"Think we can catch them?" Jan asked.
"I don't even want to try. It's too choppy now to go north into it, and with a new boat and motor, I just don't think it's a good idea. And on top of that, it's getting late, the motor is new, I don't know its range and don't want to guess us into a dangerous situation. Let's just go back to Raymond Johnson. Maybe Nacho left us a note."
"He doesn't have to report his comings and goings to us, ya know."
"Maybe not technically, but if he wants another decent meal on this cruise, he'd better start."
I washed Po Thang down while Jan went inside to check for a note. "Nope. Nothing!" she yelled.
Toweling off my dog, I yelled back, "Okay, turn on the radar. I'll be right in."
By now, the boats were no longer painting—nautical speak for showing blobs—on the radar screen, as we were blocked by a hill right in the wrong place. I fiddled with the radar, hoping to get something while Jan went for our new espionage tool, the GPS locater she'd planted on Nacho's panga. Getting a strong signal, she plotted his position on our master chart. "Looks like they're abreast of Los Islotes."
"Islotes is eight miles or so north of here. Maybe they decided to go for a dive with the sea lions. But why take both boats? And why when the wind is up."
"Call 'em again."
No luck.
"Gee, I'm still sure it was something you said, Hetta."
"And that's still not funny. They're on the move, but not very fast. Wonder where they're going? Not that I really care, but neither one of them mentioned leaving before we took off in Po Boy."
Po Thang looked up expectantly and we both laughed. "Maybe naming the new pangita you-know-what wasn't such a bright idea. Your poor dog is going to be in a constant state of confusion."
"Then we'll be equals. Dammit, I know you think I'm a stone-cold control freak, but Nacho taking off without a word pisses me off."
"I remind you, he doesn't answer to you."
"True, but he'd better turn that boat around pretty soon. I mean, who's gonna mix the drink of the day?" I asked as we secured my new dinghy for the night, and replaced the gas tank with a full one. Now we were ready for another run if need be.
We also took the time to remove the name, Po Boy, from the transom, and replace it with the vinyl letter set Jan brought. DawgHouse seemed appropriate.
Later, in the galley, Jan pulled toothsome tidbits from the fridge while trying to lighten our worries about Nacho by singing, "Got along without 'em before we met 'em!" an old tune we both loved.
"What's for chow? I mean, customer on board or not, we gotta eat?"
"I've got it all planned out, but first, we both need a shower. Po Thang smells better than we do after that slog through the cut. Then I'm gonna make canapés. If Nacho doesn't get back for dinner, it's his loss, 'cause I'm gonna cook up that yellowtail we snagged on the way in from La Paz this morning."
"More for us," I said flippantly, but I felt less than flippant. This control freak had no control over a worrisome situation, which is never a good thing.
By the time Jan made her famous guacamole and I put together a batch of Margaritas from a mix, light was fading fast. Checking the GPS locator again, I saw that Nacho's boat was headed east now, out to sea. "Okay," I said, "I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I'm getting a little worried about Nacho."
"Oh, come on, admit it. You have a teensy weensy crush on him."
"Do not."
"Do too."
Arguing this subject with Jan was a waste of time, so I asked, "And you're gonna tell me you aren't in the least bit intrigued with our bad boy?"
"Nope."
"Liar."
She stuck her tongue out at me, and I did the same to her. Maturity might not be our strong suit.
"What I don't understand, and don't take this wrong," she said, "is that both Mac and Nacho have the hots for you. What am I, chopped liver?"
"I don't care, because if you're jealous of me, my day is made. My month. My year. My—"
"Am not jealous. It's just that…"
"It's just that for twenty years you've been the man-magnet and I've been Cinderella, way before the slipper thing."
"That is not what I meant, at all. I can certainly understand why Nacho's enchanted with a woman who threatened him with death by flare gun, blew up his buddy's truck, stole his fancy off-road rig, and tried, on several occasions, to kill him. You're his kind of chick. But Mac? I dunno, it kinda seems too…convenient."
"Okay, I'm taking this the wrong way. Want another Margarita?"
"Is there a cow in Texas?"
While we finished our second pitcher, Jan grilled the yellowtail filets and whipped up a lime, butter, tequila and diced habañero chile sauce. I made a salad.
As we did almost every night, we took our grub and a bottle of wine to the sundeck. We'd just finished eating when I spotted a set of running lights coming into the harbor, and from the looks of it, they could belong to a super panga. And despite my protestations of not worrying about Nacho, I felt a wave of relief.
Chapter Twenty-One
"Jan! Incoming navigation lights! Looks like a super panga to me. Maybe Nacho's coming back?"
Po Thang rumbled. Nope, not Nacho. Dang.
But the boat was definitely headed our way, and the regular pangas from the fish camp behind us didn't even have running lights. If they used any illumination at all, it was a flashlight or a propane lantern, which, coupled with their habitually leaky gasoline containers, was a serious hazard to health.
I flipped on the outdoor spots aimed behind the boat, which was Po Thang's cue to rush onto the swim platform and snap at leaping fish. Any thoughts he had of an approaching panga were no longer anywhere in that space between his ears. Then, as though a switch turned on, he remembered and barked a warning as the panga entered the circle of light.
"Well, well," Jan said. "The mysterious blue panga."
Since Nacho's boat was gone, the driver sidled alongside the swim platform and waved, then threw out fenders, making it obvious he planned to tie up to us.
"What do you think, Hetta? Fiend or friend?"
Po Thang, whose back hair was up as he stood his ground on the dive platform, vociferously voted, FIEND! I called him back to the sundeck, and miracle of miracles, he loped up the steps. I think he was looking for an excuse to back off without seeming like a sissy.
"Good dog! Jan," I whispered, although the motor on the panga would blanket my words, "get the flare gun while I talk to this dude. We know he, or someone else in this blue panga, met Nacho out at the bajo and handed over the aerial shots, which doesn't necessarily make him a villain. But, better safe than sorry. Boy, do I miss my guns!"
"Not any more."
"What do you mean?"
"I sorta lifted Nacho's piece from his panga, and hid it in our groceries. It's behind the cereal in the pantry."
"What? Why didn't you tell me?" I was elated for a second, then a thought hit me. "Oh, hell! What if Nacho needs it right now?" Then reality set in and I slapped myself. "What am I saying? Jan, I have never been prouder. Get that puppy."
Jan was right back with Nacho's big handgun in a plastic bag. Stepping up to an outdoor light I peered in and saw it was chambered. Had I known it was ready to blast away at the touch of a trigger, I would have fetched it myself, but luckily Jan's carrying it in a bag precluded any chance of an accidental discharge. However, I vowed she and I were going to spend some time familiarizing her with how not to handle a gun.
With my back to our incoming visitor, even though I knew he couldn't see me past the glare of the spotlights trained on him, I released the magazine and cleared the chamber. There were nineteen bullets in the clip, which I slammed back in place. Racking one into the chamber, I slipped the ejected shell into a pocket, and the big heavy handgun into the other. It weighed that side of my shorts down, so I pulled on a windbreaker to cover up the obvious bulge.
Now armed with eighteen chances to w
ipe out any threat, I twitched my lip a la Clint Eastwood.
Jan cracked, "I see I've made your day. Is that a pistol in your pocket, Chica, or are you just glad we have company?"
"Let's just say we're geared up to entertain in style."
Our visitor sidled alongside and I recognized him as the same guy on the critter cam. "¡Hola! I am look por Señor Ignacio."
"Aren't we all?"
"¿Mande?" Which means something between, "What?" and, "Excuse me?"
"Why are you looking for him?"
"I 'ave," he dangled a pouch similar to the one we found in Nacho's cabin containing the thumb drive we "borrowed" and downloaded, "uh, mesaje."
"A message," Jan said.
I held out my hand. "You can give it to me."
He shook his head, stuffed the pouch deep into a cargo pocket in his shorts and zipped it closed. "No es posible. Solament el Senor Ignacio. ¿A donde es?"
"Wouldn't we like to know? Aya," I waved my hand toward the northeast. "Posible el bajo."
He made a show of looking confused, as though he had no idea where the bajo was. So, not willing to give him a clue we'd seen him there, with Nacho, I threw him a bone. "Maybe fishing."
"En la noche? Porque?"
That was a strange question from someone who looked to be trying to pass himself off as a an upscale Mexican fisherman; they generally fish at night. But, oh well, the charade must go on. "Why at night? I don't know. No se. Jan, take over here. I've just about run out of Spanish."
"Let's invite him up for a beer, and grill him like that yellowtail we just ate."
Our visitor, Javier, was fairly lubricated by his fourth beer. A handsome young man, muscular and probably in his twenties, he was a good boat handler and I suspected from a fishing family like so many others youths in the Sea. Now, however, he was working as a courier, and as such had been sent out with an urgent message requiring hand delivery. Urgent enough, he confided with a note of pride, for them to send him out at night.
He was to hand off the pouch to el señor Ignacio only, anchor, sleep in his boat, then return to La Paz at first light with something Nacho was supposed to give him. What, he didn't know. He was upset at failing to do what he was sent to do, and hoped el señor would return before morning.
No amount of beer, or even a generous serving of mac and cheese—something he said he had never eaten, but loved—made him give up that pouch. Nor did Jan's mile-long legs and blonde hair manage to entice him to stay on our boat for the night, or even tie up to us while he slept on his own boat.
Jan suggested that if Nacho didn't return, we all go out in Javier's panga the next morning and search for him. This, Javier agreed to, albeit reluctantly.
"Maybe he'd like to call his boss and explain the situation?" I suggested to Jan with a hidden wink in her direction..
He seemed uncertain about the idea, but another beer convinced him he would be better off letting whoever was jerking his chain back in La Paz—or wherever—know that el señor Ignacio, and his boat, were amongst the missing.
And when he did make that call, we would then have the phone number in our duplicitous little hands.
"Jan, give Javier another beer. I'll go down and turn on the satellite system. I'll yell when he can call his jefe."
She nodded, knowing full well I was on my way to set up the phone to record every word on both ends. Poor unsuspecting Javier went along like a lamb to slaughter. Evidently Mexican women are more trustworthy than gringas. Especially these gringas.
I'm not sure how Mexican women operate, but many southern women never argue with their men, but somehow get their way. I was about fourteen, and already butting heads with my dad, when Mom gave up the secret: Let them think they are in control.
Of course, she didn't say it like that, because the word, control, wasn't popular yet. Nope, but I watched her in action over the years, and sure enough, by the time she brought up something that might seem in the least bit contentious, he was already on her side, and yep, he thought it was his idea in the first place.
Unfortunately I missed inheriting that grace gene, but have instead developed some serious deviousness skills.
Which is probably one of many reasons I am still single at forty.
While Javier was making that call I raised and wiggled my eyebrows at Jan, and tilted my head. "Yoy know, Janster, if anyone could get her hands into that guy's pants, it would be you."
"I ain't no pickpocket."
"Dang. I want that pouch."
"Then get it yourself. You want me to rope and hawg-tie him for you?"
I knew she was serious. She'd spent considerable time in the rodeo circuit in high school, and even college. "Naw. I want him to trust us."
We both howled at that idea, because we'd given Javier a false sense of privacy by leaving him to make his call. Hopefully, what with the beer and being alone in the cabin, he'd say something to his boss he might not have otherwise.
He wasn't on the phone but a few minutes, and then he thanked us for his beer and grub and boarded his panga to go anchor out for the night. Before he left, I nudged Jan to pose the question we thought might possibly change his mind about staying on board Raymond Johnson for the night. "Javier, Honey," Jan's voice fairly dripped with sincerity and concern, "aren't you worried about the Red Devils? Your boat is so open."
"No, señorita."
"Why? People have been dying, we hear."
He shrugged. "Mala suerte." Bad luck. He crossed himself and jumped in his boat, evidently content to let God take over.
We waved and Jan yelled, "¡Que le vaya bien!" which is something like "May you travel well," but in this case I translated as, "Good freakin' luck when a ten-foot, sucker-laden tentacle grabs you, and stuffs you into a hellacious beak that chews you into steak tartar!"
It's the thought that counts.
Chapter Twenty-two
Javier, thankfully un-chewed by my imagined slimy devils, was waiting for us at first light, sitting quietly in his panga he'd silently tied—totally unnoticed by anyone onboard Raymond Johnson—to my swim platform.
I was going to have to dock my guard dog's salary.
Jan whipped up a hearty breakfast for four while I surreptitiously checked my secret GPS tracker. Nacho's boat was right where it had been the night before. Weird. Why would he anchor on the bajo? And why had he towed Mac's boat out there? Maybe they wanted to do a night dive, in spite of rumors of squid attacks? And even so, why wouldn't either of them answer the radio?
And then there was that conversation we recorded the night before between Javier and his boss.
When the phone rang and on the other end we heard a gruff, "¿Bueno? ¿Quién habla?"
"¿Capitán? Teniente Morales aqui."
I hit the pause button and tried to shut my mouth, as did Jan. We aren't easily shocked, but I'd say this certainly did the job. We said, at the same time, "Lieutenant Morales?"
Jan circled her finger impatiently, urging me to hit PLAY again.
I did, but paused every few words for her to translate, as I was only catching about every third word of the rapid fire Spanish. Basically it went like this:
Javier: "Lieutenant Morales here."
Captain (after a long pause): "Where are you?"
Javier: "Caleta Partida, aboard Raymond Johnson. The women are here, but not Mr. Ignacio. His boat is gone. What are my orders?"
"Is he expected back tonight?"
"He was not expected to leave. The women seem surprised he left and even more worried that he has not returned. Do you wish me to go out and look for him?"
"No, I think not. We will stay with the original plan."
"Okay, then. I have been invited to stay on Raymond Johnson for the night, but I declined."
"Good you did. I understand those gringas can be devious."
"I believe this to be true. They really want to get the pouch, I can tell. They have suggested we go look for Mr. Ignacio tomorrow morning."
"Play
along. But be careful and—How are you calling me? There is no cell service out there."
"The satellite phone on the Raymond Johnson."
"¡Mierda!"
The line went dead.
"Devious, huh? Well, I guess he's got your number, Hetta."
"My number? Pot calling the kettle black, if you ask me. So, obviously looks can be deceiving. Javier, whom we thought to be a sweet, gullible little fishing panga dude, is a freakin' lieutenant in something or other. What? Navy? Police?"
Jan threw up her hands. "Got me."
"Which branch of the service might matter. I hear the Navy is more trustworthy than, say, the Federal Police."
"Which means they probably wouldn't be working with Nacho."
True, Nacho is not the guy you want dating your daughter, but after I got over the fact that he might not be a real drug dealer—when he saved my life by offing one—I also know he's no choir boy. He has, however, hidden virtues. Well hidden.
For now, I just wanted to find out where he was, and what he was up to. Javier, whether some kind of fed or not, and his blue panga, were our best bet for locating Nacho. Even though we now knew Javier was a lying sack of ca-ca.
Chomping at the bit to get underway, we bolted down breakfast at the speed of Po Thang, tossed some sodas, cheese, and bread into a cooler in case we didn't get back for lunch, and took off.
"Where do we go?" Javier asked as we exited the anchorage.
"The bajo. And don't even try to ask me where it is, you little twerp."
"¿Mande?"
"Mande, my ass. You heard me."
"¿Mande?"
I wanted to strangle the dude, but Jan elbowed me out of the way and smiled at him. "To the bajo northeast of here," she said sweetly. "I will show you the way."
"I'd like to show him the way straight to hell," I mumbled, but neither Jan nor Javier heard me over the roar of the engines when Javier pushed them to full speed.
Just Different Devils Page 12
