Just Add Trouble Page 3

  Swatting wildly at the biting bugs, I yelled, “Jenks! I’m headed inside. Get this son of a bitch underway.” Slamming the door behind me, I turned on the air conditioner, then emptied an entire can of bug spray into the cabin. Jenks quickly raised the anchor and motored toward San Evaristo while I slammed down two antihistamines, jumped into the shower, then slathered myself with Preparation H. Hey, read the label. Stops itching and reduces swelling.

  By sunset, I was running a slight fever as itchy bumps popped out all over my legs and arms. I took more antihistamines, glommed on more Prep H, and finally fell asleep. Next morning, lured by the smell of coffee brewing, I dragged my polka dot bod out of bed, and joined Jenks on deck. In a blatant ploy to garner sympathy, I pointed out the bites marring tender skin on my ankles and behind my knees. Lucky for him, he wisely refrained from speculating why I suffered no bites on my face.

  I was feeling mighty sorry for itchy old me when my best friend, Jan, called on the Satfone. I’d been trying to reach her for two weeks, but her amour du jour’s cell phone service kept repeating the same message, fuera de servico, which meant the damned thing wasn’t working. No wonder, what with her living on some godforsaken beach with a guy who spends his life counting whales. Okay, so he’s a world renowned marine biologist with tons of letters after the Brigido Comacho Yee, but he’s still a beachcomber of sorts, just a very handsome one, with a job.

  “Hey, Hetta, how are you and Jenks doing? And where are you?”

  “Miserable, somewhere in the Baja desert.”

  “Must be hell on your props.”

  “You know what I mean. I was attacked by winged creatures,” I whined.

  “You’ll heal,” she said, brushing off my snivel. “What else are you doing?”

  So much for compassionate best friends. I made a mental note to make her pay for her crass lack of pathos in the near future. “We’re cruising along the Baja, gunk holing from anchorage to anchorage. We plan going as far north as Santa Rosalia, pick up fuel there, and head back for Cabo.”

  “Oh, yeah? Chino’s grandmother lives along there somewhere. We’re gonna go down and see her one of these days. Get her blessing.”

  “That’ll be…what? Blessing?”

  “Chino and I are thinking of getting married.”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  “No, silly.”

  “Then why are you getting married?”

  This evidently caught her off guard. We were, after all, products of the feminine revolution, even though I was too young to subscribe when Ms. Magazine came out, and my mother certainly never subscribed, nor did she ascribe to any of what she considered feminist nonsense. My mom achieved everything she wanted without burning a single bra, and couldn’t understand how I missed inheriting such a fine southern trait as the art of the feminine finagle.

  I thrummed my fingers, refusing to fill dead air time while waiting for Jan’s suitable answer for what I considered a perfectly reasonable question. Why would she consider marrying someone she recently met if she wasn’t knocked up?

  Finally, she spoke. “Uh, I’m in love?”

  “Jan, you’ve been in love umpteen million times.”

  “He asked me?”

  “Aha! That is a first.”

  “Why are you being so mean?”

  Actually, I don’t know why I was being such a crab. Jan called to share her good news, and I was raining all over her love parade. Why? Jealousy? Jenks certainly never used the M word. Oh, we’d skirted around it, made plans for the immediate future, stuff like that. “How about, I itch all over and you don’t care? Or that we had a run-in with a couple of thugs, and were terrorized by giant green sea monsters?”

  “Thugs? I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Yeah, been there, done that, haven’t we? Those guys that terrorized us in Mag Bay…they are still in jail, aren’t they?”

  “Far as I know. Chino has ears everywhere around here, so we’ll know if something changes. Did you think maybe your thugs have a connection to our thugs?

  “Crossed my mind, but Jenks doesn’t think so. He’s probably right and these two were just bullies trying to get free gasoline. I doubt there’s a connection.”

  “Well, still, be careful.”

  Her sincere concern put the guilties on me. “Jan, I’m sorry for raining on your happiness. I have a problem picturing you giving up your successful consulting bidness and living in a thatched hut on the beach for the rest of your life. With a guy who adores whales above all else.”

  “Actually, we’re in Lopez Mateos, living in a motel while Chino and his crew get the Tanuki Maru ready for the search for the San Carlos. We’ll be living aboard while he heads the expedition to find the galleon. He is a marine archeologist, you know, as well as a marine biologist.”

  “Yes, I know. He worked for me, remember? The Tanuki Maru? I thought the Mexican government confiscated that ship when we ratted out the Japanese for a plot to catch and can whales.”

  “They did. Tanuki Corporation, as reparation for what they claim was a rogue operation, in no way sanctioned by them, of course, generously volunteered their ship and the funds for the expedition. In exchange for an okay from Chino on their water desalination plant, needless to say. So, Chino and I will spend the next two years searching for treasure. How cool is that?”

  “I guess living in a rust-bucket is better than a palapa on the beach, but not much. Has Chino been back to the site yet, found anything else since we dredged up that astrolabe?”

  “A few silver coins, some broken pottery. The expedition really hasn’t begun officially, but Chino has made a few dives. Guess what? That astrolabe? Who woulda thought a rusty, four hundred-year-old navigational aid is worth a cool million.”

  “What? Chino said it only had archeological value. I want my money.”

  “Hetta, it isn’t yours. It belongs to the world.”

  “Screw the world. My anchor dredged it up.”

  “And that will go down in the history books. “

  “I don’t want to go down in history. I want to go down to the bank.”

  “Forget it.”

  “And so should you forget about it. Marriage, I mean. You and Chino have only known each other a couple of months. I’ll bet your skin’s already lizardlike and your roots are showing,” I challenged, quite ignoring that my ginger locks could use a tint themselves, or that I was peeling, and not from overpriced microdermabasion. “Do you ever get a hot shower? And more importantly, has his mamacita taught you how to make tortillas yet?”

  “She did mention that they are better hand-patted.”

  Her defensive tone told me that I hit the nail on the head as to her future as dive crew, or rather, galley slave. I grinned. Payback. I delivered the coup de grace. “Before you do anything rash, dear, do stuff this thought into your love besotted brain. You will never, ever, spend another day at Elizabeth Arden. Have fun.”

  Before I hung up I heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by a little, “Eeeek.”

  Axing cupid is an ugly job, but sometimes a friend’s gotta do what a friend’s gotta do, ¿verdad?

  Chapter 3

  After a couple of days I recovered somewhat from Jan’s depressing news, and no-seeum poisoning, so we continued north, although I was secretly harboring fantasies of a five star hotel in Cabo. One with a fresh water pool devoid of snakelike creatures.

  I did have a newer rule of thumb, though. If an anchorage sported so much as a speck of green on shore, any vegetation in which could lurk even a single bushwhacking sand flea with teeth like Tyrannosaurus Rex, we’d give it a miss. We did visit several very, very brown, remote villages, and were always delighted by how gracious the villagers were, and how few of what we deemed necessities they required. Of course, it’s easy making snap judgments from the comfort of a luxury yacht, but as far as we could tell, they were content with their lives. It is my sincere wish that some Hollywood personalities never take it upon themselves to in
form these people how miserable they should be.

  After experiencing a slight overheat indication on our port engine gauge, we made an unscheduled detour into the small bay of Agua Fria. Arriving as the sun dropped behind the distant mountains, we planned to stay the night and troubleshoot the engine problem the next morning, but it was not to be.

  Typical of the other dusty villages we visited along the Baja shore, Agua Fria’s beach was dotted with small casas and a smattering of pangas. It wasn’t until we anchored and I checked out the town with binoculars that the difference from previous villages became apparent.

  “Jenks, I see at least five shiny, jacked-up, snazzy trucks along the beach. Ya think maybe it’s an off-road expedition of some kind? I know there’s lots of them that come down here.”

  “Could be. Lars took his Harley on a tour a couple of years back, had a blast.”

  I lifted the binocs and continued sweeping the beach. “Gee, the houses look much newer, and much better than the usual palapas. Maybe this is some kind of resort.” Visions of Margaritas and broiled lobster danced in my head. “Oh, there’s someone on the beach. And he’s waving.”

  “Probably wants to sell us something. He’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning.”

  “Maybe not, looks like he’s gonna swim out.” I watched as the man waded into the water. He was waist-deep when three other guys, one with a cell phone stuck on his ear, ran onto the beach. The wader looked back, dove under.

  “Uh-oh, Jenks, problema. Looks like someone’s after our swimmer. Maybe not, could be some guys horsing around. Doesn’t look like it, though. Dammit, what if he needs help? What should we do?”

  “Start the engines. We are outta here. Look casual, like you didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “What if that poor guy is trying to get to us?”

  “He’s going to have to swim faster. Let’s move.”

  As soon as I fired up the engines, we quickly raised the anchor and Jenks joined me on the flying bridge. Grabbing the binoculars as we powered out of the anchorage, he ducked down and peeked over the flying bridge rail.

  “Do you see the swimmer?”

  “He’s back on the beach.”

  “Does he look like he needs help?”

  “Can’t tell. I do know this, though, we can’t do much against guys with guns.”

  “Guns?”

  “Bristling with ‘em. Okay, throttle up to max speed, I’ll keep an eye on them. If they go for the pangas, we’ll put out a distress call.”

  We went straight out to sea and after a while it was evident no one followed. Because we didn’t know the area, navigational markers in that part of the sea are nonexistent, and charts unreliable, we simply headed out into open, safer, water. When in doubt, ship out, that’s my motto. Jenks took the helm and handed me the binoculars.

  Dusk was making it more and more difficult to see anything as we pulled away from shore, but as far as I could tell, the pangas remained on the beach. Soon we were far enough off shore that I could no longer see the village. I started to put down the glasses, but Jenks shook his head, so I worriedly watched behind us for another hour, in case someone followed.

  “Looks like we lucked out,” I finally pronounced with a sigh of relief. It seemed that both our entry and exit were of little interest to anyone other than the man who waved and swam toward us. Did we witness a crime, or just a boys will be boys moment, dudes having some fun with guns on the beach? We’d probably never know.

  There was something else niggling at me, and after a while it hit me. “Jenks, no dogs.”

  “Huh?”

  “Another thing bugging me about Agua Fria. Not just the fancy pangas, muscle trucks, cell phones, guns, and that swimmer. Could be a bunch of vacationing surfer dudes with too much Tequila under their belts. It’s what’s missing. Dogs, kids. Not a single niño or perro. There are always urchins and skinny mongrels on every beach. I always save table scraps for the pups.”

  “Maybe they have a Humane Society and day care.”

  “Yeah, right. Let’s strike this harbor from our future itinerary, what do you think?”

  “Got my vote. Is that your phone ringing?”

  I made a dash for the main saloon, but missed the call. On a hunch, I dialed the Trob, my mentor and the fellow who keeps me from toppling into bankruptcy. He works for my former employer, the multi-bajillion dollar, San Francisco based corporation, Baxter Brothers. The brothers and I parted on less than friendly terms years before, but Fidel Wontrobski remained my friend. He threw me the bones the Brothers Baxter turned their noses up at, which tells you something about some of the projects I get, for Baxter Brothers makes Halliburton look like the Salvation Army.

  “Hello, Hetta.”

  “How do you do that? Do you have caller ID?”

  “Nope.”

  Did I mention that conversations with the Trob can be a lit-tle trying? With an Einsteinian IQ and the social skills of a three-year-old, he’d actually made quantum leaps into the real world of we mere mortals since marrying my friend, Allison, but he was still light years away from making small talk.

  “Then how did you know it was me?”

  “Just talked to Allison.”

  “And?”

  “They are fine.”

  “I meant, Wontrobski, how does the fact that you talked to your wife explain how you knew it was me calling?”

  “Only you, Allison, and Jenks have this number. Jenks never calls.”

  “Gee, I’m flattered. I think. Anyhow, do you know where my VW ended up after the police fished it from the estuary? I’m gonna need a car when I get back, and I can’t use Jenks’s forever.”

  “Compound.”

  “The cops still have it?”

  “Yes.”

  Sigh. “Can you get it for me?”

  “Nope. Allison tried.”

  If I desired compound sentences, maybe I should talk to Allison. After all, she is my attorney of record on those occasions when I need legal advice, which lately seems to be all the time. A black libber lawyer, she is ideally suited to my problems, which are usually dustups with white, male, conservative types.

  “Is Allison at home?”

  “Nope.”

  My patience, with which I’m not overly endowed, fizzled. “Where. Is. She?” I growled.

  “You mad at me?”

  Yes. “No, sorry. I think I need to talk with Allison about my car. I’d like to get it restored, if possible.”

  “Okay.”

  Two can play this game. “Office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Oh, Wontrobski, did you call me a few minutes ago?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I’m clairvoyant,” I gloated, enjoying turning the tables on him.

  “Want a job?”

  “After that last piece of shit you sent me on? You are joking.”

  “Big bucks. Fast.” The man definitely knows how to get my attention.

  “Lemme guess, O.J. Simpson needs a new wife, and somehow my name came up?”

  “No. I think you’ll really like this gig.”

  The Trob said gig? Being married to Allison was truly having an effect on him. “Okay, give me the lowdown. When? Where? What? How long? How much? And who do I have to kill?”

  This is the kind of non-rhetorical quiz the Trob thrives on. He didn’t miss a beat. “Now, or sooner. Mexico. Independent feasibility study. Two months tops. Top dollar, plus expenses. No one.”

  “That sound suspiciously like the last gig you sent me on. The one that almost got me killed?”

  “This one’s legit.”

  Now there’s a new concept. But wait, there’s surely more. “If it’s legit, why isn’t Baxter Brothers taking it on?”

  “Conflict of interest.”

  “How come?”

  “If the project goes, we plan to bid it. We want an independent and no one will ever suspect Baxters hired you.”

  “Hey! I think there was an
insult in there. Don’t even try telling me the brothers Baxter asked for me.”

  “They did. They were impressed with the Tanuki deal.”

  “Impressed? You’re kidding. I damned near started another Mexican-American war.”

  “You did the job.”

  True, in an, the end justifies the means, sort of way. I was hired to see if a saltwater desalination plant and salt kiln by-product could co-exist with a whale sanctuary, and the project is a go. Taken at purely face value, I did the job, took my handsome reward, and sailed into the sunset. Okay, so I have a few bullet holes in my boat, several people were killed, and my best friend ran away with a Mexican whale expert. I guess all’s well that ends well?

  “Where in Mexico?”

  “Guaymas.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Where are you?”

  I told him.

  “Check your charts. You’re probably only eighty nautical miles from Guaymas.”

  “Fidel Wontrobski, son of a Polish communist and engineer extraordinaire, now delving into the nautical. What can the world expect next?”

  He hates sarcasm. “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  I hung up and called Allison’s office. After identifying myself to a three-deep front line secretarial and clerical defense, she picked up. “Hey, how’s Mexico?”

  “Beautiful. I never want to return to Oakland, but when I do, I’ll need my car.”

  “Can’t have it back. Fidel bought it for me fair and square.”

  “Not my old Beemer. My VW. The Trob said you tried to get it released. What happened?”

  “They want to talk to you. Since you steadfastly refuse to call them regarding a certain incident up here in Oakland, they are holding your car hostage.”

  “I wasn’t even in the country when it hit the drink. Why me?” As if I didn’t know.

  “As if you don’t know. There was a body in your car. The Oakland Police Department take a dim view of such things.”

  “Garrison put it there. The police know that.”