Doctor Brigido Comacho Yee, a.k.a. Chino, is Jan's very handsome, world-renowned Mexican marine biologist boyfriend. The Yee part came from a Chinese shipwreck survivor whose Manila Galleon washed up onto the Baja in the late 1500's, thus the nickname, Chino.
Po Thang dearly loves Camp Chino, what with all those lovely dead fish to roll on, so at least I didn't have to worry about him while I was gone.
Suitable clothes for me? Now, that was a worrisome matter.
I gave up finding anything other than sweats, shorts, moldy Nikes, and mismatched flip-flops and made a cup of coffee before printing out the Trob's emailed itinerary and a blank calendar for my own notes. Not one usually cowed by tight schedules, I tackled the seemingly insurmountable timeline. "I can do this, Poochster. It's list-making time."
Jan arrived early; she'd caught a ride with one of Chino's assistants who had to make a three o'clock flight out of Cabo. They'd left before daylight, so she was tired and hungry. We headed for the Dock Café.
As usual, she seemed unaware of the male, and some female, attention she draws. On her worst day her five-eleven, legs-for-days, blonde haired, blue-eyed, Meg Ryan-like looks still turned heads.
My close proximity to her and Po Thang, a superbly handsome fellow in his own right, allow me to live a vicarious life of popularity.
We settled at a table and I dug my schedule and to-do list out of a pocket, while Jan ordered the beer she insisted she get before hearing one word of why she was summoned to La Paz.
Chugging a cold Tecate in record time, she banged down the bottle and gave me a come-on hand signal. "Okay, hit me. What the hell have you gotten us into this time? Is there a possibility of prison time involved? The way my life is right now, a Mexican jail sounds inviting."
"Sorry, no chance of arrest this time. But...wait for it...wait for it. I'm going to Paris!"
She signaled for another beer.
Chapter Three
"Gawd, can my life get any worse?" Jan moaned, then turned to the hovering waiter—waiters always hover around Jan which is another reason she's the perfect friend. "More beer, por favor. Pronto."
"Me too," I added.
Jan sighed a grand sigh. "Here I was, hoping for a typical Hetta Coffey misadventure on the high seas, and you tell me you're leaving for Paris? Just drive a stake into my heart." Po Thang put his head on Jan's leg, somehow sensing her gloom. She hugged him. "Looks like it's you 'n' me, Furface. And the freakin' whales."
"Hey, I'll be back in three weeks. A month tops. Then I promise to get us tossed in the hoosegow, okay? Besides, you should be happy for me; I'm meeting Jenks in Paris and he says he has a surprise."
She sat up straight and grinned. "A surprise? You think he's gonna..." she waggled her ring finger.
That wasn't something I'd considered. "Crap."
"Whaddaya mean, crap? You're in love with the guy. What's the problem?"
"I'm not sure. I guess I never really considered getting married. I kinda like my life."
"Hetta, your life is an exercise in brinkmanship. In the name of making a living, you teeter-totter on the very edge of disaster and, by the way, take me along for the fall. Hey, now it's my time to say crap. What on earth will I do if you up and get hitched? I have no talent for getting into trouble on my own. I need your expertise."
"I ain't anywhere near getting married."
"Yabbut you might if someone was crazy enough to ask you. Oh, wait. That's never happened."
"Thanks for the reminder. Anyhow, I'll come home and get a job and everything will be back to normal."
"Ha! Normal, as in your normal. You could take a job as a Walmart greeter and cause an international incident. As a matter of...oh, never mind me. I'm just jealous. Paris? Cool beans." She gave me a critical once over. "Do we have time to do something with you?"
"Oh, come on. I'm not that bad."
She raised an eyebrow. "Have you perchance glanced into a mirror lately. You need some TLC. Meanwhile, tell me the whole story."
"The Trob has hired me as a courier to accompany some equipment and data to Baxter Brothers' new office in Lille. Then I'll meet Jenks in the City of Lights."
"Courier? You gonna have a briefcase handcuffed to your wrist? I brought mine if you want to borrow them."
A guy at the next table perked up.
I gave him a dirty look and lowered my voice. "Don't think so. What with all the industrial espionage happening, they just want someone besides crew on board the plane."
"And they chose you? Hetta Coffey, the one-woman disaster, as the safe-keeper of anything?"
I let the barb go, because it was all too often true.
"I'll bet you a peso to a tortilla that Jenks convinced the Trob to hire me to keep me out of mischief here in Mexico. And we've talked about going to Paris for ages, and here’s our chance. Anyhow, I have to catch a plane from San Jose del Cabo tomorrow."
"For?"
"San Francisco, then I'll fly to France on a private plane."
"Private plane? How very chichi. So, how much free time will you have in the Bay Area?"
I checked the Trob's schedule. "I leave Cabo tomorrow at three pm, arrive SFO six-thirty, have a dinner meeting at the Sir Francis Drake, where I'm staying, with some Baxter Brothers minion. He'll fill me in on details, but the way I understand it, my plane will leave in the late afternoon the next day."
"Oh, man. I loved it when we went to the Drake every Christmas season for lunch."
We reminisced about our very own holiday tradition at Union Square. We'd put in a few hours at the Red Door, ogle the Macy's window displays, try on every mink coat at Needless Markup, then go to the Drake for a late lunch and oodles of drinks. "I do miss it, but then again, our first Christmas in the Sea of Cortez we got to blow up a meth factory."
"You’re such a sentimentalist," I quipped, giving her a high-five.
"Yep. Hey, maybe we can do the San Francisco thing this year? Depends on when you get back from France, I guess."
"Great idea. If the schedule works, we’ll do it. Go to the City, stay at the Drake, do our thing?"
Jan clinked her beer bottle against mine. "You got it. Hell, we have some money put away, thanks to your shenanigans down here. We might as well spend some of those ill-gotten gains. Okay, now I feel better about you running off to Paris and leaving me to the whales."
"See? Always a silver lining."
"Back to this trip of yours, Hetta. Looks like you have a full day to kill in the City. Let's go to the boat, cuz we have important appointments to make."
By Happy Hour, Jan had pulled in some favors and I was booked into Elizabeth Arden's Red Door Spa, Union Square, for a major tune-up, which would put a large dent in whatever profits I'd hoped to make from this courier gig. For just under a grand—Jan so dearly loves spending my money—I was in for a mani, pedi, facial, waxing just about everywhere, haircut and color, and a massage. They throw in lunch. Probably something chic and healthy.
Even though I was excited about my trip, and seeing Jenks, I boarded the plane in Cabo with still-teary eyes after hugging Po Thang and Jan goodbye. When we took off, my forehead was glued to the window as the plane made a wide turn and actually passed over La Paz harbor, where I spotted my boat, which squeezed out another sniffle.
In the time I'd been south of the border, I'd formed a bond with a stray dog, really learned what living on a boat and loving it was all about and gained an appreciation for what a crazy and wonderful country Mexico is. As frustrating as some of the laws and customs can be, they add an aura of capriciousness, an unpredictability that keeps life interesting. And as far as living on your boat in one of the most mysteriously beautiful settings in the world—where the stark desert meets turquoise seas—I don't know of many places within shouting distance of the States where a boater has the freedom to roam at will. Certainly not in regulation-happy California.
In a word, I was hooked.
After two days of non-stop activities to secure Raymon
d Johnson, arrange for someone to watch her, pack up all of Po Thang’s paraphernalia and quickly stuff a duffle bag with what few clothes met with Jan's approval, I was plumb worn to a frazzle. I downed two Bloody Marys and slept solidly until we touched down in San Francisco.
The valet at the Sir Francis Drake graciously picked up my ratty duffle bag as though it were a Louis Vuitton, but I pictured a raised French eyebrow at any Paris hotel. Note to self: Get one of my name brand suitcases from Jenks's Oakland apartment.
My Baxter Brothers contact in San Francisco was a nice enough Human Resources type who, judging by his barely disguised wariness, was probably wondering why the BBs would trust the likes of Hetta Coffey with, as Jan said, anything. My previous fall from grace was hardly a well-kept secret in the hallowed halls of one of the largest engineering and construction companies in the world, and even though headquarters had relocated to Dubai, I was sure the people in HR were fully acquainted with my history. When I was employed there, I was a royal pain in their side, neck, and other regions. Running end-plays around company bureaucrats has always been, and remains, one of my favorite recreational activities. Right up there with a day at the shooting range.
So when Mr. HR, whose name I quickly forgot, asked if I would like dinner on the company (and was obviously hoping I'd say no) I accepted. "Sure, but I'm not all that hungry. Why don't we go up to the Starlight Room for something light? Best view in town."
He readily agreed.
He'd never been there.
He probably figured the company was getting off light.
He was sooo wrong. Spending OPM—Other People's Money—is art, and I am an artiste.
Since my host was unfamiliar with the Starlight, I volunteered to order for us, waving away the offered menus before he got a gander at them.
"Two Gang of Mules, please. Bourbon. Wild arugula salads, prawn cocktails, chicken wings, and an order of your fabulous chocolate truffles for dessert. Oh, and a bottle of Cristal. The sommelier can pick the year, but tell him we aren't Rockefellers here. Please hold the food and champers until we finish our drinks, okay?"
Chapter Four
The Baxter Brothers flunky was mighty dismayed when our waiter at the Starlight Room presented him with a three-hundred-and-eighty-dollar dinner bill, but nowhere nearly as disheartened as the Liz Arden staff was when they caught sight of yours truly the next morning.
Two years of sun, salt, haphazard slapping on of face cream and sunscreen, as well as incinerated hair and my own haircut jobs, had taken a toll. I do try to wear a hat most of the time, but let's face it, boat life is tough on a gal.
Four hours of under-the-breath tsk-tsks later, I exited the Red Door a new woman. My skin glowed, my hair shone, the makeup artist took ten years off me...okay, five... and I'd spent an extra three hundred dollars on multiple dabs of creams, hair gloss, and makeup to ensure my new look didn't fade too quickly.
With three hours left until I had to meet my plane at Oakland airport, I instructed my driver—I'd ordered a limo on the Baxter tab—to swing by Jenks's Lake Merritt apartment to pick up some clothes stashed there in fashionable suitcases. I was sure one of them contained a warm coat and a few sweaters to ward off the early November Paris chill. All I had with me was an "I Heart Baja" sweatshirt.
Jenks's apartment, so rarely used anymore, was in need of a dusting and airing, but I didn't have time for that, thanks to a pileup on the Bay Bridge. Running late for my plane, I quickly went to the walk-in closet where I'd stashed my non-boating gear when Jan and I took off for Mexico on Raymond Johnson, pulled down two suitcases labeled GOOD STUFF and WARM STUFF, and hustled back to the limo.
Jenks had taken me on a couple of flights in a plane he uses from his flight club, so I knew the way to the general aviation gate at Oakland airport, but the limo driver was already familiar with dropping wealthy clients at their jet-fueled tax write-offs. However, when we got there I didn't see a Baxter Brothers jet anywhere on the runway. Maybe they were late?
I asked the driver to stand by in case of a change in plans and headed for the office. A man behind the desk, dressed in a military-style flight suit, was on the phone and gave me a nod and a "hold on" finger, told the party on the other end he'd call them back from Nebraska, pointed the finger at me like a pistol and said, "Hetta Coffey?"
We shook hands. "That would be me," I looked at his name on his suit, "Joe."
"Then I guess we're almost good to go."
He was giving me a head-to-toe once-over, which I might have objected to had I not known I looked so fabulous. I straightened my posture and sucked in my gut, certain he was admiring my spiffy new designer self. Not only was I fresh-from-the spa aglow, I'd taken a fast shopping run through Neiman's and sported a new Gucci jacket, silk turtleneck and scarf, linen Armani slacks and soft leather Michael Kors flats. I'd rejected the pointy toed, high heels suggested by the dresser, fearing that after wearing almost no shoes for so long I'd break my stupid neck. But rather than admiring my sleek new look, Joe was sizing me up. Literally.
Reaching under the counter, he threw me a one-piece, drab-green canvas flight suit. "This oughta fit ya. You can change in there," he pointed to a nearby bathroom, "and then we'll grab your bags and boogie. Your plane's all loaded and ready to go."
"I don't think I need to change."
"Okay by me. I'll put the jumpsuit on board in case you change your mind."
"Don't bother. What time do we get into Lille?"
He pulled his iPhone from one of his many pockets and tapped on it. "Looks like your ETA Lille is around oh seven hundred hours French time, twenty-two hundred hours, California time. Maybe sooner if you catch a tail wind."
"Wow, that's great."
"On November three."
"Gimme those freakin' overalls."
"Wontrobski," I yelled into the phone over the loud whine of the engines winding up. "Pick up. I know damned well you can hear me. Pick. Up. The. Phone. Right now, or your courier shuts down this behemoth and walks."
"I was on another line. You're on the plane?"
"If you can call this fat winged guppy a plane, yes."
I looked around the cockpit of the C-130J Super Hercules and had to admit it beat the heck out of the old military C-130 I flew on years ago when I spent a summer working at Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. At least this one actually had a toilet instead of a curtained-off cubby hole complete with the bucket they'd added for my convenience back then; for the guys there was still a funnel that seemed to dump directly overboard.
"You sound upset."
"You have a knack for nailing the obvious. Have you seen the flight plan?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't think to let me in on the details? Like that I'm stuck on this tub for over two freaking days, with three different crews?"
"No."
"How long have you known me?"
He hesitated, probably considering an answer like too long, but being the Trob, he answered, "Nine years, two months and —"
"Never mind. Long enough for you to realize this inconvenience to my precious self is going to cost you, right?"
Joe, who turned out to be my pilot du jour, caught my attention and indicated I needed to terminate my call. I ignored him, he shrugged and fired up another engine, wiping out any chance of me hearing the Trob's answer.
I hung up, clamped the headphone set over my ears, and strapped myself into the surprisingly comfortable loadmaster's seat for takeoff. The last time I was on one of these planes all I had was a bench located below an air vent spewing a fine spray of frozen mist. I was told this cushy seat was mine until Reykjavík-Keflavík Airport in Iceland, where we'd pick up a loadmaster for the final leg of my part of the trip. Once in Lille, he would oversee the unloading of the equipment and files I was babysitting, and then the plane would continue on to Dubai.
The lights of the city and the fast-looming Bay Bridge snagged my attention as we roared upwards, then executed a sharp, climbing turn. Evidently, my pi
lot had spent way too much time dodging hand-held rocket launchers in the Middle East.
Or maybe flying too low over Oakland gave him the heebie-jeebies.
Chapter Five
I settled back into my seat, closed my eyes, and mentally calculated what this piece of crap job was going to cost Baxter Brothers. The Trob and I play this game with every project he throws my way. I demand about twenty-percent more than he offers, he agrees, then later I ding him for extras and he graciously gives me what he intended to in the first place.
All that brainstorming—along with a long day of primping and shopping—added to the throbbing and thunderous drone of the four turboprop engines, lulled me off to sleep until my earphones suddenly came alive. "Hey, Hetta?"
Starting upright, I yelped, "Hey, yourself! You scared the crap out of me."
"Sorry. We're at cruising altitude, so just wanted to let you know you can talk to us now and also move around the plane. See that desk next to you?"
"Yes."
"If you want, go ahead and set up your computer there. I'll turn on the WiFi."
"Great. Where's the bar? I could use a gin and tonic or three."
He laughed. "No booze. But that fridge you saw when we boarded has soft drinks and bottled water. Coffee's already made. If you're hungry, there's a bunch of microwavable guy food. All the comforts of home, so enjoy. We'll be in the air for a while."
"What's a while?"
"About four hours. Less if we—"
"I know, pick up a tail wind."
He grinned. "You're learning."
"So, where'd you stow my bags and computer?"
"Next to the bunks I showed you in case you want to stretch out. You'll find pillows, sheets, and blankets in a locker under the bottom bunk. Anything else you need?"
Just Pardon My French (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 8) Page 2
