While surfing the Internet one evening, I found one of those How Long Will You Live Q & A things. I lied about my alcohol use and weight and found I'd live approximately forty-five more years. I did the quiz again, this time being as truthful as I am capable of, and lost three years. Heck, eating and drinking what I wanted and only losing three years off the end of eighty someodd years didn't sound all that bad. Of course, that same study nailed my age group with a 0.14% chance of dying this year, but the way my life has been going lately that number might be a tad low.
I hoped I'd upped the odds some by no longer riding with Pedro to work.
Gloom settled in my pickup cab as Jan and I headed for Lucifer, wrestling with our own personal devils.
As always happens when Jan makes an appearance, my pickup and office saw a sudden spike of interest from the male population. I took her around for intros, and even the Chicano purchasing manager I'd taken such a dislike to turned on the charm. I sometimes wonder why I hang out with her.
When I handed her my keys so she could continue on to the boat, she said, "Gee, Hetta, that Ozzie isn't nearly so bad as you told me."
"Here, let me wipe his drool off your chest."
"Silly. Okay, what time will you get back to the boat? I'll cook dinner. Anything in the freezer you want?"
"I should be there by five. How about some donkey dick?"
"Perfect.
I caught a ride back to the boat with Safety instead of Pedro. That .014% thing, you know.
While he wound down Hell Hill, I kept an eye peeled for the dog I'd seen stranded up there. What I'd do if I did see the poor thing, I didn't know. There was no place to stop and he'd probably bolt off the cliff if I tried an approach. We never saw him, but his plight haunted me. I sincerely hoped someone had picked him up.
Safety, for the first time, invited himself to my boat for a drink. What a surprise. We were on our second beer when John, a guy I hardly knew from work, showed. Another first. Said he had to check on the company fishing boat, Lucifer, on the dock across from me, but he never went over there. Before dinnertime, two more guys stopped by to check on Lucifer.
My, my, such a suddenly popular boat, that Lucifer.
Finally shooing off Jan's fan club, we grilled a whole Sonora beef filet (affectionately called donkey dicks by the Gringos) she'd stuffed with bacon and mushrooms. She'd also gone into town for fresh greens and ice cream. Maybe I'll marry her and put Chino out of his misery.
Sitting out on the covered aft deck, or sunroom as I call it, we finished our wine while watching pangas streak from the harbor in quest of fish and squid, or maybe a little drug running on the side.
Jan, who was unusually quiet, turned to me with tears in her eyes. "At one point I'll be in my seventies and he'll be in his fifties."
"Chino's only twelve years younger than you, how do you figure that?"
Ever the bean counter, she said, "He's actually eleven and a half years younger, but his birthday comes after mine. I'll turn seventy and he'll still be only fifty-nine."
And I thought I had an age obsession thing going. "Which is almost sixty. You're somehow turning a few days into twenty years? I think I'll get a new accountant."
"Hey, you're not the only one worrying about turning for—"
"Stop! This birthday is my crisis, dang it, and don't you horn in on it!"
For some reason we found this hilarious. Or maybe it was the wine.
Which, had we known what the evening held in store, we might have cut back on a smidgen.
8
TAKEN ABACK (Nautical term): Stopped by a sudden shift of wind; surprised by a discovery
Back when Jenks designed my boat's security system he wanted me to sleep well at night, secure in the knowledge that if anyone came aboard, I'd know it. I have two choices for being alerted: a raucous claxon mounted on the flying bridge and guaranteed to wake the dead, or a more subtle blinking light in both the main saloon and my master cabin.
When Jan and I turned in, I set the blinker system. I am a light sleeper and a flashing light will usually wake me, even after a bunch of wine. Besides, if the light didn't do the job in thirty seconds, a beeper sounded, growing louder every fifteen seconds.
The light started flashing at two AM, according to the senorita's belly. At first I thought my nemesis, el mapache, was back, but then remembered I hadn't set the outside motion sensors. That meant someone was inside the boat. Had Jan needed a glass of water and forgotten to disable the sensor in the main saloon? I grabbed my handy dandy flare gun and headed for my cabin door, which I had not set the deadbolt on because I had company. Crap.
Throwing open the cabin door I went into defense mode. I stepped back so I wouldn't be highlighted by the flashing light behind me and waited. Nothing happened, so I yelled, "Jan, is that you in the saloon?"
Nada.
"Okay, then, whoever you are, I'm armed and I will shoot." Like I'm gonna fire off a flare gun in my boat? Oh, well, it sounded good.
Nada.
I backed into my cabin and hit the remote to turn off the flashing light in my cabin, but left the one on in the main saloon. Once again I waited, but my patience was running low. I was on the verge of rushing out when I heard a loud, "Oof," and a thump. Time was up.
Holding the flare gun as though it were my .9mm Springfield XDM (oh, that it were!) I vaulted up the three steps leading to the main saloon as though storming Normandy.
Catching movement by the settee, I crouched and crept forward.
"Help!" a male voice cried.
Help?
"Got the bastard," Jan yelled. "Where the hell are you, Hetta?"
I flipped on the cabin lights. Jan had someone flat out on his stomach, with his arms pulled behind him at an odd angle. She sat on his butt, her feet planted firmly on his head, and she'd somehow managed to clutch his wrists and was shoving them at what looked like a seriously painful angle using her feet for leverage against his skull. Whoever the poor dude was, I sort of felt sorry for him.
"Whatcha got there, Jan?"
"Ain't no stinkin' raccoon, but he is kinda cute. Ya wanna shoot him?"
"I'd love to, but there's my carpet to consider." I nudged him with the barrel of the flare gun for effect. "Okay guy, who are you and what do you want?"
Our intruder's face was buried in the carpet, so his answer was muffled.
"I can't heeear you."
Jan roughly wrenched his neck to one side with her feet.
"Oowww!"
"You speak English?" Jan asked.
He didn't answer, so she jammed his face back into the carpet. "Shy, I guess."
"Hookay, then, we'll do this the hard way." Unwilling to free him from Jan's power hold, I fetched a piece of line from the back deck, we trussed him up proper-like and rolled him onto his side. He squealed like a stuck hawg.
While our captive gasped for air and spit carpet threads, I gave Jan a pat on the back. "Where'd you learn that nifty move? You had him good."
"Goat roping in high school. Comes in handy." She poked him in his unprotected gut, eliciting a loud gasp. "You breathing yet, buddy?"
"Merde," he gasped.
"Merde?" I repeated. "You French?"
"Oui."
"Well then, today's your lucky day, Mon Sewer. Hetta parlays French."
"I. Speak. English."
"Even luckier," I told him, "so do we. Wanna tell us why you broke into my damned boat? And if it was you who ate my Velveeta cheese, I'm gonna turn you in to Larousse Gastronomique. The French will surely revoke your citizenship for such a gastronomical infraction."
Jan and I found this worthy of a giggle. I can be so clever at times.
"Well?" I nudged him with my foot, very near his nuts.
"Please, I didn't mean any harm. I didn't know you had returned. I was hungry."
I looked at the guy a little closer. He spoke English like an American, said he was French? When a tear rolled down his cheek, my anger melted. Well, almost. There
was that food stealing thing.
"We're gonna untie your feet and get you into a chair. Don't do anything stupid, okay? Oh, wait, you already did."
Jan gave me an appreciative grin. We shuffled him to a chair, tied him in across his chest and legs, then loosened his wrists. He moved his arms slowly forward and held them out for retying, but I waved them down. "That won't be necessary. For now."
"Could I please have some water?" he croaked.
"Water, coming up." Jan went to the fridge for a small plastic bottle of purified water and handed to him. He drank gratefully, brushed a blondish lock of hair from his face and squinted at us. "I lost my glasses."
"That’s okay, you don't need to see, you need to talk, so start. I have to work in a few hours and have to decide what to do with you. Jan here would prefer, I'm sure, to truss you up like a hawg again and dump you overboard, but this being a piece of very expensive, high-tensile-strength line I'd just as soon not waste it on some punk."
"You women are amazing," he said with a shake of his head.
"Oh, you have no idea. So you say you came aboard looking for food? How'd you open the cabin door?"
"Your lock is cheap. I opened it with a my fingernail clipper."
"Isn't there food anywhere else in Santa Rosalia, for heaven's sake? Why my boat?"
"I was here on the dock anyway. I thought this boat was still empty."
"Still, huh? So it was you who snarfed my Velveeta? That alone is a hanging offense in my book."
"It wasn't very good."
"Okay, that's it. Overboard you go, hot shot."
He threw his hands in the air. "It was a joke. I will work for the food, I need a place to stay until…." He shrugged.
"Until what?"
He hung his head. "I am in trouble and I need help. I don't know where to go, or what to do. I have money in my room, but I cannot go there. People are trying to kill me. People," he looked at Jan, "besides you."
"You have any ID?"
"No. Lost."
"What's your name?"
"Russell."
"That ain't French."
"My father is American."
"And you're French?"
"I lied. I'm actually Mexican."
"Russell ain't Mexican, either. Get the old line, Jan. He's going overboard."
"No! Okay, my name is Rosario Pardo."
Oh no, this cannot be happening. "Rosario Pardo?"
"Yes, I used to work at Lucifer Mine and they tried to kill me. I came here because I know you were sent to find who was stealing money. I can help you."
Oh, crap. Now I really wanted to toss him in the drink, and maybe this time it would take.
Jenks had ordered me to stay out of trouble and here it was: A dead guy, in living color.
9
THREE SHEETS TO THE WIND (Nautical term): A reference to the sheets (ropes) of a sail becoming loosened, rendering the sail useless (drunk)
I was running a tad behind schedule when I left Jan and the late Rosario Pardo on the boat. It had been a very long night, I had a lot to think about, and the drive to the jobsite gave me time to ponder. What, in the form of a young Mexican man, had stumbled into my life here?
Rosario's story had a ring of truth, although I have been lied to so much over the years—and lied so much myself—maybe I'm not the best judge when it comes to verisimilitude. However, his sincerity convinced both Jan and me that he was the real deal. He seemed genuinely terrified and if his story was true, with just cause.
Once at my desk, I embarked upon some serious delving into Rosario's story. While I was leaning toward believing him, a gal cannot be too careful. Matter of fact, Jan still had him tied to a chair, waiting to hear back from me before releasing him. I told her I'd email or call when I'd checked him out, so until I knew more he would remain her prisoner. Not that he seemed to mind. Jan's captives never do.
Rosario had given me all the information I needed to hack into the company personnel files so I could check on his identity and that alone gave him major Brownie points in my book. We snoops appreciate one another.
Within minutes I'd read his file and seen the photo they'd taken for his company ID. His thick light-brown hair had that sharp barbered look favored by Mexican businessmen and serious hazel eyes stared into the camera from behind nerdy thick-rimmed glasses. I knew he was at least six-one which, along with his coloring set him apart from the average Mexican office workers I'd met. There was also no hint of the macho smirk most of them seemed to have been born with. The man in the photo and Rosario were one and the same.
I fired a short cryptic email off to Jan: Subject: Him. Okay to let go.
We'd decided that, for now, we'd let Rosario hide out on Raymond Johnson until we figured out what to do with him, and she was charged with documenting his story for us. Once she'd sent it to me, I'd know where to start digging without raising suspicion. Whose suspicion remained a big question.
One thing was certain; Rosario thought he was safely putting his life in my hands. Silly bugger.
Safety dropped by with a cup of coffee in hand, thanked me for the beers the night before and invited me to dinner. Us to dinner. I told him us had other plans. He took it fairly well, but I knew as long as Jan was around, he'd be as well. She draws men like I do trouble. Together we constitute a veritable man-trouble sisterhood.
Antsy while waiting to hear from Jan, it was all but impossible to concentrate on anything work related. I spent time emailing almost everyone I knew, telling them about Chino's whale camp, what Jan was up to, how my job was going and everything except the fact that I was harboring an attempted murder victim on my boat. Not that anyone would be surprised.
If Rosario was telling the truth, what he'd told us so far painted an ugly scenario and if someone, or several someones, tried to kill him, they worked right here on site. He was a little foggy on details after we nailed him, so I hoped when not under threat of being keel hauled he could get his story straight.
Jan's email, when it finally arrived, had a document attached and when I opened it it was apparent that Jan had taken my instruction to begin at the beginning a little too literally. Jan has aspirations of one day becoming a novelista, which made her report read much more like the prologue to a romance novel than the interrogation I wanted.
Rosario's Life
by Jan Sims.
I groaned.
Rosario wants to be, no longs to be, a nerd.
A geek.
Or, as they say in East LA, a beanerd.
Not a nerdo, teto, tetaso, or raton de biblioteca—although being called a library rat wasn’t all that offensive to him, as it was true—as they taunted in Mexico, but an American nerd like Bill Gates or Steve Jobs, his heroes. Like the gamers he met on the Internet. Nerds who were respected for their skills, not mocked.
To fulfill his dream, he knew he had to cross the United States border. Not slink across in the night, although it might come to that, but hopefully get there legally. No easy task for an underpaid office worker, but he’d hit what he thought was pay dirt, his big chance to make a giant step in the right direction. Lady Luck had landed in his lap, or more correctly, his laptop.
When, after working at low-level jobs in Mexico City he’d landed the entry-level clerical position at Mina Lucifer he was elated, for even though this was less than a promotion, he knew it was his shot to shine. He was also aware he had to be careful to conceal his dreams, and special skills, from his fellow Mexican workers. It was the American and Canadian supervisors he wanted to make an impression on, for it was with them he might get that all important passport to nerd-dom.
Finally, after months of stultifying drudgery—
I rolled my eyes, then gave them a rub. Stultifying drudgery? How about stultifying prose? I forced myself to continue reading.
—crap work any idiot could handle, had paid off. Not, of course, his forty-five hour a week for minimum payday job, but the titillating unpaid hours he volunteered for. Litt
le by little, without drawing undue attention to himself, the office grunt had endeared himself by taking on others’ workloads, learning every aspect of everyone else’s job. Not that he couldn’t handle those mundane tasks with his eyes closed, but he tried not to make that fact too obvious.
Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series) Page 6
