Just Needs Killin' (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 6) Page 10

  When I called Jenks, I'd told him Raymond Johnson was safely at a dock in Guaymas, and I was returning to the Baja to work on what I now dubbed the Great Galleon Hunt. He didn't seem surprised that I'd changed my destination to Guaymas, although he did lamely grouse a little about me and Jan crossing the sea by ourselves. Again. I guess he's used to my whims by now. Or maybe he was just relieved I'd be occupied and out of trouble for the summer. He had no idea I had a killin' in mind.

  At O-dark-thirty the next morning, we packed up, secured the boat, left all kinds of written instructions and contact numbers for Bart, and headed for the airport.

  The airline insisted we be at the airport one hour prior to our departure time. As expected, the only person in the terminal was a security guard. While we waited for anyone else to show up, like the guy who sells coffee, or any airline employees at all, Jan and I contemplated DO IN DICKLESS possibilities.

  I printed, in large block letters: FIND HIM. KILL HIM.

  When I wrote down the 'kill' part on my notepad, Jan frowned. "Ya know, Hetta, I think I'm a witness to what might be legally considered premeditated conspiracy to commit murder. And, in Mexico, I don't suppose you could claim insanity or self-protection, like you normally do."

  "Those cases never went to court."

  "And this one better not, either. Mexico doesn't have a death penalty. They figure their prisons are a much more severe form of punishment."

  I tore the note into tiny pieces. "Here, eat this. No paper trail." I glanced at my unplugged computer. I was pretty sure my watchers were no longer able to see or hear what I did, but was taking no chances with that mini-cam. Jan had run a scan and rooted out the dastardly virus planted by Lujàn's guys, but I was still antsy.

  "And no witnesses," Jan added, with a TAKE THAT! look at the now debugged computer.

  "So that means I have to off you? Dang, you were growing on me."

  "Nope, I am signing up for this one. If I'm going to live in Mexico like, forever, I want that piece of crap either in prison, or dead. Preferably dead. Now, there you go, I am no longer a witness, but a full fledged co-conspirator."

  I gave her a high-five. "Thelma and Louise!"

  "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid!"

  "Bonnie and Clyde!"

  Jan lost her wide grin. "Uh, Hetta. Didn't all of them, like, die?"

  "We all die."

  "Yabbut, they died young."

  "See, we have nothing to worry about."

  She swatted me. "Get serious. It just ain't all that easy to off someone and get away with it."

  "We're talking Mexico here, for crying out loud. You know, the country where over sixty thousand people have been murdered by the cartels, and not one person prosecuted? Jeez, it's worse than Chicago."

  "That's because the prosecutors and judges prefer to live? But we don't have buckets of money like the druggers do. We only have our brains."

  "Damn."

  Fifteen minutes before departure time, airline personnel and Customs showed up. They gave our bags a perfunctory rummage, opened my computer case, and we were sent into the secure area. The minute we settled into plastic chairs, and were forbidden to return to the lobby, the coffee guy showed up out there.

  Five minutes before the plane landed from Hermosillo and coughed out a couple of people, Mexican passengers for our flight stormed into the airport.

  We were herded out to a single engine Cessna 208, which was so fully booked someone had to sit in the copilot's seat. And, gee, guess who the pilot chose?

  While I stuffed myself into the undersized seat in the cramped passenger compartment, Jan was strapped in next to the beaming pilot. And, before I figured out how to fasten my own seatbelt, we were taxiing down the runway.

  Our departure was right on time.

  When we landed in Santa Rosalia a little over half an hour later, all passengers deplaned. The pilot, who by now had Jan's phone number, would backtrack to Hermosillo, via Guaymas, minutes later. This type of efficiency is just downright un-Mexican.

  Continuing with our charade to throw off anyone tracking me, we took the airline courtesy van to Santa Rosalia, called Denny, and were waiting for him just outside the marina parking lot when he arrived in my pickup. From where we met, he couldn't get a gander at the docks, and especially the absence of Raymond Johnson in one of the slips.

  Po Thang had bonded with the Dalmatians, or so it seemed, because he didn't exactly go nuts when we showed up. Turns out his new BFF—that second F is for Fidos—Dal-pals and he were feasting on hamburger steak three times a day, so he was less than ready to leave with me and Jan.

  Fickle little turd-dropper.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Chino's dream of finding the wreck site of a galleon that stranded his ancestors on the shores of Magdalena Bay goes back to when he was a small boy, and first able to grasp the meaning of the old folks' stories.

  Unlike many who have to resort to Ancestry.com to unearth their roots, his family was documented generation by generation. Someone, a couple of grands back, had the foresight to gather everything and log it in a large volume reminiscent of the family Bible, and as soon as Chino was old enough—and in his case that was pretty danged young—he drew a flow chart/family tree. I'd seen this work of art, complete with a painting of the legendary galleon, San Carlos, hanging on his Abuela Yee's living room wall in Lopez Mateos. The chart kicked off in 1600 with the two original men who washed up on Baja's shores: Yee and Comacho.

  The family also possessed a written account by Gómez Pérez Comacho, telling of a harrowing voyage from the Philippines, bound for Acapulco, but shipwrecked in Magdalena Bay. Comacho was a rich merchant moving his family and business to Mexico, and Yee, as he was only referred to in the document, was a Chinese jewelry maker in Comacho's employ. The families intermarried after the shipwreck washed away all former social boundaries, and sixteen or so generations later, we have Doctor Brigido Comacho Yee. Chino to his friends.

  During a hurricane the year before, my boat anchor dredged up an astrolabe, an ancient precursor to the modern-day GPS, which dated to around the right date for the San Carlos, and Chino was convinced the wrecked galleon bringing his ancestors to Mexico lay on the bottom nearby. The question is, where? Was it outside the bay, in the Pacific Ocean and stuff had just washed in over the centuries, or was the wreck inside the Bay itself? People had been finding pottery shards on the beaches year after year, but as far as anyone knew, no one actually went looking for a galleon. Why, I don't understand, what with the family history, and blue and white Ming Dynasty shards on their beaches.

  Oddly enough, Chino's break at finding his roots got even better when I exposed Ishikawa and Lujàn—and thereby Tanuki Corporation—as connivers in that scheme to trap and can baby whales. Rather than face angry Mexican ecologists, and to obtain their man, Lujàn, a GET OUT OF JAIL card—even though they vehemently denied any guilt in the whale scheme—Tanuki graciously "donated" a research vessel for the galleon hunt, and then, in another weird turn of fate, Ishikawa recently dropped a hundred grand into the pot. The question is, what interest did Ishikawa and Lujàn share in this expedition? Or in Lujàn's case, just what did he plan to steal? The booty Chino found? Not if I got to it first.

  Chino doubted much gold would have been on the galleon, but any gold or jewels would be nothing to sneeze at in today's market. He also knew that in comparison to galleons leaving the east coast of Mexico bound for Spain back in the day, the so-called Acapulco, or Manila Galleons, were carrying chump change. Those east-bound galleons were overloaded with ill-gotten gains, as evidenced by the Atocha, discovered off of Florida. That wreck alone has garnered over forty tons (tons!) of silver and gold, with more to come. The Spaniards were probably, until Hitler came along, the most successful treasure thieves in history.

  So, here I was, full circle.

  I was back in Magdalena Bay, living on the indirect largess of Tanuki, and the major players were back in the mix. Of course, this tim
e I wasn't on my own boat, and I was gunning for Lujàn while working, for free I might add, on the Nao de Chino in the search of a lost galleon.

  The manila galleons were called Nao de la China, because even though they sailed from Manila, most of their cargo originated in China. Chino cleverly used a play on words to name his research vessel.

  I was dubbed the logistics and materials management officer, which is a fancy title for gopher. My job was to help identify everything needed to keep the boat afloat, feed and house the crew, and order and get delivered all of the above.

  As the crew assembled, I gathered wish lists from everyone, and made a few of my own. I also assigned cabins, other than the master, which went to Chino and Jan. In doing so, I made up a plan that was certain to piss everyone off equally.

  I took the captain's cabin, just behind the bridge. It was small, with two bunk beds; one for me and one for Po Thang, Ship's Dog. His list was short: food. I added doggie shampoo and a life vest.

  The two Japanese crew, stipulated in Ishikawa's requirements to get the hundred grand, were graduate students working on PhD's in marine archaeology, and seemed awed by Chino. They had both been on previous searches for sunken ships off the coast of Japan and the Marianas. Mostly for WWII wrecks. Japan was on a kick to find all those sunken vessels and account for the lost crew. I learned from them that two Japanese subs had been found on the bottom in Magdalena Bay. I felt that subject was best left in my "no comment" column, since I knew a little about that incident.

  The Japanese divers, Kazuto Fukoda and Mototada Hashimoto, whom we'd quickly dubbed Kazoo and Moto, had few requests, other than diving supplies, fresh fish, seaweed, and rice. They brought their own rice cooker with them, much to the chagrin of Rosa, Chino's cousin and Ship's Cook, who takes great pride in her Arroz Mexicana. She warmed slightly toward them when they gave high praise to her seafood ceviche.

  Enrique, Ship's Mechanic, and Javier, Ship's Deckhand, were Chino's relatives of some sort. They, and Rosa, were the only paid help, so far.

  We had only one itsy bitsy problem. We needed a professional Mexican boat captain, as neither Chino nor I were qualified to skipper a research vessel in Mexican waters.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  "Miss Coffey, as I recall, the last thing I said to you in Cabo was, 'Should you ever need another capitán? Por favor, do not call me.' "

  "It's not for me, Fabio, it's for Chino."

  "Ah, the galleon hunt. Will you be aboard? If so, I shall have to charge extra. You have a way of getting people thrown into jail."

  "That was all because of Lujàn, whom, I recently heard from credible sources, was run out of town, along with that cousin of his from the port captain's office. And we can actually pay you some decent money, because Chino got a big donation for the expedition." From a guy who is now dead, but I didn't think mentioning that to an already leery Fabio was a great idea.

  "How long?"

  "Three months, more or less. You are the most qualified captain we know, and Chino would love to have you."

  "So, you would be working for me? I'll take it."

  "You're not going to go all Captain Bligh on me, are you, Desi?" I asked, using the nickname I'd given him when he was on my payroll from California to Mag Bay the past fall. His contrived lapses into Spanglish earned him the moniker.

  "No, Loocy, of course not. I shall see you in…five days."

  Chino was delighted I'd snagged Fabio. They'd grown close during their brief incarceration in a Mag Bay hoosegow. Unlike Fabio, Chino didn't hold me personally accountable for that little stay. Or if he did, he kept it to himself because of Jan's loyalty to me.

  "Yep, said he'd be here pronto. He didn't even ask what we paid. Has the ship's mistress, uh, I mean the ship's bean counter figured out what that might be?"

  "I heard that," Jan yelled from the main saloon, where she was making spreadsheets of budgets based on our schedule, built-in costs, and the like. The cook, mechanic, deck hand, and Fabio were the only paid staff. On this bare-bones project, the rest of us were fed, and supplied with other expedition-required gear.

  We joined Jan around a large dining table that one of Chino's cousins built. It was really the only place for the crew to eat, meet, and watch movies or television. There were also many built-in shelves and niches harboring scientific equipment throughout the saloon. This was no pleasure craft, but a working boat with every inch of space designated for a purpose.

  Sleeping arrangements were bunks, but in deference to three months living together, walls were erected, dividing the sleeping area below decks into eight small cabins, each containing two bunks, a desk, a hanging locker and a sink. There were four toilets, or heads, and three showers in the crew area, so Jan and I made up WOMEN ONLY signs and claimed one shower and one toilet, which made Rosa, the cook, a happy woman. It is always a good idea to schmooze the cook.

  Fabio was entitled to the captain's quarters on the bridge that I had previously laid dibs on, darn it. His cabin wasn't much larger than the others, but it had a private shower and head. I was still trying to figure out how to glom onto it for me and Po Thang, but couldn't come up with a legitimate reason.

  However, the cabin I did take was previously some kind of storage area, and had a hidden hatch leading into the engine room one deck below. Having an extra exit, even if it did lead down to the bowels of the ship, satisfied my somewhat claustrophobic bent. All of the occupied cabins had a porthole; a fairly small porthole that I estimated to be about three inches smaller than my derriere. I swiped a jug of olive oil from the galley, just in case I had to slither out when the boat sank or caught on fire or any of those other things that give me the heebie-jeebies. I guess I've watched one too many disaster movie.

  For someone who lives alone most of the time, bivouacking in close quarters with other humans was worrisome for me. I've never even had roommates, and when my boat or apartment or house gets more than one visitor at a time, I can turn even more fractious than normal. Jan said maybe this could be a growth experience for me. I told her if I wanted to broaden my horizons, I'd prefer to do it on the MS Queen Elizabeth.

  However, I had to focus on my main goal for the summer: Do in Dickless.

  Oh, and if somehow a portion of that treasure we were after happens to find its way into my bank account, so be it.

  Jan and I decided making a provisions run to the Costco store in Cabo san Lucas was in order. Local grocery stores carried some basics, but they were not our basics, like several cases of Argentinean Malbec, a ton or two of Velveeta cheese, Wolf Brand Chili (no beans), and feta cheese. Chino at first protested what he considered the undue expense, but the ship's mistress stuck out her cute bottom lip, so he lamely handed her his credit card and requested a few cans of SPAM.

  We left early, intending to make the five-hundred-mile round trip in one day, and in daylight hours. This was a highly ambitious schedule, even with the new four-lane highway between La Paz and Cabo, but doable. By the time we skirted La Paz, our PB&J breakfasts were running on empty, but we pushed on to Todos Santos, one of our favorite places, for lunch.

  Todos Santos is one of those towns where artsy folks have settled, taken over, and rocketed real estate prices into the ozone layer. Only an hour north of Cabo, this small coastal village has blossomed into a tourist center boasting such things as film festivals, jazz festivals, and all the uppity stuff that comes with being a cultural center for a bunch of foreigners. And, as will happen, Gringos have caused sprawl in their desire for an ocean view. Where ranches and sugarcane plantations once were, foreigners build homes. Rumor has it a huge complex is in the offing. Seems like no one learned the lessons of the once charming, and now plumb-ruirnt, village of Cabo San Lucas.

  We found a small outdoor restaurant and settled in for fish tacos.

  Across the street, a boutique owner was hanging out jewel-toned gauzy tops, skirts and pants. Jan was eyeing the clothing like Po Thang eyeballs a steak.

  Taking a sip of my Tec
ate, I asked, "Say, Jan, when was the last time we actually went shopping for anything besides food and boat parts?"

  "We went to Walmart in Arizona and bought some tee shirts. Oh, and you purchased yon pickup." She pointed to my red Ford with her glass of wine.

  "Ya know, that pickup has been giving me trouble. I think it just broke down. Call Chino and tell him we'll be home tomorrow."

  We checked into the Hotel California, took the penthouse suite, and hit the bar for a giant, very tangy, Bloody Mary. Or two.

  Naps were then in order, after which we showered, put on what makeup Jan carried in her purse, donned our new, highly overpriced, Mexican gauze outfits, and went down for a sumptuous dinner by the pool.

  And the rest, as they say, is history.

  "So, Hetta, ya think that guy was a real bull fighter?"

  "I dunno. Hey, where did you learn the flamenco? You looked pretty good up there on that table."

  "Don't remind me. My ankles hurt."

  "Didn't do a lot for the table, either. Wanna get more coffee before we hit Costco?"

  "Oh, yes."

  When we got back to Lopez Mateos, the entire expedition crew was finally on board Nao de Chino.

  A deckhand—okay, the deckhand—helped us unload my pickup and ferried us out to the boat in one of the ship's pangas.

  Captain Fabulous was checking out the engine room with our ship's mechanic, and Rosa began stowing our Costco goodies into the large pantry and walk-in refrigerator/freezer unit attached to the galley.

  Jan and I were giving Rosa a hand when Fabio entered the galley and demanded, "What. Is. That?" He jabbed an accusative forefinger at several cases of wine we were stacking in the pantry.

  "Malbec. And two Sauvignon Blanc."

  "Miss Coffey, this is a working ship. No wine."

  "No wine, no work, Captain Bligh." I crossed my arms in front of my chest and struck a pose. Jan did likewise.