Just Add Trouble Page 24

  This drew a bark of laughter from Nacho.

  “You two, though, think it was this Paco character who killed Herbert, right?”

  “You can take it to the bank, Smith,” I said.

  “Small world, ain’t it? Ironical that Paco knocked off a potential customer.”

  Nacho shrugged. “His people skills suck.”

  Iggy the Iguana, after his initial angry posturing, turned out to be docile, and even a little endearing, if that’s a word you can possibly associate with a five-foot, spiny reptile. I let him out of the aft cabin and he waddled after people like a pet poodle, patiently waiting for someone to scratch his head and dewlap. He was easily put to sleep with a little petting, and even gave up threatening the other animals.

  Maggie and Trouble initially gave him a wide berth, but soon grew used to him and, while not bosom buds, they reached détente, leaving each to his own.

  We also allowed Marina into the main saloon, but she took one look at Trouble and that dragonlike reptile and hid under the galley banquette. Mr. Bill stayed sprawled out on my bed, permeating my sheets and pillows with enough cat dander to insure sending my body into respiratory arrest.

  After our Sonrisa Net announcement, Stephanie, the Tucson ham operator, agreed to relay a call for boats on all of the other nets, letting all within cruising distance know that there would be a rendezvous at Vagabond, followed by a lighted boat parade to Agua Fria to cheer up the impoverished villagers who were trapped by a landslide. It was just the kind of call that rallied cruisers in force, and I felt guilty that there was a possibility of more adventure than they were banking on.

  Stephanie also told us Jan had called her an hour earlier, wanting to know if she’d heard from me. “Jan said, and I’m quoting here, ‘If you hear from that blank, Hetta, you tell her to get her big blank back here, and bring Martinez’s blanking truck with her.’ I added the blanks, cuz I can’t say some things on ham radio without losing my license.”

  Nacho and Smith burst into laughter while I asked Steph to call Jan, fill her in on my whereabouts, and tell her I’d be back in Bisbee within two or three days, suitably contrite and ready to face up to my crimes. Whatever they were.

  As a matter of fact, just what were they? Okay, so I ran the border, but they didn’t press charges on that because we were kidnapped. Bird smuggling? Nope, I convinced them he’d just flown over on his own. Aiding and abetting a jailbird break? No proof, no witness, unless they sweated the pigeons. Car theft? Martinez wouldn’t rat me out, would he? So all I really did was to leave Bisbee when requested by the authorities to stay put. How serious can that be? Heck, they couldn’t touch me.

  “Hetta? You still there?” Stephanie asked, blasting me from my self-righteous reverie.

  “Roger.”

  “I just talked with Jan again, gave her your message. She says you should not, repeat not, set one foot into Arizona. Some folks here are pretty ticked off with you, and are putting together a list of charges a mile long.”

  “For what?”

  “Dunno, but she said you needed a lawyer, and to stay south of the border for now.”

  “Touchy these Arizonans. Okay, message received. Thanks.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “Entertainment. Before you came to the Sea, all we had to deal with were the normal things. Boats sinking, storms brewing, dinghies stolen. Now we have you.”

  “Glad to be of service. Out.”

  Aunt Lil tottered into the saloon in time to hear that lawyer thing, mumbled something like, “I knew you’d come to a bad end,” and retired to my quarters. Two seconds later, Mr. Bill was tossed out the door. I was tempted to break out the booze, because as insufferable as my aunt is drunk, she’s more so sober and grouchy.

  Mr. Bill landed on his feet, shot a dirty look in the direction of the slammed door, then regained his dignity and strolled forward, tail up, to grace us with his presence. I’m sure he’d been kicked out of better cat houses.

  We reached Vagabond Cove with enough afternoon left for Smith to take Maggie and Marina for a pit stop on the beach. Nacho left with him, taking my handheld VHF radio. We agreed to talk on channel seventeen, coordinate our movements for what we now deemed Operation Weeweechu Two, since the drug lords had conjured up the name, Weeweechu, for their border running operation.

  Before the men and dogs left, though, Nacho pulled me into the forward cabin. “Hetta, I want to tell you something before I leave. For many years I harbored anger and hatred for another. It clouded my judgment, and hurt me far worse than it did the other person. Until I learned to forgive, that anger poisoned my very soul. You need to let go of your anger for your aunt. She is old and will soon die, probably because of her own inner hatred. Do not follow in her footsteps, for if you do, she will have won. I do not doubt your assessment that she harms others, but do not let her harm you.”

  Of all the drug dealers in the world, I draw one who thinks he’s Dr. Phil? Before I could reply, he said, “Vaya con Dios.”

  “That sounds like a fairly final adios.”

  “Perhaps, but I mean it. Go with God.” His big brown eyes watered, he kissed my cheek, and rushed past me to get into the dinghy with Smith. I recovered from my shock at his touching goodbye and followed to watch him and Smith load the dogs into the dinghy.

  Marina did not go easily into the skiff. Only after Maggie whined, then barked at her in some kind of dog talk that must have said, “Move your butt, gal, I gotta pee,” did she jump in.

  I was tempted to bag Iggy and send him ashore to be let loose, but I feared he’d been raised as a pet and would never survive in the desert alone.

  Okay, so I’m soft on large lizards, and handsome Mexicans.

  Chapter 42

  The Sea of Cortez bestowed a magical Christmas Eve upon our little fleet. No wind. Flat seas. Almost balmy air. Mother Nature, according to Smith, who follows these things, was set to throw in a waxing gibbous moon, which meant more than half full. With a moon rising well before the sun set, we were to have excellent visibility.

  Fifteen boats arrived by four that afternoon, all of them with at least a string or two of Christmas lights. When we paraded into Agua Fria, we were gonna make one hell of a target.

  As the afternoon waned I became more and more anxious to hear from Nacho. He made it clear, before he left, that we were to wait until we heard from him before sailing within firing range of the village. We wanted to round the point just at dusk for maximum effect. In a place like Agua Fria, with no electricity and, therefore, no ambient light other than that promised moon, we would look like the city of New York cruising into their harbor.

  I paced and fretted, tempted to call Nacho on channel seventeen, but he’d told me not to. My voice booming out of the radio, he said, might jeopardize everything. Too much was at stake for that kind of snafu.

  Tension mounted on Raymond Johnson as the sun sank in the West. The animals picked up on the nervous strain, and became increasingly restless.

  Aunt Lil, cranky by nature, unbearable in withdrawal, grated on my last nerve with her ceaseless bellyaching. She’d discovered my confiscation of her drug stash, and tried to convince me certain pills were necessary to sustain life. Like I care? In an attempt to shut her up, I fired up the Satfone and checked out her pharmaceutical’s names on the Internet, gave her back everything that did not contain a controlled substance. Didn’t work, of course. I considered popping a couple of the stronger ones myself, but vetoed the idea until this evening had passed, and we were all safe.

  “Hetta?”

  I dove for the mike. “Nacho, thank God. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. It is comforting to know you care.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t. I just want to get this night over with.”

  “Chur you do. Are you ready?”

  “You bet.”

  “Okay, then, here goes,” and he sang: “Weeweechu a Merry Christmas; Weeweechu a Merry Christmas; Weewe
echu a Merry Christmas; And a Happy New Year.”

  Smith, myself and even Aunt Lil broke into laughter, theirs a little more enhanced than mine. I suspected they’d shared a joint when I wasn’t watching.

  When I caught my breath, I answered, “Very clever. Okay, Operation Weeweechu is officially underway.”

  I switched to channel sixteen and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines, please. And weeweechu a very Merry Christmas.”

  I would like to say we sailed into the Agua Fria harbor, easily rescued the villagers, and saved the day without incident, and it actually looked that way for the first hour.

  We rounded the point looking much like an electrified centipede. Elvis, his moanful crooning cranked to the max my speakers allow, lamented having a “Blue Christmas Without You.” People soon gathered on the beach, gawking as we formed a huge raft-up. To my mind, tying all of the boats together only made us a larger target, but that’s what Nacho wanted.

  With our lights, and the moon’s glow, there was a fair amount of visibility on the beach. Smith dinghied to shore while I held my breath. When he wasn’t blown out of the water, he signaled for others from the boats to join him.

  Dinghies were launched, and headed in, but no amount of cajoling or bribery enticed the villagers to leave. As long as those children remained hostages, they refused to budge. Of course, they didn’t know that I knew about the kids, and I had not shared that info with the other boaters. Nacho said he had a plan, and I had to trust him.

  Smith returned empty, so I left him on the boat and went in myself. My plan was to ferret out Granny Yee, see if she had any influence over the others.

  An ancient fisherman stood at the water’s edge as I eased the dinghy onto the sand. He made no move to help me pull the boat ashore, and for a moment I feared he was one of the guards Nacho had warned me about.

  “Hola, y Feliz Navidad,” I offered.

  He only nodded.

  “Uh, por favor, señor, yo quiero…” I ran out of words. What is the verb for “to find”? Encontrar? Screw it, I’d stick with the basics. “¿Esta Señora Yee aqui?”

  He only stared.

  Frustrated, I brushed by him, but he reached out and grabbed my arm. Alarmed, I spun to do battle, only to meet a sweet, if toothless smile. He pointed to his ears and mouth, and I understood he was a deaf mute.

  “Just great,” I muttered under my breath, “now what?”

  He pulled me towards a group of others who had ventured out to watch our parade, and prompted me to ask the question again. A small, attractive woman stepped from the crowd and said, in perfect English. “I am Senora Yee.”

  “Oh, good,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though I feared I was in someone’s gunsights. “I bring Christmas greetings from your grandson, Chino Yee. He is my friend.”

  She looked alarmed and shot a furtive look back into the darkened village. “You must go.”

  I ignored the warning, and blithely gushed, “Gosh, I just arrived. I’d like you to come out to the boat, so you can call Chino on my satellite phone. I know he’d love to hear from you.”

  “Oh, no, I cannot do that.”

  Others began nervously asking her what we were talking about, and whatever she said sent them skittering back towards their homes. With a quick bob of her head, she followed them. So much for saving the villagers.

  Frustrated, I tailed Granny Yee. We had just reached her house, or what I assumed was her house, when something akin to a nuclear blast almost flattened us.

  A red cloud billowed up from behind a hill to the west, followed by even more explosions. It was then that I saw two men with guns take off in the direction of the blast. Nacho said there were three or four guards. Two gone, one or two to go.

  “Where is the school house?” I asked Chino’s grandmother.

  Shaken, but suddenly understanding that I knew more about the situation than she’d thought, she scooped a terrified, bleating goat kid from her yard and yelled, “Follow me.”

  As we ran through the village, Chino’s grandmother told others to follow, and they did. Some brandished machetes, and a pitch fork or two put in mind an old vampire movie where the villagers finally get up the gumption to storm the monster’s lair. Problem was, our monster was probably packing an AK-47.

  Granny Yee stopped suddenly and motioned for quiet, then she waved me forward. The explosions had stopped for the time, and it was eerily silent except for the distant croon of Elvis. The red glow of the fire in the hills painted our faces red, bringing to mind a Heironymus Bosch rendition of Hell.

  I could no longer see the fleet, but hoped they were rapidly breaking ranks and heading for sea. As I crept behind Chino’s grandmother, my knees quaked and our footfalls, to me, sounded like drumbeats. No, wait, that was my own heartbeat drumming in my ears.

  Stopping again, my guide pointed. “There.”

  The schoolhouse was a small square building surrounded by a chain link fence. Ominously, the top of the fence, normally angled to keep out intruders, was reversed to detain the occupants. The windows were boarded shut. From within, we heard children wailing with fright and beating on the door.

  With a huff of disgust, Granny ditched the goat, scaled that fence like a mountaineer, and dropped to the other side. I followed. After getting cut all to hell, I plummeted ungracefully into the school yard, and was gasping for breath when I saw, a little late, that Grans Yee had unlocked and opened the gate.

  Parents rushed through the gate and pried the schoolhouse door open. No guards appeared, and within minutes we were all sprinting for the beach. Bless their souls, the boaters had separated from the raft-up, but waited in the harbor. Within minutes, all the children and some adults were headed for the boats. I estimated there were about twenty-five kids, and nearly a hundred adults. We had fifteen dinghies, with the average capacity to safely carry four people. The math told the story; it would take awhile to get everyone off the beaches and onto the boats.

  The first group had barely reached the cruisers when we heard a burst of gunfire. It was then I learned that most Mexicans, especially those from fishing villages, don’t swim. “We live on the water, around the water, but few of us ever learn to swim. We rely on our pangas,” Granny Yee explained when the people refused my suggestion to swim for it. “You go. We will wait for the boats to return.”

  “Truth is, I can’t really swim, either.” Which is true, but more importantly the idea of getting into that dark water, scratched and bloody, had little appeal. Not only would it sting, I’d be like so much chum.

  Her face broke into a brilliant smile. “Maybe you are Mexican and don’t know it.”

  I laughed and petted her goat. “Actually, my family were Mexican citizens at one time. Maybe that’s it. I know I like cabrito, roasted slowly over mesquite,” I teased.

  She held her goat tighter. “Not this one. He is my pet.”

  Our light patter took my mind from our plight, and after all, what could I do, anyway? I only hoped that Nacho had taken care of business and removed the bad guys. I was sure he was the one who blew the lab, a mite ahead of the drug lord’s schedule. Weeweechu a Merry Christmas, indeed.

  Smith returned to the beach on one of the first dinghies, and took on a load of folks destined for Raymond Johnson. I groaned inwardly when Granny Yee stepped in with her goat, followed by the toothless old man cradling a chicken under one arm and a duck under the other. Was there a forty day and night rainstorm in the offing?

  As the other dinghies took on passengers and left, I was soon alone on the beach, waiting for Smith to return for me. In truth, I had waited to see if Nacho would appear. Not that I really cared, of course.

  Another series of smaller explosions startled me. I turned to look in the direction of the noise and saw, coming toward me from the houses, a man. Backlit by the fires raging over the hill, I couldn’t make out who it was, but I could see, from his silhouette, that he was packing. Frightened, I backed toward the water, dete
rmined to dog paddle for it if I had to.

  Something large splashed behind me. Now scared out of my wits as the dark figure approached, I was still even more afraid of whatever sea monster lurked in the dark depths behind me. I’ll take a known threat to an unknown threat any day.

  “Stop,” I yelled, “I have a gun.” I held out my hand and pointed my finger.

  “Don’t move, Hetta.” Nacho ordered.

  Relieved, I took a step toward him.

  “I said, stay where you are,” Nacho growled, and pointed his weapon straight at me.

  “Gee, I think I’ll return your Christmas present,” I said, trying to sound tough, but my voice quavered, betraying my bravado.

  “Shut up.” He raised the gun and fired.

  My last thought as a tremendous blow slammed into my shoulder and the sand came up to meet my face was, “Men are scum.”

  Chapter 43

  “Hetta? Hetta, wake up.” Someone gently patted my cheek and flicked cool water onto my face.

  “Can’t. I’m dead. Nacho shot me.”

  A familiar voice asked, “Who’s Nacho?”

  Another answered, “Drug dealer friend of Hetta's.”

  I shook my head, still refusing to open my eyes. “No friend, he shot me.”

  “Hetta, this is Jan. You aren’t shot. I think you fainted.”

  I raised my arm and groped my shoulder. “Is that blood I feel?”

  I sensed a flashlight beam aimed at me. “Yes, but not yours.”

  I opened my eyes. Hovering faces came into focus. Jan, Chino, Martinez, and Jenks. Jenks!

  “Jenks? You’re really here?” I put my hands on his face, then grabbed him in a neck lock that threatened to topple him headlong into the sand with me. He got his balance and pulled me to my feet. I clung to him as if he would disappear if I let go.