Just Different Devils (4 page)

"Good. You need to stay busy, ya know." She waved her almost empty wine glass and gave me a look. "So, are you ready to tell me why you
really
wanted me here in such a big ole hurry?"

"I told you. Oysters."

"Not buying it. Known you way too long."

I shrugged.

"Okay, so don't tell me. Since you are totally incapable of keeping a secret, I'll find out soon enough."

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the kilted wonder standing on his back deck. "Yep, you surely will. Very soon. Like, in five, four, three, two...."

The skirl of a bagpipe wailing "The Yellow Rose of Texas" from the boat next to us made Jan swivel in her chair, and Po Thang cover his ears with his paws. Spotting all that plaid-clad hunkiness, Jan's mouth dropped open and she looked at me, then back again. And when said hunk pointed at me and said, between breaths, "This is for you, Hetta Lass," she swiveled back.

"Oh, hell, Hetta. What have you done now?"

Being serenaded called for a wee bit more wine.

"Ya know, Hetta," Jan whispered as we carbo-loaded
huevos
a la Mexicana
, refried beans, tortillas, and salsa at the Dock Café in preparation for a day of crime, "it isn't like you harvested those oysters on purpose. You just found a net and it had oyster pearls in it. And since it looks like a carefully built net for oyster farming, it must have broken loose."

"I do know that. But I sure as hell don't want to have to explain that to anyone in authority who knows it's been against the law since 1939 to dive for pearl oysters. You know how things work down here. We'll need a fence."

Jan raised an eyebrow. "What you mean is we
still
need a fence."

Over the past summer we had "liberated" a stash of Spanish silver coins minted in Mexico in the early fifteen hundreds that, if the Mexican government found out we had them, would be confiscated. My safe was brimming with contraband in need of a buyer, but first we had to find someone who could fence the goods. Someone in low places.

"Boy, do we," I agreed.

Jan buttered a tortilla, which is what we Texans do, just in case our cholesterol is a little low that day. "What do you think the pearls are worth?"

"According to the Internet, the one perfectly round pearl, if it's cultured, sells for a hundred or so. And if it is cultured, we won't have a problem selling it. On the other hand, should it be natural? Katy bar the door."

"Who can tell us? We can't just walk into the pearl farm up in Guaymas and say, "We found this oyster on the beach and there was this pearl in it. Or can we?"

"Still checking that out. I did see there is a pearl place here in La Paz, so tomorrow let's drop in and grill 'em for info. And, maybe buy your mom some earrings for her birthday."

We plowed back into our food, then Jan said, "We probably should have invited that Scottish hunk over after all the playing he did for you."

"Better to let those bagpipes lie. Besides I'm fresh out of haggis."

"Betcha don't even know what that is."

"Sure I do."

"Okay, what is it?"

"Chitlins and grits?"

"You're asking me?"

"Anyhow, I'm trying to stay out of trouble, not invite it over for a drink."

"Since when?"

"Since I'm feeling lonely. Tired of being alone."

"I'm here, and you have Po Thang."

"You know what I mean."

"I sure do. Gotta admit, he does seem to have a thing for you. Time was you'd a already played his bagpipes by now."

"I'm a reformed woman."

Jan almost spit out her refrieds.

After breakfast we loaded up Po Thang, drinking water, sunscreen, dive knives, a cooler of beer and sandwiches, even more plastic bags, and snorkeling gear into
Se Vende
for a run to the other side of El Magote, a barrier peninsula protecting La Paz harbor.

This seven-mile long spit between the harbor and the open water of the Sea of Cortez has some sandy beaches on the sea side, and when the north wind isn't blowing, can be a great place to hang out. We had hopes of swimming with a whale shark, but their season for hanging out near La Paz is early winter to late spring, so chances of finding one were slim. There are some condos and a golf course on one end of the spit side wide open to hurricanes—why on earth did someone think this was a good place to build? Just sayin'—and is only readily accessible to the public via a small water taxi that runs every half hour. It can be driven, but the road is the pits and takes for-ever.

I knew of a stretch of beach remote enough that prying eyes can't witness the shucking of booty, and where Po Thang can run freely. Letting him loose is an iffy proposition where temptations are afoot, because he suffers from DAWGS: Doggie Auditory Willful Guile Syndrome, a condition that prevents him from hearing me yelling, from fifteen feet away, "COME HERE YOU LITTLE TURD!" On the other hand, opening a candy wrapper at a hundred yards has him by my side in record time.

While Po Thang ran and sniffed and splashed after fish—hopefully not a stingray—in the shallows, Jan and I dragged the reeking black plastic bag onto the beach and cut it open.

"Ack," Jan complained, "we should have brought your rebreather."

"Hold your breath. We'll take turns. You go first."

"Why do I have to go first?"

"Because I have to go throw up now."

Po Thang rushed us, grabbed the net and started pulling it toward the water, so we had to throw ourselves onto the mess to hold it. Thinking this was a great game, he jumped on top of us. In the ensuing dustup Jan, Po Thang, and I got slimed, but we finally managed to shove the dog out of the way and tie the net to my panga.

Undaunted, Po Thang lunged into the net again, and came up with an oyster. As is his habit, he trotted to my feet, deposited it, and went for another. We popped a beer and let him do the dirty work.

"That dawg is really growing on me, Jan."

"You do realize he's gonna stink for days, don't you?"

"Nope, because I'm going to make him swim home."

"Slave driver."

Po Thang brought another five oysters to the pile before lying down on the job. It was time for us humans to check them for pearls, but the dog now took proprietary custody, throwing himself on the pile and growling when we tried picking one up. I was headed for his leash when he froze in mid-growl, yipped happily, and rushed into the water.

Bubbles was back.

When we headed back to port, she followed for awhile, swimming alongside Po Thang, but as we made the turn around the end tip of the Magote and headed for the marina, she fell off, gave one last leap and was gone.

Po Thang, back in
Se Vende,
peered longingly over the transom, but Jan held him so he couldn't jump back into the water. She hugged and cooed to him while he whined and howled.

Love's a bitch.

As we parked
Se Vende
behind
Raymond Johnson
, I was feeling a little down, since this was my last trip in my much loved twenty-two-foot panga. I'd already found a buyer for her, and my new custom-built, nine-foot panga would be finished soon, and cradled on the roof of the sundeck, thanks to my handy dandy lifting system. I loved that old seaworthy, but cumbersome,
Se Vende
, but the new, smaller, dink would be a much smarter addition for cruising back up the coast to California.

And another bummer: I couldn't help but notice, with what I'll admit was a little disappointment, that my man in plaid and his boat were gone. Rats, I hadn't even caught his name, but I knew his boat's name, so perhaps a little snoopery might be in order down the line. Not that I care, mind you, but he did call me Lass.

After some rigorous scrubbing—not the pearls, those we rubbed with a towel and table salt to remove oyster gunk and bacteria, just like the Internet (that blessed new knower of all things) told us to—and shampooing, Jan, Po Thang, and I smelled civilized enough to enter the Dock Café for hamburgers. Po Thang dearly loves the Café, because the outdoor section is dog friendly and gives him an opportunity to hone his, "So, you gonna eat all of that?" eye-beg.

"I guess you noticed that Scottish hunk's boat's gone," Jan said with just a smidgen of malice. She so likes messing with me.

"Really? No, I didn't notice."

"Like hell."

I waited until she raised her burger to her lips and took a big bite before saying, "Besides, who gives a damn about that Highlander look-alike. I mean, who names his boat
Full Kilt Boogie,
anyhow?"

Jan's eyes went wide and her hand boggled. She almost dropped her burger as she choked on laughter. Po Thang took notice and went on alert, just in case a treat was in order, but Jan managed to catch both her burger and her breath.

"You set me up," she yelped.

"Yep, he is the reason you are here, my dear. Not that it matters now, but your job was to put a full tilt in his kilt, thereby keeping
me
out of trouble."

We were still cackling when my cell phone rang.

It was the Trob.

"Yo, Wontrobski, what's the haps?" I asked, trying to stifle a giggle.

"What are you celebrating?"

"How do you know I'm celebrating anything?"

"You sound happy."

"Don't I usually?"

"No."

Golly gee, I guess I'd better brush up on my telephone skills. I'm normally a phone deceiver of the highest order. "Jan and I are celebrating...Wednesday."

"Okay."

"Did you call for a reason?"

"Yes."

I rolled my eyes at Jan, who enjoys watching me struggle to converse with the mostly monosyllabic Trob. I love the guy, but mundane stuff like small talk falls far below his stratospheric intellectual capabilities. He is an engineering genius at one of the largest Engineering and Construction companies in the world, but his people skills seriously suck.

"Would you perhaps like to share with me what that might be?"

"E-mail."

"Roger. I'll get right back to you, soon as I finish this beer."

"Who is Roger?"

"Hanging up."

"Bye."

Jan took a swig of Tecate and said, "Gosh, Hetta, that was a pretty long conversation for the Trob."

"My guess is he has a job for me and has sent me an e-mail about it."

"How do you always know what he means?"

"I speak fluent shorthand."

"Dating yourself there."

"Saw it in an old movie."

Po Thang whined that he needed a walk. I also speak dawg.

Jan took Po Thang for a stroll while I checked my e-mail for Trob's big news.

I read it twice, then again. What the hell? I called him back.

"Wontrobski, are you telling me someone wants to hire me to captain their boat, or that someone wants to hire me
and
my
boat?"

"Your call."

"To do what? Not that I really care if the price is right. My bank account is in dire straits."

"You name it."

"You're kidding me," I said, although I know my mentor never kids anyone.

"No."

"Oh, never mind. Who is my new boss and what should I charge him or her?"

"Don't know."

I sighed. "Just give me a contact number and I'll sort it out. One question, is this in any way connected to my skill set as an engineer?"

"Maybe."

I gritted my teeth. "The number, please."

"E-mail only."

While I waited for his e-mail with my contact's e-mail address, I mulled over this new turn of events. I am in no way legally allowed to charter my boat in Mexico, so if I got caught
Raymond Johnson
could be confiscated. On the other hand, whoever wants my services came through the Trob, so the potential client must know who I am, and where I am. I trust the Trob, so whoever it is must be able to pay in US dollars to a San Francisco bank account as we require, and on the up and up. Or at least out on parole.

Jan, Po Thang, and the e-mail arrived at the boat about the same time, so I quickly clued her in on this mysterious twist of fortune.

"Lemme get this straight. Some shady character wants to hire you and your boat to do...what?"

"Dunno. And who says they're shady?"

"Excuse me? Want to re-read that e-mail?"

I read it aloud.

" 'Subject: Contact
.

Need exclusive e-mail address for our correspondence only. Use this e-mail address only one time to reply with this information. Name price for thirty days of services, plus expenses, for Hetta Coffey LLC and vessel,
Raymond Johnson
. Will require meals for one person, full time, for at least one month. This person will require a cabin. Must have reply next four hours.' "

"You don't find this all a little...odd?"

"Nah. I find this an opportunity to expand my coffers. "

"Or your coffin? And what do you mean when you say you're broke? Hell, you've had some pretty cushy contracts since we left the Bay Area."

"I've also had a lot of expenses. This boat is a money pit, docks are expensive, and I had to buy another vehicle after mine went over a cliff."

"At least you weren't in it. Okay, I
am
a CPA, ya know. Let's run some numbers."

We went month by month, listing all of my income and outgo, what funds I had left, and what I needed to survive until I got me, and my boat, back to the States.

"You're right, Hetta. You're broke."

"Told you."

"Hell, I haven't been paid but a mere pittance for working at the fish camp all this time, and I'm still better off than you are."

"You don't have boat payments, car payments, dock payments, and a dog that could eat Australia."

"But you have hidden assets."

"Very hidden. Between the gold bullion I liberated from the Japanese goons last summer, the coins we skimmed off the Galleon find, and now the pearls, we probably have over a million bucks in the boat safe. Unfortunately, we have no way of selling any of that loot."

"And when we do, we might get a quarter of what that booty would be if legit."

Jan seized the remote, did a quick search, and punched a key. Garth Brooks loudly singing, "I've got friends in low places" blared from the ship's speakers.

She used the remote as a fake mic, so I laughed and jumped in with our practiced moves to one of our favorite songs. We needed some of Garth's friends about now.

When the song ended, I said, "We need this job, Jan."

"We?" Jan put her arms around Po Thang's neck and said into his ear, "And your mommy is a moron who is gonna reply to an anonymous e-mail, demand a small fortune, and let some stranger on board for who knows what purposes."

Po Thang shook his ear and snorted.

"Exactly."

"You are putting words in my dog's mouth. Think about it. What have
you
got planned for the next month that entails a bunch of money?"

"Well, I...Oh, what the heck. Add another two—no, make that three—hundred a day for the gourmet chef."

We high-fived, already celebrating a new and profitable adventure.

Putting our heads and calculators together, we made a spread sheet. Jan, as a CPA, is even better than I am at padding a bill. She always thinks of stuff I overlook, and I've spent my entire career estimating costs for large projects so I know how to stick it to a client. We make a great team. Jenks says we'll look good in prison stripes some day.

Jan did a fingernail drum roll next to her keyboard. "Let's start with the basics. What does it cost to operate a boat like this for a month?"

"Depends whether I'm at a dock, or at anchor, or on the move."

"And we don't know what this person wants us to do, right?"

"Right."

"So we nail him for all three. Dock fee, fuel, and all. How much will that be?"

"Dock is easy. About a grand."

"Highway robbery. How can they get away charging these prices in Mexico?"

"Supply and demand. I pay for a fifty-foot slip, a parking space for the pickup, and a liveaboard fee when I'm here. If there are three of us staying aboard, that'll triple."

"Okay." She typed 1200.00 into the spread sheet, hesitated, deleted it and added another five hundred. "CPA fee. Now, Fuel?"

"Lemme think. The fuel tank capacity is four hundred and fifty gallons, and we don't know how much we'll use, so just to be safe, let's gouge...uh, charge for full tanks up front, then if we need more, the guest can pay at the pump. Sooo, with diesel running about four bucks a gallon down here...."

"I'll round that up to two grand. Holy crap, Hetta, I don't think you can afford this tub."

"You're telling me? Okay what else?"

"I'm going online to see what a boat like this rents for from a charter company, you put together a list of other stuff you can think of."

And so it went, until we came up with a grand total of, gulp, thirty thousand bucks! For a thousand dollars a day, I didn't care if our mystery guest was Jack the Ripper.

I created a new e-mail account, [email protected], and sent the estimate to Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. Mystery within the four hour deadline, and thirty minutes later the Trob called to say he had a deposit of forty thou for me, as well as his probably exorbitant fee, solidly in the bank.

"Forty?" I raised my fist into the air and gave it a pump.

"I padded it by an extra ten, even though I am sure you already did some creative math on your own."

"Did you trace the depositor yet?" There is nothing the Trob cannot hack into.

"It was through a third or fourth party, so it will take longer than usual. I'll let you know."

"Okay, transfer...?" I looked at Jan for input. She's the CPA, after all. She flashed all ten fingers twice. "Twenty into my Hetta Coffey LLC account. I'd like to keep the rest off the IRS radar."

After I hung up, Jan shook her finger at me. "Ya know, one of these days the IRS is gonna bust you all the way into Club Fed."

"And I suppose you're gonna report that nine thousand you're gonna pocket this month?"

"Of course not. I ain't a CPA for nuthin'."

We nicknamed our mystery client Señor Deep Pockets, even though we were not sure it was a mister. I mean, it could be Oprah Winfrey for all we knew, but we figured
Raymond Johnson
wasn't the kind of yacht she'd charter. Nope, this was a guy, for sure. He hadn't demanded the owner's cabin, a dead giveaway.

Jan and I skipped dinner after that huge, late hamburger lunch. We did celebrate our successful day on the beach searching that stinky net for more pay dirt. I broke out the best wine we had on board and we toasted to our newly found good fortunes, but after one glass each our day caught up with us, and we were both yawning.

"It's only six. Too early to crash. Wanna watch a movie?" I suggested.

"Got any new ones?"

"Yep, checked out a couple from the Club Cruseros lending library." I found the DVDs, we picked a rom-com—our favorite genre—and were settling in to watch a flick with a totally predictable ending when, moments after Po Thang growled and jumped off the settee, there was a sharp rap on the hull.

"Dang," I grumbled, and put the movie on PAUSE.

"I'll get it," Jan volunteered, while I tried muzzling a perturbed Po Thang. He hates hull rappers. "It's okay, we'll get back to the movie. Here's a hint, she gets the guy."