Just Add Trouble (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 3)) (16 page)

Jan shot me a squint and a shrug, as in
what flare gun
? She’d have to wait for the rest of the story
that
story.

I pulled a business card from my pocket, where I always keep money, cards and an ID, because you just never know when you’ll need it. Them. Like when your car blows up? I offered the card. “Hetta Coffey,
Sierra Vista Observer
. And you are just the guys we’re looking for.”

Paco swaggered my way, snatched the card, and gave his buddies a,
this should be good look.

I hurried to make it good. “We’re on a special assignment to find the best off-road Baja destinations, and judging by those nifty looking trucks, you guys know your off-road. No sissy-assed dune buggies here, nothing but macho trucks and macho dudes. Well, except for old Chingo there. Don’t suppose we should feature him, ya think, Jan?”

“I guess not,” Jan huffed. “He blew up my camera.” Then, picking up my drift, she added, “So, what you got in there?” She lowered her eyes to Nacho’s crotch for a couple of beats, then pointed to his bright yellow pickup, “Four fifty four?”

Good question, but did Jan have any idea what she was talking about? What’s a 454, anyway?

Nacho gave her a once-over slowly, then grinned. “Naw, 327.”

I had to remember to give Jan a raise.

Hoping the men were uncertain about their next move, I rushed in with, “Perfect, you
and
your trucks. Just what we’re looking for. Only thing is, we have to get back to Loreto, report the accident. You know, what if I just say the car blew up by itself? That way, my rental insurance will take care of the Neon.”

“What about
mi trucke
,” Chingo whined.

“What about it? After all, you plowed into a parked vehicle. If I were you, I wouldn’t push the issue.”

He balled his fists. “I’ll tell you what I’ll push—”

Nacho grabbed his arm. “Easy,
compadre
, the Gringa might be right. With the boss gone, I think we’d better just let things go for now. Cool your jets.”

Chingo looked for a second as though he was going to challenge Nacho, but he must have thought better of it, because he threw his hands up in a disgusted “whatever” gesture. Now I knew who was in charge.

Nacho walked over to us. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. We're gonna take you to Agua Fria with us, then you can call your rental company from there.”

This is not what I wanted to hear. I saw that Oprah show, the one where we learned, in a possible hostage situation, to never, ever, let them take you to a second location. Never.

“That’s a great idea,” Jan piped up, leading me to believe that the explosion had rattled more than her ears. My mouth must have dropped open, for she pulled her lips in to signal me to shut mine, a code we’d used for years. I reluctantly let her go on. “I mean, we did want to go to Agua Fria, and even though I lost my camera, we can at least do interviews, stuff like that. We’ll get the story, take photos later.”

They must have thought we didn’t hear their earlier discussion—the one where they converted us to carrion—because they seemed to buy Jan’s insane agreement.

I was on the verge of throttling my best friend, who smiled sweetly at Nacho while Paco helped Chingo into his truck. Before I could grab her by her swanlike neck, she winked at me, then turned and batted her Betty Boops, wiggled her butt and cooed, “Can we ride with you, Nacho? Your friend,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “well, he sorta stinks of smoke and gasoline.”

“Chur. Hey, guys,” he yelled, “the ladies are with me. Lead the way.”

Still thinking it was a really bad idea, but totally out of my own, I climbed into the jump seat in the extended cab while Jan hoisted herself into the passenger side bucket seat. Even as worried as I was about our chances of surviving another day, I had to admire the interior. It was immaculate, with snazzy black carpeting and leather seats.

Nacho started the truck, waited until Paco’s red Jeep disappeared over the hill, then rolled forward. Jan scooched closer to him—no easy task with the gear shifters rising from the floor—put her hand on his arm, managed a delicate cough, and gave his bicep a squeeze. “Can’t we wait for their dust to blow away?” she purred, “it makes me all yucky.”

“Chur. Don’ want you yucky, Blondie.”

“And I could use some water. How about you, Hetta?’

“Chur, Blondie,” I growled.

Nacho cranked up the sub-woofers to the threshold of pain before hopping out and heading toward the cooler in the truck bed. His feet had barely hit the ground when Jan slid over the gear shifts, into the driver’s seat. Catching her movement in his peripheral vision, Nacho whirled around and frowned, but Jan threw those long legs out the door while managing to hike up her shorts. “Hey,” she said, “could you make that a beer, if it’s not too much Trouble?” She yelled the Trouble part, then let loose with an earsplitting wolf whistle, which Nacho seemed to think was meant for him.

“No problem,” he said with a grin, and managed a half-turn towards the cooler before he was whacked in the forehead with enough force to knock him backward, onto his butt. He cursed and groveled around on the ground, swatting at the blur of green savaging his ears and neck.

Jan swiveled back, threw the Toyota into gear, yelled, “Hetta, fasten your seat belt, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride,” and punched the gas.

Rocks and sand spat into Nacho’s face as the oversized tires dug in, He stumbled around while Jan executed a sharp U-turn and headed straight for him. In the nick of time, he saw us coming and dove to safety.

I felt like I was riding with Danica Patrick as Jan expertly downshifted, then maneuvered us along the rocky road at death-defying speeds. At least, I hoped they were death-defying.

Leaving old Nacho in a cloud of dust and feathers, she had us back to Mex 1 in minutes. Banking into a sharp left, we hit the blacktop on two wheels, wove dangerously from side to side, then settled out.

Blondie Patrick screeched to a halt, ordered me into the front seat, then burned rubber while chanting, “Jan, Jan, she’s our gal. If she can’t do it, no one shall!”

Chapter 18

I had to remember to ask Jan where she learned to drive like that, but first, we had more pressing business.

“Hey! Loreto’s the other way,” I yelled over the roar of the big engine and the boom of the woofers.

She didn’t hear me. I found the right knob, killed the stereo and repeated myself.

This time she nodded. “I know. That’s exactly where they’ll look for us. We’re headed the other way, to Chino. He’ll help us.”

“But my boat. What about it?”

“Those guys don’t know your boat’s in Santa Rosalia. Well,” she giggled, “unless they get CNN International. You don’t suppose we hurt Nacho too badly, do you?”

“Depends on your definition of hurt. We certainly put one big dent in his overblown ego, but other than that, he’ll live. Who cares, anyhow?”

“Oh, I just kinda think he’s cute, in a criminal sort of way. Anyhow, since he ain’t dead he’s gonna be looking for us, and since we mentioned Loreto, my money says that’s where he’ll start. Maybe that gives us enough time to get to Chino and ditch this truck.”

She was right on all counts. Nacho
was
cute in a criminal sort of way, and we had to get this big yellow SOB off Mex 1 ASAP, find a safe place to ditch it, and get a less conspicuous mode of transport. “Do we know where to turn off?”

“Yep, Chino and I went to Ciudad Constitución one day, so I know the way. I can get us to the dive boat, for sure.”

“Do we have enough gas?”

She peered at the gauge. “We have a quarter tank, but don’t know what this baby burns. I know there’s a gas station in Insurgentes, not too far up the road. You have any money?”

“I have…” I rummaged into my pocket, “two hundred pesos, a couple of bidness cards, some lip-gloss and my driver’s license. I left everything else on the boat.  How about you?”

“
Nada
. Everything was in my bag. My burned up bag. Dammit! I don’t have anything. No driver’s license, passport, Mexican tourist visa, credit card, nada. And to make matters worse, that bag was a Manolo Blahnik.”

“Designer bags are overrated for living in a beach hut, anyway. Let’s concentrate on our immediate crisis. I have enough pesos for some gas and a couple of tacos, but do we risk pulling into a Pemex station? This truck stands out like a nun in a strip joint.”

“Or you, anywhere.”

“You can talk. At least I’m short. We need hats.” I dug around in the cab and found a handful of baseball caps under the seat, a Baja 1000 sweatshirt, and a Hussong’s Cantina tee. After almost running off the road a couple of times trying to dress on the run, Jan pulled over, donned the tee shirt and cap. I was stuck with the sweatshirt, even though the temperature as we crossed the desert was at least eighty. In our new togs, with our red and blonde hair pushed up under caps, I hoped we’d be taken for just another couple of off-roader California dudes in a bright yellow wanna-be Baja 1000 knockoff, seeking fun, babes, beer and adventure in Baja.

Just as we were ready to get going again, a loud squawk caught our attention, and a very tired and thirsty Trouble landed in my lap. Spreading his wings and panting, he drank the water I offered, then gave us a serious cussing before falling dead asleep. Hot as it was, I nonetheless stuffed him under my sweatshirt, lest he get bounced out. He slept soundly, not even rousing when we stopped for gas. The Pemex gas station attendant cast a wary eye at the lump under my shirt that moved and bird-snored, but I gave him a ten peso tip for cleaning the windows so he smiled and waved as we left.

We stopped again to pick up fish tacos from a roadside stand before speeding towards Chino, and our salvation. Our plans changed abruptly when I spotted a black and white lurking near the left fork in the road, the one that led to Cuidad Constitución, and then on to San Carlos, and the dive boat. “Cop! Stop!” I yelled.

Startled, Jan hit the brakes. “Where?”

“At the intersection, behind the sign.” I pointed. “He’s probably just sitting there to slow down traffic, but I’d rather we didn’t roll by him.”

“Okay, then, we’ll go to Lopez Mateos. It’s only a little over twenty miles, we just take the right turn instead of the left.”

“Then what?”

Jan smiled. “Hey, I have family there, remember?”

Jan’s new
familia
in Lopez Mateos included Chino’s cousins, about twenty of them, a few aunts and uncles, and some relatives I never quite fit into the family tree. They hid the truck without asking any questions, and agreed to go get Chino via panga. We stayed behind, declining a boat ride into San Carlos; the last thing I needed was for Dickless to spot me on his own turf.

Exhausted, Jan and I headed for garden hammocks, and naps. I crawled into mine, made myself comfortable and drifted off, until some subliminal curiosity roused me. “Jan, you awake?”

“Hmmhmm.”

“Where did you learn to drive like that?”

“While you were in Japan, that guy I dated from Vegas? He had a couple of these things he raced in the desert. He let me drive once in awhile.”

“You did good.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

We both conked out for an hour, until Trouble sang us awake. I’d put him in an empty cage Juanita, Chino’s second or somesuch cousin, had on her patio. Trouble was less than happy about being treated like any old bird after his heroic attack on Nacho, but since there were Mexican men about, and Jan wanted to keep up good family relations, he just had to suffer. We covered his cage with a towel and he quieted down long enough for us to catch a couple of winks. Truth be known, I think he was as pooped as we were, because his protests were short lived.

Now, after we’d all copped some zees, his dulcet tones brought other family members about, all in awe of his singing and talking abilities. One cousin offered me fifty bucks for Trouble, and I have to admit I was tempted. We were flat broke and without transportation. With fifty bucks, I could catch a bus back to Santa Rosalia.

“Hetta, you aren’t really considering that offer, are you?” Jan asked, her voice dripping disapproval.

“You think I can get more?”

She gave me a look of disgust.

“Okay, okay, just kidding, but if he ups it to a hundred…” I waggled my hand. “Or even better, I could pull a
Skin Game
.”

“What’s that?”

“There is this old movie, one of my dad’s favorites, with James Garner and Lou Gossett. Garner and Gossett play con men who hit on the perfect con. They ride into town, Garner sells Gosset off as his slave for big bucks, then Gossett either escapes or Garner springs him, and they go to the next town. Trouble could easily spring himself.”

“That’s brilliant, but I won’t let you do it to these nice folks. However, it’s an idea if we get stuck and need dough.”