His cheeks bloomed purple and he developed a bad case of guppy mouth. He finally got it; he’d been saddled with Überbitch from Hell. He quickly fobbed me off on Maria and fled.
Maria’s English was excellent, and she made it clear she was delighted and fascinated that a mere woman sent Racón scampering for cover.
Now that I was her hero she’d be a wealth of info as to where they kept the skeletons. As always, if you really want to know what’s going on in a company, make friends with the gals who assist.
Maria steered me into a dimly lit back room where faded drawings, manuals, spare parts lists and the like were crammed into wooden file drawers, then gave me a quick rundown on the so-called filing system. I pulled out a folder, and with it a plume of dust. Maria apologized and handed me a tissue. What I needed was a gas mask. Hadn’t these people heard of Valley Fever?
A sneezing fit sent me back into the front office. “What are the chances of getting that place vacuumed?”
She looked doubtful, but said she would try to get something done.
“Also, Maria, I’d like a jobsite tour, get my bearings. Oh, and do I need a pass, or sticker, or something to come and go at the main gate?” I didn’t add, Just in case the old guard and his dog should regain consciousness.
“I will have the operations manager give you the tour in about an hour, and I shall arrange a pass for your car window. You have a car, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” I beamed. Most folks might not think much of my twenty-year-old VW, but I love her.
“Bueno. Now, if you will excuse me, I must take refreshments into the men of your company.”
“Not my company. I own my own consulting firm and contract myself out to Baxter. Oh, before you go, can you give me a key to the office? I tend to work odd hours.”
She looked a little perplexed, but shrugged. “As you wish, but we never lock the door. No need, for everyone must pass through the main gate.”
“Oh, of course. Security.” I hid a grin.
She made to leave, then turned back. “I have made a reservation for a room tonight, but, well, perhaps we should change it?”
“I definitely need a room.”
“Miss Café, Cananea is a working town, with limited accommodations. The good hotels are both full and when I booked your room, I did not know you were…alone.”
“You did not know I was a woman.”
“Well, yes.”
“What, they don’t allow lone women in the hotels here?”
“Yes, of course they do. It’s only that the hotel I was able to put you in is not so…good.”
“So, what do you suggest?”
“Perhaps you would prefer to go to Douglas, or Bisbee, for the night?”
“I’m pretty tired. You don’t think I’ll be safe at the hotel here?”
“Oh, you will be very safe. It is just not the best hotel in town.”
“I’m beat. I’d settle for a couch tonight.”
She smiled uncertainly, then left to get the guys some coffee, which evidently they were incapable of doing themselves. Was I gonna have fun here, or what?
The hotel thing reminded me that unless I’m working in a very large city I don’t blend in. Even if I scored the best room in town I’d still be relegated to a crappy social life. I can’t hang out with the guys without raising eyebrows and it was plainly clear that I wasn’t gonna be bosom buddies with the women working at the mine. I’d need a house and even then I’d be a curiosity not to be trusted with the male population, and inaccessible to the female. Dang, why can’t they build mines in places like downtown Paris?
Sighing at remembrances of past outposts like this one, I ventured once again into that back room and surveyed with dismay what would be my office as soon as the HAZMAT team moved out. Gingerly unrolling a curl of drawings marked PLOT PLAN, I walked outside to orient myself. Off in an azure sky to the north, some kind of blimp glinted white above a mountain range. At least ten or twenty thousand feet high in the deep blue sky, I reckoned.
Sweeping vistas lay in all directions, some marred by old strip mining scars. Didn’t look like much mining going on now, though. On the way into town, I got the definite impression of a fading economy. Maybe the results of my little job here would give the place a much-needed shot in the old pocketbook.
North, under that blimp, mountain ranges flanked a wide valley, itself dissected by a stand of huge leafless trees that I’d bet my bottom dollar were cottonwoods. From a previous project I did back in San Carlos, I remembered the San Pedro River, the only river running north from Mexico into the States. And one of the last free-running rivers in the U.S.
“Señorita Café,” a timid voice called out from the office. One of the other secretaries stuck her head out the door.
“Yes?”
“Do you wish for some, uh, café?” She giggled at her inadvertent joke.
“No, gracias.” I pointed at the blimp.“What is that?”
Misunderstanding me, she said, “Sierra Vista, Arizona. She is our sister city and,” she got this dreamy look, “they have a mall.”
Ah, the ever-popular shopping mall. The way she said it, she could have been talking about Disneyland. I’d ask someone else about the blimp later. I motioned her outside, walked to the side of the building and pointed south, toward another valley.
“And that?”
“The valley of the Rio Sonora.”
“A big river?”
“Oh, yes. It is in a beautiful valley, with much vegetables. I am from the village of Arizpe, near the river.”
“Maybe I’ll drive down that way one of these days, check it out.”
Her face clouded. I’ve learned that Mexicans, who can be almost childlike in their honesty, do not like to give out bad news, or contradict you, so I asked, “Is that a problem?”
“No, but you should not go alone. It is a very…solitary road.”
“But you go home to visit, right?”
“Yes, but I take the bus. It is safer.”
The phone rang and I didn’t get to ask, “Safer than what?”
What I should have asked was, “Safer from what?”
Chapter 6
Hotel Afrodita had the appearance of a drive-thru fast food joint, but at the frosted window, instead of taking my order, they handed me a drawing with my room and parking place Xed in. My parking space turned out to be a garage, and as soon as I eased the car inside, the door slid down. A dim light marked an unlocked door into a room decorated in early ugly.
It was a fairly large room, as motels go, and ornamented entirely in whorehouse red. Even the ceiling was red, except for the portion covered by a huge round mirror. Dusty velvets covered the bed and windows. Sliding open what I thought was a closet door, I found a whirlpool tub. The decorator had evidently tired of vermilion, for the heart-shaped tub was bright fuchsia.
Hearing a knock, I opened the door to the garage, found no one there, then followed the rapping sound to a wooden slide-up window where, once opened, only the chest of a man was visible. A hand appeared with an invoice, and what looked like a menu. I took the menu, set it aside for later, handed over a five-hundred peso note, got two hundred back, and the window slid shut.
I put a six-pack of Tecate I’d purchased, along with some ham and cheese, into the mini-fridge, then dug out a pair of disposable rubber gloves, and the bug and disinfectant sprays I never travel without. I stripped off the ratty bedspread and a suspicious looking blanket to find clean sheets, which I covered with my own linens and the blanket I also travel with. I’m no Howard Hughes, but when I can, I take my own stuff.
Chores done, I sat on the bed, flipped on the TV, and grabbed the menu. Maybe I wouldn’t have to settle for a cold sandwich, after all.
The first page indeed offered food and booze available for delivery through that sliding window, after placing an order on the—what else?—red phone. I was trying to decide between cheese enchiladas and carne asada when a moan caught my attention.
On the fuzzy television screen, two hairy beings, genus and sex indecipherable, groaned and panted while performing indeterminable things on one another. Then the camera panned out and my mouth fell open. Diving for the remote, I quickly surfed through at least eight more porn channels before finding the nightly news from Mexico City. The commentator, a buxom blonde in a low cut sweater, spoke slowly enough so I caught important details. A commercial boomed on after yet another curvy gal gave the weather, so I turned the menu’s page, and lost all interest in world events.
At first I was confused by what I saw, but then I’m sure my eyes bugged when it became apparent what I was looking at. Photos of sex enhancement devices, along with instructions for their use, were available from room service, through that same sliding window. I’d heard many a dildo joke, but never actually seen one, and certainly not a dozen configurations. Who knew they came in colors? This called for a beer and some serious reading. Getting my Spanish/English dictionary from the car, I worked my way through the confusing contraptions, ointments, and potions never covered in your average high school Sex Ed class.
Deciding on a ham and cheese sandwich after all, I briefly considered the whirlpool, but thought better of it. Considering this room obviously normally rented by the hour, Lord only knows what was in the water. I took a shower instead.
I’d had a long day and dozed off just after eight. Good thing, for I managed only a couple of hours sleep before business picked up. The bang of garage doors and sliding windows, creaking bedsprings, and vocally satisfied clients passed through the paper thin walls all night. I finally grabbed a few Z’s toward dawn, when the passionate returned to their dispassionate wives.
I later learned that love hotels in Mexico are designed for maximum discretion and security. One’s car is hidden from the street, and a back exit affords the ever-changing clientele’s undetected egress, safe from prying eyes of wives, husbands, boyfriends, and the local clergy.
Sleep deprivation does not set well with me, and I was on my second day. This, coupled with that long drive and an exhausting few days of putting the boat in the yard, took its toll. When the morning cadre of lovers catching a quickie before work arrived, I gave up on any more rest, packed up, and drove to the mine.
The same old man and dog snoozed at the gate. I was beginning to suspect they were dead, stuffed, and placed there for effect.
As Maria told me the day before, the office door was unlocked. I grabbed a pillow and blankie from the car, threw on a Mexican poncho to ward off the chilled office air, and curled up on a dusty leather sofa. I was dead to the world when Maria showed up at nine. I sat up and blinked, startling her.
“Oh,” she gasped, then realized the poncho-clad person in her office wasn’t some kind of bandito. “Café, you are here.”
“What, you didn’t expect me to live through the night?”
“Your hotel was so bad?”
“It depends on your definition of bad. Believe it or not, I’ve been in worse. Once in Sumatra, for instance.”
Not getting my sarcasm, she smiled. “Oh, I am so glad. Señor Orozco was very upset with me when he found out where you were staying. He has instructed that I ask you to take today, and tomorrow if necessary, and find a place to live across the border. He feels you will be happier there, even if you have to drive thirty miles each morning.”
Who was I to argue, especially since I had already reached the same conclusion?
I rifled through a few file cabinets, took a couple of plot plans, packed up my gear, told Maria I’d call her, and drove to the Naco, Arizona, border crossing. At the U.S. checkpoint, I handed over my passport and asked the customs guy where I could get some decent food. He directed me to Turquoise Valley Golf Course, less than a mile away.
Expecting a snobby atmosphere and exorbitant prices, I was delighted to find a clubhouse with cheap food and the ambiance of an old bay area yacht club, like the ones Jenks and I haunted. Even better, cowboys bellied up to the bar, half the early lunch crowd chatted in Spanish, and everyone was friendly.
Had I taken a wrong turn and ended up back in Texas?
Chapter 7
Seated at a table with a golf course view, I practically chugged one ice-cold mug of beer, then ordered another to wash down all five million calories of enchiladas, chiles rellenos, refried beans smothered in melted cheese, and tortillas. As stuffed as the rellanos I’d devoured, I waddled to the bar for a dessert beer, and to check out the local classified ads for rentals.
Engrossed in marking mostly dubious possibilities—in my book buzzwords like cozy and charming are euphemisms for tiny and full of spiders—I was startled when the bartender asked, “Looking for a place to live?”
“Yep, something preferably without black widow spiders?”
“You’ve obviously rented here before.”
I laughed. “No, but I’ve lived in other so-called historic abodes and had my share of shacks. I’d like something built during, say, this half of the century?”
She grinned. “That could be a tall order. Heck, even the golf course is over the century mark. And this clubhouse? A 1936 WPA project. If you want new, you’ll probably have to head for Sierra Vista.”
I shook my head. “Nope, I need something right here, and right now. I’ll be working in Cananea, driving down there a few days a week.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “What? Why?”
Pleased I could surprise a bartender, most of whom have heard it all, I sized her up. My age or thereabouts, dark hair and eyes, pretty face with startling green eyes. Her slight southern drawl matched her nametag: Georgia Lou.
“Georgia Lou, if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”
That comment drew a snigger from a few eavesdropping bar dwellers. The cowboys had moseyed off, replaced by golfers. Georgia drew me another beer. “Sorry if I seem nosy. The reason I asked is—” She halted mid-sentence, looking past me. I followed her gaze. Two nattily dressed black men glided by. Young, maybe under thirty, sporting those nifty short haircuts I associate with Denzel Washington.
Both men wore dark suits, brilliant white dress shirts adorned with blue bow ties, and very hip dark glasses. Something about them struck a familiar note with me, but one thing for sure, they stood out in this setting like proverbial turds in a punch bowl. Passing behind me, they headed for a table in the dining room.
Georgia stared after them, then checked her watch. “Like clockwork,” she muttered.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Sorry, where was I?”
“You mean before,” I jerked my head towards the dining room, “the men in blue?”
She had the good grace to chuckle. “They’re new around here. Pulled in with a fancy RV, California plates, a week ago. I heard they’d reserved the space since last summer, paying all along, but just arrived. Not what you’d call real social, stick to themselves.” She shrugged, “I guess I wonder why they’re here. Don’t play golf, but rent a cart. Eat breakfast and lunch in our restaurant every day, take something to go for dinner.”
“Jeez, you got ‘em under surveillance?” I asked, impressed with her nosiness, which rivaled my own. This was a very small town, so I wondered what the locals would think when they got wind of me.
“Naw, they’re parked across from my RV, and after a week you’d at least expect a howdy. Just a little…strange.”
“Don’t get a lot of black people down here, I guess?”
“Oh, no, it’s not that. We’re a pretty diverse population, what with a military base in Sierra Vista and all the feds around.”
“Think they’re G-men?” I whispered in my best James Cagney imitation.
Georgia’s face lit with delight. “Ooh, I loved Cagney in "G-Men". They just don’t make ‘em like that anymore. Anyhow, anything and anyone is possible around here. Being right on the border, we have government types galore. See, hunks, three o’clock.”
Sure enough, three uniformed border patrol agents, one black, one white,
one Hispanic, all burly, strode through the door. They greeted Georgia by name, then noisily scraped back chairs at a table next to the black men. I watched all this in the bar-back mirror and drawled, “Makes me downright warm and fuzzy, just knowing there are armed men about.”
Georgia nodded and winked. “Trust me, ninety percent of the people in here are packin’. Cochise County’s citizens take their guns right serious-like, and are some of the most heavily armed in the United States.”
“I knew I was gonna like it here.” She gave me a high five and went to wait on the other end of the bar.
I watched for any interaction between the BP guys and the men in blue, but they made no eye contact. One of the border agents gave the pair a once over, but since the bow ties did not look as though they’d recently vaulted the fence, his glance was cursory.
Georgia returned. “What I was going to tell you is, there are a few winter rentals around here. One of them is a new house, and I think it’s available. Owners live in Mexico this time of year.”
“Who do I talk to?”
“Hang on, I’ll find out.” She called someone from the phone behind the bar, and thirty minutes later I was on a guided tour of a fully furnished, all bills paid, hacienda-style home with mountain and golf course views to die for. The gourmet kitchen was right up my alley, but the pièce de résistance had to be the twelve-foot wide wraparound verandah. Taken as I was with the place, I was pretty darned certain it carried a price tag way over my budget.
However, hope springs eternal, so I continued ogling the house while the manager parleyed with the owner who was, indeed, in Mexico. When he shut his cell phone he told me the house was available for the next four months. I crossed my fingers in hope and asked, “How much?”
He told me, and added, “When you do the math, cheaper by the day than a local hotel.”
There is a God, and She’s on my side today. “When can I move in?”
Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series (Book 4)) Page 4
