Just Needs Killin (8 page)

Unfortunately, Jan left the day after mom showed up. I hated to see my favorite peacekeeper go, but she and Chino were transitioning from the fish camp to the research vessel in Lopez Mateos, Chino's hometown.

Less than a hundred miles from Puerto Escondido, in the upper reaches of Magdalena Bay, Puerto Lopez Mateos is a small town with not much going for it besides a thriving whale watching industry. It has a population of about two thousand residents most of whom seem to be related to Chino, which is no wonder considering that family legend has them descended from some shipwreck victims over four hundred years ago.

Because the town is on the Pacific, with only a barrier island between it and the ocean, summer temperatures average in the eighties, as opposed to the life-sucking 90s and 100's in the Sea of Cortez.

The channel from Mag Bay into Lopez Mateos teems with some of the friendliest whales in existence during the winter months, but now the whales were headed north, so Chino's family, who made most of their money during tourist season and barely survived the rest of the year, would be involved in the expedition to find the sunken galleon that purportedly stranded their ancestors on the beach.

Ishikawa's money, or maybe whomever he represented's money, was allowing Chino to head up, you should pardon the expression, a one-man war on poverty.

If I had resented Lil before, I found her presence almost unbearable when my mother finally arrived.

I hadn't seen Mom in over a year, and wanted to spend time with her, but as always, Lillian spoiled everything. No conversation was held that didn't get high-jacked and turned into some personal beef of my aunt's. Fun shopping trips into Loreto were out, because we couldn't trust Lil if left alone on the boat, and if we took her with us, she'd probably give us the slip and find a bar. The bottom line? Only Lillian was enjoying herself during this little family reunion.

I was, on several occasions, tempted to slip Lil a bottle so she'd eventually pass out and give us a little peace, but I didn't want to put my mother through yet another of her sister's nutso binges.

Finally, after being hounded mercilessly, I agreed to a field trip to Lopez Mateos so Lillian could visit with Chino's grandmother, Abuela Yee. They'd become, much to the dismay of Chino, Internet pals after meeting briefly on my boat last year.

Chino's grandma and Aunt Lillian mostly compared notes on their love life, the thought of which gave everyone, except those two, nightmares. Not
even
wanting to overhear what was said during this little tête-à-tête, I planned to visit the
Nao de Chino
while Grans Yee and Aunt Lillian compared notes on meeting men.

Chino's granny scours the Internet for men via online dating sites, while Lil haunts the hallways of VA Hospitals for her next victim.

It is enough, to paraphrase the Bard of Avon, to 'get
me
to a nunnery.'

The day my mother and Lillian were scheduled to fly out of Mexico was a bittersweet one for me. I would miss Mom, and regretted the regrettable circumstances of our time together while she was on the boat, but getting rid of Lil? Priceless.

The police had happily approved Lil's departure from their country, and Alaska Airlines agreed to take her, so long as mother was with her. I'm sure Alaska was forewarned and wouldn't be serving the old bag any alcoholic beverages in flight, but I did worry whether there was a bar open at the airport. The last thing I wanted was another dust up with the authorities on Lil's behalf.

Because I had a meeting at the mine the same day as their flight, and with my pickup being a little small for four, I had fobbed Po Thang off on Denny for the day. I dropped Mother and Lil two hours early for their flight back to the States, and still had time to make my conference.

What with all the nasty distractions of late, I hadn't had much time to think past the disaster of the day, like getting my dog back and then divesting myself of Lil. Once I dropped her and my mom off, though, I felt a great sense of relief. I popped Willie into the disk player, sighed with deep contentment when hearing his homey voice, and drove along Mex 1 enjoying the music and the lack of Lil.

That contentment lasted about ten minutes as I mulled over the events of the past couple of weeks. Weeks? Only weeks? Seemed like a couple of years.

Rather than dwell on silly things like
why
it all happened, which would have required unwanted introspection I wasn't in any mood to deal with, what with me being in short supply of introspectiveness, I zeroed in on,
what's next
?

Puerto Escondido was fast losing its charm.

I was stuck at anchor, alone, with summer around the corner. Come a month from now, it was going to heat up like the hinges of hell. Even that could be dealt with at a dock with good electricity, and therefore air conditioning, but I'd live the life of a vampire, only emerging at night. And then there was hurricane season, and I'd already lived through one the year before, thank you. I needed a secure dock for my boat, at the very least, and maybe, in light of the Ishikawa/Luján debacle, I should bail myself out of Mexico altogether until at least October, but that would mean losing my only source of income.

My marina choices were limited.

There was the Guaymas/San Carlos area on the mainland, but that posed a problem because I was already sticking it to the copper mine near Santa Rosalia for meetings like the one I was headed for, and doubted they would spring for airfare and hotel every two weeks. Even if they did, what would I do with Po Thang?

Puerto Escondido, where I had a someday reservation, required that Mediterranean-tie situation. Not great when a hurricane roars up the Sea of Cortez.

La Paz? Great marinas, if pricey, and they took a big hurricane hit several years ago. What were the odds on that happening again? And to boot, there was that long trip up the Baja for meetings twice a month.

Every cruiser in the Sea of Cortez faces the yearly dilemma of what to do with their boat during hurricane season, but most of them leave the country to escape the heat, and I doubted any had to fret over being snagged as a murder suspect.

I was climbing the Hill of Hell, and as I passed by the desolate strip of dirt perched on the side of a cliff where I'd rescued Po Thang a few months before, I realized I'd been driving one of the most treacherous stretches of road in Mexico on autopilot. If I kept this up I wouldn't have to worry about another summer
any
where.

Seeing Po Thang's former slice of Hell did make one decision for me; I was going to call my friend Craig, a veterinarian in Arizona, and arrange to get that pooch chipped with one of his Doc Washington GPS trackers.

The meeting was a no-brainer, a good thing since indecision kept mine ricocheting around like a bullet in a rain barrel, or going as dead as a, well, beheaded Japanese.

On the way back to Puerto Escondido I made the mandatory, for me, pit stop at Saul Davis's grocery store in Mulege to see what Gringo goodies lurked on his shelves and in his cooler. Score! Velveeta cheese, Polska kielbasa, a case of Alpo, a case of caffeine free Diet Coke for a mere twenty-two dollars, and best of all, beautiful thin asparagus. It's the little things that count.

Back on my blessedly Lillian-free boat just before dark, I broke out a kilo of carnitas I bought in Santa Rosalia for me and Po Thang. He even let me have three tacos worth.

Washing it down with an ice-cold Tecate—my first in almost a week—I wiped pig grease from both our snouts, fired up the generator again, and Skyped Craigosaurus, a.k.a. Doctor Craig Washington, DVM.

Craig and I were friends back in the Bay Area, when he was a hundred pounds heavier. We both love dogs, struggle with our weight, and have a lousy history with men, so our friendship went deep.

Craig, highly successful monetarily, as well as tall, black and gay, should have been in high cotton in the San Francisco Bay Area, but his weight and kind nature made him a target for pretty boys looking to break his heart and bank account. His nickname back then, Craigosaurus, no longer pertains. 

After being pushed too far by one of those crappy opportunists, he hired my former personal trainer who, through no fault of her own had failed miserably with me. He then moved to Arizona, met the cowboy of his dreams, and they live on a vast cattle ranch outside of Bisbee. Their popular big animal clinic services both sides of the border and not that either of them need it, they make scads of money implanting GPS tracking chips into livestock. Four-wheeling cowpokes can cut their roundup time, and hired hands, in half. Rumor has it quarter horses and cowpunchers are lawyering-up.

His partner, Roger, is a fourth generation Arizona rancher, and neither man is anxious, even in the first town in Arizona to condone same-sex marriage, to out their relationship to their elderly, very conservative, parents. They still do not live together, but instead have two separate houses on the same bajillion acres. To see them together, few would ever guess they were anything other than good old boys—albeit one of them being a
black
good old boy—sharing a business partnership and, on occasion, a beer or two at the local golf club.

Jan and I are now Arizona residents, using Craig's address to make us legal. As far as anyone knows, Craig and Hetta and Roger and Jan all live happily together.

"Hi, honey, miss me?" I chirped when Craig answered. He turned on his camera and I noticed he was even more svelte and chiseled than the last time I saw him at my fortieth—there, I said it without stuttering!—birthday party in Conception Bay a few weeks before. 

"Hetta! Great to talk to you. I've enjoyed your emails, but it's not the same as seeing you and dishing some dirt. What are you up to? How's Jan? Jenks? Po Thang?"

"Jan and Jenks are fine, but Po Thang is one of the reasons I called. He has taken up a bad habit or two."

"What can you expect, Hetta? He learns from his master, or mistress in your case. You have stopped giving him people food, right?"

I looked over at Po Thang, who was licking pig leavings from a plate. Pig is not really people food, right?

"Sure. The problem is, he's taken to jumping ship and swimming for shore. Are those GPS microchip doodads you make waterproof?"

"Waterproof, yes. Don't know how they'd hold up underwater for long periods, though. I'll give one a test. You want to bring him up for a fitting?"

"Can't, even though I would love to. How're my guns."

"Locked up safe and sound. Please don't tell me you need them. Again."

"Naw. Just kinda miss 'em. Anyhow, could Chino do the implant? He is a veterinarian, even if he does spend all his time with whales. I know he puts tracking devices on some of them."

"Probably with a harpoon. He'll need a little more finesse with Po Thang."

"But he can do it?"

"Sure. I've been teaching ranchers to do it themselves."

"They chip themselves?"

He laughed. "Very funny. I miss your sense of humor. When
are
you coming home?"

"Maybe soon. I can't decide what to do when I grow up. Say, could you arrange for someone to implant a chip in Texas?"

"That'd take a pretty big chip."

"Very funny, yourself. Someone
in
Texas."

"No problem."

"Great. Well, you've met my Aunt Lillian…."

Turns out the chip's tracking distance is only five miles, and I didn't want to be within a hundred miles of my aunt. Oh, well, it would have been nice to have some kind of alarm go off if she ever headed my way again.

But, for Po Thang, five miles would be better than nothing.

Since I had Skype up and running, I called Jenks, even though it was five a.m. in Dubai. He gets up at four anyhow. He picked up on the third ring. There was a loud roar in the background.

"Hello? Hello? Hetta, I can't really hear you. I'll call back when I can." Just before the line went dead, I heard him yell, "Oh, hell, we're going down…."

Jenks is a pilot, and when an aviator says, "Oh, hell, we're going down," it can only mean one thing.

I went cold with fear. It took me forty years to find, stalk, and snare the world's greatest guy, and now he's crashing into some godforsaken desert? "No!" I screamed.

Po Thang jumped to his feet and looked guilty.

I reached out and gave him an ear rub. "Sorry. You haven't done anything that deserves an N-O, sweetie," I told him, spelling the dreaded word so as not to upset him further. He looked relieved and licked my hand. Poor thing already thinks his second name is, "Sit-and stay."

I tried calling Jenks back, got nowhere, grabbed a glass of wine and went out on deck to wash down my fears. What seemed like an hour, but was probably only ten minutes later, my cellphone rang.

"Hetta. Sorry about that. The prince and I are out practicing with his RC helicopter, and something went wrong."

"What? Oh, my god, you
did
crash. Are you and Prince Faoud all right?"

"What? Of course we are."

"Thank goodness. You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing flying the prince's helicopter?"

There was a pause, then Jenks started laughing, which pissed me off. First he scares the poop out of me, and then laughs about it? What kind of nut case had he turned into over there?

"Okay you s.o.b., I'm hanging up now. You can take your helicopter and shove it—"

"Wait, Hetta, I'm sorry. It's a radio controlled helicopter. You know, a model airplane."

"Oh."

I was relieved Jenks was still alive. Honest. But as I tossed in my lonely bed—okay, maybe not so lonely, now that a golden retriever manages to take over way more than half of it—I became annoyed.

Jenks was living as a guest of Prince Faoud in Dubai. A Saudi prince who, by the way, was
my
friend first. Jan and I met him during the aftermath of a hurricane in Magdalena Bay the year before, a doozy of a storm that threatened both our boats, if you can call
Golden Odyssey
, the prince's two hundred and fifty foot yacht, a boat. Hell, the "little" boat he trails behind his yacht, just in case he wants to go big game fishing, is almost as large as
Raymond Johnson
.

So, here I was stuck at anchor in a Baja backwater while the two men yucked it up in the lap of luxury, and flew model airplanes that, knowing the prince's extravagant tastes and limitless pocketbook, cost more than my boat.

I stewed all night, then called Jan the next morning to vent. After listening to my rant, she drawled, "Lemme get this straight. You've got your panties in a twist because Jenks is letting you do what you want to do, instead of what
he
wants you to do, which is go live with him in Dubai in the most luxurious hotel in the world?"

After I hung up on all that logic, I decided to take Po Thang out for a beach party, so we could both cool off. I took a snorkel and fins, along with my light-weight Lycra neck-to-ankle, form-fitting, sea-critter-keeper-offer, bodysuit. It isn't the most flattering piece of clothing I own, and I rarely wear it without a tee shirt to cover up some less than lovely bumps, but Po Thang doesn't notice. He's too happy splashing around and trying to drown me on the occasional pass by putting his front feet on my shoulders and pushing me under. Luckily I'm able to fin him off.

I am the original chicken of the sea, but I love to putter around in shallow water and spy on fish and stuff. Unfortunately, I've been stung, bitten, and generally terrorized by more than one salty threat, and for some reason I think that sheathing myself in a thin layer of Lycra protects me from harm. Not logical, of course, but it works for me.

The water was clear and seventy-eight degrees, just the way I like it. My chosen reef, which was actually more of a pile of rocks, harbors myriad brightly-colored fish, some of them just tiny bright blue streaks, others multi-hued and larger. Itsy bitsy baby octopi, no larger than a fingernail, abound. I was hoping for a seahorse, but didn't get that lucky. Before I knew it, two hours passed and by the time I got back to the boat my outlook had lightened immensely.

I gave both myself and Po Thang a fresh water rinse off, poured a glass of wine, and went out on the sundeck to let my hair air-dry while I determined my next move.

Jan was right: Jenks
had
invited me to join him in Dubai, but I stubbornly refused because I am stubborn. He says my independence is one of the things that attracted him to me in the first place, although I think he may have rethought that a time or two.

I called Jan back. "I'm pissed off because I'm stupid, and that is really hard to fix."

"So fix it anyhow. Get that boat into a slip, jump a plane, and go."

"I just might. But the truth is, I'd worry about you. After all, there is still that Ishikawa/Lujàn thing."

"I'm touched. Okay, I'll come with you."

"What? You can't. You have to keep my dog. And speaking of which—" I went on to tell her about the GPS tracker chip Craig was shipping for Chino to implant in Po Thang. Somehow Po Thang sensed we were discussing him, and not in a good way, and frowned at me.

I told Jan and she giggled. "I swear, Hetta, that dog understands everything we say."

"Then why doesn't he mind better?"

"Cuz he takes after you."

Spaghetti and meatballs were on the dinner menu, along with a salad, and heated garlic bread. Po Thang gave the salad a sniff and a miss.

We ate out on deck, as the evening was uncommonly warm, a reminder that summer was coming on fast and I had to make a decision on what I was going to do with mine.

My contract at the mine ran out in late summer or early fall. That meant attending at least two meetings a month in Santa Rosalia. I could move the boat to the marina there, and still sign on as a cook or whatever for Chino's Manila Galleon/treasure hunt in Mag Bay, where it is nice and cool all summer long. From there I'd drive to the mine site for those meetings and spend the night on my own boat. Po Thang'd have built in baby-sitters aboard
Nao de Chino
.

It was the perfect solution with one ragged snag: Lujàn.

My spirits plunged.

I was starting to feel like a sitting duck.

A victim.

A wuss.

Coward.

Shrinking violet.

Everything I hate in a woman.

Something I
really
hate in me.

It was that last bit that had me pulling Po Thang close for a comforting hug. Comforting for me; he was comfortably asleep when I grabbed him. After a little grumbling he gave me a nose lick, and I smelled sweet doggy breath with a hint of garlic.

He depended on me to feed him and keep him safe. Mostly from himself, but he didn't know that. I had let him down, but he didn't know that either. He'd been held hostage with my mean old aunt, and wasn't very pleased about it, but it was
why
he was held with her that stuck in my craw.

Lujàn.

Once again on the verge of tears, I wrapped my arms around Po Thang's warmth and fell asleep on the carpet. My last thought was that for someone who rarely cries, there was way too much of it lately.

When I awoke at midnight, I was stiff. And I heard music.

Disoriented, I sat up and listened. The music was in my head.

A team of buglers played an eerie rendition of a song that sends a chill down the spine of any Texan:
The Deguello.

Most people have only heard it at bullfights. It is what they play when the matador receives his killing, throat-cutting, sword.  And it is what the men at the Alamo awoke to the morning of that battle; Mexican president Santa Anna's musical message that he would give no quarter.

Drawing a mental line in the sand, I conjured up an adoring roar from the bullring fans, executed a theatrical sideways stance, swooped a throw around my body, and held it up dramatically. Snapping the blankie in front of my dog, I challenged, "
¡Toro! Aqui!
"

Po Thang scooted backwards so fast he tripped over himself, landed in a heap, regained his dignity with a mighty shake, and gave me a dirty look.

I dropped my cape and gave him a hug. "I'm so sorry sweetie. Trust me, it ain't you who ain't gonna get no quarter. Okay, I think that was a double negative, but you know what I mean. That filthy dog-snatching coward, Lujàn, is on notice from this day forward. How
dare
he kidnap you?"

He snorted in agreement, and I added, "And to make matters worse, he gave Lillian back."