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

by Jinx Schwartz

“I saw that cousin of Lujàn, and one policía.”

  “How about the navy?”

  Both men looked confused, but Fabio said, “I did not see any navy peoples.”

  “I meant, can’t we call the navy to help us?”

  “Our navy? Or yours?”

  “Either? Hell, both.”

  “I could try to—” He held up his hand as a string of agitated Spanish spat from the radio. I couldn’t catch it, but Fabio and Chino looked glum.

  After a couple of minutes the radio went silent and Chino said, “This is very bad. Lujàn has told the Mexican navy that we have drugs on board and are trying to leave the bay.”

  “But,” Jan said, “isn’t that good? I mean, they’ll come aboard, see we don’t have anything, and let us go.”

  Fabio and Chino traded a glance. It was Chino who spoke. “In Mexico, one is guilty until proven innocent. If the navy stops us, we will be taken to jail in San Carlos, where Lujàn can get to us.”

  Crap. “So, what do we do?”

  No one had an answer for several moments. Then Chino said, “I know a place we can hide. It is in the mangroves, north of here. Once we are hidden, I have relatives in Lopez Mateos who, if necessary, can take us by car to safety.”

  “Leave my boat? Not a chance.”

  Fabio, already headed for the helm, said back over his shoulder. “We will worry about that mas tarde.”

  “I don’t care how much later it is, I will not leave my boat here.” But I was speaking to empty air. Mas Tarde, my ass. “Let’s go, then. Uh, if necessary, can we outrun the navy?”

  Fabio, turned on the radar, pointed to the screen. “Creo que sí. I think so. See they are here, I think. They cannot bring the large boat into the mangroves where we are going, it is too shallow. And I heard on the radio their panga motor was damaged in the hurricane, so they will have to borrow a fisherman’s.” He grinned, “The pescadores, they do not like the navy, so they become difficult to find when the Armanda needs a panga.”

  “But won’t the navy call for help?”

  “Maybe. But few will listen, even if they have a radio. We Mexicans do not like autoridades.”

  “It is true,” Chino agreed. “We have been trained to avoid the authorities. I will remain on the bow, guide us. After the last buoy, Fabio, slow down and be prepared for a sharp right.” He lapsed into Spanish, instructing Fabio on what to expect as he guided us through narrow channels. We didn’t dare use the jillion megawatt spotlight on the bridge and there was no moon at all. No markers of any kind would lead our way; only Chino’s local knowledge and his tiny halogen flashlight stood between us and disaster.

  I stood, knees locked, monitoring the depth sounder while clenching onto the captain’s chair for balance. We zigged and zagged at what seemed like warp speed, but was actually only about five miles an hour, through a confusing maze of mangrove bushes that at times looked like they would close ranks in front of us. Just as I braced myself for a crashing halt, another avenue opened. If I hadn’t been so nervous, I would have been awed at the number of egrets and other water birds we sent flapping and squawking into the night.

  Hell, I squawked myself a couple of times.

  The depth sounder alone was enough to give me a heart attack, but once again I found myself whispering blessings to Jenks, who had insisted I install prop guards. The channel, if you could call it that, at times got as shallow as six feet. Our props only cleared the bottom by two feet. Behind us, mud boiled up, turning the otherwise clear water to chocolate milk.

  “How do you figure whales get up here?” Jan asked, staring at the depth sounder.

  “I don’t think they…”

  “Fabio! ¡Izquirda!”

  Fabio threw the helm to port just in time to miss a solid wall of mangroves. All the stuff we’d managed to pick up and put back after Lujàn rudely circled us several times, once again crashed around us.

  “Hey! Shouldn’t we slow down now?” I asked.

  “I think we must,” Fabio said. “Chino?”

  “Only a short distance more, straight ahead. But yes, we can slow now.”

  Fabio brought back the throttles and expertly threaded his way into a virtual mangrove tunnel. I felt like I was living a scene from African Queen.

  “Okay, Bogie,” I said as we glided to a stop, “what now?”

  “We tie to the mangroves, otherwise the tide will take us out.”

  I looked at the depth sounder. “Please tell me we’re at low tide now.”

  “I am afraid not.”

  “So, when the tide goes out, we’ll be sitting on the bottom?”

  “Yes, but it is a soft bottom.”

  “I already have one, thanks. Well, this is just dandy.” I went outside to survey our hidey-hole. Sticking way up in the air, above the tops of the mangroves, were our thirty-five foot whip antennas. Those would have to come down, but other than that, we were well hidden. Maybe not from the air, but certainly from another boat.

  Once we turned off the engines, an eerie quiet settled over us, broken only by the rustling of bird wings as herons, egrets, and frigates settled back in for the night. I started to relax some when, in the distance, we heard the whine of panga motors.

  “Chino?” I asked, hoping my voice wasn’t as shaky as my knees.

  “Shhh.” Chino held up his hand and walked out on deck. He returned with a big smile. “Pescadores. Going out from Lopez Mateos to set their nets for the night.”

  “So, we’re safe for now,” Jan said. “But do we have a plan of any kind?”

  “Fabio and I will take the dinghy and make contact with people I trust. Family and friends, good people who dislike men like Lujàn, and almost any public official. I even have a cousin who is policía in Ciudad Constitución, only a few miles away, but I will not involve him unless I have to. I will arrange for someone to take you to safety. Perhaps to the United States consulate in Cabo San Lucas?”

  I shook my head. “Bad idea, even if I was considering leaving the boat. If the Mexican Government really thinks we’re drug runners, our consulate will not protect us. They don’t get involved when U.S. citizens break the laws of their host country. More than one American has made that mistake. Oh, if you are in jail, they’ll see to it that you get food and mail, put you in touch with your family and a lawyer, but that’s about it.”

  Reluctantly, I realized we really might have to abandon ship after all. I couldn’t let my stubborn streak put us all in harm’s way. Well, any more than I already had. So, when Jan wailed, “Then what can we do?” I had to come up with something.

  “How about a car? We’ll drive to the border.”

  Fabio waggled his finger. “No, no. There are many military checkpoints on Baja One. They may be looking for you. Us.”

  “Jeez, where are we, East Germany?”

  “There isn’t any more East Germany, Hetta,” Jan told me in a school-marmish tone.

  “It was a friggin’ figure of speech. I gotta think. I need wine.”

  “No wine,” Fabio pronounced. “We must have the clear heads.”

  “I don’t want the clear head. I want to get knee-scraping, commode-hugging, drunk. But you’re right, no wine tonight.”

  Using only tea light candles, I made tuna fish sandwiches for our wine-free dinner. The sandwiches made me homesick for the Trob. I wanted to call him, see if he had any ideas regarding our crappy situation, but Fabio vetoed using the radio, or any other electrical appliance, as we did not dare start the generator to keep our batteries charged. No lights, no phone, no Internet. And no cell phones. These, Fabio commanded, would be reserved for emergencies. As if hiding out in the mangroves with bad guys out to kill us wasn’t emergency enough.

  After lowering the radio antennas and further camouflaging our bridge with mangrove branches, Fabio and Chino left in the dinghy, paddling for the first quarter mile, just in case someone was waiting, listening.

  Jan and I settled into the main saloon. All blinds were shut tight,
so Fabio allowed us to keep one candle lit. In the eerie flicker of candlelight, Jan and I sat talking and—so I lied!—sipping wine.

  It was going to be a very long night.

  Chapter 28

  My eyes flew open. Disoriented by complete darkness, it took me a few moments to remember where I was, and that the thrum of an approaching outboard could be a menace.

  I’d spent the night in the main saloon, tossing and turning on the settee, drifting into an occasional dream state that sufficed as sleep. Every fish splash, bird call and turtle breath had me up and peeking out the blinds into the gloom surrounding us. What light a sliver of moon and starlight allowed to penetrate our mangrove thicket was of little use. The spooky quiet, though, made it well nigh impossible for someone to approach our hideout undetected.

  Throughout the night, motor noises, some wafting our way on a light breeze from far away, some much closer, came and went. Each time, I tensed. Jan, trying to catch a few winks below, rushed into the saloon several times when a panga passed close enough to send a wake our way. At times, above a motor-drone, we heard men talking, even smelled their cigarette smoke. Snatches of conversation in softly spoken Spanish held no hint they were searching for us. Just guys out working the fish, eking out a living, perhaps the last generation in their families to do so.

  Chino told us how the younger Mexicans, better educated and exposed to the outside world by way of television and movies, were no longer content to enter the grueling profession which sustained their families for hundreds of years. In an instructional tone I got the feeling he’d used many times in an attempt to educate others, he told us the situation. I now recalled the conversation, which took place seemingly eons, but only a short time ago…

  “Fishing, ” he told us, “is not what it once was. The cost of gasoline allows for little profit. I am doing my best to convince even the old ones that taking tourists to see the turtles is far better than making turtle soup.

  “But, unfortunately, some traditions die slowly. Turtle meat and eggs, which carry a heavy fine and jail sentence if poached, are still in high demand. I do worry, though, that we are selling out our country, literally. The peasants, and I use that word only as a description, not as a derogatory term, are selling their birthright, their land, to speculators and,” he gave us an apologetic smile, “foreigners. For peanuts.”

  “But Chino, if they don’t fish, how will they live? They can’t all be eco-tour guides.”

  “It is a problem. Some of the young ones turn to running drugs. Easy money and not much risk in isolated areas. The bigger problem there is, instead of the drugs heading north, for you gringos to use, they are now being consumed here.”

  “Why don’t these people get a bank to finance development of their land, instead of selling it off so cheap?”

  “Some do, but very few. Men like Lujàn, they are a scourge upon their own people. They get the ejidoterios to lease their land to them, with a promise to buy later at some ridiculously inflated price. Of course, it is all pie in the sky. Little by little he wears them down until they agree to sell him the land outright, as by now he has convinced them that, try as he may, he just couldn’t do anything with the land. They sell cheap and he starts development. As always, the little guy loses.”

  “Isn’t that illegal? Flimflam?” I asked.

  “Of course, but what are these people to do? They cannot afford lawyers, and the Mexican judicial system is very cumbersome. Most take the money and run, find menial jobs in La Paz, Tijuana, or the mainland.”

  “But surely some of the ejídos have become rich by developing their own lands, haven’t they?”

  “Somehow, they almost always mess it up. Money meant for taxes and development disappears, and the land sharks move in for the kill.”

  “Jeez,” Jan said, “what a mess. No wonder gringos are afraid to build homes here. Who knows when some flimflam man is going to come up with a scheme to take them?”

  Fabio, who remained silent, chimed in. “It can be bad. Some poorer ejídos did not know they even owned any land. Their land was sold to gringos by men who said they had title, but they did not. The government got involved, and for years, the lawyers fought, and ¡Milagro¡ many ejídos won. But problema. Whole communities, hotels and even large resorts were already built on the land.”

  “So, what did the ejídos do? The land was legally theirs, but others were already on it. Isn’t there something about possession being ninety-nine percent of the law?”

  Chino took over. “In some cases, they tried taking over management of the hotels, but it rarely worked out, for they had no experience in these matters, and no money to hire those who did. Soon bankrupt through bad management, they sold out, sometimes for only enough to pay debts. They ended up with nothing. Others made deals with those who owned homes on their property, accepting payment over a period of time. They were the smart ones. But some gringos, especially some who had not much invested in their houses, balked at being assessed for property they had already paid for and they walked away, leaving everything.”

  “Wasn’t that a good thing for the ejídos?”

  Chino shook his head. “Sadly, it was one of the worst things that could have happened. It spawned caciques.”

  Fabio looked like he’d swallowed something foul.

  “¡Caciques! Que pendejos,” he spat.

  “Gee, Fabio. Why don’t you tell us what you really think? And what is a cacique?”

  Fabio frowned. “Parásitos. They take the homes of others.”

  Chino stood and stretched. “A cacique is a bird that steals other bird’s nests. We use it as slang, a derogatory term for a person who controls, often with despotic and unlawful means, many small peasant communities in Mexico’s rural zones. At least it used to be so. Now that they have succeeded with the ejídos, they are trying to move in on more affluent communities, especially gringo communities. They think, like before, Americans will walk away if they make life miserable enough for them.”

  Jan smiled. “They better not mess with any Texans living down here if they know what’s good for them. Is that what this Lujàn is? A cacique?’

  “I fear he is far worse. A cacique is just a petty tyrant who, when stood up to by the people of his village, will make some kind of agreement to keep his job. I am afraid our Señor Lujàn has friends in low places and bigger fish to fry.” Chino gave us a wide grin. “And any other clichés I can think of.”

  “Hetta?” Jan’s barely heard, plaintive whisper, snapped me back to the present. And an ever-louder outboard growl.

  “Over here, by the couch,” I whispered back. Picking up the flare gun I’d loaded earlier, I grabbed her sleeve with my other hand. “Sit.”

  We huddled together, holding our breath, ears and eyes straining.

  “Jan, I have to tell you something. Whatever happens, I want you to know how sorry I am for getting us into this mess. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “No.”

  Someone killed the engine and we felt a slight bump against the hull. I stood and strode to the door. Fear or no fear, I planned to blast that someone to kingdom come. I slid open the teak door and stepped out on deck, flare gun at the ready.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot,” I bellowed. Startled birds went every which way. One giant blue heron the size of a small airplane collided with me, knocking the flare gun from my hand. I was scrabbling to pick it up when Fabio materialized in the gloom.

  “Café! What are you doing? A flare will bring everyone!”

  I slid to the deck, trying to catch my breath while Jan gave the guys a good cussing.

  Their first foray into Lopez Mateos hadn’t garnered any meaningful contacts. The guys got a good day’s rest and then, after setting some very clear ground rules for Jan and me that we had no intention of following—no wine, no sleeping with flare guns—Chino and Fabio launched the dinghy and disappeared for a second night in a row. And now, hours later, we heard the hum of a motor approaching through a gloomy dawn.


  “Think it’s the good guys?” Jan asked.

  “We’ll know in a minute. I hope it’s them. Hell, I hope it’s the friggin’ Marines. Ours.”

  We nervously listened as the thrumming grew nearer, then the engine quit and restarted on the count of five. Our signal: the guys were on their way in.

  Our bird friends, stirred by either the oncoming boat or the rising sun, began a cacophony that nearly drowned out the outboard. I looked outside to find my formerly shiny teak rails lined with at least twenty giant blue herons, one of which kept giving me dirty looks.

  Snowy egrets dotted the mangrove branches. Frigates, some sporting huge red bulbs under their beaks, made strange clacking noises. None seemed too anxious to fly, even as Jan and I eased out on deck. Some of the birds were huge, large enough for us to cast a cautious eye toward their menacing beaks.

  One of the frigates hopped to the top of a mangrove bush and spread his wings. “Would you look at the size of him?” Jan whispered, “He must have a five-foot wingspan.”

  “Did you know they can’t land on water, but they catch fish. Dip right down and nab ‘em.”

  “Why aren’t they afraid of us, I wonder.”

  “I guess because they’re bigger than we are. Either that, or we’re gonna have an Alfred Hitchcock kind of day.”

  I thought of getting the camera, but just then, in a blur of wings, our aviary went airborne as one, and my dinghy crashed through the dense mangroves. Startled, the great herons let out ungodly squawks not in keeping with their delicate beauty. Jan and I did likewise.

  “Could you possibly make a little more noise?” Chino groused. His uncharacteristic sarcasm struck us as funny, but our giggles annoyed him further. Frowning, he climbed out of the dinghy and stomped on deck. Jan, soothingly patting the scientist’s shoulder, offered coffee and breakfast.

  Chino was not to be mollified. “We could smell your coffee for a mile. From now on, only instant. I told you, sound and smells carry long distances here.”

  “Oh, lighten up,” I said. His crappy mood and unnecessary crankiness were annoying. It was my job to be annoyingly cranky and moody, not his.