Baja Get Away

by Jinx Schwartz

  “You bet I did. Thanks. I can’t believe I slept for over twelve hours straight.”

  “Yep. Guess you needed it.”

  “Ya think? You didn’t, by any chance, spot a washer and dryer around here, did you? I really need to get the wrinkles out of some clothes. It’s that bag lady thing.”

  “If not, we can hit the gift shop for something new.” He grinned. “They have more of those muumuus.”

  “Ha! Did you get a cell signal from up on that rock?”

  “Not real strong, but I got a call in.”

  “None of my bidness, but who’d you call?”

  “A business associate Stateside.”

  “Oh,” I said, but thought, I wonder if she’s blonde and rich?

  Uh-oh, Becky, was that jealous I detect? Just stop it!

  ***

  Dressed in new white cotton drawstring pants and a FISH BAJA tee from the hotel store, I loaded my meager belongings into Foxie, and we took off for La Paz. I planned to dump…uh, drop, Jeff off on the outskirts, and drive as far north as I could get before dark.

  Traffic and homes thickened as we neared the suburbs, and I pulled over suddenly. “Here’s a bus stop. Take one that goes to the Malecon. You know, the waterfront. Get a hotel room and make reservations to go home.”

  I made to get out and help him with his bags, but he grabbed my wrist. “Not so fast, Red. We have to talk.”

  “No, Jeff, we don’t. Whatever went down in Cabo, it’s my problem, and I’ll deal with it. You are way too nice a person to get mixed up in the mess I made.”

  “Does that mean you didn’t clean up the rest of the blood?”

  I looked at him in shock. “Whaa.…?”

  He was, I realized, making a lame joke, but his look signaled trouble. I restarted the car and pulled out of the bus lane, almost getting us rear-ended.

  The driver, after missing us by inches, laid down on his horn and sped off. Shaken, I said, “Sorry. Did you find something out with that phone call this morning?”

  “Yes, and I’ll fill you in if you don’t kill us first.”

  I spotted a tiny mom and pop café half a block away and parked again. We took a table and ordered Cokes.

  “Okay, hit me with it.”

  Jeff reached over and put his hand over mine. “It’s pretty bad.”

  My stomach took a turn, and I looked around for a place to go in case I lost that great Mexican lunch I ate two hours earlier. Instead, I swallowed some of my cold Coca Light and the effervescence settled my urge to heave. “How bad?”

  “Gunshot to the head.”

  “Oh my God. He committed suicide?”

  “To be determined.”

  “As in, after the cops grill me for two days in a Mexican jail, they’ll determine it was murder and I did it?”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Do you always expect the worst?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, we’ll have to make sure the worst doesn’t happen.”

  “We again? Why do you even want to get mixed up in this? And from whom did you learn this latest factoid?”

  “I have people.”

  Despite my surprise, or maybe because of it, I laughed. “Then I’ll have my people contact your people. Or does that mean we have people? And what do our people think I should do next?”

  “The first thing they said was, no matter how hard you try to dump me, to stick to you like glue. I need you. You have local knowledge and have your finger on the Mexican mentality pulse. As that guy on the television show asks, ‘What would you do?’”

  “Run for the freakin’ border.”

  “Which border?” Jeff asked.

  That brought me up short. I was thinking of Tijuana, but Mexico also borders on Guatemala and Belize. If the federales were looking for me, they would surely be keeping a close eye on Mex One to TJ, and people traveling north through the military stops dotting that highway. But there was also Mex Five, with a crossing at Mexicali, and others dotting the US Mexico border all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.

  I pulled a ratty map of Baja from my door pocket and spread it onto the table. I’d marked the military stops I remembered on Mex One but hadn’t tried Mex Five yet because around twenty-two miles were still under construction, and I’d heard reports that section was a hot mess of dirt, rocks, and tire-popping washboarding, especially after a recent hurricane. And trucks, both those working on the new highway, and eighteen wheelers taking a short cut, caused dust-blinding brown-outs.

  “Whichever route we pick, we’ll need to change cars,” Jeff said, discussing the options. “Your Foxie is too unique, too red, and too well-known by folks in Cabo.”

  “How about we steal one?” I suggested

  His head jerked up from the map.

  “Just kidding,” I said. But I wasn’t. Desperate times, and all.

  “Actually, that’s not such a bad idea. How successful are the cops at finding stolen vehicles down here?”

  “Not. Unless some Mexican gets spotted driving a shiny new vehicle with US plates. The cops down here have no problem profiling.”

  Jeff smiled and threw his hands up. “So, there we go.”

  “I think I have a better idea. There is almost always a junker for sale by boaters in Mexico. The cars pass from cruiser to cruiser as their latest owners leave the Baja for other ports. As long as the car has US plates, any American can drive it without getting hassled.”

  “Nobody checks ownership, say, at one of those military stops I hear about?”

  “Nah. Once in a great while the Mexicans check a car’s registration against a driver’s license, but that’s usually only southbound, not north. What kind of visa do you have?”

  “I only have American Express and Master Card.”

  I laughed. “No, you dufus, your Mexican Tourist Permit. How many days is it good for?”

  “Do I have one?”

  “Where’s your passport?”

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled it out. Opening it, I found a tourist visa, issued at San José del Cabo, folded inside. Because he arrived by private plane, it was only good for thirty days, and due to expire in a couple of weeks. Again, not that anyone ever bothered to check.

  “You have one, as well, right?”

  “Sure,” I lied. No sense in telling him my temporary work permit had expired, like, a year before.

  “Sounds like we have a plan, then. We drive to La Paz, buy a junker, and run for the border.”

  “Unless you come to your senses and leave me to my own devices. Or, maybe you can get your girlfriend’s daddy’s plane back down here to give us both a lift?”

  He sniggered. “Not a chance on either count. I’m not abandoning you, and I sort of broke off my in-her-mind-only-engagement to Muffie a couple of days ago.”

  “What? You were practically crying in your beer at the Giggling Marlin. Didn’t you say she dumped you?”

  “She did, but only after she pushed for a date and a ring, and the sooner the better. My lack of enthusiasm obviously didn’t sit well.”

  “So, to sum things up, you are persona non grata with little Miss Muffin, and her dear old dad, and I am a person of interest to the Mexican authorities. Just freakin’ great.”

  He grimaced. “It might be a tiny bit worse than that.”

  “I can hardly wait to hear more. Are you, by any chance, packing a stiletto in your pocket? Perhaps I should slit my wrists right now?”

  “Things aren’t that dire. Not yet, anyway. We’re still on the loose and we have a plan. However, I find it only fair to tell you that I haven’t been totally honest with you.”

  He wasn’t being honest with me? I’d been hiding in Mexico for five years, I had no tourist visa, and once we hit the border I’d probably get him arrested.

  What Jeff was saying broke through that crappy train of thought. “…and according to my people, he’s gunning for me—you must excuse the pun—because I’ve broken his baby girl’s heart.”
<
br />   “What? Who?”

  “Muffie’s father. He’s a big-time international arms dealer. Not someone you want to piss off and I’ve evidently crossed that line. When I told Muffie I wasn’t keen on rushing into any wedding plans, I had no idea she’d overreact the way she did.”

  “Well, duh. Men are sooo dense. Muffie arranges a romantic vacation, giving you the opportunity to pop the question, but when you don’t, she takes the initiative, and you crap all over her curds and whey?”

  He laughed long and hard. “Nice analogy. Anyhow, her dad is muy pissed off, which I learned when I picked up a signal at Buena Vista today and made that call. Looks like we’re in deep doo-doo together.”

  I started giggling, which I have a tendency to do at the most inappropriate times. My way of dealing with stress, I guess. He looked at me like I’d lost it, then started laughing again. Our combined hysteria fed on itself, and soon we were gasping for air and tears rolled down my cheeks.

  “Are…” giggle. “You…” giggle. “Saying…” gasp. I took a deep breath and finally finished my sentence. “Please don’t tell me your almost-to-be-father-in-law sells weapons to the Mexican military? No wonder you’re so worried about the roadblocks between here and the States.”

  He caught his own breath and chugged the rest of his Coke. “Not exactly.”

  “Don’t tell me he sells guns to the cartels.”

  “Then I won’t.”

  “Wait, didn’t you tell me you work for him?”

  He nodded gravely. “Make that worked.”

  Oh, great. Between cartel informants and the federales, it was a toss-up before someone tracked one of us down. As for me, I’d take my chance with the federales, if it weren’t for the fact that once we were incarcerated or caught, the outcome would be the same. Money rules.

  We really, really, had to get out of Mexico.

  ***

  I drove toward the center of La Paz and stopped in a neighborhood not known for its wealth. Parking on a street off the main route into the marina district and malecon, a stone-built esplanade that runs five kilometers along the waterfront, I killed the engine. As we’d planned, Jeff got out and lifted the hood while I reached in the glove compartment and flipped a fuel cutoff switch. As I appeared to try re-starting the fuel-starved car, we drew onlookers, just as I knew we would.

  A young man approached and asked if he could help. I went into dumb gringa mode, played like I didn’t speak Spanish, and after a few minutes of him tinkering under the hood, he said, “No petro.” Then he offered to go get us some gas, if we’d give him a jerrycan and the money.

  A grizzled old man joined the growing group of looky-loos. “Señora, this boy, he will take your money and not return,” he told us in accented, but very understandable English.

  Crap! I should have known a good Samaritan would show up. I had to think fast.

  “Uh, gracias, señor. Is it all right if we leave the car here for a few hours? We have to meet someone, but we will return with gas. Right now, we need a taxi.”

  “Of course you may leave it, but I suggest you take anything of value with you.” He nodded pointedly toward where the young punk had vaporized the minute the older man arrived. “There are more like him.”

  “Thank you. We will. And the car, it is not of much value, anyway.” Forgive me, Foxie, for you have been a long and faithful friend. “If you will call a taxi for me, we will pay you to watch the car until we return.”

  Okay, that was a flat-assed lie. We had no intention of returning.

  The man shook his head. “It is not necessary to pay me, and I will send one of the children to fetch the taxi. Please, push your car to my house, where it will be safe.” He pointed past a bamboo fence to a small palapa-roofed house nestled on a large, tree-filled lot. Chickens, dogs, and an elderly pig wandered about, but fresh rake marks in the dirt showed pride of ownership.

  An antiquated pickup of many colors sat under a tree. It had probably started life as a Ford but was now a patchwork of pieces and parts from many other vehicles. The man, pride obvious in his voice, directed us to park Foxie near his troqué, Baja slang for truck.

  Jeff joined us and whispered to me. “Oh, just peachy,” he said, sarcastically. “Like they say, the best laid plans and all that crap. I’ll push, you steer.” He slammed the hood shut, and I scooted behind the wheel. “Okay,” he shouted, “put her in neutral and steer the best you can.”

  I straightened the tires with great effort then waited for the car to move. Jeff finally grunted in defeat as he tried to get the cantankerous Foxie rolling. The old man, whose name was José, ordered some of the curious children surrounding us to open his gates and to take care not to let the livestock escape. He then told others to help Jeff push Foxie.

  After a few tries and a lot of giggles and shoving from our little helpers, I maneuvered the vehicle inside his compound. Before getting out, I flipped the gas back on.

  José’s house was old, but neatly tended, and the lush garden area was cool and obviously well-cared for. He introduced his little tribe of grandchildren, crediting them for the lack of weeds in his vegetable garden. He told me the kids stayed with him while their parents worked. He offered us a beer while we waited for our taxi, but we declined. It was going to be a very long day, and more than half of it was gone.

  The taxi driver, José’s cousin, helped transfer our belongings from Foxie to his cab. Before locking her up and saying goodbye, I made certain there was nothing left inside to identify me. The VW was still registered to a sailor I’d bought it from years before, and since it had Montana plates, I’d been able to keep the registration current online, in his name.

  Before we left, I gave José the keys and Jeff tried to give him several five-hundred-peso notes, as well as bestowing fifty-peso bills to all the grandchildren.

  The kids grabbed the money with delight, but Jose protested taking any. Jeff insisted, telling him to spend it on a mechanic while we were gone. I knew any mechanico he “hired” would probably be a family member and, with the fuel switch back on, the car would start on the first try, so the money was really for the family.

  I was scooting into the taxi when José leaned in and said, “I pray you will go with God.”

  We had not fooled him one little bit. He handed me a piece of paper with several phone numbers scrawled on it. “These are for my family here in Baja, and my son in San Diego. In case you need help. Please, when you are safely across the border, let him know so he can call me. Vaya con Dios.”

  Tears stung my eyes.

  This sob sister thing was getting far too frequent of late, but I was moved by his concern.

  I jammed on my sunglasses to cover my damp eyes, not willing to break down in front of the caring old man. Such kindness from a stranger is not at all unusual in Mexico, but I’d obviously been in the Cabo timeshare racket for way too long, for his sincere concern took me by surprise. I got out of the taxi and hugged José, then each of his grandchildren.

  Chapter Seven

  When Jose’s cousin, Armando, slowly drove his taxi toward La Paz, the children chased us for a block or two, laughing and waving.

  I asked Armando to take us to the Dock Café at Marina de la Paz. On the way, I called Joe and Johnnie on Keo Keoni, friends who were cruising the Sea of Cortez, hoping they were still at the marina, and had heard of a car for sale. The name of their boat was so clever; Keo for Joe, and Keoni for Johnnie, in Hawaiian. I’d met them a couple of years before and bonded right away because my mother’s name is Johnnie.

  Johnnie answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, Chica, this is Becky Haskamp. Are you still in La Paz?”

  “Nope, we’re in Puerto Vallarta,” she said.

  “Well, crap. I was hoping to see you.”

  “We took the ferry over to meet with family for a few days. Do you need a place to crash? The woman on the boat in the slip next to us has a key to Keo Keoni.”

  This time I did lose it. Tears of
gratitude cascaded down my face as I turned my head so our driver couldn’t see me in his rearview mirror. “Oh, you have no idea how much I appreciate it. Long story. We, uh, I’ll just crash in the V berth for a night or two. I have to make a quick trip to the States, so I’ll probably be long gone by the time you get back. Is there anything you want me to do on Ke….your Catalina?”

  Armando didn’t appear to be listening, but I figured mentioning the boat name was pushing fate. Plus if things really went south, I didn’t want him to know squat, for his own protection.

  “Nope. You know where the sheets and towels are. She’ll be grateful for an airing out. Check the fridge and freezer for me, will you? I always worry when we’re gone. Enjoy, and let me know when you’re coming back down.”

  Jeff had been closely following my end of the conversation and grinned from ear to ear. “Two thumbs-up for friends when you need them.”

  “Amen. Most boaters are a helpful bunch, but Joe and Johnnie are especially great. She and I like to shell, and I have something they don’t have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Wheels. Anyhow, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry and would love a cold beer. The Dock Café at the marina is just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Yes, señora,” our driver interjected. “Many gringos and Mexicans eat there and watch the yates. It is, however, caro.” He lifted his right hand and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together.

  I didn’t comment on the prices at the popular marina restaurant. With the peso pushing twenty to the dollar, Mexico was cheap for us, but for Mexicans? Ten dollars per person for dinner, which included a beer or two, is more than the daily minimum wage. I always marveled how they survived. When we left the taxi, I over-tipped him.

  ***

  After we watched our ride leave the parking lot, we waited at a locked gate until a boater came up the ramp and let us in—something they aren’t supposed to do, but everyone does—then walked down the dock to Keo Keoni’s slip and knocked on the large motor yacht next door. I didn’t know the boat, or the owner, but the minute I knocked, a beautiful Golden Retriever bounded out on deck and gave us a woof.