“Oh, hi there, handsome.” I stuck out my hand, he sniffed it, decided I wasn’t bite-worthy, and wagged his glorious tail while leaning in for an ear scratch.
Jeff passed muster, as well, and was also petting the critter when someone yelled, “Po Thang, who’s out there? Friend or foe?”
A tanned redhead came out on deck and gave us a broad smile. “Hey there,” she said, offering her hand. “You must be Becky. Hetta Coffey here. Keo Keoni’s already unlocked and I opened some hatches and windows right after Johnnie called. It was a mite stuffy. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
We shook, I introduced Jeff, and we loaded our gear onto Keo Keoni’s deck.
We’d both noticed Hetta’s Texas flag flying from the after deck and Jeff said, “Is every woman in Texas a red head?”
“Nope, they just wish they were,” Hetta said.
We shared a high-five then brayed, in unison, “Hook ‘em horns!”
***
We stashed our bags below, washed off some road dust and dog slobber, then spiffed up to celebrate our good fortune of finding a literal safe harbor before heading for the Dock Café.
Hetta and Po Thang sat out on deck, enjoying the warm evening, when we left. She offered us a drink but we told her we were hungry, headed for the Dock Café, and invited her to go with us.
“Another time. We’d love to go, but we have company coming over tonight. Too bad, because Po Thang is partial to the chow up there. Actually, he’s partial to food everywhere, but the Dock allows him to beg. You guys finding everything you need on Keo Keoni?”
“Yes, thanks a bunch. By the way, isn’t there a cruisers’ radio net every morning?”
“Sure is. Channel 22, eight o’clock. You looking for someone?”
“Nah, something. Wheels.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem, if you aren’t too picky. If you don’t have any luck on the net, go up to Club Cruceros around nine in the morning for coffee,” she pointed to a small building at the end of the dock, “and check out the bulletin board. Ask around. I think I heard someone say they had a van for sale a few days ago.”
“Thanks, we will.”
“Are you cruisers?”
I shook my head. “Landlubbers. I just know a lot of people in the Baja.”
“Well, y’all have a nice dinner. We suggest the snapper.” Po Thang thumped his tail and Hetta sighed. “Dang, I said the D word.”
Jeff laughed. “Well, maybe there’ll be some l-e-f-t-o-v-e-r-s.”
More vigorous tail drumming.
Hetta rolled her eyes. “I swear. I think he can spell.”
***
As we sat at an outdoor table overlooking the marina, Jeff asked. “How much money do you have?”
“Around fifteen hundred, if I count both dollars and pesos. How about you? You’ve been throwing it around pretty smartly today. For a good cause, however.”
“My cash stash is depleting rapidly, but if the authorities are looking for us, as you fear, I don’t think I should hit an ATM. Between us, we don’t even have a down payment for a car.”
I grinned. “You might be surprised. All we have to do is get to the border, or real close.” I scanned the area to make sure no one was close enough to hear us. The place was almost empty since it was not yet Happy Hour, and Mexicans eat much later than boaters. “We can’t use credit cards, so we’re stuck with what we have.”
“How about we sell something?” He tapped the gold Rolex on his wrist.
“That thing’s gotta be worth twenty grand. No one down here has that kind of money.”
He pointed at a crew working on a huge yacht at the far end of the dock. “Someone out there does. Looks like a charter yacht to me, so let’s take a stroll down that way after dinner.”
“You’d actually sell your beautiful watch?”
“Muffie’s dad gave it to me. Easy come, easy go, I always say.”
My eyes narrowed. “You know what you don’t always say? You’ve never said exactly what you do for her old man?”
He shrugged. “Make that did. Import, export.”
“So, you’re a drug dealer?”
He laughed. “I know. The import/export business is a euphemism for drug dealers, but I’m more of an…influencer. Let’s order.”
***
The large filet of red snapper Veracruzana en Papillote, steamed in parchment, with green olives, chiles, cilantro, and tomatoes, was divine. I was so hungry I could have eaten the paper, but I did manage to save a bite for Po Thang. Not that Hetta’s dog looked like he’d missed any meals, but I just love giving dogs treats.
We indulged in flan for the second night in a row, topped off with coffee and a shot of El Presidente Brandy. For a potential bag lady, I was living purty danged well.
I sighed with pleasure as I took the last sip of brandy. “Okay, call me piggy, but this may be our last good meal for a while, so I’m making the most of it. If we’re gonna make it to the border on our meager travel kitty, it’ll be street tacos from here on out.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Jeff said, jiggling his watch arm. “Let’s go find that fat wallet.”
We strolled arm in arm down the mega-yacht dock, surreptitiously scoping out the rich and perhaps famous being fawned over by nattily uniformed below-decks personnel. I’d been a guest on a couple of charters, so I knew for sure not everyone on the boats had big bucks, but whoever paid for the charters sure did; these floating hotels cost thousands for a few days of luxury and pampering at sea. The crew earns big tips for working their always-attractive butts off catering to frequently demanding dilettantes bankrolling these trips, but their well-earned tips are worth it; a five-day cruise can puff up a wallet quite smartly.
I felt we fit in well on the executive dock. I’d donned my gauzy kaftan, and a wrap I had in my bags, as well as slapped on more makeup than usual, big gold loop earrings, and I’d poofed up my hair. Jeff looked spiffily nautical in white pants and a turtleneck.
I noticed one of the male guests on a 200-footer’s poop deck eyeing him. The admirer didn’t go unnoticed; Jeff stopped next to the yacht, pulled up his sleeve, and flashed his watch.
“You know, you’re right darling. This watch might buy us a couple of tickets back home. I never should have gotten into that card game last night. Sorry.”
I faked a bit of ennui. “Yes, you are sorry, but not for the first time, and probably not the last. You never learn, but what the heck.” Patting his cheek and then the watch, I added, “As you always say, easy come, easy go.”
In my peripheral vision I watched as the stunningly attractive young man leaned over and spoke into a much older man’s ear while never taking his eyes off Jeff.
“Keep walking. A slow stroll,” Jeff said under his breath, then he leaned in, nuzzled my neck and said, much louder, “You’re the best.”
“Hey!” I whispered back.
“All part of the show, Red.”
We didn’t get far before the duo from the yacht caught up to us. “Excuse me,” the pretty guy said, “I, we, couldn’t help but overhear you.”
Fish on!
***
“I cannot believe anyone carries that kind of cash on them. Nor can I fathom you sold a twenty-thousand-dollar watch for ten thou,” I said as we approached Keo Keoni.
“I think Muffin’s dad paid more like twenty-five. She made certain I knew that.”
“Whatever. Someone bought it,” I snapped my fingers, “just like that.”
“Like I said, easy come….” he let that sentence dwindle. “And, all cash.”
“You mean his boyfriend handed over the moola. Betcha pretty boy doesn’t have a dollar to his name.”
“Au contraire. That young man now owns a gold Day and Date Rolex. And how do you know that wasn’t his father?”
“Do you kiss your dad on the lips?”
“Good point. However, it seems to me you’re being a bit judgmental here.”
“I’m Texan. It’s w
hat we do.”
He laughed. “Anyhow, we’re relatively rich now, so let’s get some sleep. First thing tomorrow, after we find a car, or even before, we’ll hit a hair salon.”
“Why?”
“New color. I’m thinking black for both of us.”
“No way, no how. I am not putting dye on my hair.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, let me rephrase that. I am not coloring my hair black!”
Just as I said that, Po Thang rushed up, followed by Hetta. I gave the Golden his fish, which he swallowed with nary a chew.
“Black hair? Gawd forbid, Becky,” Hetta drawled. “Doesn’t suit you. Okay, this is none of my bidness, but that rarely gets in my nosy ways. My keen sense for snoopery is picking up on a situation here. You don’t have to tell me what it is…in fact I probably don’t even want to know. But would this help?” She reached into her pocket and handed me a Texas driver’s license with her photo on it. “I keep extras for emergencies.”
“Are we that obvious?”
“Nah, I’m that good. Get it back to me when you’re safe and sound. The name and mailing address is actually correct on that one.”
***
As soon as we shut the hatches on the boat, Jeff asked, “What is it with this carrying alternate and extra ID’s? Is it a Texan thing?”
“Sort of. We have a long history with Mexicans, you know, which has left us with a mutual love and distrust for each other. Ya just never know when you’re gonna have to make a run for some border.”
“Let me get this straight. You had some kind of kerfuffle up north and you headed for the safety of Mexico, and now you’ll feel safer back home?”
I shrugged. “Something like that. It’s…kinda…historical.”
***
The next day, as we left the local Walmart with two basket loads of travel items, I eyed our van and said, “Please tell me they stock duct tape.”
“Got five rolls, along with Gorilla Glue, brake fluid, transmission oil, windshield wipers, and everything else I could think of to keep that heap we bought running for eight hundred miles. Couldn’t find any baling wire. What did you buy?”
“Four cases of water, Cokes, six packages of cookies, beer, wine, sandwich makings, ice, and chips galore. Oh, and dog treats.”
“We don’t have a dog.”
“Notice how they show up every time we stop? They seem to know gringos will feed them, so I like to have something on hand.”
“How do they know we’re not Mexicans?”
“We throw food, not rocks. Who knows, maybe we’ll pick one up that doesn’t look too mangey?”
“What? Why in heavens name would we do that?”
“Just jerking your chain. Although, if you have a dog in the car that’s large and loud enough, the military are not at all interested in sticking their noses inside. And the bigger and meaner the critter, the better.”
“Hetta,” he drawled, doing his best to sound like Hetta Coffey, but not doing such a grand job, “please tell me you’re not thinking to put a large, mean, stinky, flea-bitten mutt in the car with us.”
“Oh, why not? We have a large, stinky, flea-bitten van. Worth every bit of the grand you paid. They sure saw you coming.”
Jeff laughed. “Probably. You think that boater sensed our desperation?” He gingerly opened the slider to our new wheels and started piling in our bags. The window rattled; the sunburnt duct tape holding in the glass had loosened in the hot Baja sun, and was showing strings through the now-dull silver.
From the bottom of his cart he pulled out a large box.
“An air mattress? Genius. Should I go back in for sheets and pillows? The less we have to rely on hotels, the better.”
“While you’re gone, I’ll work on taping the windows and putting stuff away so when we need it, the mattress will fit. At the very least, that way one of us can drive while the other grabs a nap. See you in a few.”
Back in the store, I found a cheap matrimonio grande sheet set, two blankets, and four foam pillows, trying not to think too much about my beloved feather pillow, the blood-stained one, buried on an isolated beach. It could, after all, now be construed as incriminating evidence.
Chapter Eight
We reached Conception Bay, one of my favorite places, with enough light left to get situated for the night.
We’d passed through a few military stops without any problems, except for my stomach doing flip-flops. I’d heard a couple of nasty stories lately about gringos being harassed at these stations, but as it had always been in my experience, the soldiers were very polite, asked where we’d been (La Paz) and where we were going (wherever the next tourist destination in the Baja was). They walked around the car, let their dog, if they had one, nose around, and then waved us through.
And, as I always did, I spoke with them in Spanish and handed out a package of cookies and a few cokes as we left.
“You’ve got this drill down pat,” Jeff commented as we pulled away from the first military stop.
His newly coal black hair curled from under a green baseball cap with an embroidered Seleccion Nacional de Mexico (Mexico National Football Team) logo, a gift from Hetta. She swore it helped her get through these stops faster. Jeff’s “Pacifico, Nada más,” tee shirt finished off his touristy ensemble. I reasoned that so long as we didn’t run into a teetotalling soccer fan who was carrying a grudge over this year’s loss, we’d do fine.
I wore a large floppy hat, huge sunglasses, and smeared my face with white zinc-laden sunblock. My badly wrinkled, I’D RATHER BE IN BAJA, tee was one of many in my collection.
No one asked us for ID, car registration, nada. Fine with me. In my purse I carried zip lock bags with three sets of ID: my real one, the one issued to Hetta Coffey, and another I bought from a cruiser, Marsha Rhoda, to match my Montana plates on Foxie. I had a bit of an identity crisis going.
So far, I kept Hetta’s at the ready because I sure as hell didn’t want to use my own name. However, the farther we made it up the peninsula, the more I relaxed.
Conception Bay, located on the western side of the Sea of Cortez, is one of the more spectacular places on the peninsula. Twenty or so miles long, and two to five miles wide, it is a mecca for people visiting to kayak and camp, and those willing to live off the grid. Once you see it, you’re hooked on the dramatic scenery, white beaches, and turquoise water. Many think of it as the “real” Baja.
When Jeff got his first glimpse, he breathed, “Wow, this is gorgeous. Can we stop so I can get a photo?”
“Soon. As you can see, there are few turnouts and we do not want to sit on the pavement waiting for an eighteen wheeler to flatten us. Those trucks are the only drawback to Conception; their Jake brakes echo throughout the area. I honestly think some of the drivers take delight in making all that noise in the middle of the night.”
“I’ll risk it. Any RV parks?”
“You’ll find all sorts of campers along the beaches. So yes, sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“We can camp on almost any old beach, now that Semana Santa is over and everyone’s hightailed home. No hookups, running water, or electricity, but people come along selling veggies and water. Dry camping only, for which we are not well equipped, but it is what it is. We can get by for one night.”
“At the risk of sounding indelicate, where do we, uh, you know…”
“Behind a bush, unless there is some kind of outhouse, which is usually a hole dug in the sand with a rickety cover built over it. Unfortunately, Semana Santa ended only a couple of days ago, so the beaches might be a hot mess of trash, but at least we can grab some sleep. And, if you like we can get a hamburger…”
A little light went on in my addlepated brain. I gave my head a smack before thinking; that lump was still tender. “Ouch! I am such an idiot! Hang on.” I slammed on the brakes and skidded onto the rough dirt road at Playa Buenaventura.
“Campers!” Jeff yelled. “And what a setting. Y
ou done good, girl.”
“I’ve stopped here to eat a few times, but I wasn’t paying attention to anything but the great eats. Now that I think of it, I’m almost sure I saw campers on this beach before. You’ll love the food, and the people.”
We were greeted by the owners, Olivia and Mark, and several dogs of questionable breeds. I was disappointed to learn that Mark’s son, Nathan, had moved away. He is a great chef.
I recounted our cover story of meeting each other in La Paz, falling in love, and buying the junker to tour the Baja. To my dismay, the two rental houses were occupied, so we were stuck in the van, but being parked on a beautiful beach with a few actual facilities ain’t bad.
Fortune was with us, for we arrived early on Taco Tuesday, so by the time we blew up the air mattress, made the bed, and headed for food, a crowd of mostly gringos was gathering.
With so many locals, RVers, and residents of Mulegé showing up, we set out to schmooze as much as possible. News travels like wildfire in the Baja, especially bad news, so a gringo being murdered in Cabo by his girlfriend was sure to get this far, fast.
“You start on the right, I’ll do the left,” I whispered to Jeff. “Tell them we’re headed for Cabo eventually. If there is even a rumor of a gringo being offed down there, the Coconut Telegraph will have reached here by now.”
He clinked my beer bottle with his. “Are you sure you aren’t some kind of private investigator, Red? Seems to me you’re way too good at all this subterfuge.”
I grinned. He had no idea. I’d survived by my wits down here for five years, flying under the radar, but always on the alert. One of the reasons I had such a crappy sales record in Cabo was because I avoided as many tourists as I could without getting fired. After all, who knew who might come looking for me? And when?
Anyone who even resembled Dog, The Bounty Hunter, was to be avoided at all costs.
***
One subject we’d studiously avoided was our sleeping arrangements for the night. So far we’d shared a hotel suite—me with my own room—another hotel room with separate beds, and Jeff slept in the tiny extra cabin on Keo Keoni while I took the v-berth.
Baja Get Away Page 6
