By three in the afternoon the day I was dropkicked out of the mine’s offices, my car resembled a college prank scenario from the sixties, as in, how many people can you get into a Volkswagen? Except this time it was how much paperwork.
My escort, the two federales driving an unmarked, slightly battered, Crown Victoria, instructed me to stay close on their tail as they led the way off the mine premises. Even knowing the Crown Vic’s propensity for bursting into flames when rear-ended, I hugged my bodyguards’ bumper as they threaded us through a vociferous mob on the other side of the gate. We bogged down occasionally, coming to a halt until men in combat gear pushed back the throng. A couple of times I heard something bounce off my roof, but once through the line of scrimmage, a black and white with flashing lights fell in behind me and my convoy picked up speed.
The entourage made me feel downright presidential until an innate paranoia set in.
What if this was all a ruse, and I was on my way to the Cananea jail? Had the authorities somehow linked me to at least one of those drug cartel types involved in a shootout in their fair city only weeks before? Nacho’s cryptic message to mind my own beeswax and to stay away still rankled. If he meant I was to stay away from the mine, I was golden.
Jan and I were never certain just who Nacho worked for, but we suspected he was either a drug lord, DEA, or both. I was fairly certain he was somehow a part of a showdown between the cops in Cananea and unruly gang members just weeks before. Many gang members died, but accounts were sketchy on the who, what, where, when, and why details. I’d pored over online articles, looking for clues to someone who might be Nacho, but found nothing.
Other than kidnapping Jan and me, threatening to shoot me, then actually aiming in my direction and pulling the trigger, Nacho was an okay guy in a handsome, criminal sort of way. As one might surmise, my expectations of men are abysmally modest.
A sharp pain shot across my shoulders. Lighten up, I told myself, there is no way this cop escort can make any connection between Hetta Coffey, engineer, and a cabal of methed-out gangsters. I relaxed my death grip on the steering wheel and shrugged my shoulders, but minutes later found myself once again performing a strangle hold. After what seemed an eternity, but was probably only forty minutes, my escort turned around, and I was in line at the border. I exhaled long and loud.
Only two cars, and bare minutes stood between me, the good old US of A, and a cold beer on my verandah. Or so I thought.
Although my two-car escort had turned around, they’d stopped a short distance away and continued to watch my back. The black and white left his lights flashing, just in case no one had noticed him. This, quite naturally, peaked the interest of several uniformed types at the border crossing, who were more than a little curious as to why I was escorted out of Mexico in the first place, and what all those papers were in my vehicle.
I have to admit that what sounded like a perfectly logical explanation to me might not have been so clear to Customs. I was waved into secondary by a polite but firm young woman. She took my car keys and passport, then escorted me into a small room. As she was shutting the door, I saw a canine officer trotting toward my VW.
Resigned to a long wait while my car got ransacked, I plopped down in one of the two plastic chairs in my jail cell. Okay, so it wasn’t really a cell, but I was locked in, and worse than that, I had been here before. I knew my car was clean, unless you count a dusting of toxic materials, but were these folks savvy to my previous pissing off of their precious officialdom, and were now getting even by taking my car apart for spite?
My friend Marty Martinez, a retired Oakland Police Department officer who has bailed me out more than once when the caca hit the prop, assured me last month that I was no longer a fugitive from US justice, but being tossed in a holding tank had put me a lit-tle on edge.
Should they get around to my past alleged crimes, I’d explain that I did not steal Trouble, my parrot, they had deemed an illegal avian and condemned to death. Poor Trouble was awaiting execution in this very room when he miraculously escaped his cage and flew to freedom in Mexico. Of course, this was shortly after a visit from me, so there could possibly be suspicion of cage tampering on my part, but prove it, copper. Maybe I needed to reword that defense.
Hopefully the men and women now crawling all over my VW simply didn’t like the looks of my cargo, and held no personal grudge against me. As far as I could remember, none of these officers were on duty the day of Trouble’s escape, but who knew for sure? I’ve really got to learn not to return to the scene of my alleged crimes.
I was released after almost an hour of fretting. Judging by the disappointed looks and grumpy behavior, the officials had come up empty. A half-eaten burrito lay on my car seat, and the dog-in-training, a German shepherd the size of a small pony, strained his sniffer fondly in that direction, but the search had produced only a pile of moldy old blueprints, none of which was a schematic for building a nuclear bomb. I was free to go, but as a parting shot the frustrated fido peed on my tire.
Probably a good thing I’d be working from home in Arizona, because these customs guys could make a daily commute a nightmare if they wanted to. I vowed to get to know a few of them. Maybe make them cookies?
Back at the house after the border shakedown, I couldn’t rid myself of a niggling disquietude over events at the mine. As much as I liked the idea of working from at home, I suspected my expulsion from the jobsite had something to do with being female. Having fought the good fight in a historically man’s profession for years, my hackles rise at any hint of sexism in the workplace. Being dispatched to safety in the States roused suspicion. I called the Trob.
“Hetta, where are you?”
“Back in Arizona, as if you didn’t know.” Silence.
“So, lemme ask you this,” I snapped, “if I were a man, would they have sent me away from the front lines?”
“Yes.”
That man really knows how to fizzle my fuse. “Oh, well, then,” I mumbled. Properly defused, I added, “I’ll need a bunch of office equipment.”
“Okay.”
“A copier, fax, scanner combo.”
“Okay.”
“I have to upgrade the house phone service to long distance.”
“Okay.”
“And a Xerox 2510 drawing copier.”
“Okay.”
This was too easy, so I added, “And a new BMW.”
“Nope.”
“Just making sure you’re listening.”
“Call Allison.”
“Oh, crap, I forgot. I will. Give her my phone numbers, will you?”
“Yes.”
“Gosh, it’s been grand having this little chat. Ta ta, Chatty Cathy.”
“Bye.”
Chapter 12
Feeling sheepish about practically accusing the Trob of sexual discrimination, I made a note to get him some Bisbee Blue. I mean, how expensive can a little piece of turquoise be?
Mulling over my day, I realized that as crappy as it started, I’d now landed in tall cotton.
In celebration of this turn of good fortune, I gave Blue extra treats as I told him that I no longer faced a daily commute across the border, and I didn’t have to work in a dusty, possibly deadly, mining compound surrounded by armed guards and disgruntled strikers. He congratulated me with a wag.
Now I could honestly tell the parents and Jenks the good news without the bad should they ask. No use stirring up things when they were already settled, n’est-ce pas?
The seemingly endless tasks required for setting up a working office filled the next couple of days. Equipment leasing, signing up for myriad services, reconnecting lines of communication—schmoozing, actually—with engineering contacts I’d later tap for info. I made lists of lists, color-coded on Post-it notes, which I consider one of the best inventions ever. Walls, windows, and the refrigerator door were aflutter with an informational Post-it snowstorm.
The Safeway items, which I cleverly dubbed Craig
’s list, grew large. Dr. Craig isn’t much of a drinker, but I bought a case of Tecate, just in case. He eats beef, so two whopping filets waited in the fridge for our first night’s dinner, along with all the fixings for twice-baked potatoes, and a Caesar’s salad. For lunch on the day he arrived, I planned on serving grilled eggplant, feta cheese, and sun-dried tomato paninis, his favorite.
He called on his way in, so I was out front when he pulled up, not in his van, but in a brand new candy apple red Porsche. As he unfolded from the snazzy car, that was not the only surprise of the day. “Okay,” I called out, “whoever you are, what have you done with the rest of my friend Craig?”
He grabbed me in a bear hug. At six-four to my five-four he hoisted me off my feet to do so, then he set me down and did a twirl. “So, what do you think?”
I used my best Billy Crystal accent from a Saturday Night Live skit. “Dahling, you look mahvelous.”
“So do you.”
“Liar.”
We put his fancy new wheels in the garage, then spent half an hour unloading it. “Ya know, Craig, if you’da told me you weren’t bringing the van I wouldn’t have given you such a big list of stuff to get me from Jenks’s apartment.”
“I wanted to surprise you with my new wheels. Besides, I got it all in somehow.”
With everything stashed in his room and my closet, we retired to the verandah for an iced tea. The day was warm and golfers were out in force.
“Wow, Hetta,” Craig said, “this house looks like something you’d design and decorate. It’s fantastic. I’d say this equals that great place you had in Oakland.”
“That was a nice home, wasn’t it? It seems like a lifetime ago since I sold it and moved onto the boat. I had put my heart, soul, and a ton of money into renovating that old mini-mansion, but after RJ died, it wasn’t the same.”
“I know. I sure miss that dog. But you’ve found a new way of life on the water, and you met Jenks, so things have a way of working out.”
“Um-hum,” I said, unwilling to dampen our reunion with my insecurities. “Okay, Craig, let’s hear it. Were you a candidate on one of those extreme weight loss shows?”
He shook his head and looked sad. My heart froze. “You aren’t sick, are you?”
Reaching over, he patted my hand. “I’m fine, far as I know.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Truth is, I had an epiphany. One of those Oprah, oh, I get it, moments. That little shit Pierre, the guy I was seeing when you left Oakland, did me a big favor in a nasty kind of way. Barely six months into our relationship, he wanted me to buy him a, get this, Porsche.”
“Why on earth would he think you’d do that? You, of the old vans?”
He shook his head sadly. “Because, I guess, he thought he had me where he wanted me. You know, I never really trusted him. Too cute and needy. Anyhow, I say no, he pitches a little queer-boy hissy, telling me he’d already gone to the dealership and picked out his car. He also told me he’d assured the salesman I’d be down to pay for it. The fight got nasty, and ended up with him screaming that I was so fat and ugly that if I wasn’t rich, no one would want me.”
“Oh, Craig, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not. I did exactly what he wanted me to do.”
“What? Are you nuts?”
“Probably. I went right on down to that car dealership and bought the Porsche. For myself.” He beamed with satisfaction.
“My hero. So, where did you bury Pierre?”
Craig laughed softly. “I admit I was cut to the quick. The truth hurts. Instead of curling up and licking my wounds, I removed Pierre from my life and hired your personal trainer, Pamela.”
“The Paminator?”
“Yep, she’s fantastic. Unlike you, I let her train me. It works if you actually do what she says.”
“You mean just hiring her doesn’t count? Go figure.”
“I’ve lost over seventy pounds in five months, more to go. Because she’s worked me so hard, my muscle tone is good, and I now run five miles every day. She couldn’t do much about my face.”
“There is nothing wrong with your face. It has…character.”
“I know. I look like my dog, Coondoggie.”
“Coondoggie’s cute, in a hang dawg kinda way. Besides, now that you’re so svelte, your face is downright handsome. Okay, maybe in a puppy dog kind of way, but trust me, sweetie, if you were straight, you’d be fighting women off with a bat by now.”
He brightened. “Really?”
“Would I lie to you, Craig?”
“Yes, but thanks anyway.”
“Okay, what’s the secret, other than the Paminator?”
“No white stuff.”
“You’re only dating black guys now?”
“Cute. Not dating anyone anymore. No white stuff is my diet regime: no sugar, rice, pasta, starch, flour. Period.”
“That’s it?”
“That and exercise.”
“Uh-oh,” I said, then gave him the day’s menu. “I’ll sign on for your diet, but not until tomorrow, right around two.”
“I’ll splurge today,” Craig said, “and have a panini, but why put off your diet until mid-day tomorrow?”
“Because the golf course restaurant serves menudo on Saturdays, and I believe hominy qualifies as white stuff.”
Menudo is a spicy Mexican soup touted as a hangover cure, and is traditionally served on weekends and during the Christmas season. Its ingredients include tripe, hominy, lime juice, dried chile flakes, onion, and epazote, a Mexican spice they make tea with. Topped with chopped fresh cilantro, basil, and onion, it’s this Texan’s idea of comfort food.
Craig wrinkled his nose when he heard the recipe, and opted instead for a vegetarian omelet topped with salsa. He didn’t touch the tortillas. Too white.
We’d already walked two miles before brunch, so we were pushing the lunch hour by the time we sat down at the club restaurant. Half the people ate a late breakfast, others were into luncheon fare. We took our time, enjoying several glasses of iced tea while watching golfers frustrate themselves on the practice putting green out front.
We were leaving the dining room when the two black dudes from the RV park sauntered in. Craig stiffened visibly as they passed. The men didn’t acknowledge our presence, even though you’d think they’d give a nod to the only other black guy in the place.
Outside, Craig muttered a curse. “What?” I asked.
“Those brothers. Didn’t think I’d see them in these parts.”
“You know them?”
“Not them, personally, but Oakland has a bunch of these thugs operating under the auspices of friendly neighborhood Black Muslim groups.”
Now I realized why those two looked familiar. Bay Area newspapers and television stations had featured photos and videos of men dressed like Louis Farrakhan, the Nation of Islam leader, when a story broke they’d been mixed up in alleged nefarious activities. The cops had raided at least one bakery, whose owners were suspected of ties to a murder, extortion, and kidnapping for hire plots.
I nodded. “I remember the news.”
“Mark my words, there will be a day of reckoning. I had a friend who was gunned down in broad daylight while jogging around Lake Merritt. No one was ever charged, but I know who did it, and so do the police. My friend was working on an exposé related to a renegade offshoot group of the Black Muslims, and he got too close to the truth.”
“That’s awful, Craig. You think they’ll ever nail the jerks that did it?”
“Oh, yes. The bastards are getting bolder and bolder. As I said, their day of reckoning is coming.”
“I don’t know much about them, but what I’ve heard wasn’t especially good. I know Farrakhan has been accused of anti-Semitism and homophobia.”
“He is, no matter how much he says he’s misquoted. Trust me, I know. When I was an undergraduate, they tried to recruit me. They didn’t know I was gay. Hell, I didn’t know I was gay.”
“Little s
low on the learning curve there?”
“Total denial. Anyhow, I was raised in an all white neighborhood, the son of two doctors, and the grandson of a state senator. I was the fat fly in the buttermilk and one lonely dude. Guess what the other students called me behind my back.”
“No idea,” I said, but of course I was thinking, Craigosaurus.
As if reading my mind, he said, “No, not Craigosaurus, neegarosaurus.”
I barked totally inappropriate laughter, then clapped my hand over my mouth, but another guffaw escaped. I finally gasped, “I’m sorry, Craig. I know it’s not funny.”
He grinned. “Actually, it is. If it wasn’t aimed at me, I would’ve laughed, too. You gotta give cleverness, even when it’s vicious, it’s due. I was an overweight nerd and believe me, kids know how to spot a loser when they see one.”
“You are not a loser.”
He shrugged. “I’m working on that. Anyhow, I guess I thought once I got away from my high school tormentors I could start anew, but hate groups prey on loners, so I was a prime target. At first the Muslim brothers at Berkeley who befriended me pushed the black pride thing, my African roots, all the stuff that I hadn’t learned much about in predominately lily-white Atherton. I have to admit, I was flattered by the attention but, little by little, their malevolence surfaced. By then, though, I realized I didn’t fit well at Berkeley and transferred to UC Davis, since I already planned to attend Vet school there. Not many militants hanging out at Davis, so I graduated a virgin, non-militant, closet dweller. Not many militants hanging out there, so I graduated a virginal, non-militant, closet dweller. By the time I had my first fling, AIDS was a well-known killer, so my refusal to admit the truth may have saved my life.”
I reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze, and teased, “And look how far you’ve come on the high school social scale. I mean, here you are, friends with an ex-cheerleader.”
That made him chuckle. “Oh, yeah, I’ll bet you were class sweetheart, as well.”
“Hardly. I was odd gal out, sent to live with my grandmother in a very small, Baptist, Texas town while my parents finished up a job overseas. I might as well have stepped off the bus from Mars. Yes, I was a cheerleader, but only because I knew what one was. I had one close friend, but trust me, the others thought I had a secret tail.”
Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series (Book 4)) Page 7
