Just Add Trouble Page 17

  The cold steel of a muzzle nuzzled my neck, and a hand slid around to muzzle me. I was twice muzzled, and not feeling all warm and nuzzled. Pushing me forward, my attacker shoved me rudely into Jan, then reached down and turned the VHF radio volume up. I was standing practically nose to nose with Jan, whose eyes were like saucers. I mouthed, “Who?”

  Her bottom lip quivered, but she didn’t answer.

  Behind me, a familiar, gruff voice said, quite loudly, “Yes, we had a great crossing, Hetta. Good to be back in San Carlos again. Hey, thanks for the beer.”

  His seemingly innocent statement boomed from my pocket. Whirling me around, he motioned a gimme sign, and put his finger to his lips to make sure I didn’t yell for help. I reluctantly handed over the radio, which he turned off. He then turned off Manga Manga’s radio.

  “There, that’s better, a little privacy. So, Red, did you miss me?”

  I gaped at Nacho, who was probably the last person on earth I missed, or wanted to see ever again.

  “Merde.”

  Chapter 28

  Nacho grinned. “You gonna hurt my feelings, chica. Here I come all this way, and that’s all you got to say? ‘Merde?’ How ‘bout somethin’ like, ‘Nacho, I been keepin’ your wallet for you?’”

  “What wallet?”

  I can be so clever in a pinch.

  “The stinkin’ wallet that you took from my stinkin’ truck.” He pulled Jan next to him and nudged her ribs with what looked like a Glock, for cryin’ out loud.

  “Oh, that wallet. It’s in a safe place. If I give it to you, will you get lost?”

  “It ain’t that easy, Red. You gotta pay.”

  “Hey,” Scoady Toad piped up, “if you’re gonna do something kinky, can I watch?”

  Nacho gave Scoady a look of disgust. “Shut the hell up. I shoulda dumped your scrawny ass overboard when you put your filthy hands on,” he nodded at Jan, “her beautiful ass.”

  Jan perked up and smiled. “Thank you for almost breaking his arm, Nacho,” she purred.

  Gag me. We’re stuck in a smelly old sailboat with a pervert and an armed drug runner, and she’s flirting? And what now?

  “Okay, Don Quixote, what now? I give you the wallet, and…?”

  “And we take a little trip.”

  “I’m low on diesel.”

  “We don’t need no diesel, we need a car. You have one? After all, you used the hell out of my pickup. I got it back, by the way, but you still owe me.”

  “I don’t got no stinkin’ car.”

  “But, Hetta,” Jan chirped, “what about the Thing? Give him the keys and let him skedaddle.”

  “Jan, he said we. We take a little trip. Unless he has a cockroach in his pocket, I believe that means us.”

  Nacho nodded.

  “Oh? Where? And why do we have to go?”

  “I need…actually, we all, with the exception of the perv here, need to get the hell out of Mexico, pronto.”

  He had that right, but not with him. No way.

  “Why do you need to get out of Mexico? What’d you do? Snort up all of your thuggy friends’ dope? And why take us?”

  “None of your business. We’ll just be three tourists going back to Arizona after a weekend at the beach.”

  “More like two gringas picked up a wetback for a souvenir.” Even I couldn’t believe I said that, but then, Nacho brings out the best in me.

  Nacho actually laughed and looked skyward, as if asking for divine deliverance.

  “Don’t bother calling on someone who doesn’t know you. If you don’t like our company, let us go.”

  He chose to ignore me. “Let’s get ready to roll.”

  “What about him?” I pointed at the Toad.

  “He’s staying. And he ain’t calling no policia, either, are you, pendejo?”

  The sullen Herbert shook his head and his lips moved.

  Nacho cupped his hand to his ear. “I can’t hear you.”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “I von’t be callink der cops.”

  “And why is that?”

  Toad mumbled something unintelligible.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “If I do, you’ll send der video tapes to das federales.”

  “And what tapes would those be, you sick asshole?”

  “Der boyss.”

  “The little boys, and you. Little Mexican boys, cabron. I think you know how long you’d last in a Mexican jail. They don’t have no stinkin’ pervertivo protective custody bullcrap south of the border. We Mexicans cherish our children, and not the way you and your ped friends do.”

  As Jan and I listened to this exchange, my stomach quivered and my nerve ends sang. We were, for reasons unknown, being taken hostage, and our only hope for rescue rested on the bony shoulders of a depraved sicko who had everything to lose if he tipped anyone off that we were kidnapped. If there was a glimmer of anything good in the situation, it was that Nacho was taking us to the border, and if anyone on earth knows how to get across without a passport, it’s a drug runner.

  “This is all very informative,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t give away the nervous breakdown I was on the verge of having, “but let’s work out some plan. One that doesn’t include anyone getting hurt, okay? Well, anyone except the perv, there. You can go ahead and shoot Herbert now if you like.”

  Herbert scowled, but Nacho actually smiled. “Too much noise. Okay, everyone to the big boat, and not one word to anyone on the dock, or that someone will not be happy. Easy does it.”

  He motioned for the perv to lead, then me, then Jan. Indian file, we exited the boat, then headed across the dock to Raymond Johnson, but someone yelled, “Hetta!”

  We turned as one as Smith raced toward us. “Hetta, have you seen Maggie? I’ve looked everywhere. She on your boat?”

  “Don’t think so. I’ve been on Manga Manga.”

  “Can we take a look?”

  I heard Jan let out a little mewl, probably because she’d been goosed with a Glock. I turned to Nacho, who was indeed cozied up to Jan’s backside, and raised my eyebrows. He gave me an almost imperceptive nod.

  “Sure, Smith, after you.” I waved him ahead, then followed. Once aboard Raymond Johnson, he turned to wait for me, but I instinctively knew that Nacho wasn’t about to let me go into the main saloon alone with Smith. “Go ahead, check for her. We’ll be there in a minute.”

  Smith stepped through the open door and began calling Maggie. It wasn’t unusual for her to sneak aboard. I’d found her snoozing in my bed several times. Not today, though, by the disappointed look on Smith’s face when he came back out. He said a distracted, “Thanks,” and took off in search of his errant pooch.

  Deflated that a chance for salvation was gone, we trooped onto Raymond Johnson, where Nacho wasted no time.

  “Wallet.”

  Seeing no reason not to, I crossed to my desk and handed him his wallet. He flipped it open, checked his credit cards, and for cash, which was gone.

  “Oops, I had to use your cash for gas. Oh, and your credit card for that new mink coat.”

  “I know what you used it for. I have Internet banking.”

  Dope dealers got Internet banking?

  Chapter 29

  Nacho flipped his wallet shut and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. I noticed Jan taking note of their snug fit, and inwardly groaned. He shoved Herbert the Pervert into a chair and waved the Glock at me. “Okay, Red, let’s pack up that car of yours and get ready to roll for the border. Gimme the keys.”

  “They’re in the closet.”

  Jan looked longingly at the galley locker where, back in the States, I’d kept my arsenal. Unfortunately, when we decided to make a trip south of the border, our hired captain forbade us firearms on board. I considered ignoring his no-gun rule, but Jan had pitched a hissy and insisted, because of the severe penalties for possession of guns in Mexico, that I leave them at home. See if I ever listen to her again.


  Snatching the car keys from their hook, I threw them at Nacho. He handily caught them in a graceful one-handed move that reminded me of a baseball pitcher from the Dominican Republic I once dated. Oh, boy, was that Rudy a looker, in a tall, lanky, Hispanic way, much like Nac….I mentally slapped myself back to the present. “Pack, you say? What?”

  “Food, water. Don’t want to stop for nothin’ or nobody. How much gas you have in your car?”

  “Actually, it isn’t my car. It’s a sort of rental.”

  “Damn. What kinda plates?”

  “Sonora.”

  “Double damn. Even with half of the Latino population of the US headed back north after Christmas with the relatives in Mexico, Mex plates still get too much attention at the border crossings.”

  “Yeah, well, so do Mexicans, so nothing personal, but Jan and I would prefer to walk across without you. Better yet, I’m getting a lit-tle tired of you, Nacho. What if we just decide, right here and now, to refuse to go with you at all? What are you gonna do? Off us right here, what with all these people in boats around us for witnesses? And what good would it do you? Just take the car and go.”

  “Ain’t that easy, Red. For one thing, while popping you might make my day, that’s not what’s gonna happen. Maybe I’ll just make you, or Blondie, wish you’d never met me.”

  “Too late. We already do.”

  He smiled a mean smile. “And then,” he growled, “there’s always Maggie.”

  I did a double take and Nacho nodded. “When we get to the border, I’ll make a call, and Maggie gets released. If not, she goes to bow-wow heaven.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Nacho somehow had Maggie? “But how—”

  “I have friends.”

  “In very low places, no doubt? Like Herbert here? He seems an appropriate amigo for someone like you.”

  Nacho shook his head in disgust. “You just never let up, do you?”

  “It’s my nature, pendejo,” I spat, using the word he’d called Herbert. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it sounded properly disrespectful.

  Nacho threw his arm out, the gunless one, his forefinger ending up not an inch from my nose. I was proud of myself for not flinching. “That’s it. From now on, Red, not one word from you, unless I ask you a direct question. Not. One. Single. Word. Keep that smart mouth of yours shut, or I will make Blondie hurt.”

  Jan’s head jerked up. “Hey! How come if she mouths off, I get hurt?”

  “Peer pressure, kitten. Makes it your job to keep a muzzle on your bulldog.”

  I opened my mouth to protest being referred to as a bulldog, but Jan stomped my foot. “If you utter a syllable, Hetta, I swear I’ll borrow that gun and shoot you myself.”

  Like I said before, a friend in need is a pest.

  Before we left San Carlos, I had a whole new appreciation for mimes. Every time I turned around, someone asked me a question I was forbidden to answer.

  We packed up bottled water, clothes and all the road food in Raymond Johnson’s cupboards. As more and more of my secret junk food stash was revealed, Jan’s snidely comments increased, and I couldn’t even snipe back.

  “Ya know, Nacho, you may be a bad ass, but you sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Jan said. “Muzzling Hetta is ever so much fun.” She found a bag of Cheetos in the far reaches of a cabinet and shook it at me. “Hoarding for a bad food day, Hetta?”

  I sneered, snatched the Cheetos and slam-dunked them into a duffle bag.

  “Okay, you two, let’s go. Single file. Hetta first, then you, Jan. Anyone does anything stupid, Jan gets it in one of her long and lovely legs.”

  “Why thank you, Nacho.”

  I made a sound that came out like “urk” but they ignored me. Nacho pointed at the door, but I refused to move. Jan gave me a shove, but I stood fast.

  “Now what?” Nacho growled.

  I walked over and pointed to my laptop case on the desk. “Okay, pack up your computer and we’ll take it.”

  I quickly loaded up my Dell, mouse pad and power supply. I also slid a letter opener into the case. Never know when you’ll need to open an envelope. Or someone’s throat. Computer case in hand, I nodded toward the pervert sitting on my settee, then at the door.

  “You want him to go with us?” Jan asked.

  I shook my head.

  “You want him off your boat?”

  I gave an emphatic nod.

  Nacho shrugged. “Okay, perv, off the broad’s boat, rapido.”

  Scoady Toad scampered off Raymond Johnson as fast as his little fascist feet would travel.

  “Now, ladies, can we possibly get a move on?” Nacho asked through clenched teeth.

  I shook my head violently, tilted my head and daintily cupped my ear.

  Jan’s face lit with delight. “Sounds like?”

  Yes! I pointed at the ship’s clock. “Sounds like clock. Dock?”

  I turned my head from side to side.

  “Sock? You want some socks?”

  From the tick of his rigid jaw muscles and crimson cheeks, I ascertained that our Nacho was getting a mite impatient with our antics. Dangerous game, perhaps, but I wanted to see just how far he could be pushed. I found out.

  His arm lashed out, encircled Jan’s neck and he jerked her roughly against him. Pointing the gun downward with his other hand, he growled, “I hate Charades. Move, now, or I swear I’ll pop Blondie on one of her gorgeous knees.”

  I saw Jan’s eyes widen, but she leaned back into him and gave a little butt wiggle against his groin. Nacho looked flustered, shoved her away, and yelled, “Out! Now.”

  Weary of hearing about Jan’s feminine attributes, I considered letting him whack one of them, but obediently did a one-eighty and stomped toward the door. Stopping dead in my tracks though, I tapped the lock.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it. I’ll lock the fuggin’ door. Git!”

  I smiled sweetly and mouthed a silent, “Thank you,” but Nacho muttered, as he herded us toward the parking lot,

  “Fuggin’ gringas.”

  Yeah, well, Mr. Macho Nacho, this fuggin’ gringa’s got a flare pistol in her pocket and she ain’t glad to see you.

  Chapter 30

  When we reached the marina parking lot, Nacho was less than thrilled with the Thing. He shook his head in disgust. “You call this a car?”

  “Does that qualify as a direct question, or simply rhetorical?” I ventured, testing Nacho’s gag order.

  Jan whapped me on the head, and Nacho growled, “Shut the hell up.”

  Rhetorical, I surmise. Sometimes I’m clairvoyant that way.

  Nacho ordered me to drive, Jan to ride shotgun, and he opted for the back seat, no doubt to better keep my skull in his gun sights. With nothing but an overturned metal bucket to sit on in the back, I was gratified that Nacho would be less than comfortable. Had he been in my good graces I might have offered him a dollop of Prep H, but circumstances being what they were, I said a little thank you to the higher power in charge of butt pain.

  Before handing me the keys, he asked, “Do you know the road to Nogales?”

  No, but hum a few bars and I’ll pick it up, I wanted to say, but I only nodded.

  “Okay, keep it at, or under, the speed limit, which is about sixty.”

  If I hadn’t been gagged, I might have told him the speedometer didn’t work. Or maybe not.

  “I figure,” he continued, “we can make the border by dark. In fact, I want to cross after dark. Just take it easy, and no funny stuff. With any luck we’ll all be across, and on our separate ways, in a few hours. How much gas you got?”

  I pointed to the gauge, which read FULL. Jan opened her mouth to comment, thought better of it and slouched down into her seat. I started the Thing and, with a lurch, drove toward the marina exit gate.

  Off in the distance, I saw Smith pacing and calling for Maggie. Only Marina, the dock dog, stood by his side while his plaintive calls went unanswered.

  I shot Nacho a look of
pure disgust, but he only shrugged. “It’s up to you two whether he gets his pup back.”

  I couldn’t say anything, but Jan could. “Ya know, Nacho,” she sneered, “it doesn’t take much of a man to threaten two defenseless women and a tiny dog. Your mother must be sooo proud."

  Good girl.

  The Thing sputtered to a halt just on the other side of Hermosillo, in a desolate stretch of desert.

  I knew, from other highway trips in Mexico, that a stalled car was a beacon to good Samaritans. Mexican Samaritans, as a rule. Unlike back home, everyone in Mexico watched out for their neighbors, because most had cars that frequently ended up stranded. No one left home without jumper cables.

  Nacho cursed softly, then told us to, “Stay put,” as he slid from his bucket perch. I was gratified to see two grooves in his jeans from the bucket edges, and that he’d developed a major wedgie. He tried to look cool while pulling denim from his butt crack. He no longer had a gun in hand, but he didn’t need one; he waved his cell phone at us. “Remember, one call and Maggie’s history.”

  Popping up what served as a hood, he sniffed loudly, came back to my side of the car. “I thought you said we had gas.”

  I shrugged and pointed to the gauge, which still read FULL.

  Nacho narrowed his eyes. “If I didn’t need…oh, never mind.” He pivoted and stood on the side of the road, intent on waving down help. Gringo cars sped by at twice the legal limit, all headed for home after a rollicking good time south of the border. By the way some drove, they were still partying. After ten minutes, Nacho ordered Jan out of the car.

  “Get us some gas, Blondie, or I’ll lift the gag on your friend.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t want that.” She gave me an evil smile, hiked her shorts, pulled down the neckline of her tee, and about ten seconds later an SUV pulling a boat trailer skidded to a dusty stop. Four drunken men bailed out, offered us a cold beer, and siphoned five gallons of gas from their boat’s extra gas can into the Thing.