Jan jerked the phone away and said, “Oh, no you don’t, Chica. This is Facebook-worthy.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I snarled. Jan and I had a deal not to post stuff of each other without prior approval.
“Come on, Chica,” she showed it to me, “it’s sweet."
I had to admit she was right. My mouth was shut, no drool rolled down my chin, and I had a contented smile on my face. Trouble was cute, leaning up against my neck, and Po Thang was sweetly grinning in his sleep, his chin on my leg.
“Okay, you can post it. So, Auntie Jan, how do you like this bonding thing?”
She sat next to Po Thang and rubbed his ears. He opened one eye and then went back to snoozing, but Trouble, evidently still not totally convinced that Po Thang wasn’t the devil’s spawn, climbed onto my head, and then hopped on Jan’s for higher ground.
“How did you manage such a miracle, Hetta?”
“I sacrificed my very last bag of Oh! Boy! Oberto turkey jerky.”
Trouble squawked, “Oh! Boy! Oberto!”
Po Thang sat up, looked around, and gave the bird a squint-eye. It was returned, and I said, “Brace yourself, Jan. The peace accords could very well go south any second now.”
Jan and I prepared to move out of harm’s way but, amazingly, the two former adversaries decided to ignore each other. We called Roger and Craig over to the boat to witness the milagro and to hold a powwow about our next step in dealing with the Rancho Los Pajaros situation.
And maybe Trouble’s wings.
Although Craig was pleased with the way my animals were behaving toward each other, he vetoed a wing-clipping until he was positive Po Thang wasn’t going to chomp on a bird that couldn’t fly away.
“So, what you’re saying is that any clipping will get done after you’ve fled to the safety of Arizona?” I accused.
“Absolutely. Do I look stupid?”
Trouble laughed his, “Haw, haw,” and added, “stupid! Ack! Stupid!”
I certainly could not question Craig’s sanity; I’d have to deal with grounding Trouble later, when both dog and bird alike proved trustworthy.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch (I’ve always wanted to say that), we had a more pressing problem looming. Roger and Craig were leaving, Jan couldn’t stay much longer, and I was going to be left with only Drew spying on the aviary, and no new ideas of how to save the birds. “We can’t just abandon them,” I pleaded. “And I can’t handle the situation alone.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Craig said, “but we don’t want you to. That’s why we’ve been in touch with some authorities up north.”
Jan nodded. “Good. And I’ll only be a short drive away if I have to meet Hetta in Loreto. Even then, though, we need more manpower and a plan of action.”
Craig grinned. “Jan, did you just say manpower? I’m shocked.”
Jan shot him a digit. “You know what I mean. We’ll need help if those pendejos look like they’re going to make a move.”
“And you will get it. Matter of fact, tomorrow. It’s not all I have in the works, but I think you’ll be pleased. I’ve pulled some strings and Topaz Sawyer arrives on the plane we’re flying out on.”
“Yes!” Jan and I yelled and gave each other high fives.
“But,” I said, “she’s a cop. How did you get anyone to let her come down here?”
“She’s gonna be on loan to Homeland Security. Topaz is perfect for the job. She knows the border problems first hand, is cozy with the Border Patrol, speaks Spanish like a native and, quite frankly, isn’t an obvious threat.”
Yay! Help, in the form of a tiny but mighty female, was flying in to save the day. Kinda like Mighty Mouse.
Chapter Eleven
ROGER AND CRAIG contriving to send Topaz Sawyer to La Paz was a stroke of genius. The woman, a perfect foil for a bunch of pendejo bird smugglers who required some serious comeuppance, was also a friend.
Jan and I first met the small in stature, but big on cojones, Arizona cop after I’d let loose a barrel full of rock salt and bacon rind into an intruder’s nuts. There is little more comforting to me when threatened by man or beast, than the unmistakable sound—PCHK! PCHK!—of a pump action shotgun being chambered prior to some serious badassery. The dude survived, but I was told he walks with a decided limp.
Topaz, a diminutive deputy with an unruly mess of hair closely resembling that of a long-haired German Shepherd, was the investigating officer on scene. I’d called 9-1-1 the minute I knew Jan and I were under threat, so the law arrived at about the same time I dropped the perp.
I’d rented a house in southern Arizona while working at a copper mine on the Mexican side of the border. When she arrived that night, she led me to a dining room chair, asked if I’d like some water, and calmly began asking for details of the incident. What I really wanted was a stiff shot of anything but water.
Jan was escorted by a second officer into an office on the other side of the house for questioning. My guess was they separated us to see if our stories of the night’s events meshed. I was almost positive they would, for this was one of the rare times we could actually tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. That is, if Jan didn’t choose to lie, which was always a possibility. I’d taught her well.
After an hour of telling Deputy Sawyer my side of the story, twice, she asked, “Do you make it a practice to leave your garage door open?”
I told her no way, no how. “In fact I always make certain it is not only closed, but I also lock the door leading from the garage to the main house. I’m a security freak.”
She said, “Hmmmm,” and called in a third deputy. When he joined us she asked him about the garage door and the door leading into the house. “Garage door was open, but the inner door from the garage into the house was scratched up pretty good. From the looks of it, someone tried and failed to gain entry, and then used a bump lock on the front door instead.”
In response to my puzzled look, she clarified, “As in, bump-locked it.”
“Bump-locked? What the heck is that?”
While Officer Sawyer jotted a note on her growing incident report she explained. “A bump-lock master-type key you can buy on the internet that, inserted into the lock and then bumped with a special tool, allows the key to turn. Takes only a few seconds. We’ve seen a few break-ins we suspected were bumps, but this is the first time we caught the guy with the key.”
Her cohort nodded and grinned. “Yeah,” another said. “Not only that, he evidently had your garage door opener, but thanks to a better bolting system on the fire door into the house, he couldn’t bump the lock. We found the opener next to his SUV. Any idea how he got it?”
“Yes. My Volkswagen was stolen in Mexico and the garage opener was in it.”
That was my truth in a nutshell. I wasn’t about to volunteer that we were being chased by a couple of bad guys down there, and before it was over, there were cartel members, federales, a jihadist, and a real cranky Texas long horned steer involved. TMI, in my estimation.
Jan was ushered in about that time and heard me. She opened her mouth to comment, but slammed it shut at my warning look.
To steer the conversation elsewhere, I said something like, “This dude who broke into my house must be a stone moron. And a deaf one, to boot. There is an ADT sign outside, stickers on all the windows, and when he opened the front door, that jillion decibel alarm went off. My ears are still ringing.”
“He probably wasn’t expecting you to be armed.”
Jan grinned. “Hetta’s always armed. It’s one of the reasons I hang out with her.”
I shrugged. “Hey, my daddy always said some folks’ll think you’re paranoid if you carry a gun, but if you have a gun, what the hell do you need to be paranoid about?”
Topaz asked if there were other firearms in the house.
“Only a .38 revolver, which is in the office, a 30-30 in the hall closet, a .22 automatic in my bedroom, and a pellet pistol in the garage, f
or pigeons. I hate pigeons. Oh, and, uh, a 9mm Springfield XDM.”
Deputy Sawyer perked up. “An XDM? I wish I had one.” Her smile then widened. “So why rock salt and bacon rind in the shotgun?”
“My grandmother says that’s the way to load, you know, just in case. First you hit ‘em low with the salt and rind, then if they don’t go down, let ‘em eat buckshot.”
“You must have some family,” Topaz said, but again, there was a note of humor. “I’d say the intruder was lucky to make it out of the house. If you can call stumbling right into the loving arms of a border patrol agent lucky. You called the Border Patrol after you dialed 9-1-1?”
“A gal cannot have too many armed good guys about. I figured the BP might respond first since they are all over the area.”
“Miss Coffey, do you have any idea who this person might be?”
I shook my head. “It was dark. You think he was just some druggie, and not someone targeting us?”
Sawyer shrugged. “We don’t know yet. Do you have any reason to believe it was personal?”
I shook my head, but Jan mumbled, “Is there a cow in Texas?”
“Excuse me?” Topaz asked.
My under-the-eyebrow squint shut Jan up.
She wandered into the office and ordered a bump-lock key off the internet.
We always make the best of learning moments.
Anyhow, that little incident sealed a friendship with Topaz that was to pay off in spades down the line. She’d even come to Mexico once before to help us out of another jam. Okay, so I didn’t exactly tell her it was a jam; I just invited her to join me and Jan for several fun-filled days in sunny Baja.
She’s evidently since forgiven us for getting her tied up and held captive.
Oh, and for introducing her to the shady, but handsome in a criminal kind of way, Nacho. Evidently whatever happened between them did not end well. Jan and I were just dying to know why.
Chapter Twelve
BECAUSE THEIR PATHS were briefly crossing, we held a meeting at the La Paz airport when Topaz deplaned before Craig and Roger boarded for Bisbee via Tijuana.
After we brought Topaz up to date on the latest intel we had from Rancho Los Pajaros, we waved the guys bye-bye and drove to the boat for a couple of welcoming drinks before taking Topaz to the condo.
“Salud, Chica,” I toasted after handing her one of our cocolocos.
“Thanks, I’m glad to be here. I think. Last time my so-called vacation didn’t go all that well.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Jan said. “Just what happened between you and Nacho? You two took off together and the next thing we know, you seemed to be kaput.”
Topaz sipped her drink. “Sorry. If I tell you, he’ll have to kill you.”
“Funny,” I said, “that’s exactly what Nacho said.”
“Good. Now I don’t have to kill him. And for your edification, we are just friends. Now, let’s get down to business. I got the basics on this bird thing, but we need more information before we call in the federales.”
“Whoa! Federales? That seems like such a bad idea!” I was thinking that bringing my precious self to the attention of a bunch of cops who already seem to think Mexico would be better off without me could never turn out well.
Topaz read me like a book. “Relax, Hetta. We’ll all be out of the picture by that time. We’re just the snoop patrol.”
“Hetta’s really good at that,” Jan said.
I started to protest, but she was right. “Uh, does that ‘we’” in ‘we’ll all’ be out of the picture happen to include Jan and me?”
She cocked her head like the German Shephard her hairdo was reminiscent of. “Well, us. You, me, Jan, Craig and Roger. I don’t…oh! You were thinking maybe I might get Nacho involved?” She blushed. Hmmm.
Jan and I, never ones to let a blush go unquestioned, pounced like the media on fake news.
We walked Topaz over to Rhonda’s condo and helped her get settled in.
Roger and Craig left wine, beer, and snacks in the fridge, and had changed the sheets for her. We bid her good night, made arrangements to meet for breakfast at the Dock Café the next morning, and returned to Raymond Johnson.
As soon as we exited the condo building to take Po Thang for his last walk of the night, I asked, “Do you honestly believe she spent an entire week with Nacho and there was no hanky panky?”
“Might I remind you, Miss Hetta, we’ve spent several weeks with him without any hootchie-cootchie.”
“Yabbut, we are not exactly single. I say either one of them is gay, or she’s a better liar than we are.”
“Come on, no one is better than we—”
Po Thang cut in front of Jan, almost tripping her and dislocating my shoulder in his haste to rudely sniff a poodle being walked by a fashionable young Mexican couple. The woman scooped up her little frou-frou and gave my dog a dirty look. He whined. Unrequited love’s a bitch. No use telling those folks that Po Thang is just overly friendly.
Back on the boat, I massaged my shoulder and groused, “I hate to admit it, but we’re either gonna have to get this dawg a shock collar or quit feeding him. What do ya think he weighs now?”
“Too much. Craig mentioned that Po Thang needs more exercise.” She gave me a once over and added, “Wouldn’t hurt you, either. All that huffing and puffing up that hill when we were checking out the bird sanctuary.”
“Oh, give it a rest. Po Thang and I’ll both slim down when we get away from the dock, and especially the Dock Café. I plan our departure the minute we deal with those bird rustlers. And just who, besides your anorexic self, says I’m too fat?”
Trouble burst into a raspy rendition of the old-time polka, “I Don't Want Her, You Can Have Her, She's Too Fat For Me.” Jan roared and clapped approval. I gave Trouble his good night treat despite the insult, shoved him in his cage, and threw a blanket over it to shut him up.
Po Thang whined for his before-bed treat. I gave it to him and huffed, “And speaking of bad guys, this mañana stuff is wearing on my last nerve. For all we know, those rat bastards could be drugging and loading up the birds as we speak.”
“Let’s sleep on it. Right now, I’m so tired my brain’s scrambled.”
“I shall refrain from the obvious blond-slash-scrambled-eggs riposte.”
“And I shall refrain from shoving your oversized butt overboard.”
Jan, brain-scrambled or not, had made a point.
I did huff and puff up that mountain.
Po Thang was looking a little puffy, as well.
My new jeans, when I finally dared to try them on—I’d been living in winter sweats for the most part since returning from Europe—were way too tight.
I woke early, spurred on by the idea of a much-needed lifestyle change.
Po Thang, slightly grumpy at being shaken awake when it was barely dawn, perked up when he realized a walk was in order. I put on my Fitbit and took him for a brisk walk along the malecón. That brisk part did not set well with him however, since I sternly refused to let him sniff every telephone pole, bench, and dog along the way.
As soon as we returned to the boat, I steamed broccoli and carrots and mixed them with his dry dog food and a dab of fat-free yogurt. He took one sniff, turned up his nose, and went out on deck where he sat pouting and sniffing the air, sniveling at the scent of sizzling bacon on other boats.
I fed Trouble in his cage, which pissed him off as well, but I knew if he came out and started nibbling on jerky—I bought local stuff in lieu of Oh Boy! Oberto—my dog would somehow end up with it.
Jan dragged herself into the main saloon, rubbing her eyes. “Jeez, Hetta, what the hell time is it? And what is that stink?”
“Just doing what you so rudely suggested last night. Starting a new life style for me and my pooch.” I pointed to Po Thang’s untouched bowl and showed her my own veggie plate.
She bent down and squinted. “Po Thang threw up in his bowl?”
“Nope, that’
s his healthy breakfast.”
“I thought I smelled bacon.”
“Not on this boat. As of today, we’re going vegetarian. Well, except for Trouble but, he mostly likes fruit and veggies anyhow. Besides, he doesn’t need to lose weight.”
“Neither do I.” She grabbed her sunglasses and flip-flops, checked her pocket for money, and left the boat.
“Hey, Miz Jan. the Dock Café doesn’t open until 6:30. I made coffee.”
She stomped back into the galley. “Please don’t tell me it’s decaf.”
“I do have my standards.” I poured her a mug of super dark roasted Mexican coffee, she opened the fridge and took out her half and half. “Oh, thank God. I was afraid you’d thrown it away.”
“Nah. But I used powdered milk myself. One percent fat. And Stevia.”
“Have you read the label…oh, never mind. I will support you one-hundred percent in your endeavor to get fit, but I think we should hit the grocery store for chicken and fish. At least for Po Thang. He’s a carnivore, for cryin’ out loud. I will not be a part of this, this,” she pointed at my dog’s admittedly nasty-looking breakfast, “dawg torture. Call Craig. He’ll tell you what to feed a fat dog.”
I started to protest Po Thang wasn’t fat, just fluffy, but I’d overused that description for myself. “I’ll consult with Craig, okay!”
“So,” she sipped her coffee and moaned with pleasure, “have you weighed?”
“No, I don’t want to start off a diet all depressed.”
While Jan went to meet Topaz for breakfast, I threw myself into a cleaning frenzy. I find putting your surroundings in order makes for better mental strength. Jan says there isn’t that much Mr. Clean in the world.
While I vacuumed and scrubbed, Po Thang pouted. He somehow knew Jan was off for food, and he wasn’t getting any.
By the time she and Topaz returned, I was exhausted. And starving. I stared longingly at them, as did Po Thang. “Uh, you didn’t by any chance bring leftovers, did you?”
Just for the Birds Page 7
