Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 5) (5 page)

He meant the sign on the door, but I was on a roll. "Gee, in that case, I must be the Mop Manager. You pick that office out for me?"

"It is all we have for the moment. Arrangements are being made. I did not know you existed until last week."

"Some people would like it to stay that way. Well, it was nice having this little chat. Let me know if you need anything more." I rose to leave.

"Miss Coffey, I have been told you will be working for me."

"Actually, Ozzie, I will be working
with
you. I answer to Bert," I said, using the project manager's first name to further annoy the prick. "Tell you what I'll do. Tomorrow I'll send you a list of what I need, document-wise, and you can have your people send them to my people. Oh, wait, I don't have any people. Well, never mind. I'm sure I'll have a few questions, so I can ask…just who are
your
people, anyhow?"

"Perhaps your requests should come through
Bert
?"

Yep, I'd definitely gotten under his skin. Good. "Sure, if you insist.
Hasta mañana
." I waved and left.

Safety sidled into my office, a smirk on his face. He whispered, "Nice work, Coffey. You’re already the office hero."

"I aim to please."

"While we all enjoyed that little show, I'd watch it if I were you. The little Spic could throw a monkey wrench into your works. Nothing overt, just passive aggressive bull. Like that trailer with your name on it might fall off a truck on the way here."

Safety using the word Spic didn't set well with me, even though I'm hardly a poster child for the politically correct, but I let it slide; I needed all the new friends I could get. "Message received, loud and clear, but if he dumps my trailer, that's okay. This closet is growing on me. It's cozy. Uh, this was Pardo's office, wasn't it?"

"You heard about that, huh? Damned shame. Funny little dude. Nice, quiet, and spoke English with hardly any accent. He had a cubicle next to me at first, but he actually requested this closet. Sure wish I knew what happened to him." He shrugged, then asked, "Want a ride back to your boat?"

"Oh, yes. Anything to avoid Pedro Knievel. Uh, does everyone here know where I live?"

"Yep."

I didn’t like the sound of that. Judging by what I’d seen and heard on my first day on the job, Lucifer Land might live up to its moniker.

WHEN ONE'S SHIP COMES HOME (Nautical Term): The successful arrival of a cargo ship—achievement.

Early Saturday morning twelve large miners and I crammed ourselves into the tiny seats of Aero Calafia's single-engine Cessna 208 Grand Caravan for the thirty-five minute flight to Guaymas. From there I grabbed a cab to San Carlos and bailed my little red Ford Ranger out of the storage facility. The return ferry didn't start boarding until late afternoon, so I killed time at Barracuda Bob's, my favorite hangout in San Carlos, for breakfast, then lunch. I saw a lot of friends early on, but they faded off to do what they had to do, so I fired up my computer and caught up on Facebook friends, then surfed the Net for tempting boat stuff, and finally headed for the ferry when Barracuda closed at two.

A car ferry is far from my favorite mode of transport, especially one that takes overnight. Unfortunately my other option was to drive to Tijuana and then down Baja's two-lane Mex 1, a twelve hundred mile run I didn't have the time nor the inclination to tackle.

Driving onto the top-heavy-looking, overcrowded ferry was a little unsettling, but the fact that it was a night crossing made it worse. I'd seen those disaster film clips from all over the world where ferries rolled over, hit rocks, or just plain sunk. Since I was doing a one-day turnaround, my suitcase contained the following:

Four one-liter bottles of water.

A hand-operated watermaker capable of making a gallon of water an hour.

Two inflatable life preservers, both for me. Every woman for herself!

A plastic bag with chocolate bars, health bars and dried fruit.

Sunblock.

Floating flashlight with strobe and extra batteries.

Wet suit, fins and a mask.

Water-activated strobe-light armband.

Solar/hand-crank-powered light, with radio and cell phone charge
r

Handheld marine VHF radio with GPS locator.

Cell phone.

Handheld GPS

Waterproof case for all of the above that needed one

I would have carried a survival raft and flare gun, but figured the flare would probably get me arrested at the airport, and the raft would cost a fortune in overweight charges. Hetta Coffey: Survivalista.

When we finally docked early Sunday morning in Santa Rosalia I was frazzled. I was a mere fifty or so yards away from my nice comfy boat as I waited in a line of cars and trucks exiting the ferry, but getting off that damnable ship took what seemed forever.

I'd tried grabbing a few winks on the noisy, smelly ferry, but it was impossible. All the private cabins were booked, so I was relegated to steerage. There were airline type seats for passengers, but with kids running around and crying, drunks singing and then throwing up, and the general chaos of traveling in the cheap seats, I ended up reading my Kindle all night. I considered sneaking back for a snooze in my pickup bed, but the gangway doors were bolted and locked tight.

The only saving factors were calm wind and seas. I'd been in Santa Rosalia before when the wind howled all night and witnessed the ferry bouncing around outside the breakwater, waiting for daylight and a drop in the wind so they could enter the harbor and dock. At least I was spared that nightmare, and now my little red Ford Ranger and I were home, safe and sound.

By the time I crept by a long line of heavily armed marines and a drug-sniffing dog or two, cleared customs—which I thought was ridiculous since I was traveling
from
Mexico
to
Mexico—parked at the marina and boarded the boat, I was dragging butt. At ten in the morning, I was ready for a cold beer, a ham sandwich and a nice warm bed.

I'd noticed, as I trudged down the dock trailing my survival suitcase, that the mine's fishing boat,
Lucifer
, was out of her slip. Since it was a nice calm day, I figured Bert Melton and his cronies were out fishing. If they were lucky, I hoped they'd share.

I popped a cool one and sat out on deck for a few minutes, enjoying the morning sunshine and sea bird ballet. Spotting fresh raccoon tracks on the deck, I checked for
el
mapache
damage and found none. I'd read the word for raccoon in Spanish came from an Aztec word meaning the one who takes everything in their hands. They got that right. The cute, but pesky critters, board me almost every night, looking for food and mischief. I learned that the hard way on my first night at the dock, when I'd left a garbage bag on deck, planning to take it to the bin the next morning. Cleaning old coffee grounds, banana peels, and even seriously smelly raccoon crap from a deck—what do they eat besides my relatively good-smelling garbage?—ain't no way for a lady to start her day. Or me, either.

Someone told me to put dog crap on the deck as a deterrent but I didn't consider that a great alternative.

My plan for the rest of my day was to eat something, catch a short nap, then call Jenks later in the afternoon. I was feeling out of sorts, not only tired, and wondered why. Then I recalled past years of what I called the Sunday Blues, when Monday loomed and with it a loss of freedom. Why did I take a damned job? It was already getting old and I'd only been at it a week. Another Monday morning and my alarming
señorita
loomed large
.
 

Rummaging in the fridge, I couldn't find any ham. Shrugging, I decided on super cheesy scrambled eggs and toast, but soon learned I was also missing my precious block of Velveeta and a loaf of Bimbo. Bimbo bread, with a shelf life of plastic bags, I can live without, but Velveeta? It is almost impossible to come by in Mexico.

I'd had a busy week before I left Saturday morning to fetch my pickup, so between the daily commute to the mine and throwing together a sandwich or two every day, I must have run through more stuff than I realized. I quickly checked for peanut butter and jelly, those other staples of the working girl, and found them gone as well. It was looking like the man camp cafeteria for me Monday unless I hit a store or two later.

I was eating my boring eggs when the trash can caught my eye. I had thrown papers into it before I left, but since there was no perishable garbage, I'd decided to dump it when I returned. It was empty, with a nice new plastic liner. Someone had eaten my food and emptied the trash. My stomach fell, because I got that sick feeling one gets when trying to remember if I'd locked my jewelry, some of it literally the family jewels, in my safe. Adrenalin surged as I hurried to my cabin and checked my cash stash and jewelry. All was there, so it looked like only the fridge was robbed, which is disturbing enough. If true. Was I so tired I was imagining things? 

I grabbed the phone and called my best bud, Jan. She lives with her latest—and to date, most tenacious—love interest, Doctor Brigado Comacho Yee, a Mexican marine biologist and whale specialist. Chino, as he is called, was a happy whale counter when he fell for Jan. He had lived in a simple thatched roof beach palapa, contented with fish tacos three times a day and salt water baths. Then he met Jan. Now his previously basic camp consists of not one, but two, brand new fifth wheel trailers with slide-outs, satellite television, and a washer/dryer. Gallons of fresh water and gasoline for large generators are trucked in regularly from miles away. All of this to keep Jan from flying the coop, something she's prone to do.

Chino, so nicknamed for his Chinese ancestors, is almost a dozen years younger than Jan, a major source of irritation for her, but now that he has her ensconced in the relative lap of luxury, she seems content. For a while, anyhow.

Camp Chino is just over the peninsula, as the crow flies, from Santa Rosalia, which is one of the reasons I'd taken this job. We can visit on my days off and hopefully that'll help keep me out of mischief while Jenks is gone.

I distinctly remembered telling her I was going to San Carlos this weekend, because I was trying to drag her along for company. She wisely declined, but she has a key to the boat. Maybe she dropped by?

She answered on the second ring and I asked, "Did you eat my ham and Velveeta?"

"And a good Sunday morning to you, too, Hetta. You drunk already? It ain't even noon."

"Let me rephrase that. Did you visit my boat yesterday?"

"Naw, you said you were gonna go get your pickup. Why?"

"Nothing, I guess. I must be losing my marbles."

"Hetta, you lost your last marble long ago. What's wrong?"

"I could have sworn I had a loaf of bread, a block of Velveeta and some ham in the fridge, but it's gone."

"Oh, man, the
Velveeta
? This is serious. You'd better call in the
federales
. Ya know, that kinda thing used to happen at my house, but then I found out it was you."

"They emptied the trash!"

"Well, you certainly never did that."

I sighed. I'd worked late Friday night, then caught a few short winks before getting up at oh-dark-thirty to catch the airport shuttle. Maybe I ate the ham? Oh, and an entire loaf of bread and a half pound of cheese? I think that might be something I'd remember. I mean, we're talking Velveeta here.

"Jan, someone has been in my boat."

"Maybe that raccoon has figured out how to jimmy the lock."

"The little bandit was on here, all right, but only outside. Someone else broke in."

"They steal anything more valuable than cheese?"

"No, not that I can tell."

"Does the marina office have a key?"

"Yes. That must be it. They're closed today, but I'll ask tomorrow. I feel better already. Maybe a guard got hungry."

"Probably. Just in case maybe you should use that deadbolt Jenks installed on your cabin door when you crash tonight. You know how you draw trouble."

"Come on. I've only been here a week."

"What? A whole week and you haven't pissed anyone off? You slippin'?"

"Okay, there is this one guy. He's a Chicano out of California and thinks he's God's gift to the purchasing world."

"I knew it. Will you never learn?"

"Nope." I yawned. "I'm beat. That ferry ride is a booger. I'm hoping to catch a nap before I call Jenks on Skype later."

"Ya gonna tell him about the reefer raid."

"Why worry him? He can't do anything from Dubai."

"Yes he can. He can fire up that fancy schmancy security system he installed on your boat. Promise me you'll ask him."

"I normally never listen to any advice you give, which has worked in my favor for well-nigh the hundreds of years I've known you, but as bad as I hate to say it, you are right."

"You have made my day. My year. My—"

I hung up.

When Jenks and I first met back in the San Francisco Bay area, I had recently bought my boat and was being stalked by an evil Brit. Jenks installed an Internet-based security system on
Raymond Johnson
, but I hadn't been using it in Mexico because it requires either a landline, or really high quality Internet. I'd had neither until now. This marina had amazingly fast and reliable Internet service.

I had to figure out how to get Jenks to reinstate the service without his getting suspicious that, once again, I'd ended up with a can of worms.

"Good morning," I chirped into my Skype headset.

"Hey, you're back. How was the ferry ride?"

"Grueling. But now I have my pickup and can avoid Pedro of Death's charming company each morning. How's life in Dubai? Must be a bitch living like the point zero one percent?" Jenks was the guest of a Saudi Prince we know who has a suite of some kind in the Burj Al Arab hotel, the one that looks like a giant boat under sail. I'd watched a You Tube tour of the Royal Suite and checked prices for a regular room. Minimum was fifteen hundred buckaroos a night. Jenks was staying for free as the prince's guest, so what in the hell was I doing in a dusty little town on the Baja? I'll bet they have lots of Velveeta in Dubai.

Jenks reads my mind on occasion. "You could be here, you know."

"And do what all day? I saw this thing on television about living in Dubai and the women seemed bored silly. They can't do squat without a husband's written approval. I would, however, like a chance at stealing one of those gold-plated toilet paper dispensers I saw on that You Tube tour."

He evidently didn't think I was being sincere. "Your choice." He was a little curt, not his usual state. It was my job to be snarky, not his.

"Everything okay on your end? You sound a little…tired." I would have said bitchy, but if he said that to me I'd eat his brains.

"Oh, the usual crap, dealing with the local bureaucrats. Found a parcel of land, now we have to pay off the right people to get it."

"Jeez, we have the same problem on my project. I guess some things are global. Say, do you think you can fire up that security system again, now that I have good Internet service?"

There was a pause, dead air for a good count of ten. "Hetta, are you in trouble already?"