His fellow workers had no problem dumping their work on Rosario, because, after all, they knew he had no life. What they didn’t know was that having full access to fast computers and unlimited Internet in the evening hours was a hacker’s dream and a gamer’s paradise. He was an expert at both, and they were his ticket to America. So while others snoozed at the man camp, Rosario burned the midnight ether.
Of course, no one had asked him to cyberpunk his way into the company systems, because no one knew he could. It was overhearing concerns of financial problems that set him on a personal mission to discover why unexplained costs were threatening layoffs and he was afraid he would be first on the list. This was his project. His ticket out of Mexico.
His cyber sleuthing had paid off. He was sure he was on his way! He experienced a moment of sadness that threatened his joy of accomplishment, for he yearned to share his news with someone, anyone. His mother had died months before he got this coveted position, one he knew would make her proud and reward her years of hard struggles to get him through college. His only other known relative, an uncle who’d sneaked across the border years before, also died, but not before sending monthly checks back to his only sister so Rosario could attend private schools. It was to his mother and uncle’s credit that he wasn’t doomed to a dismal future in Mexico.
He only wished they had shared their secret with him before they both passed on.
Finding that stack of letters when he cleaned out his mother’s small house sent him into shock. The father he was told died, hadn't. Or at least not when he was told he did. Who knew now? Turns out Rosario is the result of the ages-old story, this one set in a steamy Puerto Vallartan summer, with even steamier teenaged hanky panky between a Gringo surfer dude and a beautiful waitress. He'd loaded a faded photo of the lovebirds in front of the beachbum bar onto his screen saver as a daily reminder of his mission.
The letters, reading much like the Telenovellas, those Mexican soap operas his mother was so fond of—
And this tale doesn't? I made a silent vow to revoke Jan's poetic license.
— wove a tale of a disowned daughter and a devoted brother who fled Mexico so he could support her. His uncle’s letters at first pleaded with Rosario’s mother to reveal the father’s name so maybe he could find him, but she refused. Now she was dead, but her son finally knew his father’s name: Russell Madadhan. A Google search coughed up the information that Russell in Spanish is Rosario, and Madadhan was an old Celtic name, and quite unusual.
Finding out he was half-Gringo came as a surprise, but it shouldn’t have; he had never felt, well, totally Mexican. But when he'd queried his mother about his hazel eyes, light hair color and above average height, she'd blown him off with some cock-and-bull story about his Conquistador ancestors. Thanks to his uncle's generosity, he'd studied Mexican and World History at the American School he attended in Mexico City. During field trips to museums, he'd seen paintings of Spaniards with blue eyes and red or blonde hair, but he'd also studied Biology, and the idea of those genes surfacing four hundred years later was a stretch.
And to his credit, Rosario even had to chuckle at his mother's sense of humor when naming him: Rosario (Russell in English) Hidalgo (son of someone in Spanish) Pardo.
His mother and uncle had spent every bit of money they could scrape together on Rosario's education: Alliance Française for French, and twelve years at American Schools, where his classmates hailed from all over the world. He figured he was the poorest kid there. When his uncle died and even that money disappeared, he had already finished high school and landed a two-year scholarship to the University of Mexico. There he earned an Associate Degree in Business, but after that there simply was no more money for continuing.
His mother fell ill and he needed a job to support her for a change. He worked as a clerk in a local government office by day, gamed and surfed the Net at night, and basically stagnated until two things happened: His mother died, and the mine job presented itself.
Now, on the very brink of achieving the first step towards his dream, Rosario tempered the elation of his cyber sleuthing results with the knowledge that his hacking could either launch his career or get him fired, depending on with whom he shared his find. His immediate supervisor was too low on the organization chart, and a Mexican. His boss’s boss was a Chicano and everyone knew they couldn’t be trusted.
So he’d waited, gathering even more information, making flow charts with arrows until his eyes crossed. It was a complicated scheme and one that took more than just one level of conspiracy. He still didn’t know who was involved, but he did have suspicions. As the American cop shows say, follow the money, so he did. What he needed though, was someone in his corner he could trust.
Finally, he got the break he’d been waiting for when the VHF radio on the company fishing boat died. Quite naturally it was he, the office geek with no life, called upon to fix it on a Saturday night. He was replacing some corroded wires when a mine supervisor showed up on the boat, someone he knew, liked and trusted, or least he trusted more than most.
Nerves a-jangle—
My nerves were a-jangle by now. Jan, get on with the story!
—Rosario oh, so casually broached the subject of cost overruns and layoffs. He didn't look up, but concentrated on twisting a wire on the radio connector. The supervisor said nothing at first, so Rosario assumed he was surprised that an office grunt knew anything at all about the subject, or maybe figured it inappropriate to talk of such things with such a lowly employee, but a minute later he heard a pop, and the man shoved a Tecate in his hand.
"Take a break. Let's have a beer."
Rosario thought he'd melt into a puddle of relief right on the spot.
I was considering a puddle of my own about now.
He turned, smiled, and raised his bottle as if drinking beer with one of the bosses was all in a day's work. "Salud."
"Here's mud in your eye."
Rosario had no idea what that meant, but he'd seen it in movies and took it as a good sign. He timidly sipped the first beer he'd had in his entire life. It tasted bitter, but he held the smile.
The supervisor waved him to a tiny dinette and sat across the table from him. He complimented Rosario on his excellent English, began asking questions like, where he came from, where he went to school, and things no one else seemed to care about. Aglow with beer and gratitude, he told the supervisor of his life.
I hope, for the supervisor's sake, he'd done it with less mush and pulp than Miss Jan's version.
Many beers later they were best buds and the conversation turned to work. Little by little he revealed his findings about funds gone missing, but even verging on drunk he kept his hacking skills to himself, preferring to let the man think he'd done his grunt work by perusing paper files. Why, he didn't know, but somewhere in his Tecate-soaked brain a faint alarm sounded a warning to keep something back.
Rosario was taking a gulp of beer when his nose went numb. Seconds later he was suddenly stuporous—
Someone, please, just shoot me. Better yet, shoot Jan lest she be unleashed upon an unsuspecting reading public someday.
—unable to talk, much less walk. He curled up on the settee and passed out.
The last thing he remembers as he rolled into a fetal position was the smiling supervisor finishing off his own beer and tipping the bottle in his direction.
He now wondered if he hadn't been gazing into the face of pure evil.
The End
The End?
A little shriek escaped my lips.
Okay, I was going to get in my pickup, drive to the boat and strangle my best friend. Right then and there.
Which supervisor? Who sent Rosario to fix the boat radio? I didn't want a friggin' novella, I wanted facts.
Actually, I wanted a cold beer, but a fact or two would suffice.
10
LOOSE CANNON (Nautical term): A piece of artillery that is not secure and therefore can cause damage or injury when it ro
lls on its wheels from the ship’s movement or from its recoil after being fired (out of control or unpredictable).
In this case, my life?
"You okay?" Safety asked from behind me.
Yikes! I quickly hit the DELETE key and swiveled my chair to face him, hoping he hadn't caught a glimpse of Jan's budding and annoying novel. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"
"You yelled or something."
"Oh, that. I was cussing my computer, which I do a lot. Swearing at inanimate objects can be somewhat cathartic."
"Somewhat like ex-lax?"
I laughed. One thing I appreciate is someone who knows the multiple meanings for words and uses them in humor. "Good one. There's a thought; ex-lax as a cure for operator malfunction."
"Let me know if it works."
"Not."
"You need a ride to work tomorrow? I can pick you up if you want to leave your pickup for Jan."
"That'll work. Chino's picking her up sometime on Wednesday, so I'll drive myself in that day."
"This Chino her boyfriend?"
"Yes. Doctor Brigido Yee." I then added, "The world-famous marine biologist." Okay, so I laid it on a little thick there, but nothing bursts a guy's crush-bubble like some seriously potent-sounding competition. "He has to pick up his new assistant at the airport Wednesday morning, then he'll collect Jan and take her home."
"Oh."
Safety's little "Oh," spoke volumes of dejection.
My office needed rearranging if I didn't want my bidness to be everyone else's.
The way it was, my back and therefore my computer screen were turned toward the door, making me unable to see people behind me and allowing them to read my screen. Shutting the door was out of the question because there was no room for it to swing. It had to go.
I fetched a small tool chest from my pickup and removed the door. Laura, after watching me almost flattened by the unhinged and unwieldy door, rushed to my aid and helped me drag it outside.
After I changed the desk's direction, I got lucky, for the snake's nest of cords all reached their plugs and connections. The downside was I now only had about one foot of clearance to enter my office. Sucking it all in and holding my breath helped a little, but losing ten pounds would do wonders. However, I could squeeze in and slide into my chair. I'd accomplished my goal of deterring inquisitive eyes, but sincerely hoped I didn't experience any cathartic intestinal emergencies, because exiting my office in a hurry would be just about impossible. That thought, of course, sent me scurrying to the Mujeres room as a safety measure.
I rechecked my email for an update from Jan, maybe with some actual facts gleaned from Rosario, but nada. Trying to work remained a bust. I was too distracted by this unfortunate twist on what I thought was going to be a relatively mundane job. Waiting for Jan to fill me in was driving me nuts. I sat, glaring at the screen, willing it to do something.
Hearing the welcome ding announcing an incoming email made me smile and I was only slightly disappointed to see it was from my veterinarian buddy, Craig, in Bisbee, Arizona.
Doctor Craig Washington and I had been friends back in the Bay Area, when he was a hundred pounds heavier. Craig and I have a lot in common; we both love dogs, struggle with our weight and have a lousy history with men.
One would think, what with Craig being highly successful monetarily as well as tall, black and gay, he'd have been a rock star in the San Francisco Bay Area, but he was also extremely overweight, insecure, and gentle natured, leaving him prey for opportunists who used his bank account and broke his heart. His nickname, Craigosaurus, didn't help out in the self-esteem department. I never called him that. I know about weight.
Finally when one of these little exploitive pieces of ca-ca he dated went too far and demanded Craig buy him a snazzy red Porsche, he dumped both his crappy old van and crappy old boyfriend and kept the sports car for himself. He then hired a personal trainer—the one I had also hired, but refused to mind—did what she told him to (what a concept!) and dumped a hundred pounds. Now divested of both that little French twerp of a boyfriend and sporting a new look, he also decided he worked too hard and needed a change.
While visiting with me at the golf course home I'd rented in Arizona, he'd been attracted to a cowboy who hung out at the clubhouse bar. When I left for Mexico, I still had time on my lease so Craig stayed on while the miner's shack he bought in Historic Bisbee was renovated. He also took up golf.
Now the original house he renovated is rented out, and although still deep in the closet, he and his new pardner own a successful cattle ranch, a fleet of mobile vet clinics, and a large animal practice serving ranches on both sides of the border.
He has traded in the Porsche—the one Frenchie the Freeloader wanted—and bought a diesel dually pickup the size of Texas. His wardrobe now comes from the local Feed, Seed and Fertilizer store. His partner, Roger, is a fourth generation Arizona rancher. Neither man is anxious to openly share their relationship with their very conservative families. They still do not share quarters, per se, but instead have two separate houses on the same bajillion acres. To see them together, few would guess they were anything other than good old boys—albeit one of them being a black good old boy—sharing a business partnership and, on occasion, a beer or two at the golf club.
Craig and I also share an address, as I established a residency in Arizona while I was working there. I mean, California made two of my favorite guns illegal, for crying out loud. I should have sued for alienation of affection.
My car is registered at Craig's house and my snail mail goes to his post office box. Jan is also a paper resident, so for all practical purposes, Craig and Hetta and Roger and Jan all live happily on the ranch together.
Craig's email read: Need to talk, ASAP. SKYPE ME!
Jeez, I hate emails like that. I couldn't Skype him until after work from the boat. Was I doomed to sit here all day, unable to concentrate on work, waiting for Jan to email another inane missive and obsessing over what Craig, who is not one to use terms like "as soon as possible" loosely had to tell me?
Patience not being one of my strong suits, I let out another little screech and pulled my hair, but this time Safety ignored me.
By noon my nerves were frayed.
I had had one glass of wine too many the night before, hadn't gotten enough sleep, and left Jan with a complete stranger, an admitted cheese thief, alone on my boat. It was all too much to take sitting in my office. I decided to pack it in.
Bert Melton, my big boss, was out of the office for the day so I figured I'd let Ozzie, the Chicano purchasing prick, know I was going AWOL. Not that I really needed anyone's leave to leave, but it seemed the right thing to do. Unwilling to take a chance on Ozzie pissing me off, since I was already in a evil mood, I decided to save his life and send him an email.
Before I headed out, I raided the fridge in the break room, found a couple of sandwiches I hadn't eaten and snitched what looked like some burritos. I unwrapped them all, put them into a paper bag and set it on the passenger seat, just in case I spotted that dog again. The best I could hope for, since there were so few turnouts, was to toss the poor thing some food.
Halfway down Hell Hill, there he was, hugging a small space on the edge of a blind corner, but at least there was no one behind me. I hit the brakes and moved into the oncoming lane. Rolling down my window, I had one hand on the steering wheel and was tossing out the bag when an air horn blast ricocheted off the cliffs. A humongous Kenworth logo loomed in my windshield, but luckily he was moving at a snail's pace uphill so I was able to regain my lane before becoming a splat on his bug screen. In my review mirror I caught a glimpse of the dog demolishing bag and all. Tomorrow, with Safety driving, maybe I could get water to him, as well.
"Looocy, I'm home," I yelled in my best Ricky Ricardo/Desi Arnaz accent as I climbed aboard Raymond Johnson.
"Oh, goodie. You're just in time, we're making lunch,."
Jan had untied Rosario and they stood side by side at my galley
counter.
Rosario wore my favorite chenille bathrobe, the one with cowgirls lassoing calves.
"Is there something I need to know here?" I asked, hoping Jan hadn't gone robbing cradles again.
Rosario pulled the robe tighter around his body and gave me a silly grin. "Jan washed my clothes and they are still in the marina dryer."
"Yep," Jan added, "if he's gonna live here he has to smell better."
"We need to talk about that living here thing, but right now I have to call Craig. Sounds like something's up."
I fired up Skype and caught Craig in his office. Who wears a cowboy hat at his desk? I asked myself, but I had to admit he looked very cowboyerly. His face is a smidge off homely, but his big droopy eyes and a keen resemblance to his redbone hound, Coondoggie, give him an endearing look. All in all, Craig is a large, tall, black, handsome dude and, were he not gay, women would fawn. Actually they fawn anyway, every one of them wanting this big old Teddy bear in their—and their animal's—life.
Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series) Page 7
