A short time later, Hector, with the promises of much more money, sent his cousins out to pluck drugs from the sea, and pass them off to a mother ship.
Martine’s mom knew nothing of her sons' switch from fishing to dope, but when Martine’s second cousin, Pedro Gomez, was injured in a mysterious explosion on one of Hector’s pangas, she became suspicious, and pestered Martine to end his relationship with Hector. It wasn’t that easy.
“Is this really going to be over soon?” Martine asked his cousin shyly. He didn’t like being caught between the lure of money and his mother’s wishes, but Hector assured him he would soon be able to both placate his mother and have money, as well.
“It is for us, Martinito. In a little over a week we will never have to touch another squid unless it’s cooked in tomato sauce and served by a lovely señorita. And,” he added slyly, “your mama will have a whole closet full of new dresses for church. Hell, you can buy her her own church.”
Martine beamed, thinking how proud his mother will be. Then his smile faded as he remembered her warning not to trust Hector. “Could something go wrong?”
“Nada, little cousin. We have friends on high.” Pulling a mirror, razor blade and a vial of white powder from his pocket, Hector snorted the entire vial.
In La Paz, the American stared at his dead phone for a minute after speaking with that idiot, Hector. He threw down the phone and turned up the ham radio’s volume. As he listened for further information on the Hot Idea debacle, he cursed Hector for focusing so much attention on the central Sea of Cortez. Why in the hell did I agree to bring in that fuckin’ coked up, trigger-happy barrio rat? He’s close to screwing up the biggest deal of my life.
Chapter 18
When you can make your journey by land, do not make it by sea.—Apostolius
Hetta squirmed in the narrow plastic seat, retrieved her backpack from filthy wooden floorboards, dug out a tee shirt, and stuffed it under her sweating thighs while Jenks wrestled with a cracked window and pried it open three inches. Hetta leaned across Jenks, sucking in hot air in an effort to stave off certain brain damage from fumes roiling up through the dilapidated bus’s floor. “Do you know what I hate about public transportation?” she groused.
“No, Hetta, what do you hate about public transportation?” he asked with a wry smile.
“It’s so damned public.”
“Things could be worse,” Jenks said, nodding towards the front where ten people stood. “At least we have seats. Gimme some water, will you?”
Hetta dug into the pack again, extracted a water bottle and handed it to Jenks, aware she was under surveillance. Dark brown eyes below a fringe of black bangs peeped over the seatback, following her every move.
Guadeloupe, crammed into a double seat with three siblings, cut her eyes back and forth from Hetta to her mother sitting across the aisle. Hetta, with her red hair, fuchsia visor, lime green and purple striped tee shirt and hot pink walking shorts, looked very much like an exotic macaw parrot. Maria, a proper Mexican housewife and mother, wore a white blouse, black skirt and her thick black hair was pulled back with a ribbon. A sparrow. The only thing on the bus brighter than Hetta was the shiny purple spray paint on the seats. Not graffiti: bus decor.
“Hola, niña,” Hetta said, “como te llama?”
The little girl shyly mumbled, “Lupe,” into the seat back, but was impossible to hear over the roaring engine.
Hetta fished out a bag of molten miniature Snickers bars and gestured across the aisle for Maria’s permission to share. The woman nodded, smiled, and handed off a baby to her husband. Every eye was on the bag. Lupe and her sibs might not have ever seen a Snickers in their lives, but kids know candy.
The Snickers feeding frenzy ended with Guadeloupe, her two sisters and little brother smeared in gooey chocolate. Maria cornered each in turn for a mother’s spit-on-the-handkerchief face cleaning, using deft swipes of a delicately embroidered hankie.
During Maria’s wipefest, Hetta learned that the Sanchez Family was returning from Tijuana to Lopez Mateos, an off the beaten track coastal village north of Ciudad Constitución. When Hetta told them she and Jenks had visited Lopez Mateos to whale watch, they were delighted. Should the Jenkins ever return to their village, Mr. Sanchez told them, they must come to their home. It was unthinkable for señor Jenkins to rent a boat when he, Angel Sanchez, had two pangas of his own, which he steadfastly refused to rent out, even though the forty dollar fee was tempting. “It is a disgrace,” Sanchez pronounced with a frown, “that so many from my village have completely given up fishing to ferry whale-watching tourists. What will happen to the children who do not learn to fish when the whales come no longer?” He continued to vent his frustrations for a while, and then settled back for a nap.
Maria told Hetta they had been on the hot, smelly bus for over twenty hours.
“Jesus,” Jenks said when Hetta translated, “anytime I feel like griping about anything, all I need is a trip on a Mexican bus to remind me how spoiled we are.”
Hetta nodded and added, “This bus has been searched four times since they left Tijuana. That’s why the trip took so long. Turns out this isn’t the ten o’clock express to La Paz we thought we were getting on, it’s the five o’clock milk run.”
“I wondered how we managed to land on this pile of crap. Wonder what the cops are looking for?”
“It's the army searching, and who knows?”
“Actually, I think this bunch look like international terrorist types,” Jenks said, grinning at the little Sanchez boy, who giggled and hid behind the seatback.
“Crap,” Hetta moaned. “Wake up, Jenks. Roadblock. They want everyone out of the bus.”
Even being surrounded by uniformed men with machine guns did not taint their first breath of fresh air in two hours.
“You got our papers?” Jenks asked, breaking out a cigarette and offering one to Angel Sanchez.
“Yep. Right here in my backpack.”
While the bus driver opened the luggage compartment, a soldier announced that each passenger was to claim his luggage and stand by for inspection. Hetta and Jenks had only backpacks, so they moved on to the indicated inspection station.
“Papeles, por favor,” another young soldier said, holding out his hand. When Hetta produced their passports and visas, the soldier took them, whirled, and walked away. Alarmed, Hetta followed close on his heels, mumbling, “Rule number one of foreign travel: never, ever, let your passport leave your sight.” She had only taken a few strides when another soldier stepped in front of her, blocking her path. Hetta attempted to go around, but he growled, “Alto.”
Pulling herself to her full 5' 4", Hetta threw out her chin and demanded, “I wish to speak with the commanding officer.” The nineteen-year-old boy glanced uncertainly over his shoulder for guidance; Mexican women did not make demands of soldiers.
Hetta, standing almost toe-to-toe with him, had the attention of everyone around the bus, soldier and civilian alike. The Mexican passengers grinned with glee. This should be good, their eyes told one another.
“Hetta, maybe we shouldn’t push our luck here,” Jenks said quietly. Normally, he let Hetta deal with officials under an unofficial set of lines of responsibility they adopted; Jenks was in charge at sea, Hetta on land. But he had never seen her in action in a situation like this.
Ignoring Jenks’s sensible suggestion, Hetta raised her voice and asked, in Spanish, “Who is in charge here?”
From a nearby tent a uniformed man emerged, the blue American passports in hand. He barked a command at the soldier, who quickly stepped aside and motioned for Hetta and Jenks to pass.
The officer led them under a canopy. “Please, have a seat,” he officer said in English, motioning towards two plastic chairs emblazoned with the Tecate beer logo.
“I am sorry I caused a disturbance, sir,” Hetta said, all smiles and charm. “We do not like to have our passports taken from us.”
“Perfectly understandable, s
eñora, uh,” he looked at the passports, “Jenkins?” He pronounced it Jay-nee-keens. “My men are still in training. Now, where do you come from?”
“Today? Puerto Escondido.”
“And yesterday?”
“Yesterday? We were in Puerto Escondido.”
“You took the bus there?”
“Oh,” Hetta smiled, “no.” Reaching into her bag she produced the lost dinghy report from the port captain in Loreto. The officer read it and asked, “You have not been north of Puerto Escondido in the past week?”
Jenks, whose hand was on Hetta’s shoulder, tightened his grip. Without missing a beat, he said, “No. As you can see, we arrived in Puerto Escondido on Tuesday. Before that we were south.”
“And during the storm?”
As if expecting the question, Hetta blurted, “Isla Catalina.”
“Did you see other boats, señora?”
“Not at the anchorage. We were alone. It is a small anchorage, and not very good, but we were stuck there.”
“So, you saw nothing out of the ordinary?”
“No, sir. Why do you ask?” Hetta looked properly innocent.
“A boy has been found north of here—a panguero, badly injured. His panga is missing, and he is still unable to talk, so the navy asked us to question everyone who may have seen anything.”
“I’m sorry to hear about the boy. Will he be all right?” Jenks asked.
“We do not know, señor. He is burned, suffering from exposure, has two bullet wounds, and he—”
“Bullet wounds?” Hetta squeaked. Guns, and gunshot wounds, while a fact of life on the five o’clock news in the United States and other parts of Mexico, were unusual in Baja. Drug Cartels had shootouts elsewhere, but Baja, perhaps because there was only one way in and out, remains far safer.
“Yes. It is very strange. His family said he went squid fishing, and went missing. Perhaps we will never know what happened, for he may not survive his ordeal. Well, I have detained you, and your bus, long enough. Have a nice trip to...”
“La Paz,” Jenks told him, “for boat parts.” Then, as they were walking away, Jenks stopped, turned back and asked, “Do you mind if I ask why you wanted to talk to us in particular?”
Hetta could have killed him.
“Oh, another matter completely. A few days ago we found a wrecked van south of Catavina. The vehicle, it seems, was stolen in California, wrecked here in the Baja, and abandoned. It contained guns and we are looking for an American couple who were seen fleeing the accident. My soldier saw the bruise on your head and thought perhaps...” He shrugged.
“Bruise? Oh, I hit my head on the boat. I hope gun smuggling doesn't get too popular down here. Makes it tough on the rest of us Gringos who just here to enjoy your beautiful country.”
“Drogistas,” the officer spat in disgust. “They are ruining this country. It is a serious problem.” He reached in his shirt pocket and retrieved a card. “Since you and your friends are boating in the Sea of Cortez, perhaps you, or they, will hear something that can help us with the injured boy’s case. Please call me at this number should you learn anything. Enjoy your trip to La Paz.”
As they walked away, Hetta whispered, “Brown noser. You planning on running for office or something?”
The Sanchez family, along with Hetta’s entire stash of potato chips, cookies, and candy, trouped off the bus at Ciudad Constitución. From there they faced a twenty-mile walk home, unless a bus or someone came along to give them a ride.
Jenks and Hetta thankfully moved into a vacated seat toward the front of the bus.
“What do you think, Jenks? Still another coincidence?”
“The boy? Nope, its gotta be the same panga, but we sure didn’t see any kid. Maybe he was hiding—knew they were looking for him? Who knows, maybe we saved him when they chased us. And like the man said, maybe we’ll never know.”
The next two hours of the trip passed in relative comfort. Hetta, though, soon found herself a little bored without the Sanchez family to talk to. “Wanna get off at the Dog House? I could use a break and a cold beer.”
“Why not? We can take a taxi the rest of the way,” Jenks said, yawning and stretching.
When the bus driver skidded to a slow roll ten miles north of La Paz, the Jenkins jumped off the still-moving bus and were left standing in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. Across the highway, down a sandy driveway, was Club Dorado, also known as the Dog House.
A smattering of late afternoon patrons ate, drank, played cards, watched television and slapped dominoes on metal tables. Comfortable couches and overstuffed chairs were strewn about the interior of the large, circular, palm-frond roofed building.
Samantha, the Gringa owner, spotted the Jenkins and rushed forward to greet them, a bevy of bow-wows in her wake.
“Well hello there. I thought you two were gone for the season. You want to eat something, or just a drink?”
“How about a snack, beer, couch, and a warm puppy, Sam? We’ll eat dinner later, after we wash down hours of diesel fumes with a little Tecate. We just got off the bus from Puerto Escondido,” Hetta told her, looking around to see who was there.
Following Hetta’s gaze, Samantha said, “Kind of quiet right now, but you know how it goes, it’ll pick up soon.”
Full of nachos and beer, and happily entrenched on a couch with a mutt of indistinguishable heritage curled up next to her, Hetta watched the news on CNN. She lost interest after a while; evidently the machete murder of a couple of Gringos in the Sea of Cortez wasn’t sensational enough to mention. Sam switched to a movie channel.
Jenks dozed off in a recliner chair. Hetta and a few others were watching Humphrey Bogart burn leeches off his legs when a wild-eyed cruiser named Pepe arrived and rushed to share his news about the Hot Idea murders.
“I hear the federales are holding back the information that all the blood was drained from their bodies. The word is that a chupacabra has attacked livestock just ten miles away, on a beach,” he said with a flutter of agitated hands and a meaningful roll of his eyes.
“Pepe, chupacabras, if they exist, have never been reported to attack people,” Hetta said.
“That’s what they’re telling us. But I’m telling you, that vampire goat killer has turned on humans. No one is safe.”
“Pepe, not tonight, I have a headache,” Hetta quipped.
Everyone but Pepe laughed.
“Go ahead, make fun, Hetta, but mark my words, there’s something real fishy going on with this chupacabra thing.” He looked up as if expecting the “goat-sucker” of Mexico and Puerto Rico to jump through the palapa roof and drain his blood.
“Pepe, how would you like a nice cup of coffee?” Samantha suggested.
“You think I’m drunk, but I’m not. I know all about this monster. I really do,” Pepe insisted. He got up and wandered away to find a new audience.
“Sam, I think perhaps Pepe has been down here alone for too long.”
“Could be,” Samantha said, “but he’s not alone in thinking...oops, there’s the radio.” She reached over and turned up the volume on the VHF.
“Dawg House, Dawg House, this is All Bidness,” Bud’s boom reverberated through the palapa.
“All Bidness, this is Dog House, switch to channel seventy?”
“Seven-O,” Bud responded.
Sam hit a button, then Bud asked, “What’s fer grub tonight, Sam? We’re just pullin’ into Marina del Cortez and’ll drive out there as soon as we can get this boat in her slip.”
“Prime rib, Bud. And guess who’s here? Hetta and Jenks.”
“Those two are harder to git rid of than ticks on a hound. Tell ‘em to stay put and I’ll be right there,” Bud boomed.
True to his word, Bud steamed through the door less than an hour later, a group of hangers-on, his boat crew, Pam, and, of course, Sam Houston, in his wake.
Jenks, roused from his snooze, groaned when he saw the crowd. Bud was hard to say no to, and it was starting to
look like a long, loud, boozy evening ahead.
By the time they were seated around a large table by the swimming pool, twilight faded and the lights of La Paz glittered across the bay. Their candlelit table, covered with bright cotton tablecloths, was set with a pleasing array of mismatched English Rose porcelain. The eclectic mix of European and Mexican designs and colors gave the palapa an air of sophistication. Not the same could be said about Bud’s entourage. With the exception of Bud, Sam Houston, and several expectant dogs gathered under the table, Hetta and Jenks found themselves in the company of undesirables.
Bud held court at the head of the table, flanked by Pam and Hetta. Jenks took a chair next to Hetta, and scattered down the sides sat a mix of Mexican boat boys spouting Gringo slang, and an assorted group of what Hetta called dock leeches and barnacles: freeloaders and drunks plucked from the parking lot at Marina del Cortez by the ever-generous Bud. Hetta was especially appalled to see, sitting next to Pam, her not even ex-husband, Buzz Gibbs. No one could ever accuse Bud Killebrew of discrimination.
The big Texan was almost too drunk to eat by the time his prime rib arrived, but Hetta coaxed him to finish at least half of it before the doggie groupies got the rest. Pam, Hetta noticed, nursed one glass of white wine throughout the entire evening, but ordered refills for Bud as soon as his drink was half empty.
Hetta remained fairly civil towards Pam, only taking a couple of irresistible verbal shots.
Pam, much to her chagrin, had to tread lightly where Hetta was concerned. Easy to manipulate in most matters, Bud tolerated no bull when it came to Hetta. The subject was closed early on when Bud firmly planted his size twelve boot and let Pam know he would not abide any attempt for her to come between him and Hetta. Or Sam Houston. On the other hand, Hetta and the terrier seemed free to growl at Pam as long as they didn’t bite. Or at least leave visible marks.
Ever since Pam and Gibby sailed into La Paz and Pam jumped ship to All Bidness, the lines of battle were clearly drawn between the two women. Hetta, who knew a buy-me, take-me, bring-me broad when she saw one, conceded there was little she could do until the smitten Bud saw the light. She worried, however, that his heart, money, and liver wouldn’t hold out that long.
Troubled Sea Page 9
