Since Craig wanted to visit Chino, and I needed to check on my boat, we made plans for heading south.
I called Maria, who was one of the few people left in the skeleton crew at the mine.
“So,” I asked, “any news on the strike settlement?”
“No, Café, but Señor Orozco is working with the unions in Mexico City. He took your last report with him and told me the union leader was pleased with your proposals.”
“Good, that’ll keep me on the payroll, right?”
“I do not know of such things, but he told me to continue sending you drawings and files, so I think so.”
That was a relief. “I am going to San Carlos this weekend, so if you can get me through the gate, I’ll drop off another report. Will you be there on Friday?”
“Oh, yes. I will notify security.”
“I’ll have two people with me. Is that okay?”
“No problem. What time will you be here?”
“Around nine. Uh, is El Ratón still around?”
Giggle. “Yes, Señor Racón is here.”
“You know, I thought I saw him in Naco, Arizona, not long ago. Does he have friends over here?”
“I do not know. Do you want me to ask him?”
“No!” I shouted, not meaning to. Much quieter, I added, “It’s not important. Hasta Friday.”
“Hasta luego, Café.”
Jan peeked around the door. “Who you yellin’ at?”
“I overreacted when talking with Maria. That guy I told you about who works for the mining company, the one I call Rat Face? Craig and I saw him going into an RV over by the golf course, and guess who owns said RV?”
“The Xers?”
“What are you, clairvoyant?”
“Naw, Craig told me. Hetta, you aren’t snooping where your nose can lead us into yet another mess, are you?”
“Who, me?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I swear, if you so much as get me a parking ticket, I will kill you. I mean it this time.”
“Ya know, Sister Jan, drug withdrawal can make a person mighty cranky. You might want to consider a program.”
I ducked, but not fast enough. The morning newspaper hit me in the chest. I grabbed it and was saying, “Temper, temper, Sister,” when a headline caught my attention.
Cananea mine owners accused of negligence.
Mexico City
Señor Juan Orozco, Managing Director of Groupo Minera Cananea, denied allegations by miner union officials that the health of employees has been purposely jeopardized by management’s failure to maintain safety equipment properly. For years, according to the unions, the concentrator unit has not been functioning properly, subjecting employees to dangerous levels of dust.
One union official quoted a recent report on conditions at the mine. “The deliberate dismantling of dust collectors in the concentrator area processing plants by Grupo Mexico approximately two years ago means that workers in these areas have been subjected to high concentrations of dust containing 23% quartz silica, with 51% of sampled dust in the respirable particle size range, protected only by inadequate personal respirators. Occupational exposures to silica can lead to debilitating, fatal respiratory diseases including silicosis and lung cancer.”
Admitting there might be room for improvement, Señor Orozco said they have hired the services of a world-renowned mining expert to analyze the situation and, if necessary, recommend repairs.
I quit reading and speed dialed the Trob, and since Jan loves eavesdropping on my conversations with Wontrobski, which she likens to me taking a knife to a gunfight, I put the speaker on for her infantile amusement.
“Good morning, Hetta.”
“You know, Wontrobski, if you’re gonna replace me, you might want to give me a heads up so I can make other plans.”
“What are you talking about?”
I read him the article, then demanded, “So, just who is this so-called expert?”
“Well, Hetta, you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are the expert.”
“I am no way an expert on concentrators, or mines.” Or almost anything else, for that matter.
“Maybe so, but you are all they have.”
“In that case, they’re in deep doo doo.”
“You underestimate yourself. I have to go now. Goodbye.”
I held the phone in a chokehold at arm’s length and screamed.
Jan gave me a devilish grin and shook her head. “You experts. Sooo temperamental.”
“Big talk from a defrocked nun with a drug habit,” I retorted, then we both howled at the pun.
Craig came into the office to see what all the commotion was about. “Hey, what’s up? You two having a cat fight?”
“Nah, Hetta’s just trying to strangle the phone.” She filled him in on the latest expert stuff.
“Think how it’ll look on your resume, Miss Coffey,” he said. “Now, how about a nice brisk walk and some hot java at the golf course?”
“Say, Craig, you haven’t, by any chance, taken note of that rancher hunk drinking coffee there about this time every day, have you?”
“Hunk?” Jan asked. “Rancher hunk? Take me to him.”
“Oh,” I drawled, winking at her, “I have a feeling this cow poke, you should excuse the expression, only has eyes for our hunk, Doctor Craig.”
Craig tried to look indignant. “He’s only interested in my tracking chip.”
“So you say.”
Jan grabbed her bag. “Well, rancher or no, I want coffee and a close up look at those Black Muslim dudes you guys are always talking about. I saw them in the Jeep the day I arrived, the one you said that gal, Sonrisa, was bumming a ride in, but I was too sick to pay much attention.”
Craig frowned. “Speaking of, Hetta, did you call Ted and Nanci? Did Sonrisa get home safe and sound the other day?”
“Yep, but Nanci thinks Sonrisa must have taken the bus from Cananea, because she got home late. After dark, in fact. They were beginning to worry.”
“Maybe our X-men went to visit their good buddy, El Ratón, in Cananea, and dropped her there.”
“Maybe, who knows? I don’t even know why I care, she’s such a disagreeable little shit.”
“Takes one to know one?” Craig suggested. “Okay, get on your walking shoes, we’re headed out in search of exercise, breakfast, and caffeine.”
“And cowboys?”
Chapter 22
Craig’s dangling the caffeine and breakfast carrot helped me endure yet another forced march towards the golf club café via several miles of back desert roads. Of course, coffee and victuals would have sounded more promising had I not been flanked by a skinny blonde who could regain ten pounds, and a large black taskmaster determined that both he and I lose a few.
Jan, because she could, and without a soupçon of regard for my high degree of deprivation, ordered a huge, carb-and-fat-loaded cheese enchilada breakfast plate. Adding insult to injury, she slathered butter on a plate-sized tortilla while I sipped black coffee and nibbled a piece of dry rye toast. I wanted to strangle her and steal her food. Better yet, throttle Craig and end my misery permanently.
Only one thing might stay his execution. “Uh, Craig,” I said as sweetly as possible while choking down rye-flavored sawdust, “when we get back to the house, I’ll make your ferry reservations for Baja. You have definitely decided to go, right?”
Craig, who had unsuccessfully concealed his disappointment when the hunky rancher he’d befriended wasn’t astride his usual barstool, waffled. “I’m still thinking about it. Can’t I make reservations when we get to San Carlos?”
“Absolutely not,” I lied, giving him one last chance to salvage his sorry carb-counting butt.
Jan looked up, ready to contradict me, but a mouthful of buttery tortilla saved her an ankle bash.
Luckily for Craig, he took the bait. “Okay, then, I guess I’ll go for sure. I haven’t seen my buddy Chino in years. I’m looking forw
ard to it. I’ll call him later today, make sure he’ll be there.”
Jan swallowed and daintily dabbed the corners of her mouth. I was gratified to see a big grease blob on her tee shirt. “Trust me, he’ll be there,” she said. “Nothing can tear him away from those damned whales.”
“Kinda like you and that tortilla?” I grumbled.
“Hey, I’ve been sick. Oh, I think we have Xers, three o’clock.”
Craig and I turned our heads to the right like marionettes. Hardly subtle. Sure enough, there they were, bow ties and all. They sat at the next table, ordered lunch since it was past eleven, and sat silently watching putters on the practice green.
“You’re right, guys,” Jan whispered, “they sure don’t fit in.” Then she giggled. “Like we do?”
She had a point. Her tall, slim, stunning blonde looks, along with Craig’s sheer size set us apart from the lunch crowd of, well, average looking county residents, at least for this part of the county. I mean, this ain’t exactly Scottsdale. However, next to my friends, I thought I fit in pretty well with the locals, but maybe I didn’t blend as well as I thought.
“Hey, Red,” one of the Xers said.
Startled at being addressed by the guys who, up until now, seemed to ignore everyone in the restaurant except the wait staff, I cleverly answered. “Who, me?”
“You see any other redheads in here?”
“Uh, no.”
“Well, then, it must be you. We see you guys around,” his eyes strayed to Jan, leaving me to believe he was not so interested in my irresistible little self, but using me as an entree to the new and lovely Jan. Eyes reluctantly back on me, he added, “You live close?”
“Sort of.”
“You look like Californians,” the other one said.
“Sort of,” I repeated. For someone who loves drilling for info, I hate it when the tables are turned. “How about you? Not from Oakland by any chance are you?”
Craig nudged me under the table, probably to make sure I didn’t mention the infamous Your Black Muslim Bakery.
“Naw, LA. So, since we’re black you figured us for Oakland?”
The question was thrown like a gauntlet, a challenge to prove I wasn’t some kind of racist. I’d dealt with this kind of shoulder chip before and had no intention of rising to the taunt, although it would have been fun to ask, “Watts?” just because he was being pissy.
“No, I asked because we’re all based in Oakland.”
That took a little attitude off him. “That so? What you doin’ here?”
I wanted to say, none of your damned bidness, but then, if I did, I couldn’t ask the same, could I? “We’re…bird watchers. Well, I am. My colleagues are actually veterinarians. We’re especially interested in the migration habits of the,” Jan and Craig looked amused, waiting for my answer, “monk parrot.” This was a subject I knew well, as my ex-pet parrot, Trouble, happened to be one of those pesky critters.
The Xer’s exchanged a glance, then one asked, “What is a monk parrot?”
Jan, who also knew Trouble, piped up. “Monk parrots are feral birds that have migrated from South America and are not exactly welcomed up here. Truth is, they are illegal avians.”
The two chuckled at our well-worn joke. “And you’re counting them?” Somehow I don’t think they believed us. “You get paid to do that?”
Craig finally spoke up, joining in the deception. “No, we’re volunteers. What about you two? Why are you here?” His voice was controlled, but I detected a hint of his own challenge.
“Water.”
“Like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca?” I asked.
They looked confused, so Jan and I went into our act. Casablanca being our all-time favorite film, we had parts of the dialogue memorized. Doing my best imitation of Claude Rains as Captain Louis Renault, I cocked my head in a Gallic tilt and asked Jan, ‘“What in heaven’s name brought you to Casablanca?’”
Jan, playing Bogart, growled, ‘“My health. I came to Casablanca for the waters.’”
‘“The waters? What waters? We’re in the desert.’”
‘“I was misinformed.’”
Jan and I cracked ourselves up, but the Xers obviously had a limited sense of humor. Before they had a chance to clam up, though, I asked, “So, why are you here, really?”
“Believe it or not, we’re doing a study on the San Pedro River. It runs, as you probably know, from Mexico into Arizona. There is some concern of contamination from the mining operation in Cananea.”
Aha. Maybe that’s what El Ratón was doing at their trailer? “So, you take water samples and send them off somewhere?”
“Exactly. We also have testing equipment in our RV.” Hmmm. As the chief project consultant regarding contamination problems at the mine, shouldn’t I have heard of a water study?
Something, probably the caffeine, jangled my calorie-starved brain. A picture of Sonrisa, jabbering away in the backseat of their Jeep flashed to the forefront. “So, I guess your Spanish must be pretty good, huh?”
Like bobbleheads, they both did a no shake. The taller one answered. “No, unfortunately, not a word. Well, maybe a word, but that’s about it. Well, we have to get go—”
He was interrupted by a loud, cheerful voice. “Yoohoo, Sister Jan, I’m sooo glad to see you looking sooo well.”
We were sooo busted.
It was Patricia Norquist, the receptionist from the Copper Queen hospital, where I’d taken Jan for treatment of her tourista. Just great.
The Xers exchanged a look, one of them mouthing silently at the other, “Sister?”
“What a wonderful coincidence to see you here. This is Father Harry, visiting from Holy Trinity Monastery in Saint David, just north of here. Sister Jan, surely you’ve heard of the Oblates of the Order of Saint Benedict? My memory fails me, what is your Order?”
The Farrakhan brothers, who’d been so intent on leaving, now sat back with smug smiles as Jan’s cheeks flamed red and her pursed lips remained firmly clamped around a large forkful of refrieds she’d conveniently shoved into her pie hole.
I stood and stuck my hand out, as did Craig. “Hi, Father Harry, I’m Hetta, this is Doctor Washington,” they shook, “and of course, our friend, Sister Jan.”
Jan just nodded and made a mmmm sound.
“Well, I guess she’s not really a Sister anymore since she, ah….” I let that pause hang heavy in the suddenly stifling air.
Jan took the clue and hung her head over her plate in what passed for disgrace. Father Harry, on the other hand, beamed a beatific smile, mumbled something about lost sheep and redemption, and quickly moved to a table.
We beat feet for the exit before we really looked stupid. As we passed the Xers, one of them smirked and waved. “Have a good day, Doctor, Sister Doctor, and of course, you, Red.”
We were out the door before I realized I hadn’t gotten the Xer’s names. I must be slipping. A quick stop at the RV registration desk did the job though. Oh, yeah, Brother John Smith.
We went home, made ferry arrangements for Craig, and settled on the sun-drenched verandah to read the local paper and sip iced tea.
An announcement of a new Yoga class caught my eye. I need Yoga so I can kick myself in the butt when I screw up.
Jan reached over, rattled my paper, and whispered, “Company.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t look now, but we are found.”
Of course, I looked. Sure enough, John Smith and his buddy rolled to a halt in front of the house. There were no golf clubs in their cart.
“Nice digs, bird watchers.”
“Hello again, Mr. Smith,” I returned, letting him know I’d checked up on him.
“Touché,” he said, gave me a little salute, and rolled away. For some reason, his knowing where I lived bothered me, but then again, I knew where they lived, as well: too close.
Chapter 23
What with a couple of mysterious Black Muslims taking a sudden interest in us, we figured it was
a good thing we were blowing town for San Carlos. Craig had a ferry to catch, I wanted to check on my boat, and Jan said she’d much rather slink out of Dodge than risk another awkward encounter like the one with that hospital receptionist and a monk the day before.
Jan, still chagrined by the Father Harry thing, took every opportunity to give me grief. I knew she’d see the humor in the situation soon, as she always does, and there’s nothing like a road trip to cheer folks up and clear the air. As an added bonus, once we dumped our keeper, Craig, onto the ferry for Baja, Jan and I could hit the town like old times. Even she, who started out as his staunch ally, was chaffing at his Draconian exercise regimen, even though he let her eat and drink pretty much what she wanted.
We packed up my VW and left Craig’s car in my garage, with promises, under penalty of death, not to drive it when we returned. As Craig so charmingly stated it, “You two are way too careless with stuff like cars.”
We should never have shared with him our recent adventures, which, among other things, involved a burned up rental car, a pickup with a bent axle, and a totaled VW Thing. We were only directly responsible for one out of three of those incidents, but in Craig’s mind, a wreck is a wreck.
I’d spotted a promising taco stand in Naco, Sonora, on my last trip south, so we decided to grab one or two for breakfast. This was after trying to convince Craig that, just as the Weather Channel map stops at the border, so does the existence of cholesterol and calories. Won over or not, he agreed to the tacos.
As we crossed the border, the usual flock of giggling school kids headed north, on their way to school in Naco, Arizona. I wondered aloud if they had any idea how lucky they were to be able to cross into the U.S. so easily, when others were dying, literally, to do the same thing.
“Hey,” Craig said, “they’re elementary school students. How aware were you as a kid that you were lucky to be an American?”
“Oh, trust me,” I said, “very. We traveled extensively and I saw, first hand, kids sleeping in doorways and begging for food and money on the streets. I knew I was lucky. How about you, Jan?”
Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series (Book 4)) Page 14
