I gave up trying to pry more from the man. Males tend to stick together where nosy females are concerned.
Fog moved in again overnight and we crept from port once more, Fabio carefully winding us through a morass of anchored and moored boats. Crappy accent or no, mi capitán seemed indeed determined to protect the sheep and the womens.
Jan, after bellyaching for days, began to unwind after Port San Luis. She even reluctantly agreed that just maybe we weren’t making the worst mistake of our lives. Considering some of the other pickles I’d put us in. I could understand her reticence, but heck, so far this little adventure wasn’t even a blip on the radar screen of my usual muck-ups. The only fly in the buttermilk was our inability to reach Jenks, either by cell or sat. Either he was traveling or avoiding me. I hoped he was traveling.
We uneventfully port-hopped south along the California coast. No more Coast Guard, no more smoke in the engine room, just day after day of long, slow seas and nights at marinas along the way. The only pain in the butt was an occasional fogbank. We’d be tooling along under bright blue skies and the next thing we knew, we plowed into pea soup. Jan and I, under the expert tutelage of Fabio, got where we could read the radar almost as well as he did. Neither of us, however, had the nerve to take Raymond Johnson in and out of marinas and harbors under radar without our handy captain.
It came as no great surprise when, five miles out of San Diego, we hit the worst fogbank yet. Fabio slowed to engine speed and I was posted on the foredeck so I would be the first one to die when we crashed into something. Chilled clear through by the cold mist, I sat cross-legged on the damp deck, clinging to the rail and listening to the eerie quaver of our foghorn while straining to hear others. Jan stayed inside, lending a second pair of eyes to the radar screen and updating me via walkie-talkie while Fabio concentrated on guiding us in.
For the second time on this voyage, I realized I’d always romanticized the distant song of foghorns echoing across the bay while I lay tucked safely in my bed. The repetitive horns and clanging marker buoys lulled me to sleep many a night, but while I was safely in bed, someone else had probably been out on the water, watching and worrying. Reality has a way of putting a serious kink into one’s romantic fantasies.
“Hetta, there’s something really, really big in front of us,” Jan squawked into the walkie-talkie’s earpiece.
“I can’t see a fu…an effing thing!” I yelled back, my recent vow to clean up my language taking a momentary respite.
“Keep looking. Fabio has gone to one engine. It looks like whatever monster is out there will pass to the left. Uh, port.”
“How far—oh, shit!”
The fog suddenly lifted, and no more than three boat lengths away a nuclear sub the size of Manhattan slid by, barely disturbing the water. From both the earpiece and the bridge I heard a simultaneous “¡Jesùs y Maria!” and a, “Jesus Christ!”
A sailor in the conning tower of the sub, with what looked like a gazillion caliber gun he had trained on Raymond Johnson, didn’t bother returning my weak salute. But then again, he didn’t open fire, either.
“Hetta,” Jan chirped into the walkie-talkie, “I heard that. You said ‘shit’ so you owe me ten bucks. I can use it. After that little encounter, I need new underwear.”
I whispered another cuss word. If this kind of thing continued, my language alone would finance Jan’s shopping spree at Victoria’s Secret.
Chapter 12
“Yep, Jenks, we’re sitting safely alongside a guest dock in front of the San Diego Yacht Club. See, you had nothing to worry about.” I hoped he’d think the lingering quaver in my voice was due to the airwaves. I took a gulp of wine. Jan was on the settee finishing off a second Tequila shooter. Even though two hours had passed since the sub incident, her cheeks still held a flush of color not attributed to Jose Cuervo. Only Fabio, who whistled an annoyingly cheerful ditty, seemed unaffected by our close call with the United States Navy.
“Glad you made it, honey. No problems getting into San Diego harbor?”
“Uh, why do you ask?” Was Jenks more perceptive than I gave him credit for?
“I used to be stationed there, remember? It’s a busy harbor, what with all the military vessels.”
Jeez, he was positively psychic. “Well, there was this really, really big submarine. Scared the crap out of us, if you really want to know. Jan says she needs new underwear.”
“In that case, I’ll put Lars on.”
I handed the phone off to Jan and plunked down next to her, prepared to listen to her whine. I got a surprise. “Hey, Lars,” she said, “we just had the most exhilarating experience. I swear, I’m flat sold on this cruising thing. Think I’ll buy my own boat. When are you guys gonna get back? We’re leaving for Mexico in less than a week, maybe you can get here in time.”
Lars must have said something not to her liking, for Jan frowned and sneered, “Yeah? Well for your information, Hetta and I were getting along just fine without you two before you came along. And in case you’ve forgotten, Hetta got this boat without one iota of help from the Brothers Jenkins, so piss off.”
“Hey,” I whispered, “speak for yourself.”
She shushed me with a hand signal. “You know, ‘Lard,’ I don’t give a big rat’s ass what you think. Put Jenks on.”
I caught the flying phone. “Uh, Jenks?”
“I’m here. Jan got a bee in her bonnet?”
I couldn’t ask her, as she’d stomped out on deck. “Seems like it. What did Lars say? Oh, never mind, she’ll tell me. So, I don’t suppose by some miracle you will be here in a week?”
“Wish I could. I also wish I could talk you out of this harebrained trip.”
Harebrained? “Yeah? Well, you know, I’m really trying to bend over backwards to see your point of view, but I just can’t get my head that far up my ass. And never mind what ‘Lard’ said. Good-bye.”
I whacked the phone closed, but longed for a good old-fashioned Carol Lombard era phone, one of those big black monsters you could slam down with a resoundingly satisfying crash. Flipping up a cell phone shut just doesn’t give one the same gratification. Almost immediately, though, I regretted what I’d done. Not what I’d said, he deserved that, but what I’d done. Hanging up on one’s love interest doesn’t do wonders for any relationship, and mine already had one foot in quicksand.
Jan was slam-dunking another Jose Cuervo when I joined her on the sundeck. “Well, Miss Jan, I guess we can save a lot of money on calls to Kuwait from now on.”
I heard a chuckle behind me and turned to find Fabio leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. Shaking his head, he grinned and said, “Gringas,” before sauntering off.
“Yeah, well, Ricky, no one’s perfect,” I yelled at his back, hoping I sounded at least a little like Lucy Ricardo. I had the hair color and, evidently, the harebrain.
Paradisiacal is the only word I can think of to describe the thrill I experience when crossing a border, especially an international border. Having done it often in my travels, one would think I’d become dulled to the thrill, but when we officially passed into Mexican waters and raised the red, white and green courtesy flag, I reveled in a thrill chill. This was major. I was on my own boat, in the by-golly Pacific Ocean, embarking on a bluewater voyage into foreign waters.
Fabio, although he’d probably done this a hundred times, seemed just as elated as I was. Jan, however, brooded. “Why so glum, chum?” I asked.
“I was looking forward to doing this with Lars.”
“I believe that was before he referred to you as an airhead?” She tossed her head and I patted her shoulder.
“Those rats. I’d planned for the four of us to open a bottle of Mumms on this auspicious crossing, but hey, you’ve got me.”
She gave me a look.
“Okay then, the Mumms.”
She brightened. “I’ll get it.”
“No drinking!”
I turned to see what idiot had boarded my boa
t and said something so asinine, and found only a smiling Fabio. “No drinking at sea, Señorita Café. Not until we reach the first port.”
“No drinking? What the hell kind of cruise is this?”
“A safe one.”
“Yeah? I could fire you, you know. This is my boat.”
“As you wish. You may leave me in Ensenada.”
Jan, who had remained frozen in her tracks, managed to move her lips. “Champagne isn’t really drinking.”
“It is of the alcohol. This is dangerous on a voyage such as ours. We are only three, and at least two must at all times be ready for the danger.”
He had a point. We decided to try out six hour watches to see how they worked out, but since were only three people, and there were four watches a day, we thought to split the fourth one. I, for one, needed eight hours of sleep, with an hour to settle down first, so we were already at a deficit, crew-wise. One drunk and the whole schedule fell apart.
“Well, crap,” I grudgingly admitted, “I guess you’re right. But couldn’t we break the rule just this once? Just one glass, to celebrate?”
Fabio gave us a dazzling smile. “As capítan, I make special order to welcome you to my country. But one glass only. ¡Bienvenidos a Mexico!”
“Jan, get the balloon glasses.”
As we continued cruising south towards Mag Bay, we soon worked out who wanted which watch.
Fabio, nervous about his inexperienced crew, insisted on nine p.m. to three a.m. duty, but he stayed around until first light with Jan. Jan didn’t mind getting up at two in the morning and making coffee before her stint, and I had no problem taking a long watch during daylight hours. In fact, with the lack of boat traffic along the Baja and the fact that we were ten miles offshore, day watch was a piece of cake. Other than the occasional whale that forgot to go north with the rest of his pod, thereby missing a chance to add his crappy sense of direction to the gene pool, there was little to watch.
I had opted for the day slot because, quite frankly, I found getting up in the dead of night and staring out into the darkness surrounding the boat less than appealing. I’d always been partial to darkness, since that’s when bars are rocking, but perched on a barstool in a nice dark bar getting a neon tan is a far cry from sitting alone at the helm, surrounded by black glass and eerie green radar glow. Gave me the willies. Some sea wench I am.
On Fabio’s advice, we’d cooked and frozen a slew of microwaveable meals before leaving San Diego, as well as laying in a great store of bread, cold cuts and canned soups. As Fabio so charmingly put it, “The hungry crew is no bueno por nada.” We still were probably not good for nothing anyhow, but at least we weren’t hungry, as well as no good for nothing.
On watch, I studied Spanish from e-books loaded into my iPod. Although I had a pretty good start already, I was determined to brush up on the language I had once learned, but lost over the years. In an effort to revamp my language skills, not only was I going to cut out curse words, I also decided to give up French. The French part was going to be hard; I’d liberally sprinkled my repartee with little mots francais for decades. I now drove Jan nuts with palabras en Espanol. Some folks are never satisfecha.
Jenks called once while I was on watch, but our conversation was rife with careful phraseology. He’d told me on more than one occasion that one of the things he liked the most about me, what set me apart from most women he knew, was my fierce independence. Now, it seems, that trait had become a character flaw.
We avoided all personal stuff, just talked about the weather, how the boat was running, our schedule, his work, anything except that last heated conversation when I hung up on him. He didn’t mention the hang up. I followed suit and let the “harebrained” go. Tension charged the ether and after the call I felt drained and rotten. I stewed a few minutes, then decided to swallow my pride and call him back, clear the air and get us back on track. As I was reaching for the phone to make nice, it rang in my hand. Not Jenks, I was pretty sure, but my heart gave a little leap of hope. For fun, I answered, “Bueno. ¿Quien habla?”
“I don’t speak no stinkin’ Spanish, Hetta,” a familiar voice rumbled.
“Officer Martinez, as I live and breathe! With a last name like Martinez you don’t speak Spanish? And how did you get this number? I’ve been trying to call your son to get in touch with you, but no luck. Guess where I am?”
“Let me take a wild one. South of Ensenada, taking a harebrained cruise to Cabo? Am I close?”
It was the “harebrained” that gave me my first clue.
“You ain’t that good a cop. Jenks called you, didn’t he?”
“Let’s just say a little bird whispered in my ear. Are you going to stop and see us on your way south so I can try to talk some sense into you?”
“Well, gee, how can I resist, what with that irresistible invite. Exactly where are you?”
“South of San Quintin. If you stop, you’ll have to anchor north of here. I’ll drive up, get a panga to take me out to meet you. What do you think?”
“Give me a number and I’ll get back to you when I’ve talked with Fabio.”
“Ah, the Mexican captain.”
“That little bird has a big beak.”
“The big beaked bird is worried about you. You know, Hetta, you do need a keeper.”
“Just because I’m so glad to hear from you, I won’t say what I’m thinking.”
“Same old Hetta. Call me back.”
“Will do. And watch that ‘old’ stuff.”
Fabio was out on deck, trying to catch another fish. We’d had pretty good luck at hits, but since we didn’t want to slow down to reel them in, they almost always got away. We finally landed a thirty pound dorado, so fresh fish was on the dinner menu. Dinner was the one time we all got together each day, so we made it our biggest and best meal. I’d wanted to batter fry our fish, but Fabio nixed hot oil in the galley while underway, so I planned a butter and garlic sauté.
“Any suerte?”
“No, no luck. Nada.”
“Uh, what do you say we pull into San Quintin for a night?”
“¿Porqué?”
“Because I have a friend there. He just called and asked if we might stop by to see him. I’d like to, if it doesn’t set back our schedule too much. I looked on the chart and we go right by there.”
I got the Mexican shrug. “It is you boat.” He clamped his fishing pole into its holder and followed me to the chart table. After a few calculations he concluded, “Mañana por la mañana. Tomorrow morning. I will slow the engines so we do not arrive in the dark. I know this Bahía San Quintin very good, but it is better to arrive in the day.”
“Okay then, I’ll call Detective Martinez back and tell him when to start looking for us.”
Fabio looked startled. “He is federale?”
I laughed, knowing the Mexicans’ dislike for their federal police.
“No, he’s just a retired Oakland cop. Not to worry.”
But Fabio looked worried. I wondered why.
Chapter 13
As we made for San Quintin and our reunion with Martinez, I tried to reach Jenks several times, but got either the hotel desk or his cell phone message center. I didn’t bother trying to leave some inane message; apologies are best done in real time and I was determined to get our relationship back on an even keel. Besides, it would give him a chance to eat a little harebrained crow.
The Trob called with big news two hours after I’d talked with Martinez. He’d tracked my mystery e-mailer through cyberspace. The warning messages originated from an Internet café in Ensenada, Mexico. The plot sickens.
“Sooo, Wontrobski, what now? Should we be worried about whoever is sending these e-mails?”
“Nope.”
“Easy for you to say, happily and safely entrenched in your tower of wisdom. I’m out here in the Pacific by-God Ocean, receiving threats. By the way, we’re stopping in San Quintin to see Detective Martinez.”
“I know.”
“He called me.”
“Silly me. Why?”
“Because Jenks asked him to.”
“Of course.” I blew my bangs out of my eyes. Evidently my life is an open book, which everyone seemed to be reading. “How much did you tell Martinez about what I was doing down here?”
“Not too much. He didn’t ask for details, but already knew it had something to do with work.”
“Fidel, have you told Jenks the details?”
“Nope.”
“Good. Hell, I’m barely in the know myself, and until I am, I’d like to keep both Martinez and Jenks as mushroomy as possible. You know, keep ‘em in the dark and feed ‘em manure.”
Fidel actually chuckled. Or maybe he was choking on tuna fish and Wonder.
“So, in your cyber snooping, did you get a name to go with that Internet message?” I asked, not expecting to get a real answer. The Trob plays his cards close to his black vest, probably so I wouldn’t have to testify against him in a court of law one day.
“I got a return address, but you won’t like it.”
“Give it to me anyway.”
“Oh-kay. Not really a name. It was sent from a hotmail account.”
“And?”
“It was from U-R-P-H-A-T at hotmail dot com.”
I was writing as he spoke and Jan, who was peering over my shoulder, giggled and said, “You are fat?”
The Trob was right, I didn’t appreciate that address one little bit. “Well, I never,” I breathed indignantly, but I had to admit it was funny. “Gee, thanks Trob. And I don’t suppose there was an owner to that rude address?”
“Nope. One time use.”
Crap. “Oh, well, nothing to do. So, what else is new?”
“Allison’s pregnant.”
“Holy crap!” I suppose that wasn’t exactly the proper response, but the picture that flashed through my head wasn’t a pretty one. Two pictures actually: the Trob and Allison actually having sex, and what on earth their baby would look like. “Uh, well, congratulations.”
Just Add Salt (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 2)) Page 9
