Just Add Water (1) (29 page)

Prodded along by my own shotgun, I led as
we exited the cabin—away from those lovely cameras and Jenks’s voice—back to
the aft deck. As we prepared to descend the swim ladder to the dive platform I
looked around, hoping to see the promised armada of gunboats. I wasn’t the only
one trying to pull off a bluff. Not a blinking red or blue light or a circling
copter in sight. Crap, there’s never a warship around when you need one. I’d
have to write my congressman.

I turned to go down the ladder, but Alan
jerked me back by my tee shirt collar. It hurt. And I noticed his hand, when he
let go, was bloody. I had a feeling the blood wasn’t his.

“Hold it,” he said, wiping his hand on
his sweater.

“You know, Alan, you’ll never get that
stain out,” I said, giggling. What the hell was wrong with me? I’d only had one
sip of my drink.

“Aren’t you the cool one. I fail to see
the humor in our situation. Especially
your
situation. Now listen carefully, Hetta. I’m going down the ladder first. I
don’t want you to get any smart idea about jumping.”

“Look, you don’t even need me. You can
see for yourself that Jenks was bluffing.”

“Maybe, maybe not. The Coast Guard isn’t
here yet, but I’ll wager they’re on the way, so I’ll need you for a bit longer.
You stand very, very still, because if you so much as blink an eyelash I’ll
blow you into tiny pieces.”

I nodded numbly as he began down the ladder
one rung at a time, the gun trained on my forehead. I was losing hope. We’d be
long gone before the Coast Guard showed up. After Ed called, he’d obviously
turned on the cameras and been listening and watching, but had Alan or I
mentioned that he had a dinghy and a sailboat nearby? I didn’t think so. We
could be in Alan’s boat and out of the cove before anyone showed up. They
wouldn’t know to look for his boat. Drat.

Alan, standing on the last rung of the
ladder, never took his eyes from me as he stepped onto the dive platform. And
smack onto Eco.

My duck protested with a loud, gravely
squawk that sounded a great deal like “AFLAC” and began pecking wildly at
Alan’s fashionably bare ankles.

Alan, startled, fell backwards, but not
before he pulled the trigger. I shut my eyes and dodged as the shotgun roared.
I was a beat too slow. Hot buckshot parted my hair in several places, one
pellet plowing a stinging trench down the center of my scalp and knocking me
backward onto the sundeck. Prone and dazed, I heard Alan flailing in the cold
bay water and Eco quacking to beat the band.

Pushing myself to seated, I was almost
forced flat again by my whirling head. Bracing on one arm, I could hear the
persistent thumping noise of Alan trying to get purchase on the slimy,
duck-fertilized dive platform. I crawled to the rail and looked over the side.

The shotgun was gone, no doubt
twenty-five feet or so under the boat. Alan, who by his own admission was a
non-swimmer, gave up on the slick platform and dog paddled towards his dinghy.
If he got into the inflatable, he was only a short step away from boarding
Sea Cock,
and it would be over my dead
body. Which, by the way, was what I was sure I would be if he managed to board.
Blood ran into my eyes and my head spun. With one last burst of
adrenalin-fueled will, I pulled myself to my feet, staggered down the stairs to
the galley locker and grabbed my .38. Seconds later, I was back on the sundeck.
Lights shown from many boats in the anchorage, their crews no doubt juddered awake
by a gunshot vibrating the tranquil early morning. Finally, I heard a siren and
saw, racing towards the anchorage, several flashing blue lights. The cavalry.

Fussy quacking and a splashing noise drew
my attention back aft, where Alan, much to the displeasure of Eco, had one foot
in his dinghy and another on my dive platform.

“Oh, Alan,” I called sweetly.

He looked up and I trained the Smith and
Wesson to a spot between his eyebrows. The dark eyes that one time sought to
mesmerize and seduce now were wide with alarm. And rightly so, because I was
extremely pissed off.

Looking me square in the eyes, Alan,
despite his obvious fear, defiantly shifted his weight forward, preparing to
step from the dinghy onto the dive platform.

I put the first round into a section of
his inflatable’s flotation chamber, not six inches from his foot. It popped
like a balloon and he fell back on his ass, cringing and stunned. As he huddled
in the center of the dink, I took aim at one of the remaining air chambers.

“This,” I pulled the trigger, “is for
stealing my mail.”
Kapow
!
 
The bullet hit with a satisfying smack and
whoosh of escaping air. The dinghy listed to port.

“And for shooting at me and sticking me
in the neck with my own Georg Jensen silver.”
Kablooie!

“This is for stepping on my duck.”
Kablam!

 
I
was really starting to enjoy this.
POW!
POW! POW!
One by one the remaining chambers blew and the dingy began to
take on more and more water.

Satisfied I had sunk the bastard, I
started to put down the gun, then changed my mind. I reloaded. “And for
invading New Orleans, you Redcoat!” I let his dinghy have three more rounds.

As the smoke cleared, I was rewarded with
a whimper from Alan and the satisfying hiss of escaping air. I
think
it was from the dinghy.

“In case you didn’t count, you lowlife
son of a bitch, I saved three special bullets for your gas tank. I can’t miss
in three. Try putting one foot on my boat and I’ll turn you into extra crispy
shark bait. Here, let me get that line for you.”

He watched with dull eyes as I untied his
dinghy painter and threw it in the water. A stiffening breeze immediately
started blowing what was left of his dinghy away from
Sea Cock
.

Alan sat, dazed and adrift in a sinking
dink, foisted by my own
canard
.

“
Help me, Hetta! Hetta, please. I’m sinking. I can’t swim.”

Who could ignore such a pitiful
plea?

I could. I yelled back, “I can’t
swim either, Alan. Looks like this ain’t your day. Night. Whatever.” Even if I
could swim, I couldn’t and wouldn’t jump in that old cold bay. I was so
overwhelmingly exhausted that there was no way I could save the rat bastard if
I’d wanted to. Which I didn’t.
 

I crumpled to
Sea Cock’s
deck, cradling the still warm .38 in my lap. I was
shaking badly and nauseated by the sight of my own blood running down my arms
from wounds in my neck and scalp. Wounds, I might add, inflicted by the very
man now pleading for me to save his sorry ass. I wondered if the words “divine
justice” meant anything at all to him.

 
Evidently not. He continued to whine lies.

“Hetta, I’m truly sorry. I really
mean it. I wouldn’t have killed you. I was desperate for that key. I’ll do
anything. Don’t let me drown. Please, as a friend.”

A friend in need is a pest.

I struggled to my feet, worked my way to
the flying bridge and flipped on the spotlight. After a couple of sweeps, I saw
Alan. A one-foot chop slapped at his rapidly deflating dinghy. Yep, he was
sinking, all right.

Alan shook his fist at me, which
caused what was left of the dinghy to slip out from under him. He went under as
well, but came back up spluttering. He glared in my direction and yelled.
“Hetta, you fat bitch. May you rot in hell.”

I always
was
a sucker for sweet talk.

I sighed and began releasing the
clips on my dinghy chocks. I would lower it and let the wind carry it in Alan’s
direction. If he hadn’t drowned by then, he could crawl in. Before I was able
to launch the inflatable with my electric davit, I had to first start the
generator. Alan would just have to, appropriately, dog paddle. The anchorage
was getting choppier by the minute, whipped up by, wouldn’t you know it, a west
wind. Friggin’ dandy.

I made my wobbly way to the main
cabin, but by the time I reached the control panel to turn on the genset, I
could barely stand. I didn’t understand why. Sure, I was bleeding pretty good
and feeling featherbrained after the struggle with Alan, but surely I could
handle—

“Hetta. Hetta, can you hear me?” I
heard a disembodied voice say. My first thought was that Alan had somehow
regained access to the boat and was here to finish me off. Then I realized the
voice belonged to Jenks.

“I hear you, you...deserter.” I
wanted to say more, a lot more, but I was too tired.

“Sweetheart, we can talk about that
later.”

Sweetheart?
I’d like to carve his sweet heart out and stuff....
Jenks was still
talking. His voice was all wavy, coming in and out. And the lights in the cabin
were dimming. The batteries must have been lower than I thought. Must be the
spotlight drawing them down.

“Hetta,
listen to me. Put your fingers over that neck wound and push really hard.
Someone will be there to help you in a few minutes. Hang in there, honey.”

“No problemo,
honey
,” I said, and giggled.

I tried to lift my hand to do as he
said, but it was soooo heavy. I sat heavily into my desk chair and, by leaning
onto my elbow, was able to cradle my neck and apply pressure. Blood ran down my
arm, pooled on the desk and then dripped onto the rug. Well, that would have to
go. Never can get bloodstains out of wool, you know.
Merde
, a gal just can’t seem to keep a carpet these days.

I suddenly felt very, very cold and
then the lights went out.

* * *

“...and just look at what this
boating has done to your hands. These nails!” I felt mother’s hand holding
mine, heard her soothing voice and then an emery board began smoothing ragged
edges from my fingernails.

“Mama? What are you doing on the
boat?” I said. Evidently she didn’t hear me, because she kept filing and
talking, filing and talking. I forced my eyes open so I could see her, but when
I focused, it was Daddy holding my hand.

“Thanks for the manicure,” I said,
startling him. He grinned, I went back to sleep and when I next opened my eyes
Mama, Daddy, Jan, Detective Martinez, and Jenks were all staring at me. Was I
dead? Oh,
merde
.

I then realized I couldn’t possibly
have croaked, because RJ wasn’t there and I know for absolute damned certain
that when I do die I’ll see that dog again. So I figured, if I’m not dead, I
must still be at Clipper Cove. How did these folks all get on
Sea Cock
? I never even got the dinghy
lowered for Alan. Alan? I struggled to get up, get away from him, but Jenks
pulled me to his chest and I went back to sleep. But not before wondering who
in the hell redecorated my boat. In white, for pity’s sake!

Zut
alors!
That blue had started to grow on me.

49

I was released from Berkeley’s Alta
Bates Hospital two days later, still a little weak and with a few stitches in
my neck and a couple of new parts in my hair. Other than that, I was fine, if
you can call losing three days and several pints of blood “fine.”

Alan, it seemed, had managed to
barely nick my carotid artery with my designer icepick, but because it was a
quick in-and-out puncture, the muscle layers constricted, closing off the
wound. It was only when we struggled again on the back deck that the puncture
wound suddenly opened and put me in serious jeopardy. If Alan had jabbed a
little slower, or if medical help had not already been on the way, I’da been
residing in an urn next to RJ.

Jenks drove me from the hospital to
the boat, helped me settle in and then dropped Mama and Daddy at their hotel at
Jack London Square. I was still too tired to give him a ration of shit for his
disappearing act. Besides, he was being way too nice to me and, on top of that,
he had my parents totally charmed. I’d extract my pound of flesh later, when
the parental defense league returned to Texas.
 

I took a little nap after Jenks
left and when I woke up, I could hear someone rattling pots and pans in my
galley. Pulling on a robe, I worked my way up the stairs towards the racket.
Jenks was frying something that smelled wonderful.

“I hope you don’t think feeding me,
treating me so well in the hospital, and buttering up my parents is going to
get you off the hook, Jenks Jenkins.”

“Why would I think that? You
already told me, in no uncertain terms, how you felt. Back at Alta Bates.”

“I did?”

“You sure did. Let’s see if I can
remember....”

“Uh, never mind.” I didn’t
remember, that’s for sure, but taking into consideration my frame of mind
before Alan attacked me, I could only imagine what I’d laid on Jenks. “It was
the drugs talking, I’m sure.”

“Those drugs have some vocabulary,
Hetta. I don’t think I’ve ever heard so many ways to call a man a bastard, and
I was in the navy for twenty years. The nursing staff started taking notes at
one point.” Jenks grinned and turned over the bacon. “How do you want your
eggs?”

“Over easy, with a little crow on
the side, I guess,” I said meekly.

Jenks nodded and started breaking
eggs. “Martinez said he’d stop by later and fill you in on Alan, or whatever
his real name is. My money’s on sharks, though.”

“Huh?” I vaguely remembered
Martinez standing at my bedside at the hospital, but I couldn’t remember what
he’d said. “Sharks?”

“Alan. The guy you tried to kill?
Threw off your boat into a stormy sea?”

“I know who Alan is,” I growled, “I
don’t remember what Martinez said. Quit treating me like a two-year-old.”

Jenks ignored me and flipped my
eggs over, easy. “Toast?”

“Are you gonna tell me, or am I
going to have to nail you with that frying pan?”

“Now, that’s more like it. My
little Hetta, back at last.”

“Your little Hetta? Listen buster,
I haven’t decided yet whether to kiss you or kill you, so don’t push your
luck.”

“I’ll settle for the kiss.”

Our
eggs got cold.

* * *

 
Fresh out of a hot shower, I was munching on reheated bacon when
Martinez knocked on the hull and came aboard. He handed me a bunch of daisies.
“You sure look a lot better, Hetta. I got to admit, though, I sort of liked you
comatose.”

“I’ve always liked you comatose,
Detective.”

“She’s baaaaack,” Jenks quipped
from the galley. “Want some coffee?”

Martinez shook his head. “No
coffee, thanks. Trying to quit. So, Annie Oakley, I guess you want to know
about your Alan.”

“He is not
my
Alan. And Jenks tells me you can’t find him, so what’s to know?”

Martinez looked at Jenks, who
shrugged.

“You don’t know about the rubies?”
Martinez asked.

“What rubies? Oh, let me guess. In
the locker at the Key Note Club. Rubies?”

“You
got it. Lots of ‘em. Jenks had to turn them over to the Japanese police, but …”

“Jenks? So you
were
in Tokyo. Why didn’t you call me? Let me know what you were
doing? You, you.…”

Martinez intervened. “Uh, Hetta,
save it for later. I didn’t come here to referee a love spat.”

“Then why
are
you here, Detective? Sorry, that sounded really rude and I
didn’t mean it to. I get cranky when people try to kill me and others don’t
tell me why.”

“No offense taken.”

“Good, then I can continue to be
cranky? I mean, you don’t have Alan and you don’t know where he is, so do you
think that maniac is still alive? Why am I not getting a warm and fuzzy feeling
here?”

“He could possibly still be alive,
but he would have no reason to mess with you now. If he is alive, he must know
the rubies have been found. It’s in all the papers.” He dug a newspaper
clipping out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “Extra, extra, read all
about it. I’ve always wanted to say that.”

I took the clipping and Jenks
handed me my reading glass. For his kindness I gave him a dirty look, then read
the article. “Holy shit!”

The
Examiner
article claimed a cache of rubies recovered in Tokyo by an
unidentified Bay Area man had an estimated value in the millions. The bag of
flawless Burmese Mogok rubies, not one of them less than six carats, could be
valued at up to fifteen thousand dollars a carat because they are becoming so
rare.

“So, unidentified Bay Area man, how
many stones were in the bottle?” I asked Jenks.

He grinned. “A bunch. The bartender
and I counted at least twenty before the Japanese police showed up to take them
into custody.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t take
you
into custody.”

“They did. And didn’t allow phone
calls.”

“You’ve been in a Japanese jail?”

“For several days. Nice jail, but
the food! Lower sea life forms and noodles. I would have killed for a Big Mac.
But, I’ve been in worse brigs.”

“How’d you get out?”

 
“Commander let me out. They were short on pilots.”

I gave Jenks the look he deserved.
“How did you get out of the
Japanese
jail?”

He nodded at the detective. “Martinez, here. I was
finally allowed a call to the American Embassy and they called the OPD for me.”

 
“Wait a minute! When was that? The last time you were on my boat,
Martinez, you didn’t know anything about the key until I told you. Why didn’t
you call me when the Japanese called you? You knew I was worried.”

“You were already out cold by the
time I could tell you.”

“I was? Then how did Jenks...Aha!
You used the security system from Japan? You were in Japan when Alan was on my
boat? Oh, boy, am I glad I didn’t know that. I thought you were coming to my
rescue.”

“Nope, I was out of jail, waiting
for a hop home. Once I realized what was happening on
Sea Cock
, I talked my way onto a general’s jet headed for Hawaii
and from there I got another fast hop. You were in the hospital by the time I
finally got here.”

Martinez was nodding and grinning.
“Brinkmanship, Coffey, brinkmanship.”

He had a point. Once again I had
narrowly skirted the brink.

“Okay, okay, I get your not so
subtle message, Martinez.” I said. He only continued giving me that idiotic,
lopsided grin, so I waved the newspaper clipping in the air. “Now, you two,
let’s talk about something really important. Rubies. I want to hear more about
these here rubies.” My mental calculator whirred. “Twenty stones, six carats
each, fifteen grand a carat. Almost two million bucks, give or take a hundred
thou or two. Wow! No wonder Hudson and Alan were so desperate to get those
rocks. And to think, I had the key all the while.
Zut, alors!
I coulda been a
 
contender.”

Martinez shook his head. “And you
could have been dead. Hudson and Alan were lightweights compared to their
cohorts. One of the reasons Hudson waited so long to try to find you was that
those stones evidently belonged to a bunch of very nasty Southeast Asian hoods
he ripped off. He couldn’t show his face anywhere in the Pacific Rim without
losing it. I figure he hooked up with Alan, thinking if he could get the key
maybe Alan could retrieve the stones, but Alan had other plans. No honor
amongst thieves and all that. Not too swift, your Hudson.”

I let the
your
slide. “No shit.”

“Interpol wasn’t the only one
looking for Hudson. My guess is Alan sold Hudson out to the bad guys, waited
for him to get the key, then offed him. Problem was, Hudson didn’t have the
key. You did. In Texas.”

Jenks nodded. “And when Alan
realized he’d messed up, he followed you to your new boat, joined the yacht
club, and now his face is plastered over every newspaper in the world. Jewels,
dope, and the like make for great copy.”

“So,
who owns the rubies?” I was trying to stick to the important stuff.

Martinez shrugged. “Eventually, I
guess the Burmese or whatever they call their country these days.”

“Myanmar,” Jenks said, impressing
me.

“Yeah, that’s it. Anyhow, they
claim the stones belong to them, part of some heist or something. It’ll be in
litigation for years.”

“Well, rats. Hudson owed me a ruby,
among other things. Too bad I didn’t get a chance to shoot him before Alan
whacked him. Oh, dear, granny’s gun!”

“Got it. Sent down a diver after
hearing you rave in the hospital.”

“I am woman, it’s my job. Thanks.”

“No problem. Besides, we needed to
check that shotgun to see how many times it was fired. What with a missing
perp, he could have gone to the bottom with a load of shot in his ass, you know.”

“They think I killed Alan?”

“Not with
that
gun, they don’t. They’re still counting bullet holes in the
dinghy, and spent cartridges from .38. Anyway, when the San Francisco Sheriff
gets through with the guns, they are all yours. Glad to see you in such good
shape. Keep in touch.” Martinez rose to leave, but I grabbed his hand.

“Uh, Martinez.”

“You can call me Marty.”

“Marty Martinez? I like it. Anyhow,
Marty, how about coming over for drinks and dinner next week? Bring the wife.”

Marty smiled. I mean he really
smiled. “I’d like that and I know my wife would love to meet you. You’ve kept
her entertained for months now.”

“Glad to be of service.”

Martinez left and I glared at
Jenks, the holdout. If he was going to hang around me he’d have to be trained in
the fine art of information trading. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“What?” I demanded.

“Oh, just wondering if you’re still
mad at me.”

“Sort of. Actually, not really.
However, don’t ever run off like that again without letting me know where you
are. And never, ever, withhold gossip. It’s un-American, you know. Okay?

“I promise,” Jenks said, “if you
promise to stay out of trouble.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Why
should I?”

“Maybe a reward? All good girls
deserve a reward.”

“What kind of reward? I can be a
very, very good girl,” I cooed, giving him an eye bat and pulling him toward me
by his belt loops.

“Stick your hand in my pocket.”

“Is this gonna be a Groucho Marx
kinda moment?”

“Lower.”

“How about if I take them off you?”

“How about if you reach way down
into that pocket?” Jenks said gruffly.

So I did.

There was something hard in there.

And very big.

“Now, pull it out, Hetta.”

So I did.

The biggest damned ruby I ever saw.

Holy shades of
Romancing the Stone
! Joan Wilder, eat your heart out.