“I believe that would be gas lighted, Miz Jan.”
“Whatever. Anyhow, we, or rather, Lars, had an idea.”
I thought, If I hear “Lars” once more I swear I’ll scream. But I said, “Let me guess. I should buy a condo in Ft. Lauderdale?”
“Fat chance, Hetta, I know better. He says you should hire Jenks to check out your boat. Lars...” she paused as I let out a small shriek, “says his brother knows more about boats than almost anyone on the estuary.”
“Jenks hates me.”
“I think ‘hate’ is a strong word. You two are diametrically polar.”
“You’ve been listening to those talk shows again, haven’t you?” I watch them, as well, but I try not to pick up the lingo. Diametrically polar?
“You know. You two have different interests, that’s all.”
“Yeah, he holds no interest at all in me and I have less in him. Also, I have my permanent teeth and I can read.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” I said, “his interests seems to lie somewhere between a brunette from ding dong school and a dingbat aging blonde bimbo.”
“Ooowee, do I detect a little green monster glint in those big brown eyes?” she asked. Since I refused to acknowledge such drivel, she answered her own question. “Oh, I think so. And for your info, you doofus, the brunette is his daughter. And the blonde? You could get rid of her in a San Francisco second.”
“Why would I want to do a thing like that?” Jan must be wading in the Valium pool again.
“For one thing, we could be significant others in-law,” she said with a grin. A shit eating grin, at that.
“Jan, get any idea like that right out of what’s left of your brain. Jenks Jenkins is everything I hate in a man.” I guess. I know I hate it when they ignore me.
“Okay, okay, but this is business. Jenks won’t work cheap, but if I were you I’d hire him. He’s working on his own boat right now, but I’m sure he’d take the time to come over here.”
“I’ll think about it. Where’s his boat?” I asked.
“It’s at Svensen’s Boat Yard. It seems someone creamed him in a race.”
“I hardly touched him!”
“Not you. Someone else hit him a couple of weeks ago. Call Jenks and hire him to do a survey. It’s the same as a real estate appraisal, but for boats. Tell Garrison it’s for the insurance company or some bullshit. That way you won’t hurt the freeloader’s feelings, if it’s humanly possible to do so. And maybe you’ll learn a thing or two about Sea Cock.”
“I’ll think about it.”
She dug around in her purse and handed me Jenks’s card.
I read aloud, “ ‘Robert Jenkins, Marine Specialist, Surveyor. Electronics repair and installation, diesel engine diagnostics, security systems.’ Gee, does he also do windows?”
“Probably not, but at least he won’t move in on you.”
“Point taken. I’ll keep this card, in case the world ends and Jenks and I are the last two on it.”
“Hetta, you can be such a bitch. I’m gonna miss that.”
35
As usual, I didn’t take Jan’s advice. I didn’t even attempt to hire Jenks who, according to Jan herself, said I was “flighty.” Whatever that means.
I did vow, however, to learn more about my own boat in my spare time. Which was suddenly scarce. I was in the big middle of the La job when I received a formal request, via Allison-at-law, to attend a settlement meeting in Seattle.
“Hetta Coffey,” she said, “you are hereby requested to get your substantial ass on a plane to Washington State to meet with the parties in question.” Gee, I love lawyer talk.
Allison gleefully summarized the content of the missive she received from my not-quite former client. Not only did they regret any inconvenience—inconvenience, my ass, I almost suffered a nervous breakdown—to me caused by our “misunderstanding.” Misunderstanding? I think not. I understood perfectly. They’d fired me!
In a sudden change of heart, they were now willing to make the completion of my original contract worth my while. At least that was Allison’s translation.
“What exactly does ‘worth my while’ mean, Lawyer Lady?” I wanted to know.
“It means they’ve found out they screwed up and are hoping you’ll let them buy you off. Which of course, you will. Unless you’d prefer owning a large construction company in Seattle?”
“Let me think. Blood money sounds good.”
“Actually, you really do have to think this one over. Hard. Yes, we’ve got ‘em by their nappy, little public hairs, but if you pluck them too hard and too publicly, word gets around in the industry. On the other hand, if you don’t play a little hard ball, you come off as too desperate for work to fight them. Maybe we can reach a happy medium. You know, work a miracle that makes even you look like a stone professional.”
“Hey, watchit, girl.”
“A stone professional with a new and exorbitant hourly rate.”
“That’s better. Gee, Allison, I guess that’s why I pay you the big bucks.”
“Hetta, you haven’t paid me a red cent. Nor do you have to. Your almost-ex, now-present client is willing to reimburse you for any legal fees incurred. That’s me. I am, as we speak, compiling an enormous billing for my partner to send in.”
“You don’t have a law partner.”
“Never you mind. I have it handled.”
“I love it. So, when does this gang grovel begin?”
“I’ll tell them we can be there....” I could hear Allison thumbing through her Daytimer, “Say, Thursday morning? Then we can celebrate in fine style Friday and Saturday.”
“We?”
“Shit yes, girl. They’re payin’ and I need a vacation. I’ll book the flight, hotel and all. Bring your fuck-me pumps cuz we’re gonna par-tay down this weekend. What’s the most expensive hotel in Seattle?”
* * *
Revenge is good. It’s really, really good, but much to my amazement, I actually ended up semi-defending the guy who caused the whole problem. Dale was so pitiful in his own defense I figured someone had to do it for him. Hell, I can be downright magnanimous when basking in the glow of victory. Also, I held my trump card, figuring if he got out of hand down the line I’d slam dunk him with it.
What trump card, you may ask? It turns out the idiot had an affair with an employee at Baxter Brothers, used her to get a slanderous letter regarding moi, then dumped her. Thanks to the Trob’s inside info, I arranged lunch and a little chat with the dumpee. Plied with a couple of martinis, she agreed not to tell Dale’s wife of his indiscretion if I agreed not to tell the brothers Baxter they harbored a file thief. The Trob was once again at the heart of my salvation.
Before Allison and I left for Seattle, I gave Fidel a call. Not only had he once again saved my ass, he had even wangled a slot for my Beemer in the Baxter building executive parking lot. When I worked for Baxter I didn’t even know there was an indoor parking lot, much less one where they washed your car practically every day. Ah, the perks of power.
“Yo, Trob,” I said, “how’s your hammer hangin’?”
“Oh, hi, Hetta.”
“Hey, those folks in Seattle called off the dogs and are gonna renew my contract. You are a genius. But of course, you know that.”
“Yes.”
It was going be a typical Trobite conversation. “Are you going to tell me how you did it?”
“No.”
Sigh. “Do you mean you’re not going to tell me, or do you mean you don't know how you did it?"
Silence. Two part questions not involving mathematical equations are of little interest to the Trob.
“Never mind. How’s my car?” An easy question, or so I thought.
“Sold.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sold,” he repeated.
That’s what I thought he said. Now what? “I haven’t even put the ad in the paper yet, Fidel. Did you say you sold my car?”
�
��Yes.”
“To whom?”
“Me.”
Huh? “Listen to me very carefully, Wontrobski. You don’t know how to drive, and I hold the papers on the car. How can you sell my car to yourself?”
“I hired a chauffeur until I can learn. I took care of all the paperwork on line. The money is in your bank account, less the small car loan you still owed.”
I was astonished. Not that he had somehow managed to break several federal laws, but he had also uttered three sentences in a row. An entire paragraph! And the Trob, a borderline agoraphobic who lived in a hotel only two blocks from his office, hated riding in any conveyance except for an elevator. What on earth was he going to do with a BMW convertible?
Trying to find out was too trying, so I said, “Gee thanks, I think. Saves me putting up with the creeps who seem to crawl out of the FOR SALE section of the paper. Anyhow, what I called you about was, I have to go to Seattle to meet with those guys you somehow got straightened out. When I get back I’d like to bring you lunch. We can have a picnic in your office, then play dominoes.”
“Okay.”
Things were back to normal. “Bye now. I’ll call you Monday or Tuesday.”
“Tuna fish.”
* * *
My stars, if life wasn’t sprouting posies?
And it was time to learn more about that new life as a boat owner. I vowed to start the overdue education process the next week, but first Allison and I had to spend a bunch of my client’s money. We had two full nights to do so.
Unfortunately, we peaked out our celebration early and decided to limp back home to recover before certain Seattle authorities could track us down.
It was mid-afternoon Friday when I hoisted myself onto a yacht club bar stool for some hair of dog.
“Paul, my man,” I groaned, “I need bubbles and I need ‘em fast. I’m deflating.”
He quickly grabbed a split and poured for me. I downed it, hoping the icy effervescence would somehow dull the pain in my head. Kind of like an alcoholic Alka Seltzer without the plop, plop. While awaiting the hoped for fizz of relief, I gazed out the window. And blinked.
“Paul, am I hallucinating, or is my boat gone?”
Paul looked out. “Uh-huh,” he said, “it’s gone, all right.”
“Don’t just stand there, call 911! The Coast Guard. The navy. Somebody!” I jumped from the stool and regretted the jolt.
Paul looked confused. “Uh, Garrison left this morning with some other people. I think they were going fishing.”
“What?” I yelped.
Misunderstanding my misunderstanding, Paul repeated, “He went fishing.”
Summoning a great deal of self-control I asked, “Did he say when he’d be back, by any chance?”
“Uh, he usually gets back around four or five.”
“Usually?” My words sounded foreign, detached, a clutter of verbiage perhaps suspended in a balloon over my head. Inane verbiage. This couldn’t be real, so it must be a cartoon.
Paul was decidedly uncomfortable, not knowing where to turn or what to say. It is way un-cool for any yacht club bartender to get involved in the members’ personal crappola. But he did say, “That’s what time they got back yesterday.”
“Yesterday. I see. Thanks, Paul. And Paul, please don’t say anything to anyone, especially Garrison, about this. Okay? You know, I was out of town, I did come back early, and Garrison and I don’t always communicate well. I’m sure it’s a very simple miscommunication on my part.”
Paul looked so relieved, I was sure he wouldn’t bring the matter to anyone’s attention. As insurance, I asked him not to even mention I was in the club, especially to Garrison. I made a phone call, left the club and drove to Jan’s apartment in a red haze. Knowing Garrison, he'd never know the car was missing.
36
Jan met me at her apartment door with two aspirins and a great deal of sympathy. “So, what are you going to do?” she asked. “I mean, right this minute?”
“I’m going to sit here a few hours and simmer down, because if I go back to the yacht club and wait for Garrison, there’ll be bloodshed. And it won’t be mine.”
“Very smart, Hetta. Not the bloodshed part, the simmering down part. You know how you are. Now, what are you going to do about Garrison? I can hardly wait.” Literally rubbing her palms together in anticipation, she looked a tad too gleeful.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Miz Jan.”
“Sorry. I haven’t seen you in action for far too long.”
“I’ve lost my impetus, I guess. How long have you known me?”
“I dunno. Fifteen, sixteen years?”
“Close enough. And how many stupid, I mean really, incredibly, stupid things have you known me to do?”
She cocked her head, closed her eyes and began compiling. I was about to thump her on the noggin when she surprised me. “None. You have made a few, uh, lousy choices. Like most of us you’ve made a couple of less than perfect judgment calls, but in general I’d have to say you’ve handled your life better than most.”
My eyes went all misty. Jan, I knew, wasn’t simply trying to make me feel better. She meant what she was saying. So why was I feeling so stupid.
She patted my hand. “You know, it isn’t easy being a single woman. You’ve always made good money and are respected in your field. Look, you managed to get an engineering degree, didn’t you? Okay, so it took you a few more years than most, but you changed majors three times, which was all right. I mean, artists don’t make much money and Swahili? Okay, maybe that wasn’t a really great major. Anyhow, my point is this. You pay your own way and are loyal and generous to your friends.”
“Yeah,” I sniffed, “and I help lil’ ole ladies across the street and feed stray dogs. I meant stupid about men and stuff like that.”
“Hetta, we are women. Being stupid about men is our job. If we weren’t stupid, we wouldn’t have anything to do with them.”
I giggled. “Good one. This time I’m really furious with myself. Garrison saw I was vulnerable and took advantage. Thank God I didn’t sleep with him.”
Jan frowned. “Hetta, Lars says Garrison says you did. Do. Whatever.”
“What?”
“I’m simply telling you what Garrison told Lars and practically anyone who cared to listen.”
“That son of a bitch. He lives for free on my boat, tells lies about me, and then takes my boat out fishing without my permission. What nerve.”
“Oh, I think it’s worse than that. Lars says he asked Jenks about the work Garrison’s supposed to be doing on Sea Cock. Jenks thinks there’s something a little, well, fishy there.”
“Like he’s not doing anything?”
“Maybe.”
What an idiot I’d been. On a work project I was known as a maniac for maintenance records. Logs, checklists and double checks were my passion. I’d set up a logbook for Garrison, but never even looked to see if he’d made entries. What was I thinking? I made a decision.
“Jan, do you think I can get Jenks to check out Sea Cock tomorrow? I know for a fact that Garrison is going to Sacramento and won’t be back until Sunday brunch. Garrison never misses brunch at the club because past commodores eat for free.”
She picked up the phone, called Lars, and a few minutes later, Jenks called back. After I talked to him, I told her, “Everything’s all set. Jenks’ll meet me on Sea Cock tomorrow morning at ten. God, we have to do something about that name!”
“How about Money Pit?”
“Too true.”
“So, what are you going to do about Garrison?”
“I’m not sure yet, Miz Jan, but I do know that that master-baiter has caught his last fish off my boat.”
* * *
“You’re low on oil, your batteries are almost dry and you’d best think about fueling up pretty soon,” Jenks said, consulting his spiral notebook. He’d been crawling all over my boat for two hours without comment, but now he sat at the table with me,
sipping coffee.
I couldn’t help notice he needed a haircut, a good sign as far as I was concerned. I’ve learned not to trust men who are too well groomed. Real men don’t get no stinkin’ manicures.
“Other than that, Doctor Jenkins, how long have I got?” I asked.
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 19
