Just Different Devils (5 page)

Jan went out on deck and returned with an amused expression on her face. "Oooh, men! Even better, men in uniform."

"Oh, dear, do they have a warrant?"

In preparation for greeting men in uniform, I tied the gnarling Po Thang to a dining room table leg, asked Jan to turn on the charm to soften up our visitors, and made a pot of coffee for the entourage of officialdom assembled on my GO AWAY, THIS MEANS YOU! dock mat.

While Jan ushered the men inside and got them settled into the settee and a chair or two, I unearthed a bag of chocolate cookies for us humans and a box of Hush Puppies for my dog. After Po Thang quit his grousing, the Port Captain, a naval officer of some kind, and the chief of police visibly relaxed.

They'd stationed heavily armed bodyguards out on the dock. The guards naturally grabbed the attention of other boaters, and I got radio calls asking if everything was okay. I reassured them all was well and hoped like hell I was right, but it was nice to know cruisers were on the ball lest I had a problem and was forced to go nuts on a bunch of guys with guns.

That crazy
gringa
thing is only to be used as a last resort; Mexicans just naturally hate it when some nutso foreigner of the female type throws a hissy fit, but it usually gets the job done. Guys? Not so much, as many a male cruiser who has tried going macho on the most macho dudes in the world have learned the hard way.

First off, the men thanked me for receiving them without notice—like I had a choice?—and for towing
Carpe Diem
into port. Then the questions started. Where had I been when I came upon
Carpe Diem
? For how long? I noted the Port Captain nodded slightly at my answers, so he must have checked his records for when I notified the powers that be I was leaving port for a few days.

They didn't take notes, so I figured I'd have to do this all again, which prompted me to carefully tell the truth, something I'm not very good at. At least this time veracity didn't require my usual creative embellishments. They seemed fascinated that I, a woman, had taken
Raymond Johnson
out to the islands solo, and I suspected after awhile that they were fishing for any hint I'd rendezvoused with
Carpe Diem
at some point. The next question proved me right.

"Did you know Mr. Clark?" The head cop asked.

"I do not recall meeting him, but we could have both attended a cruiser event at some point," I answered, sounding for all the world like some poor soul being grilled by a bunch of self-serving congresspersons.

The cop cut his eyes at Navy Dude.

Never one to let events take their course, I asked, "Why do you ask?"

Navy Dude looked a little uncomfortable and said, "We, uh, found your card on his boat."

"Really? That's interesting. Cruisers dole them out like Christmas candy." To make my point I reached into my pocket, pulled out a few cards, and gave them to my visitors. "He had one of these?"

They all nodded. My boat cards, unlike my business cards with Hetta Coffey LLC on them, were new ones I'd recently had made with a photo of me, Jenks, and Po Thang onboard
Raymond Johnson
. I had another cruiser climb up on a hill and snap us sitting on the swim platform. With a cactus and rocks in the foreground, and the boat resting in the  turquoise water of Agua Verde, the photo epitomized the contrast of cruising where the desert meets the sea.

On the card were printed my name, boat name, e-mail address and Ham callsign.

How Freddie came by my boat card, I had no idea, but I had a desk drawer full of similar cards from cruisers I never even remembered meeting. The only other place I'd seen cards given out with such abandon was when I worked in Japan; my
meishi
was in English on one side and Japanese on the other. I always suspected the Japanese side, written in kanji, said something like, "Don't mess with this
Gaijin
nut case."

Jan had been listening carefully, probably on the alert for any signs of entrapment. We both know that in Mexico people are reluctant to get involved with anything that puts them on official's radar. It is for this reason that a car crash in downtown Mexico City during rush hour has no witnesses. We
gringos
are not that smart, and Jan had already chided me for even getting involved with
Carpe Diem
. And now, with the direction this chit chat was going—from casual to something of an interrogation—she butted in and asked, in flawless Spanish, "So, have you found him?"

Three heads swung in tandem as the dumbfounded men realized that that this blonde
gringa
with the long legs and big blue eyes had just nailed them. I love it when that happens.

Not one to be left on the sidelines, I threw in, "And, since you are here asking me questions, I assume he is dead."

Navy Dude recovered first. "Not...officially."

Rather than ask what the hell this meant, at this point I probably should have said something like, "I want a lawyer," but this is Mexico, where lawyers make politicians look like our Lady of Guadalupe. 

"Yeah," Jan asked, "so you haven't found him then?"

"No. But we fear the worst. The Red Devils...."

After the men left, we grabbed what was left of our dinner wine, and the few cookies still on the plate and headed up on deck.

"Well, I guess you're off the suspect list, Hetta, unless you're somehow able to morph into a giant monster with murderous tentacles. Oh, wait, there are those who think you quite capable of such."

I shot her the finger.

On a roll, she added, "You oughta send that nasty assed squid a thank you note for leaving a piece of her tentacle behind."

"Yep. About that?"

"What?"

"While I am overjoyed at being off the suspect list, don't you think that clue was just a little too convenient?"

"Hetta Coffey, do not go there. Do
not
get any further involved. The dude is most likely dead, case closed. Leave it alone. I mean it."

"Okay, okay. Jeez, but what a way to go. It's hard to believe this poor guy was turned into hamburger meat by marauding calamari."

"Chino says that's exactly what supposedly happened off Loreto last year."

"Those were open fishing pangas, but
Carpe Diem
has at least four feet of freeboard. The whole thing reminds me of "The Creature from the Black Lagoon," except at least the creature was somewhat likeable."

"The Mexican Tourist bureau is gonna have a serious PR problem on its hands."

"
If
the story gets out, you mean."

"We promised to keep our mouths shut in return for the details, Hetta. No blabbing."

"And we just let another cruiser become Hamburger Helper? No way."

"So, how you gonna let anyone know? The port captain strongly hinted he'd impound your boat and have us deported if we talk about this with anyone."

"Yeah, no more Mr. Nice Guy there. I'm taking him off my Christmas card list."

"Or, maybe he
knew
we'd spill the beans, and that way
he
won't have to piss off the almighty tourist bureau?"

"Yeah, well, I'm not betting my boat on it. But we gotta do something. We can't just let cruisers wander around out there without a warning of some kind. Maybe we should tell your Doctor Chino so he can let the cat out of the bag somehow?"

"No way. He won't let me go on our mystery cruise."

"Like you ever do what he says?" Like I can talk? Jenks says he thinks he'll start asking me
not
to do what he
wants
me to do so I'll
do
it.

"Well, no, but why go looking for a showdown? Besides, Hetta, you'll think of something. You always do. Something stupid, of course, but something."

"Thanks, I think. Anyhow, until we do we gotta somehow get a head's up alert out to the cruising world, but mainly we have to concentrate on getting this tub ready for said mystery cruise.

We clinked glasses, toasting the possibilities of a lucrative month ahead, one with the titillating element of mystery and adventure thrown in.

However, later that night, as I was drifting off in my big old comfy bed with my big old furry buddy, it did cross my mind that maybe Jan and I might consider a
modus vivendi
assessment.

An e-mail arrived the next morning, giving us more instructions for what our client needed on board, and a schedule. A very tight schedule, considering all we had to do.

One thing we learned was our deep pockets passenger did not want to stay at the dock, but neither did he give a clue as to where he wanted to go. I say "he" because we now were pretty sure this was a guy due to his grocery list: hamburger meat, steaks, bacon, and beer. Call me a sexist, but that sounds like dude food to me.

Jan and I decided a run to Costco in Cabo San Lucas was in order, mainly because we wanted to expand our wine cellar with our vict...uh, client's moola.

I hired a singlehander/anchorout/sailor on
Casual Water
, Dick Atkinson, who was perpetually short on cash, but had a reputation for being reliable, to dog-and-boat sit for the day because I didn't want to haul Po Thang with us. 

As I drove, we went over the cruise schedule and shopping lists, Jan making notes on the clipboard as we came up with stuff we didn't want to forget. Or goodies we normally couldn't afford. By the time we got to Costco, she was on page two.

Luckily I had two chest freezers on board, one in the engine room and one on deck. The deck freezer was for fish only, where we kept bait and catches. Whether living on a boat away from a dock, or keeping food on the table in a remote whale research camp, provisioning for a month is no easy task, but both Jan and I have become master provisioners.

Jan's menu plan for the month included serving seafood as often as possible, but we couldn't always count on it due to weather and our historical bad luck as anglers. We'd even tried our hand at netting our own shrimp, but the barter system is so much easier and successful. During bad weather we were usually holed up in the same anchorage with shrimp boats, their crew eager to trade shrimp and fish for chicken, SPAM, hot dogs, and a couple of magazines from the
Playboy
stash I keep on board for just this purpose. Someone gave my father a subscription and he saves them for me. After reading all the articles, of course.

Fresh veggies are always a major problem—we'd be down to cabbage and carrots after a month—so we stocked canned beets and frozen peas, broccoli, cauliflower and the like so once the fresh stuff was gone, we'd have side dishes. Mexican boxed milk has the shelf life of nuclear waste, and since their eggs are not refrigerated, a few flats last well over a month if kept in a cool, dark space.

I'd borrowed ice chests from just about every boat on our dock, filled my entire truck bed with them, and we left by seven in the morning.

"Dang, Hetta, I'm plumb wore out and we ain't even halfway to Cabo."

"Tell me about it. Let's grab breakfast and coffee in Todo Santos to revive ourselves. I think, this early in the morning, we can get through town without being spotted."

"Ha! One can hope. Last time through we were lured by the Shopping Goddess, led astray by colorful gauze and bangles, which led to a need to show off our new attire to the bar staff and patrons at the Hotel California. Too bad we're probably unwelcome there, like, forever."

"Betcha the bartender still loves us. Don't you just wonder, though, whether that admirer of yours was a real bullfighter?"

"My admirer? It wasn't
me
he was waving his big old, uh, cape at."

"That's only because, Miz Jan, you were way too engaged in stomping all Billy hell out of a tabletop. Not a bad flamenco, I have to admit."

"Ah, to be young again."

"That was three months ago, Chica."

"Yabbut, we are reformed women."

We shared a yuk, and threw the hotel a kiss as we rolled by.

We didn't get back to the boat until almost four, and it looked as though Santa had arrived early this year. The decks were piled with cardboard boxes and canvas bags. And, atop my mast, was a contraption that looked somewhat like my old satellite system, only sleeker and smaller.

Dick and Po Thang were watching
Animal Planet
and eating popcorn when we arrived. I do not have television service on my boat, nor popcorn.

Po Thang seemed somewhat glad to see us, but other than a half-hearted tail thump, he was reluctant to leave his bowl of popcorn to greet us properly. Flighty, my fur child.

I waved my arms around. "What the hell happened here? Po Thang get on the Internet and order out Amazon?"

Dick turned off
The Dog Whisperer
and shrugged. "Guys just started coming up to the boat and unloading stuff, then these techie types showed. They gave me a work order, with your name on it, to install the Satellite system. Sure wish you'd' a let me know about that."

"Sure wish
I'd
a known about that. Do you have a copy of the paperwork?"

He went to the dining table, riffled through a stack of paper that wasn't there when I left that morning, and handed me a sheaf of crumpled sheets and brochures for both a satellite marine television, and Internet and telephone system. A purchase order made out to, and approved by one Hetta Coffey, Captain, was stapled to a brochure, along with an invoice for more than ten thousand bucks. I almost fainted until I noticed a small stamp: PAID IN FULL.

Once able to breathe again, I slumped down onto the settee, and Po Thang wiggled his way between me and that coveted bowl of popcorn. "You think I'd eat any of that after you've had your slobbery snout in there?" I asked him. He smelled like Redenbacher Carmel Corn. My favorite.

"Well, maybe," I teased, as I reached for Po Thang's bowl, "I could find one little slobberless piece?" My dog shoved my hand away with his nose and planted his head over the bowl.

Dick laughed. "I'll make more," he volunteered, heading for the galley.

"I suppose this abundance of popcorn is accounted for on one of," I waved the stack of receipts at him, "these?"

"Yep. Came with all these other boxes. Two full cases of Orville, just about every flavor they make! If I had a microwave on
Casual Water
, I'd ask for a few to take home."

Jan and I gave each other a high five. "There is a God!"

By midnight we had all of our Costco treasures stowed, and had even managed to get into some of the more promising boxes piled on my decks. Actually, we suspended the stowing duties when we spotted a Bacardi label and discovered it was a full case of Ron Zacapa Centenario 23. To ensure it was delivered safely, we opened it to inspect for breakage. Finding none, we broke out a bottle to test for taste. One cannot be too cautious, ya know.

At fifty bucks a liter, this was no rum to mix with Coke.

So we didn't.

Toasting our benefactor—whom we now dubbed VDP for Very Deep Pockets—for his good taste in rum, popcorn, boats, technical devices and, after a few shots of his Guatemalan nectar, his superb taste in women. Namely, us.

To our credit, we only had a few small glasses each of this stellar stuff while playing our Guess the Guest game. What we knew so far was: he had a fat wallet, he drank good rum, loved popcorn, wanted to leave the dock and go somewhere, and, judging from the expensive fishing poles, gold plated reels, and one electric reel that also showed up that day, he wanted to fish. And for big game, because that power driven job—which I'd heard is illegal in Mexico—was capable of landing a small whale.

I checked for e-mail just before going off to Ron Zacapa-induced night-night and learned we were to depart La Paz in two days, and that Daddy Big Bucks would rendezvous with us at Caleta Partida, a little over twenty miles to the north. Also, had I not already done so, I was to leave
Se
Vende
, my old panga, behind, as "her services would not be required for the duration of the voyage."

Striking what I considered an aristocratic pose, I read that last line to Jan with the accent and bearing of someone straight out of
Downton Abbey
, our new favorite television series.

Jan hooted. "Ya think he's a Brit?"

"Maybe. I mean, who even uses prose like that these days?" I printed out all the e-mails so we could peruse them later for clues, then hit the sheets, as we had much to do during the next couple of days.

The next day was a blur of activity, which started very early with making last minute lists over huge mugs of Nescafe Classico. With so much to do, I put the cruiser's net on the ship's speakers so we could catch the weather forecast and the latest news. We'd listened to the Sonrisa Net weather on ham radio earlier, so we knew we were in for a few days of benign weather, but then Santa Ana winds were expected in California, and they were usually a sure sign of some nasty northers to follow in the Sea of Cortez.

Jan and I cheered when a cruiser relayed a report that he'd heard from a guy who knew a guy in the Mexican navy who told him that Freddie Clark was most likely killed by one of those Red Devils, and the Net Control operator lost total control of the net as hysteria rose.

I did a fist pump on hearing that report. I know, we shouldn't have been so happy at the bad news, or the fear it caused, but at least now I wouldn't be accused of being the  blabberer and thereby land on the Port Captain's bad-girl list. The last thing I needed was for him to impound
Raymond Johnson
before my cash cow arrived.

Just to be safe, however, I didn't tell the marina office we were leaving until right at closing time on Saturday, and we sneaked out at first light on Sunday morning, thereby ensuring the
Capitania del Puerto
didn't get wind of our slipping out of port until at least Monday morning.

As required by law, I called the
Capitania
to report our departure as we left La Paz Bay, but nobody answered.

Maybe if I'd been on the correct channel and turned up the power? Oh, well.