“Naw, I was just a stupid kid who didn’t know I was poor. Mom forgot to tell me.”
“You weren’t poor poor. After your dad died, your mom had to make ends meet on a clerical salary. Craig, on the other hand, was a rich kid.”
“I guess so, but my parents forgot to tell me.”
I rolled to a stop in a cloud of wood smoke. The fragrant smell of grilling carne asada sent my stomach a-rumblin’. Mesquite grilled beef, topped with a dollop of fresh salsa, and then rolled in a steaming hot tortilla is a little piece of breakfast heaven.
As we savored our breakfast, a group of tired, hungry looking people gathered across the street. I clutched my third taco protectively.
Jan cocked her head in their direction. “Think they’ve just been dumped back in Mexico by the Border Patrol?”
I shook my head. “That sign says Centro de Rehabilitacion y Recuperacion para Enfermos de Drogadiccion y Alcoholismo. Rehab center for drugs and alcoholism. Maybe we should check you in, Sister, so you can ditch that habit.”
Craig laughed, but Jan glowered. “Ya know, a pun can be overused.”
“Oh, lighten up. I practically saved your life by moving you to the front of the sick line, and the only way to do it was tell them you needed a fix. Ungrateful wretch.”
“Girls, girls,” Craig held up his hands, “peace. Let’s get on down the road before…well, well, look who’s here. Or rather, there.”
I looked where he nodded, and who should appear in front of that rehab building? Our little Miss Sonrisa. “For a tiny Indian from way down south, she sure gets around.”
My voice carries. She spotted us and crossed the street. Walking straight to our table, she asked, “¿Está usted va a la viña?” No good morning or how are you from this one.
“And a good dia to you, as well. No, we are not going to the vineyard, vamanos al San Carlos.”
She then made us understand she’d like a ride as far as the turnoff for the Ruta Rio Sonora, just north of Cananea. I reluctantly agreed, and she accepted with all the grace of a pit bull. She did, however, manage a crack of a smile and a nod when Craig offered her a taco.
Not another word passed Sonrisa’s grim little lips as we finished our breakfast while chatting about our trip plans and schedule. When we let her off at her turnoff, she mumbled something that could have been thanks, or screw you. I’m betting on the latter.
“Charming little ingrate, huh?” I said, watching her stalk away.
“What is her problem?” Jan wanted to know.
Craig filled her in on what little we knew of Sonrisa’s hard life before she ended up at the winery, and that Nanci said her reticence was due to shyness. As we pulled into Cananea, Craig and I were arguing over whether Miss Sonrisa was reticent or downright surly. Jan averred that Craig was probably right, and that I was being too hard on the poor little thing.
Mean old Hetta pulled into a Pemex station, topped off the tanks, and ended up paying five pesos each for the three of us to use the bathroom, even though I’d just overpaid by at least ten percent because all the pump counters are misset, and it ain’t in your favor. Jenks calls it a milagro, a miracle, for only in Mexico can you get 22 liters in a 19 liter gas container.
Who says Mexicans aren’t enterprising souls?
Things were quiet at the mine entrance. A few soldiers slumped about, but the former roadblocks and angry strikers were gone. The old man and dog once again guarded the gate, and even though they actually appeared awake, it was hard to tell, as the gate stood open and we rolled on through.
Maria greeted us outside, even though the temperature was in the low forties, and hustled us inside, where it wasn’t much warmer.
“God, it’s freezing in here, Maria. What’d they do, cut off your power?”
“Oh, no. Señor Racón requested we not use the heater. He says we must save electricidad.”
“Oh, he does, does he. Where is the little ratón?”
She smiled. “In Mexico.”
Craig looked puzzled. “I thought we were in Mexico.”
I explained that Mexicans, when they say Mexico, mean Mexico City, then I asked Maria, “So, who’s the boss today?”
She looked confused. “Boss?”
“Who is the jefe? Who tells you what to do when the bosses are gone?”
A frown crossed her pretty face as she thought about that. “I guess, today, that would be you?”
“Yes, I think so. When will Racón return?”
“Two weeks.”
“Maria, will you type a letter for me?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, here goes: To Miss Maria, uh, what’s your last name?”
“Fuentes.”
“To Miss Maria Fuentes. Until further notice, please keep my office at seventy-five degrees, Fahrenheit. Thank you, Engineer Hetta Coffey.”
“Café, there is no heater in your office.”
“Then leave the door open so heat can get in there.”
“Yes, Café. Thank you.”
“De nada. I’ll be checking in at my office every day, so be sure it’s warm, got that?”
“But, I thought you were on your way to San Carlos.”
“Who told you that?”
“You did.”
“I lied.”
She smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
Chapter 24
“Nice goin’ back there, Hetta. Keep the heat on, indeed. You trying to get yourself canned?” Jan asked as we left the mine office and entered the main highway for San Carlos.
“Racón won’t touch me for something as simple as turning up the heat in the office. Don’t forget, I’m a world-class mining expert, he said so himself. Well, he didn’t, Juan Orozco did, but they’ve painted themselves into a corner with the unions, touting me as the person who will fix everything.”
“Boy, if they only knew,” Craig said, then cranked his head toward Jan in the backseat. “Actually, I thought helping poor freezing Maria out was very thoughtful, and, after all, how often is Hetta thoughtful?”
“Hey, Doctor Washington, how’s this for a thought?” I said with a show of teeth meant as a snarl. “You want to walk to Baja?”
“On second thought, Hetta Coffey is one of the most caring individuals I know. So, how long a drive to San Carlos?”
I shrugged. “Depends on how many slow trucks we get behind. Like that one up there. Hold on, we can take him.”
“But what about that…Oh, crap.”
We made it from Cananea to San Carlos in four-and-a-half hours, something of a record I was later told. I was given a great deal of help by Our Lady of Guadalupe; on the switchback curve where her shrine stands, one can see traffic coming down the mountain from the opposite direction for at least a quarter mile, so I managed to pass four trucks.
Craig swore he would never ride with me again, but I knew he’d get over it. Jan thought the trip miraculously uneventful, considering some of our past jaunts, and called Craig a wuss. They were still bickering over my driving skills when we skidded to a stop in front of the Captain’s Club near Marina San Carlos.
“Last one to the bar gets a time out, and pays for the first round,” I told them, launching myself from the driver’s seat.
Craig, crammed into the back seat after insisting on a seat change, even if it turned him into a sardine, also got stuck with the bill. By the time we cranked down a few fish tacos and a couple of gallons of beer—even Craig, who I suspect was stuffing road fear—it was time to head for our rooms at the Adalai.
Small, family run, and off the beaten path, the Departmentos Adalai, as it is called, is a favorite with boaters. Rooms are cheap and clean, the owners friendly and accommodating. Luxurious, it is not, but it fits the bill for non-tourist types looking for a soft place to land.
We opted for two rooms, both with a small fridge and microwave. I’d packed a kit with coffee makings and healthy snacks, but Jan and I planned on grazing our way through town as soon as we dumped
Der Carbmeister onto the ferry. Love the man, but he simply had to go. Maybe a few days of living on fish would give him a new attitude towards a good old greasy cheeseburger. His ferry didn’t leave until Saturday night, so we were stuck with him for another day, but as soon as he was gone, we planned on a major fried shrimp scarf-down.
After breakfast at Barracuda Bob’s the next morning, we headed for Marina Real to check on Raymond Johnson. In addition to her hull work, I wanted to have the engines serviced so when she launched we’d be ready to cruise. I was hoping that “we” would be me and Jenks.
In addition to checking on Mad Russ’s progress with the blisters, I’d scheduled a meeting with my mechanic, Franky. Franky and I have a love-hate relationship; he loves working on boats, and I hate waiting for him to work on mine, even though he’s worth the wait.
As we entered the work yard, I surmised the work part I was paying for got lost in translation, for while there seemed to be a lot of work going on, it just wasn’t on my boat. Other boats bristled with ladders and men sanding, caulking, and painting. Nary a ladder nor man near the forlorn-looking Raymond Johnson.
“Uh, Hetta,” Jan said, eyeing my poor boat, “what exactly did you say they are supposed to be doing here?”
“Not storing her, which is what it looks like. I at least expected to see the blisters fared out so they’ll dry. I’m paying a premium to be in the work yard section, but Raymond Johnson looks exactly as I left her. Will you stay here and get one of the guys to call me on channel sixteen when Franky shows?” I waggled my handheld VHF at her.
Jan said yes, I asked Craig to accompany me and to put on a mean face, then we steamed toward the marina in search of Tequila Mockingbird, and her owner, Mad Russ.
Banging on Tequila’s hull got no results, but just as we were ready to give up and walk away, Russ stuck his head out of the cockpit hatch. “Hetta?” he mumbled sleepily, “What are you doing here?” He glanced warily at the suitably menacing Craig.
“Checking the progress on my boat, Russ, which, I might say, is zero. Zip. Nada.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that.”
“What, pray tell, would you say, exactly?”
“It’s drying out.”
“How can the blisters dry if they aren’t ground out so they can drain?”
He looked surprised. I’d done my homework since we last talked. I now knew what had to be done, and all the steps to get there. “Well, you know, I was getting to that. Soon.”
“How about getting to this? You give me a bill for what you haven’t done, and I’ll pay for it by the hour.”
“Aw, Hetta, you know how it is,” he whined, but made no move to leave the safety of his boat.
“No, Russ, I don’t. As the Donald would say, you’re fired.” I tramped back to the boat yard, where I tracked down Mario, the marina employee who’d discovered the blisters in the first place. He looked nervous, as though I’d somehow blame him for Mad Russ’s lack of progress.
“Mario, who can I get to fix my boat?”
He smiled with relief and pointed to another man in the yard, one who was actually working on a boat. “Arturo.”
Thirty minutes later, Arturo had a bunch of my money, and I had a schedule for the completion of Raymond Johnson’s bottom job. He also told me the blisters were much less severe than I’d been led to think and then, milagro: Franky showed. I was assured by my new guys that in no time my boat would be in her slip, shipshape, and ready to head for California. Franky even said if need be, he’d go along as chief mechanic.
Having a mechanic of his caliber on board for a trip north was mighty tempting, but his offer dampened my buoying spirits. Would Jenks be there to take her home, or would I indeed end up with a crew? Where was Jenks? Was he all right? It had been eight days since he said he was going to some mysterious location. In what country? He hadn’t said when he would return, and, uncharacteristic for me, I hadn’t asked. He did say he’d call when he could, but I had expected that would be by now.
Suddenly a devastating mental image of some wild-eyed, sword-brandishing, contractor-beheading terrorists loomed.
Jan, who was chatting with a couple of boaters she knew, broke away and grabbed my arm. “Hetta, you okay? You look like you’re about to conk out.”
I shook my head. “I’m not okay, I’m scared. What if Jenks is—”
“Don’t even go there,” she said. “Say goodbye to these nice folks. We are going to the motel, get our stuff, and head for the house in Bisbee, where, through the wonderful world of every resource we have, we are going to find Jenks Jenkins. Okay? Craig, you can take a taxi to your ferry tonight.”
“No problem,” he said. “You go do what you have to do. You’d better hustle, though, it’s already pushing ten. I don’t want you two out on Mexican roads after dark, and that’s pretty early this time of year.”
I didn’t protest, for Jan was right. Action was needed and we were gonna do it. We drove to the motel, hurriedly packed up my VW, grabbed box lunches at Barracuda Bob’s, and headed for the border. Just south of Hermosillo, I pulled over.
“Jan, hand me that map of Sonora from the glove compartment. I have an idea.”
I spread the map out and traced a road with my finger. “See this? This road goes up the Rio Sonora, right by Ted and Nanci’s vineyard.”
“And?”
“And, Ted was in the Middle East with Jenks. They worked together. He started to talk about what they did over there once, but Nanci shut him down. If we go this way,” I tapped the map, “instead of through Imuris and up Mex 2, we can stop by the winery. Maybe Ted’ll come up with a contact who’ll track down Jenks. It’s worth a try.”
Jan studied the map. “Is this a good road? Can we make it to the winery before dark?”
“About the same distance as if we went through Cananea, looks like. Maybe even a little shorter. I can’t tell you how good the road is from this map, but it is paved. When Craig and I went through…here,” I showed her a spot on the same highway, just north of the winery, “we did have to ford the river. My guess is we’ll have to do so a couple of times, but what the heck, it’s not rainy season, so we should do all right.”
She shrugged. “Okay by me, can we call Ted and Nanci, let them know we’re on the way?”
“I’ll try. They have HughesNet up there, therefore Internet, ergo, phone. Reach in my purse and get that little red book. Last name is Burns.”
Rosa answered, said Nanci and Ted were out riding, but she’d let them know we were on the way. I hung up and told Jan, “I figured they’d be there. They told me they weren’t going anywhere until next month. They’re in the process of changing out cobalt rods and have to stick close to home until the exchange is made.”
“Did you say cobalt rods? What the hell kind of wine are they making up there?”
I told her all about irradiated wine, now that I’m an expert on the subject. Maybe I’ll add that to my resume, right along with internationally renowned mining consultant.
Chapter 25
The Rio Sonora Valley’s villages are rustic, historic, and charming. Many of them are over four hundred years old and imbue a rural charm long lost to most of the United States and Mexico. Nary a stoplight, golden arch, or neon sign for miles. Just one sleepy, pristine pueblo after another, each anchored by a mission or church plaza at its center. Between villages, we rarely saw another vehicle.
The small colonial-style towns, which spread from central plazas worthy of a sit, are authentically colonial in style. The old houses, even those with peeling paint, looked homey and lived in. Rattling along on narrow cobblestone streets built well before automobiles were invented, we found friendly folks willing to while away time shooting the breeze with a couple of Gringas. We stopped briefly at each town, keeping a close watch on the hour and miles to go as we went.
Jan kept up a verbal travelogue, using a dog-eared guidebook I’d picked up at Barracuda Bob’s a few months before. I never leave a map or gu
idebook lie, because you never know when you’ll get a chance to check out a new spot, and here we were.
Touristing our way north, we hit Huépac and took a gander at their mammoth femur displayed like a hero statue, bought tiny but fiery chiltepin peppers in Baviacora, and gaped at Achonchi’s black Christ figure. Jan wanted to hit the thermal springs reputed to have medicinal qualities, but we were running out of time and daylight.
Fording the Rio Sonora at night was not an option, so we reluctantly blasted by Arizpe’s huge cottonwood trees teeming with great herons. The trip so far had been surprisingly relaxing, informative, and fun, so, of course, things had to hit the dumper.
We picked up a tail just north of Arizpe.
Charming as the pueblos were, we’d seen so few cars between towns that a tinge of unease niggled at their remoteness. Already on the alert because of reported drogista traffic in the area, my hands tightened on the wheel as we passed a white SUV parked on the side of the road. To make matters worse, two youngish men wearing baseball caps lounged in the front seat.
I didn’t say anything to Jan, and was thinking maybe I was being paranoid when the SUV loomed in my rearview mirror. I moved over the centerline, hogging the road to prevent them from passing.
“Jan?” I said, “Tighten your seatbelt.”
She did it without first asking why. She’s been around me way too long.
I downshifted, hit the gas, and we were doing eighty in no time. The SUV stayed on my tail.
Jan craned her neck to take a look. “Where did they come from?”
“They were sitting on the side of the road, almost like they were waiting for us.”
“Hetta, I know you have a suspicious nature, but are you sure they aren’t just a couple of dudes on their way home in a hurry?”
“You saw them. What do you think?”
“Punks.”
“Yep. How far to the next town?”
Jan studied our map. “I don’t see anything. The winery turnoff is…what’s the last kilometer number you saw?”
Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series (Book 4)) Page 15
