“I know that, and you know that, but the OPD gets real steamed when someone with your body count history won’t return their calls. All they want is to close the stupid case, so pick up the stupid phone so I don’t get their stupid calls anymore. Can I be more clear, Grey Girl?”
When Allison starts slinging racial epithets, it’s time to take her seriously. Or sling something back. “Don’t get all uppity on me.”
She laughed. “Hetta, just call them. Talk with Detective Norquist, the cutie who interviewed you when they found that other body on your anchor. I’ll give you Norquist’s number.”
So I did. Norquist was not pleased with me, but in truth he couldn’t justify keeping my car. I called Allison back and she said she’d get it towed in for repairs. Finally, I joined Jenks on the flying bridge. A sliver of moon rested low on the horizon, and a blanket of stars sparkled in a black velvet sky.
“What’s up?”
“The Trob has another job for me here in Mexico if I want it. About eighty miles from here. Place called Guaymas.”
“What’s the job?”
“What does it matter? Much as I’d like to stay here, I have a commitment back home in January.”
“Why can’t you do both? You could leave the boat down here, fly home.”
“For starters, this boat is my home, remember? Where would I live?”
“You can stay in my apartment in Oakland until your project up there is over. I’ll be in Kuwait for at least three more months. If we don’t have to take Raymond Johnson back to California, we can both get on with our projects sooner.”
“How about all my stuff? Everything I own is on this boat.”
“Take your clothes, buy more. When you’re ready to come back down here, drive.”
“Speaking of, Allison’s springing my VW and having it towed to a mechanic.”
“You should get another car instead.”
“I don’t want another car. I want my VW. It has great sentimental value. I could just kill that Garrison for running it off into the estuary.”
“If I were you, with your, uh, record, I’d be more careful about threatening anyone. People do have a way of getting dead around you. And if I remember correctly, there is a little tit for tat here. You did, after all, arrange to send his prized Morgan for a swim. He’s evened the score, in spades.”
“Don’t be reasonable with me, you know it doesn’t work.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Not worth it, you know.”
“That was RJ’s car. I want it fixed.”
“RJ was a fine dog, and the only dog I’ve known with his own car, but you could buy some decent wheels for what it’ll cost to restore your antiquated VW. Especially after it’s been submerged in saltwater.”
“You’re being reasonable again.”
“Sorry. I should know better.” He put his arm around me and kissed my forehead.
We chugged a few more miles out to sea, far from shore, cut the engines and drifted throughout the night. We spelled each other, taking three hour watches. Neither of us got much sleep. Staring at windows made black by the dark of night made me wish I’d taken my watch from the flying bridge, but we had a firm rule: While at sea, no one goes outside while the other sleeps.
Mentally replaying the scene at Agua Fria, I tried convincing myself that Jenks was right, and I didn’t see what I thought I saw. And so what if it was a crime? There was no way in hell, after my recent dealings with several unsavory Mexican authority types, I’d report it. The best thing was to erase the incident from memory.
Why worry over something one cannot control?
Chapter 4
After a night of drifting, we decided to further distance ourselves from the spooky Agua Fria, so we headed for another Steinbeck destination, Puerto Escondido. He wrote: If one wished to design a personal secret bay, one would probably build something like this little harbor.
Jagged mountains, the Gigantes, according to my map, jutted against the western sky, and the harbor was protected from all sides by hills and natural rocky berms. I can only imagine what a beautiful spot this was when Steinbeck and crew arrived aboard Western Flyer all those many years ago. But now he must be rolling in his grave, what with buildings and docks forever marring old John’s personal secret bay. In my career as an engineer I was, without doubt, guilty of trashing someone else’s perfect harbor myself, but I really hated what happened here.
Exhausted, we turned in early and were up, sipping coffee, when we witnessed what was probably the most spectacular sunrise of my life. The rising sun hit the jutting, striated Gigantes, painting them a mix of pink, salmon, and purple. Both the mountains and the rosy clouds hugging their peaks reflected on glassy, turquoise sky and water. The effect was stunning.
I oohed and aahed, and asked Jenks, “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
He shook his head. “Pretty neat.”
“Pretty neat? Jenks, you are the master of the understatement. I’m getting the camera.” I rushed inside and was out in a flash. When I clicked off a shot before everything faded, I realized my batteries were dead.
“You know Hetta, there’s a better place to store your dead batteries than in your camera.”
“Yeah, I know. I usually keep them in my flashlight. Oh, well, we’ll be here tomorrow, and believe you me, I will have fresh batteries in this baby. You know, I’ve lived in and traveled to a lot of places in the world, but so far the Sea of Cortez is my favorite. Well, except for Agua Fria.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Last night, when we were drifting on my watch, I decided to call the Trob back today, take that job on the mainland. I looked it up. Guaymas, that is. It’s a port city and has a fair size harbor. Maybe there’s a marina.”
“Worth checking out. Give him a jingle, he should be in his office by now. Like I said, it could work to your advantage. Now, I’ll muck out the seawater strainer on the overheating engine before we— phone’s ringing.”
I caught it on the third ring, thinking it might be the Trob, but it was Mama.
“Where are you, Hetta Honey?” To everyone else I’m Hetta. To my mother, I’m Hetta Honey.
“Still in Mexico. Up in the Sea of Cortez.”
“That’s nice. Is Jenks with you?” She sounded hopeful. She likes Jenks and lives in fear that I will alienate him. I do have a history.
“Sure is.”
“And Jan?”
“No. Remember, I told you? She’s with Chino.”
Silence.
“Mom, he’s a doctor. He’s a good guy, and she’s happy.”
“He’s a Mexican.”
“Tsk, tsk. Your Texas prejudice is showing.”
“I am not prejudiced. It’s just that Mexican men can be so…fickle.”
“I don’t think Chino is, unless an exceptionally comely whale wiggles her tail at him.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. How’s Daddy?”
“That’s what I called about. He’s got trouble.”
My heartbeat stuttered. My parents entered the parent pool a little later than was fashionable in their generation, and didn’t get around to having me and my sister until they were in their thirties. Even though sixty is the new forty, and my parents are in excellent health, I tend to worry. “Trouble?”
“It’s your Aunt Lil.”
I stifled a moan. My aunt, who never had children of her own, spent inordinate amounts of time telling Mom how she should raise me and my sister. As well as being a giant thorn in my derrière, Auntie Lillian is overbearing and bossy, so you can imagine how well we get along. Not.
A retired nurse of Ratchet ilk, she’d been married four or five times, and met each and every of her spouses while they were drying out at Veteran’s Administration Hospitals.
My mother, always the peacemaker, puts up with her crap. I never do, although maybe I should consider taking a cue from her modus operandi; she finds her hubbies in rehab, marries ‘em, buys ‘em a bottle or tw
o when they get out, and bingo! Death benefits.
“She get herself another husband out of the drunk tank at the VA?”
“Hetta Honey, be nice. She is blood, you know, and no, she’s not married again. At least I don’t think so. Also, I’m sure she loved all of her husbands, in her own way.”
“Spare me the love. Lil is a miserable human being who does her level best to spread the virus of discontent. She’s a happiness terrorist. Sorry Mama, I know she’s your only sister. How could two sisters be so different?”
“You and your sister are different.”
“Yes, but we come from the same planet. So what has the infamous Lil done now?”
“She’s disappeared.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“If you’re going to be this way, maybe we should talk later.”
“Okay, okay. Maybe you’d better tell me the story. Truthfully, however, I can’t imagine that my aunt taking a powder would upset Dad too much.” Actually, I know for a fact that my father would give his new Tony Lamas to never lay eyes on auntie’s sour puss ever again.
“You and your father don’t understand her.”
Oh, we understand her all too well. She’s a bully and a user of both people and substances, who takes advantage of your sweet nature. Because my mother sounded upset, I asked, in a softer tone, “What happened?”
“Well, she called and said she was leaving for a few days and could we feed her bird. She never returned.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No. No one knows.”
“She take her car?”
“No.”
Well, there’s a break for all of Texas driverdom. “She’ll turn up. She always does. So, other than the fact that you’re worried, why is this a problem for Dad?”
“It’s Trouble.”
“You said that. What kind of trouble?”
“No, dear. Trouble. Your aunt’s parrot. His name is Trouble.”
“I’ve known a few men like that. When did she buy a parrot? I thought you meant she wanted you to scatter birdseed for her flock of wild birds.”
“She didn’t exactly buy him. He adopted her.”
“Too bad your mother didn’t think of something like that.”
“Het-ta.”
“Okay, okay, tell me the tale.”
“It turns out,” I told Jenks over breakfast, “that my aunt named this wild parrot Trouble, because he sings a song from The Music Man, the one about pool? Right here in River City?”
“Robert Preston. Loved that movie. So, there are wild parrots in Texas? And your aunt has one as a pet?”
“Not only that, he’s illegal.”
Jenks raised his eyebrows and took a bite of toast. “This should be good.”
“It is. This parrot, he’s actually a parakeet called a Monk or Quaker. I’ve seen them all around Lake Austin. They’re cute little devils and they’ve survived up north, even in your old home town of Brooklyn, because they are the only nest- building parrots in the world. They make warm homes and hole up in winter.”
“So, if they’re wild, why does your aunt keep him?”
“For some unfathomable reason, he adopted her. If nothing else, this shows a singular lack of good judgment on his part.” Jenks chuckled. He had not only met Lil, he’d seen her in action.
“Anyhow, you know she feeds all kinds of birds behind her house. One day she heard a ruckus, opened the door and in flew this parrot, with a blue jay hot on his tail. Auntie slammed the door, knocked the jay out, and when the parrot calmed down, he burst into song. First, that "Ya Got Trouble" song, and then "Yellow Rose of Texas". She was so impressed, she let him stay and now he lives with her.”
“How’s the blue jay?”
“Woke up and flew off, but waited outside. After that, when Trouble went outside, the jay attacked him, so my aunt put Trouble in the car inside the garage, went for a drive, then let him out. So now, everyday he flies right over the car as it tools down the road, and when he’s had his exercise, or someone whistles him back, he flies into the car and they drive home.”
“Whistles for him? Like a dog? I’d pay to see that. So, your aunt has gone missing and now your dad has to uh, drive, the parrot?”
“Yep. And there’s parrot droppings in his pickup. You know how he loves that truck. He wants to turn Trouble loose, but Mama won’t let him. Mom and Dad wanna go RVing and now they can’t because they’re stuck until Auntie Addict shows up. They wanted me to birdsit Trouble for a while. Thank God, I can’t because I’m out of the country. I told them to board him out, but no one will take him. He ain’t got no stinkin’ passport. Without proof of where he came from, pet shops are afraid he’s a carrier for bird flu or parrot fever or some such.”
“I agree with your dad. Turn him loose. He is a wild bird, right?”
“Actually, they don’t really think so. Mother’s afraid he’s been raised by people and can’t fend for himself. And even though Dad wants shut of Trouble, he’d feel terrible if something happened to him. I think he’s grown on them, parrot poop and all.”
“You have a strange family.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve met your brother, don’t forget.”
He grinned. “So what are your parents going to do?”
“Just wait and see, I guess. Anyhow, not my problem. I, for one, would like a long walk on terra firma. We could both use the exercise. First, though, I’ll call the Trob and see about that job down here. At least if I stay I won’t have to make excuses to Mom why I can’t take that bird off her hands.”
The phone rang again. “Jeez, I’m supposedly on vacation. You take it, Jenks. Tell whoever it is to call back in a month.”
Chapter 5
I didn’t make it ashore at Puerto Escondido, because we were headed for Guaymas within the hour.
It took the Trob two up-antes to convince me I should take on a project I’d already decided to take. He averred it was a fairly simple study—oh, sure, I’ve heard that before—as well as lucrative. And, for a change, I would actually report to him. That’s what really sealed the deal. No murky middleman to work around, no hidden agendas, just plain old grunt work using OP’s drawings and studies. I like it when I can cash in on Other People’s toil. Only problem is that he needed me there, on site and sending reports, within forty-eight hours because of some meeting the Baxters had planned. With whom he didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. Sometimes it’s better to remain ignorant of details, just in case I end up in court.
Jenks plotted our course for Guaymas, which would require an overnighter. If we loafed along at six knots, we’d arrive after first light, always a good idea when you don’t have local knowledge. Upon arrival, I’d pay a courtesy call on the port captain, tell him what I was doing there, sort of. The sort of part was that I planned fobbing myself off as a reporter writing a favorable article touting the possibility that Guaymas was destined to become Arizona’s deepwater seaport. I’d get friendly, gently feel him out, get his take on the political feasibility of successfully ushering his port from the nineteenth to the twenty-first century. I said feel him out, not up. I do have my standards, lowly as they may be.
Once underway, Jenks took the first watch, casting a leery eye for panga goons, while I set about printing up new business cards. First, though, I needed the name of a viable newspaper. I fired up the sat system, Googled Arizona, came up with major publications in Tucson and Phoenix. Nope, too obvious, and easy to check out. I needed something small and much more obscure. Tombstone Epitaph? Nah. Yuma Sun? Too far away.
I needed a town close enough to care about the goings on in a Mexican seaport. Then I hit it, The Sierra Vista Observer, Sierra Vista, Arizona. Population, a little over 40,000. Located in Southeast Arizona, very near the border. Better yet, home of Fort Huachuca, a center for Army Intelligence. A town no one ever heard of, with a daily rag to match, was perfect for my purposes. I downloaded the paper’s logo.
“What do you think?
” I asked, handing Jenks my newly minted business cards.
“Do journalists actually put Journalist on their cards?”
“I dunno, but I thought Hetta Coffey, Girl Reporter, sounded somewhat dated.”
“Is there really a paper by this name?”
“Yep, and a town. There’s an army base there, Fort Huachuca, so I figure the folks in this burg would be interested in the development of a seaport to their south, in a country we’re not on super terms with when it comes to avenues for terrorism.”
“Beats trucking everything from the West and Gulf coasts, I suppose.”
“That’s what I love about this project. It’s clean.”
“I hope so, for your sake. When Mexico smells money, things can get dirty, fast.”
“You’re telling me? This time, though, all I need do is summarize the feasibility studies of others, adding my onsite survey, so I’m not really breaking new ground. My job is to simply ensure we’re not comparing coconuts and mangos. I actually have some professional background on this subject. A mite rusty, perhaps, but a soupçon of knowledge in transportation. Marine transportation.”
“Oh, yeah? When?”
“Before I started college, I did a summer internship at Brown and Root, now owned by Halliburton. The guys you and your brother are subbing for in Kuwait.”
“Small world, but the world of big boy engineering always has been. So what did you do?”
I let that big boy thing slide. “A summary of Alaska Pipeline sealifts, beginning with the early seventies. Every year, all the barges had to be loaded and underway in order to make passage to Prudhoe Bay, through the Bering Strait before it refroze. The fascinating critical nature of that lift led me to specialize in Material Control and Logistics. Coordinating a project, down to the last nail, appeals to control freaks like me.”
“And your journalistic credentials?”
“I do the Wall Street Journal crossword puzzle.”
“With a ballpoint, no doubt?”
“Mount Blanc.”
“Oh, well, then. What’s for lunch, Brenda Starr?”
Just Add Trouble Page 4
