I read somewhere that some proponents of spiritual teachings insist there is absolutely no coincidence in the world, and everything that occurs can be related to a prior association, no matter how vast, minute, or trivial. Hmmm. That wasn’t going to help me sleep any better, so I downed an Excedrin P.M.
I slept well, and long, never even hearing my friends return. They entered through the garage-to-pantry door, using their key for that deadbolt. I can only imagine their amusement at seeing all the other doors jammed with chairs.
When I awoke at nine the next morning, it was with a start and a moment of crystal clear clarity. Nacho was the key, and I had to find him.
Calling a meeting of the minds, I told everyone my theory that Nacho was somehow involved in this mess, and was the one person who might explain all events. He was the common denominator, not me, I reasoned.
“How do you figure that? So far, Miss Hetta, I do not recall seeing Nacho being hijacked, nor his home invaded by Zetas. That would be you.”
“However, Jan,” Craig said, “you were there in both cases, as well. How do we know it’s not you they’re after?”
“History. No one is ever after me, it’s always Hetta. For the past twenty damned years—”
I cut her off. “Let’s get on track here. Chino, you got any ideas?”
He shook his head. “No. I think Jan and I should return to the Baja. Craig, you must come, as well.”
“What am I? Shark chum?” I demanded. “Sure, throw me under the bus, run off to the safety of those damned whales, all of you.”
Jan shot Chino a dirty look and stuck out her chin. “You go hide amongst your whales, Chino. Even if Hetta is the screw up here, I’m not abandoning her.”
“Hey, why am I the screw up?”
“You let them find you. I told you, after that Baja debacle, to get yourself and your boat out of Mexico, but nooo, you never listen.”
“I had no reason to leave. Nacho took care of Paco.”
“Did he, now? I wasn’t invited to a funeral, were you?”
“Back to my original premise. We have to find Nacho and ask him if that pervert really died.”
Jan flipped her hands into the air. “Like we could possibly track down a guy who thinks he’s The Shadow, and is either a dope dealer or a federal agent of some kind for who knows what country? Plus, if you had any common sense at all, which you don’t, you’d stay the hell out of Mexico.”
Chino, obviously stung by Jan’s practically calling him a coward, quietly said, “I can find him. No one is looking for me. I’m Mexican, I blend in. I’ll go in search of this Nacho. I saw him on the beach Christmas eve, so I know what he looks like.”
We all stared at him, then Jan batted her eyelashes. “Really?”
Chino blushed and nodded.
“I’ll go with you, Chino,” Craig volunteered.
“Sorry, my friend, but you cannot. No offense, but you would seem writ large in Mexico.”
Writ large? I love it when Chino’s British education surfaces.
We were still discussing our next move when the phone rang. I answered, talked a couple of minutes, and returned to the group.
“Okay, I want everyone out of my house. Pronto.”
“Oh, come on, Hetta, we’re just trying to help.”
“And I appreciate it. Forget Nacho, forget everything. Pack up and hit the road, all of you.”
Jan’s eye’s narrowed. “Who was that on the phone?”
I couldn’t hold back a grin any longer. “Jenks. He’s hitched a ride on a private jet that’ll dump him in Tucson, and he’ll be here tonight. I don’t care why, I just know I’m a very happy camper, so scram. I’ll spring for your hotel bills.”
Chapter 35
A CPA, a veterinarian, and a marine biologist head for Mexico in search of a mystery man; stop me if you’ve heard this one.
Within two hours of Jenks’s call, my friends were packed up and ready to go.
Chino was to lead the search for Nacho, and Jan agreed to go along on his word that he would buy a fully equipped RV, with satellite TV, for the beach camp. Rather than put them on a bus, I generously lent them my new pickup because they wouldn’t all fit into Craig’s money machine, nor was it the ideal vehicle for inconspicuously stalking Nacho. That still left me with Aunt Lillian’s tank, and a shiny red Porsche I promised not to drive.
Waving them a fond farewell, I did a little jig. I was a free woman, with my house my own for the first time in what seemed like ages. At first I reveled in my solitude, spending the first few hours piling everyone’s leftover stuff into the garage and house cleaning. Finally, I took a break on the verandah, enjoying the quiet, waving to a few golfers. A sense of unease, however, rose as the bright Arizona sun began to set, and I fled into the safety of the house, within easy reach of firepower.
After all, Jenks was on his way, but not yet here.
Jenks called from Tucson, sounding tired, but said he couldn’t wait to see me.
I’d already set the table and readied all his favorites: meatloaf, real mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, peas, and ice cream. Okay, not very romantic, but it is what he loves. I remember returning to the States after long stays overseas, looking forward to good old American fare.
After an extra long, hot shower, I laid my clothes out for the evening. First I unpacked a pair of Eff-me pumps with six-inch heels I hadn’t worn in months, since they’d been stored, along with my guns and other clothes, at Jenks’s apartment in Oakland. I sent Craig an ESP thank you for bringing them to me.
Thanks to Craig’s no white stuff and exercise regime, an emerald green silk cheongsam I’d had custom made in Hong Kong fit better than ever. The prim Mandarin collar, and side slits to you-know-where, balanced a nice-and-naughty gal look guaranteed to snag and keep a guy’s attention. With it, I wore only the ruby pendant Jenks gave me, dangly earrings to match, and those high, high, heels.
I hadn’t gussied up in a dog’s age, and narrowly avoided blinding myself with the mascara wand. Living on a boat had taken its toll, but two hours of primping covered a multitude of sins. After painting my nails what Jan referred to as Floozie Red, I impatiently waved them in the air to dry while checking the clock.
Poofing my hair one last time, I gave myself a boob boost, tugged at my hem, and dabbed on a little more Joy. Oh, yes, I was sooo ready for Jenks.
A last glance in the mirror almost had me undo the whole getup. It was too much. I looked like a Hong Kong street walker. Way too eager, too desperate, too—the doorbell rang and I flew through the house, damned near taking a header, unaccustomed as I was to heels.
So much for playing hard to get.
Throwing open the door I said, “You made good—oh, hell.”
“Quierda, you are not glad to see me?”
“Nacho? What are you doing here?”
“Café, you never call, you never write.”
He gently pushed the door open, stepped in, locked it behind him.
I stood there like the idiot I am while he checked out the room’s low lighting and crackling fire, then gave me and my outfit a long slow look, raising his eyebrows in approval. The table was set for two, a bottle of Viña de las Estrellas champagne chilling in a silver bucket, candles flickering everywhere, and flamenco guitar music played low. Taking a step closer, he half-whispered, around that lazy, sexy smile of his, “So, you were expecting me?”
I found my voice. “You are the last person I reckoned on. Did you come to tell me what that ridiculous message you sent me means? I’ve got people out looking for you, so just tell me and get lost.’’ I didn’t know whether to be frightened or annoyed, and was doing a fair job of being both.
Nacho ignored my rudeness. “Café, you are actually beautiful.”
The surprised tone in his statement pissed me off. I inched toward the granite bar, where my .9mm semi-automatic lay in plain sight.
He glanced at the gun, moved between me and it. “Chica, is that an XDM, or are yo
u just glad to see me?”
“Very funny. Now, either start talking, or beat it.”
“No hug, after all we’ve been through together?”
“Ya know, Nacho, a wise man once said, ‘I learned long ago, never to wrestle with a pig. You get dirty, and besides, the pig likes it.’”
“George Bernard Shaw.”
Nacho never ceases to amaze me. “Look, I’m expecting company, so whatever it is, make it fast, Ignacio.”
His jillion watt grin made him even more handsome, if that’s possible. “So you have been thinking of me. Do you know what my name, Ignacio, means?”
I shook my head.
“Fiery.”
Despite the fact that Jenks was on his way, I felt a little tingle way down low. Nacho has a way of making that happen. I gulped. “Just talk.”
He shrugged. “Okay, okay. Those little problems you’ve been having with, shall we say, undesirable types? It is done.”
“Done?”
“Done. Termino. You made a grievous error in judgment when you challenged those men from the RV park.”
How did he know about that? I played dumb. “What are you talking about?”
“Let me refresh your memory. You and your friends were having breakfast at the golf club and the men you refer to as the Xers were there. One of them said to you, ‘My, your entourage just grows and grows, and you said, ‘And yours changes.’ This was not smart on your part, Café, as your friend, Allison, told you. Also, it forced our hand. We had to move up our operation.”
I was dumbfounded. Did they, whoever they were, have the tables bugged? If not, someone was right there, listening and reporting verbatim. “Oh, yeah? Well what did I have for breakfast?”
“Enchiladas. Look, you can be angry later, I just want you to know you are safe. It is over.” He handed me a newspaper. “Tomorrow’s edition. You will find it interesting.”
We both heard the pop and growl of a car pulling into my gravel driveway.
“I must, reluctantly, leave you, but first,” he handed me a card, “take this. Memorize the number, destroy the card. Ask for me, Lamont. Adios, mija, y vaya con Dios.” He gave me the faintest lip brush just below my ear, then, just like that he was gone, letting himself out through the French doors facing the golf course.
I stood transfixed, staring into the darkened glass. A hot spot burned where his lips touched my skin. The doorbell jangled me, I whirled, and this time looked out before opening the door.
Jenks wrapped me in his long, strong arms, and I immediately forgot Nacho.
Jenks forgot he was tired.
Chapter 36
It wasn’t until the next morning that I read the card and newspaper Nacho gave me. They were both lying under a jumble of emerald silk and six-inch heels. The card read:
L. Cranston Pest Control
1-800-gotbads?
We get what’s bugging you.
A quiet hiccup of laughter escaped as I opened the newspaper and read the headlines in the Sierra Vista Observer:
Human Smuggling and Drug Ring Busted in Southeast Arizona, Dozens Others arrested in Both Arizona and California
Bisbee: On Friday, the Cochise County Sheriff’s office announced the arrests of Muhammed Yusef Ali, 35, and Malik Aylousa, 38, both from the Los Angeles area, along with eight East African illegals from Tanzania, on Highway 92. An undisclosed amount of illegal drugs were also confiscated.
The two Americans were allegedly transporting East African illegals from Mexico to Los Angeles in a luxury RV reported stolen in the Los Angeles area several months prior. The arrests are a result of an incident last December, when U.S. Border Patrol agents stopped a vehicle for speeding in Bisbee and discovered it was being driven by an East African without proper documentation. This led to an extensive investigation leading back to Naco, and a Black Muslim group in Los Angeles with ties to a Mexican cartel. Two of the members, Ali and Aylousa, had been residing in the stolen recreational vehicle at a local RV park, and both have extensive criminal records that include money laundering and drug charges.
Police and federal agencies say many more arrests on both sides of the border are imminent. The Los Angeles Times reports that smugglers get up to forty thousand dollars a head for East Africans, and that Muslim groups in the United States are cashing in on helping their fellow Muslims gain entry into the US.
In recent years, Mexican drug cartels have largely taken over the human smuggling trade out of Mexico, and officials suspect the American smugglers are working with gang members to transport East African and other Muslims through Mexico into the United States. The cartels, that in the past used Mexican illegals to transport drugs, have turned to lucrative human smuggling.
A U.S. Border Patrol spokesman told the Observer: “The drug cartels have determined this is big business. Drug cartels control these corridors. Just like we’re watching them here, they’re watching us. It used to be, ‘Get across the fence and run.’ Now it’s a lot more organized.”
The involvement of the cartels in the human smuggling trade has made life even more dangerous for our Border Patrol agents. Often, when agents encounter a so-called coyote, they are attacked. As Homeland Security steps up its war on drugs and smuggling, the cartels find new venues for their drugs and money.
Recently, airplanes and ultralights have been used to move drugs. Most are stolen in Northern Mexico, loaded with drugs, flown across the border to remote landing sites, then abandoned. Two recent incidents involving a daring daylight hijacking of a Cessna 206 in the state of Baja California Norte, and an attempted hijacking in northern Sonora indicate an escalation in cartel methods, and boldness, as both planes were occupied by American citizens. No Americans were harmed in either incident, but Mexican authorities report three men killed in the attempted hijack in Sonora.
Illustrating just how ingrained the human smuggling business has become in Arizona, is the announcement by Immigrations and Customs Enforcement that they discovered a record 163 drop houses last year in the Phoenix area.
In a small box on the same page, another article:
Mexican Marines Raid Ranch in Sonora, At least 20 Dead
HERMOSILLO, Mexico: Mexican marines and other authorities raided a ranch in the northern border state of Sonora and rescued six people who were allegedly kidnapped by an organized crime gang. The Department of the Navy said the people were kidnapped in separate incidents over the past few weeks, but declined to say why.
The ranch, once a resort visited by the likes of Ronald Reagan, had fallen into the hands of the drug cartel, and was allegedly being used as a staging area for both human and drug smuggling. More disturbing are unconfirmed reports that some of the dead included members of Fatah al-Islam, a radical Palestinian Islamist faction said to be linked to al-Qaeda, and operating out of Lebanon. The US State Department declined to comment.
Whoa there, Nelly. Were the two incidents related? Good grief, I had really stumbled into it this time but, like Nacho said, my troubles were at an end. It somehow seemed too easy, all the loose ends tied up like that, but there it was in black and white. I reread the articles.
“Three Mexicans killed in the Sonora plane-jacking incident? No way,” I said aloud. “Old Booger Red messed ‘em up some, but my guess is the police finished them off.” I threw the Observer down, hitting Jenks’s arm.
Jenks jerked awake. “Who? Up to what?” he asked hoarsely. He’d slept in, jet lag messing with his habit of getting up at four most mornings.
“Sorry, I thought you were awake. Some guys at the RV park I call the Xers. Craig said they were up to no good and,” I shook the paper at him, “he was right. Looks like you came to save me for nothing. Not that I mind, mind you.”
He grabbed me and pulled me onto the bed. “Well I’m good and awake now.”
Much, much, later we went to the golf club for breakfast so I could get the inside lowdown on the Xer bust, which was the biggest happening in Naco since it was bombed in 1929.
&
nbsp; It was then that an Irish Catholic by the name of Patrick Murphy, after steadily imbibing in Bisbee’s famous Brewery Gulch, had an epiphany: he’d lend a hand to the poor Mexican Catholics who were waging war against their government for their anti-church activities.
The Cristero Rebellion, as it was called, had been going way too long, with its fellow Catholics losing ground.
Murphy kept an airplane in Cananea, and fueled with booze and religious fervor, he decided it was time to bomb the Mexican troops in Naco, Sonora. His aim failed him, and instead he dropped a bomb on Naco, Arizona, making that town the only place on the continental United States to suffer an aerial bombing.
An American movie operator was injured, the Naco Pharmacy lost it’s windows, and several other stores were shattered. To make matters worse, Murphy did it again four days later, this time blowing up the car of an Mexican army general who kept it parked on the American side for safekeeping.
Murphy was eventually shot down by the Mexicans, but neither country bothered filing charges.
Times, they have a-changed.
Now the Xers were looking at major jail time, and over a hundred more Tanzanians and a few Chinese illegals were rounded up in LA, with the investigation ongoing. Homeland Security hinted it was just the tip of a very profitable iceberg. “So, I wonder, what were these Tanzanians gonna do here in the states?”
Tim Ramos, the agent I was grilling shrugged. “We hear they work in Muslim-owned businesses, for one thing.”
“How can they ever pay back forty grand that way?”
“Not so hard to do. If you figure what they’d have to pay legal employees, what with a minimum wage, overtime and the like—they work these guys twelve, fourteen hours a day, six, seven days a week—illegals are a bargain. They are virtual slaves for a few years, then they can begin sending money home.”
Jenks, with his quick head for math, calculated that a minimum wage employee, working forty hours a week, plus more in overtime, could pull down over thirty thousand a year if all were legal. Businesses using willing slaves made economic sense. And if, on the way into the country, the illegals pack in some drugs to boot, it didn’t take a Harvard Bidness School grad to see why so many risked so much.
Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series (Book 4)) Page 23
