sundeck, where Jan, Po Thang, Rhonda and a beaming Jenks waited.

  I rushed to plant a big smooch on Jenks at the same time Po Thang body-blocked my progress, demanding he be petted first. I shoved him aside and was reaching for Jenks when, from behind me, I heard, “¡Caramba! Café. You look fantastico.”

  What in the hell was Nacho doing here?