Just Add Salt (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 2))

by Jinx Schwartz

  Chapter 8

  Jan was on her fourth cup of mocha and just concluded her seventh rejection from a boat captain when the phone rang. Not in the best of moods after being rebuffed and called nuts all morning, she snatched up the phone and growled, “Hetta’s Hell.”

  I stuck my tongue out at her and continued working on my computer until I heard her coo, “So, Captain Fabio, you are available?”

  I mouthed, “Fabio? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Jan frowned and motioned for me to cut the crap. She listened a minute or two and gave me a thumbs-up. “Uh, can you hold a minute?” She cushioned the phone against her sweatshirt. “Hetta, I got a hot one.”

  “How did he get our number?”

  “Who cares? He’s available.”

  “Tell him to fax his credentials. Where is he?”

  “Ensenada.”

  I did a little victory dance while Jan gave Captain Fabio my fax number. When she hung up, I mixed a couple of mimosas to celebrate and while we quaffed our drinks, we reveled in how much we would relish telling the Jenkins brothers we have engaged a guy named Fabio as our boat captain. Visions of flowing blond tresses, huge pecs and a sexy, accented voice saying, “I caaan’t believe it’s not but-tah,” danced in my head. Within thirty minutes the fax arrived and the orange juice and champagne set up an acid factory in my stomach.

  Jan, reading the fax over my shoulder squawked, “He doesn’t have a green card?”

  “Nope, doesn’t look like it.”

  “Well, crap. Now what?”

  I had to think. Okay, so no green card for Captain Fabulous, as I nicknamed him, but his resume looked good. A graduate of the Mexican NavalAcademy in Mazatlan, he’d worked as a captain on shrimpers and commercial fishing boats in Mexico after serving ten years in the navy. And he worked regularly for a broker in San Diego, taking yachts from Ensenada to Cabo.

  I called the broker he gave as a reference and she gave Fabio a glowing recommendation. In fact, she said, Captain Fabio was overqualified for ferrying yachts, but as long as he was willing, she planned to continue using him. Yippee!

  “Okay, Miz Jan, so Fabio can get us south from Ensenada, we just have to get to him. You know, you and I could do that part. Ensenada is only sixty or so miles south of San Diego. We could stop in a marina every night on the way down to San Diego and still make it in four or five days. Six, tops.”

  “If the weather is ideal and if we don’t have a single mechanical problem. Hetta, we can’t fix diesel engines.”

  “We have two. One quits, the other keeps going.”

  She looked unconvinced. “Don’t we still have to have a crew of three for your insurance company?”

  “Not until we get into international waters, or way offshore. Much further offshore than we’ll ever be. And,” I waved my hand in the direction of the yacht club, “that bar is home to some of the best sailors in the bay area. They’d jump at the chance for an all expenses paid cruise to Ensenada. We can put ‘em on a plane back here. So, let’s sign this Fabio up, at least, and then figure out how we’re gonna get this tub to Ensenada, okay?”

  “I guess. Why not?” She handed me the phone.

  Several clicks, buzzes and fade-outs later, I heard the distinctive double chirp of an international call.

  “Bueno,” a woman’s voice answered. I heard Mariachi music in the background and the clink-clank of glass. Fabio lived in a bar? My kind of guy.

  “Captain Fabio, please. Por favor.”

  “¿Quien?”

  “Capitán, uh,” I looked at his resume, “Fabio Maria Jesus Jose Hernandez, por favor.”

  “Momentito,” she said, then bellowed, “Jose! Teléfono.”

  Static followed, then, “Bueno.”

  “Is this Captain Fabio?”

  “Sí. Yes, this is I, Capitán Fabio.” Good grief, he did sound a little like a bodice-ripping blonde.

  “This is Hetta Coffey. You talked to my friend a few minutes ago about taking my boat to Cabo?”

  “Yes. You receive my paper?”

  “Uh-huh. Are you familiar with the Californian motor yacht?”

  “Oh, jes. I have drive many. They are fine sheeps.”

  Sheeps? Oh, ships. “And you have no problem with an, uh, unseasonable, cruise?”

  “I do not understand.”

  “You aren’t worried about hurricanes that time of year?”

  “Señora, it is you boat.”

  He had a point there. If some nutso gringa wanted to take her boat into harm’s way, why should he care? I outlined our plan, telling him we would somehow get the boat to Ensenada so he could take over. When I finished, he asked, “Do you have a fine mechanic for you sheep in Oakland?”

  “Well, not really. Someone was taking care of it, but he, uh, well….” I didn’t know what to say. Left me? Deserted me?

  Fabio saved me the trouble of explaining my lack of fine mechanic. “I will send my cousin. He live in Ah-lah-med-a.”

  “Alameda? Great.” I gave Fabio my location and boat name, and then we discussed his terms. When I hung up I was ecstatic. “Listen to this, Jan. This guy only wants twenty bucks a day, a dollar a mile and a bus ticket back to Ensenada from Cabo. He probably won’t set me back more than a couple of grand. Three at most. What do you think about that?”

  “I think you get what you pay for.”

  Cousin Ernesto showed up an hour after I hung up with Fabio, and two hours later he emerged from the engine room. “You know,” he said with little trace of an accent, “this boat is in very good shape. Someone has really given her a going over. I would suggest we change out a few belts, just to be safe. And install an extra set of Racors.”

  “Uh, of course. Go ahead. What do they cost?”

  “Well, it can be as cheap as a hundred for parts, but I don’t think you should cut corners on this one. What happens, if you get in really crappy weather, the fuel gets to sloshing around, stirs up junk from the bottom and plugs up the fuel filters. No fuel, engines quit. Now you’re rocking and rolling because you can’t keep the boat into the swell. And you gotta go down and change filters. It can get pretty ugly. With the system I’d like to install, you just flip a switch to a new bank of filters, the engines start and while you’re heading into the seas, then you change the other set in case it happens again.”

  “Ernesto, you wanna take a boat ride to Mexico?”

  “Nope. I fix ‘em, I don’t ride in ‘em. Get seasick. Sorry.”

  “Too bad, I could use you. Uh, Ernesto, is your cousin, Fabio, an okay guy? I hate to ask, but we are putting our lives, and my boat, in his hands.”

  “I only knew him when I was a kid. His mother is my mother’s second cousin. Never heard anything bad about him. He had a problem once with some owners of a boat he was running. Nothing bad, just that they had different ideas about what he should and shouldn’t catch. I got the idea the owners asked him to do an illegal catch, and he refused.”

  “So your cousin has principals. That’s a good thing. You know I’m on a tight schedule, so can you do this filter thing fast?”

  “How’s tomorrow morning?”

  “¡Fantástico!”

  True to his word, Ernesto was on the dock at seven sharp, and he had company. I couldn’t help but notice Ernesto’s helper was tall, dark and handsome, with a tinge of gray in his thick black hair.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. I’ll leave you to your work. I gotta run to West Marine and spend my next year’s salary. There’s coffee in the carafe on the table. Oh, and just in case the Satfone guys show up to install my sat system, tell them I’ll be back by eleven.”

  When I stepped onto the dock, the other man strode forward with his hand held out. “Señora Café, it is I, Fabio.”

  My mouth fell open. “Captain Fabio? But how in the heck did you get here so fast? And I thought you didn’t have a green card.”

  He waved the air like he was batting a fly. “I, of course, took the Greyhound. And I do not worry
of such things as green cards. Now, I shall accompany Ernesto to make you boat perfecto while you have a nice shopping, sí?”

  “Uh, sí.” I watched them board the boat, then walked to my car, still a little dazed. Then I began to chuckle. Okay, so I had an illegal alien for a captain, but at least I had a captain.

  When I returned, the men were gone, but Jan was there. I thought she’d be thrilled that we’d scored a captain for the trip to San Diego, but she was far from ecstatic.

  “Hetta, do the initials I.N.S. mean anything at all to you? Or say, U.S.C.G.? As in, United States Coast Guard? Who, by the way, stop boats in order to, and listen closely here, guard. The. Coast. And do you know how they do that? They board boats looking for, amongst other things, illegal aliens. We could go to Federal prison for smuggling an illegal.”

  “Well crap, Jan, we’re taking him to Mexico, not the other way. Besides, he must have some kind of ID. He got here in record time, via Greyhound. Maybe he’s using someone else’s ID.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m sure the I.N.S. thinks all Mexicans look alike.”

  I was saved from addressing this piece of insight by a dinging fax machine. “Hold that thought,” I stonewalled, and escaped inside to avoid Jan’s quite unreasonable summation of our captain problem. The fax was from Jenks, with yet another list of stuff to do before we left. The cover sheet said: Since you are going anyway, I want you to be safe. Let me know exactly what this mechanic is doing to the boat so I won’t have to worry. Love, Your Jenks.

  I handed the list to Jan to add to our already engorged tome of lists. She read it. “Oh, isn’t that sweet. He signed it, Your Jenks.”

  “Sweet, my sweet ass. If he is mine, why isn’t he here for me?”

  “Shall I recount the reasons? Or do you wish to remain terminally unreasonable?”

  “The latter. Okay, let’s go over the schedule so I can make our marina reservations.”

  “Not so fast, Miz Hetta. What about Fabio? Aren’t you worried that we might be boarded?”

  “Nah, what are the odds of that?”

  Chapter 9

  We were ready to roll.

  We had a captain, our boat was practically a floating chandlery of spare parts and she bristled with state-of-the-art navigational aids and communications systems. Our plan was to leave the yacht club dock in late afternoon, cruise out to Treasure Island and anchor for the night before leaving for Monterey on the outgoing tide. Fabio checked conditions at the Gate for our ideal departure time. The last thing we needed were twenty-foot incoming seas warring with an ebb tide over the bar, and us caught in the seething middle.

  Around three o’clock the afternoon before our scheduled departure, Fabio, who was staying with his cousin, arrived to get the boat secured for leaving the dock. I’d already gotten rid of a lot of clutter, which I left in the dock box. Jan was making her third trip to her place to get clothes. God forbid we should be unfashionable on the high seas.

  “Miss Café,” Fabio called from outside, “why have you put the anchor into the water?”

  Oh no, not again. Heart tripping, I rushed to the bow and found my anchor chain once again dangling into the estuary. I shrugged at Fabio, feigning unfelt nonchalance. “Uh, I’ll bring it up.”

  And I did, but with much trepidation. Little by little I tapped the foot control until I could see something white below the water. Great. Taking a gulp of air, I stomped the switch and closed my eyes until I heard Fabio say, “What is this?”

  A white plastic box was attached to the anchor. Better than a white body, I guess, but ominous nonetheless. Fabio left the boat, grappled the chain and pulled the box onto the dock while I held my breath. Before I could warn him, Fabio stripped off the tape, opened the package and laughed. “It is for you, Miss Café.” He held up a sign that read, Hasta La Bye-Bye!

  At that moment, the yacht club windows flew open and a chorus yelled, “Surprise!”

  Jan and I, still sporting huge sombreros and resplendent black mustaches we’d found in the box marked Hasta La Bye-Bye!, left while the party was still in full swing. I don’t think they even noticed the guests of honor were missing.

  It was a themed party, the theme being “Raiders of Mexico,” in honor of our upcoming invasion. Someone had done their historical homework: Conquistador, pirate, and padre costumes abounded. Ernesto and Fabio, decked out fittingly as an illegal and a border patrol agent, won first prize.

  Unfortunately, Garrison showed up.

  Garrison had lived on my boat both before, and after, I bought the vessel out from under him. Using a degree of subterfuge and deception I would normally admire if it wasn’t aimed at me, he’d managed to convince me I should turn over the care and feeding of my vessel to, who else? Him, of course. Anyhow, I finally found him out, gave him the heave ho and, in retribution for lying to and stealing from me, dumped his car into the estuary. Of course, he could never prove it was me, but from his nasty attitude at the party, it was obvious he carried a grudge. I ignored his annoying self and enjoyed the party.

  Fabio, since he was our designated driver, left the party early after politely refusing any beverage containing alcohol, Jan and I, the designated drinkers, were still far from sober when the engines roared to life at two, only a couple of hours after we’d passed out. We came to and stumbled up help him get underway, but Fabio sent us back to our bunks. The party at the yacht club was still going, so he had plenty of help, albeit some of it a little shaky, untying the lines.

  I woke up again a couple of hours later when I felt the boat, which had been moving smoothly along the bay, began to plow into rolling swells. Even on a calm day, the Pacific lets you know you’re in her territory.

  “Hey, Fabio,” I said, joining him on the flying bridge, “got any coffee left in that thermos?”

  He nodded and I grabbed a travel cup from a drawer. Jenks, bless his heart, had taught me all about keeping stuff handy, like caffeine and cups. Jan dragged herself up to join us, expecting to enjoy the city and bridge lights, but she was sorely disappointed. Dense fog plagued us as we crossed the bay and then under the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Tension mounted by the minute as the three of us stared at the radar screen and listened for warning blasts from large vessels capable of turning us into so much flotsam. Stationary foghorns on hazards to navigation, beguiling when one is tucked in one’s bunk in safe harbor, wracked our nerves. I was having second thoughts about continuing south that day, but once we were a good way offshore the gloom lightened, radar targets lessened and were farther away. We relaxed somewhat, but Jan and I kept a vigilant eye and ear peeled while Fabio went down for a well-deserved nap. The good news? Flat, slow seas with nary a whitecap.

  On autopilot, which was interfaced with the GPS to make adjustments according to waypoints we’d preprogrammed into the system, and using all that modern technology had to offer, Raymond Johnson could literally get to the Monterey Harbor entrance without us. Or on the rocks, if we’d miscalculated.

  Captain Fabio needed his rest. It was going to be a fairly long run to Monterey, so we decided on six hour watches, just to get into the habit for when we left San Diego on a straight shot for Turtle Bay.

  Jan was just commenting on the smooth ride, and which fish house we’d hit on the Monterey Pier, when the radio rudely interrupted.

  “Vessel underway, heading one-seven-oh degrees, this is Coast Guard Cutter Morganthau. Please reduce speed and prepare for boarding.”

  Startled, we looked at each other, then scanned the hazy horizon for another boat. Seeing nothing, I looked at my compass, pegged on 165. Close enough. I reached for the mike, only to have Jan slap my hand.

  “Don’t answer it, Hetta, we have an illegal alien onboard.”

  Again, the radio barked. “Vessel underway, heading one-seven-oh degrees. This is Coast Guard Cutter Morganthau. Please reduce speed, keep your course and prepare for boarding.”

  Crap. Over Jan’s protests, I grabbed the radio mike. “Uh, Morganthau, thi
s is the motor vessel Raymond Johnson.”

  “Switch and answer channel twenty-two, Raymond Johnson.”

  “Roger,” I snapped jauntily, feeling very nautical. I let go of the transmit button and said to Jan, “Can you see anything? Where in the hell are they? Get ready to throw Fabio overboard.”

  Jan had the binoculars and scanned the fog. “I can’t see ‘em.”

  “Raymond Johnson, this is Coast Guard Cutter Morganthau on twenty-two.”

  “Look behind us, Jan.”

  “Nothing there.”

  “Morganthau, this is Raymond Johnson.”

  “Raymond Johnson, reduce speed, keep way on and prepare for a safety inspection.”

  “Oh, we already had one of those. I got a sticker.”

  “Raymond Johnson, I repeat, reduce your speed and prepare for a safety inspection.”

  “Oh, okay.” I turned off the autopilot and brought the throttles back slowly until we reached engine speed. We waited, discussing what we were going to do about Fabio, while scanning with binoculars and radar, listening for engines. Nothing.

  “Raymond Johnson, reduce your speed immediately and prepare for boarding,” the radio insisted. No more “safety inspection.” Now it was “boarding.” And no more Polite Young Man voice, either.

  “We have reduced our speed.”

  “Ma’am, unless you comply immediately, we will use force.”

  “Listen, you yahoo, I am barely underway here.”

  Silence. Then, “Raymond Johnson, what are your coordinates?”

  I looked at the GPS and read them off, showing off my navigational expertise. “Thirty-seven degrees, thirty-seven minutes north, one hundred twenty-two degrees, thirty-one minutes west.”

  “Standby, please.” After a minute or two of radio crackle, he came back. “Raymond Johnson, you are two hundred miles south of us, heading one-six-five, not one-seven-oh. Sorry for the inconvenience. And ma’am? I suggest you have the captain answer the radio next time. Have a good day.”