Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (12 page)

With the stony facial expression of an Easter Island monolith, Sonrisa removed her bulky embroidered backpack, plunked it into the car’s backseat, followed it in, then arranged her skirt and shawl neatly around her. While her mannerisms were in no way hostile, I wondered, once again, what lay beneath that stoic façade.

Craig and I chatted about friends, our plans, and the like during the drive from the winery to Naco, but our passenger never uttered a sound. As we entered the outskirts of town, I asked her, “¿
A donde
?”

“
Iglesia
.” The church.

Two blocks later, I pulled to the curb in front of a church, she got out, and, without even a nod in our direction, crossed the street behind us and headed back in the direction from which we’d come.

“Gee you’re sooo welcome, Sonrisa,” Craig said, shaking his head. “What’s with her?”

“Got me. Nanci says she’s just shy, but the first night at the winery, when Sonrisa was serving dinner, I caught her looking at us with some serious hate in those little black eyes.”

“Us? Or just you?”

“I think both of us, but not sure. Maybe she’s got a bug up her ass over Gringos.”

“On the bright side, she’s slightly friendlier than that longhorn. How did you get so popular, Hetta? Must be that fabulous personality of yours.”

“Very funny. I wonder if Booger Red has actually killed anyone.”

“Nah, I don’t think so, but he sure as heck scares the hell out of them. Ted told me he has to keep a sharp eye out for people making their way toward the border, set on an illegal crossing into the States. Sometimes they wander up the hill looking for food, and end up treed by the bull.”

“Which means the only reason Booger Red hasn’t actually done someone in is that they out-climb him?”

“That’s my take.”

There were only two cars in line at the border crossing. While we awaited our turn, I told Craig that the wait at Nogales, farther to the west, could take up to four hours, so Naco was a breeze. The customs agent, a woman I’d seen at the golf club restaurant, but who, if she recognized me didn’t let on, asked us what we were bringing back from Mexico. We showed her our two bottles of wine, and were waved through with a, “Welcome home.”

Only later did we learn we were international smugglers and could have incurred a hefty fine for not declaring Craig’s vinegarroon. Jeez, what if a bug walks through on his own?

As soon as we got home, I called Jenks’s hotel room and cell phone. No luck.

I checked my email. Nothing from Kuwait, but I did get two messages from Jan, dated Friday, the first one’s subject: Help!

“Craig, come look at this.”

He read Jan’s email. “Can we call her?”

“It’d have to be on Chino’s cell, and her second message says not to call.”

“I guess that answers that.”

“Okay, if, like she says, she caught the Friday night ferry, she arrived in Guaymas Saturday morning, so there’s no use driving down there now. First off, it’s a really bad idea to drive at night in Mexico, especially on the road from Cananea to Imuris, and we’d probably cross paths. We just have to sit tight and wait until we hear from her again.”

“Maybe she called when you weren’t in Guaymas to pick her up. She has your new cell number, right?”

“I haven’t checked my messages yet.” As I turned on the phone, I pondered aloud, “I wonder what’s wrong now? Last time she bailed on Chino was because she felt uneasy with their age difference, but I thought they’d worked that out. Now she says she needs a place to stay and is headed here, but why?”

Craig stared at the computer as if demanding an answer. “I still think I should call Chino.”

“Can’t you read? Jan says
no
.”

“Well then, what do we do?”

“We wait. No messages on my phone yet. Maybe the ferry was cancelled or late. Who knows? She has my address and she’s a clever girl, so she’ll find us, I’m sure.”

Sure or not of Jan’s abilities, it worried me that she was somewhere, alone, in Mexico. I don’t like my friends or family unaccounted for, which is odd, considering I spend a lot of my life being unaccountable. With two of the most important people in my life amongst the missing,  I was on edge, waiting for both Jan and Jenks to call. After tossing and turning most of the night, I was in a deep sleep a little before nine in the morning, which is, of course, when the phone jangled me awake.

Craig got to the phone first because, anticipating a call, I’d taken the phone to bed with me and it was now lost in the jumble of covers heaped up after a night of restlessness. By the time I found it, Craig was saying, “The bus station in Naco?”

Jan said yes, he said we’d be right there, and hung up.

I didn’t even know there was a bus station in Naco, but we found it, and a bedraggled Jan, fifteen minutes after Craig hung up the phone. Dressed in a ragged gray hooded sweatshirt and even rattier pants, my friend carried her belongings in one of those colorful plastic mesh bags that serve as Mexican suitcases in one hand and, incongruously, a large designer purse in the other.

As we hugged, she broke into sobs and wailed, “Hetta, they shot him.”

Craig and I exchanged a look of alarm. “Someone shot Chino?” I asked.

Between little gasps, she managed, “No, not Chino. The bus driver. Right on the main highway, in broad daylight. Saturday morning.”

“Is he dead?”

“I don’t think so. At least he was alive when the ambulance took him away. A car forced us off the road, and when we stopped this thug walked up to the driver’s window and opened fire. I thought they were going to kill us all, but they jumped into this SUV and took off.”

“My God, what is Mexico turning into? Colombia a few years ago? It’s all about drugs and gang warfare. Oh, boy, wait until this hits the international news. Our parents will have a cat.”

Jan’s face went gray, then white. “Hetta, get me home. Now. I’m really sick.”

We hustled her into the car.

“Sick, as in how?” Craig asked. He put his hand to her forehead. “No fever.”

“Nope, the runs, cramps, and my chest is killing me. I don’t know what’s wrong, but it isn’t good. Can’t keep anything down, and only massive doses of Imodium got me here without embarrassing myself. That Montezuma’s a vengeful bastard. What I need is a lot of sleep and a ton of water with, what a concept, actual ice cubes. In fact, I think I’ll bathe in ice cubes. Better yet, just stick me in the freezer.”

Something about Jan’s bus story was bothering me. “Jan, seems to me you are lucky you’re not on ice…as in a Mexican jail. You’re a witness to attempted murder, and their method of making sure witnesses don’t take a powder is to lock ‘em up.”

“The cops never showed, just an ambulance. I didn’t wait for a new bus, I caught a ride as far as Imuris with a couple of guys on their way to Tucson, got a room in Imuris and the earliest bus here. It’s been a hell of a trip. Are we there yet?”

Craig handed her a bottled water. “Almost. We’ll get some aspirin in you, and after a little rest you’ll be brand new. Uh, have you been keeping up with the news lately?”

“Hell, no. How could I, stuck in the middle of friggin’ Baja nowhere. Why?”

“Guess you haven’t heard of swine flu?”

“I don’t care if pigs get sick. Or whales, for that matter. I’ve had  it  with animal life. Doctor Chino can take his friggin’ job and shove it. I’m sick of whales, sick of living on fish tacos, sick of Doctor Chino Yee, and more importantly, just plain sick. What’s swine flu?”

“Jan,” Craig told her, “there is an epidemic, actually a pandemic, of this new flu strain. From your symptoms, I don’t think you have it, but you’d best look sharp at the border.”

“Naw, I don’t think I have the flu, just amoebas, as they say in Mexico. That’s their answer for everything.”

“Think you can make it through the border crossing without throwing up? They might quarantine you if you barf in their booth.”

“I’ll do my best. Just get me to a hot shower and a bed. I think that alone will cure me.”

“Sure, hon, comin’ up. The house is only a hop, skip, and a jump from the border.”

Jan moaned. “Please tell me there isn’t a long line to cross, cuz I feel a heave coming on.”

“I’ve never seen more than four cars, except after church lets out on Sunday. That’s when everyone heads for the shopping mall at Sierra Vista.

Jan let out a sigh of relief, then asked, “Uh, you don’t think anyone will recognize us, do you?”

“I’ve gone through several times and haven’t seen a familiar face. More importantly, no one seems to know me. They must have rotated all our old buddies out of here.”

Of course, Craig wanted to know what we were talking about, so I told him about a past adventure, when Jan and I ended up in deep caca with authorities, local and federal, on the U.S. side, and were accused of bird smuggling.

“So,” he said, “let me get this straight. You two drove through the border fence, got arrested, then liberated a parrot that Fish and Game had in custody. Good for you. Were they really going to euthanize that bird? That’s ridiculous, and if I had been here…whoa Nellie, lookee what we have here. What do you wanna bet neither one of them is her brother.”

“What are you—” I was cut short by my own amazement. There was Sonrisa, all three feet something of her, riding down the main boulevard in the back seat of a tricked out Jeep Rubicon, actually smiling, and chatting away with the driver and passenger. At one point they all laughed.

The bright yellow Jeep, headed out of town, was driven by none other than the X-Boys. “Well, doodness dwacious, doesn’t our little Miss Sonrisa have the knack for hitchhiking? I hope she doesn’t end up dead in a ditch, cuz she shore ain’t picky. I’ll call Ted soon, make sure she arrived home safely. Just because I don’t like the little shit doesn’t mean I want to see her harmed.”

Craig nodded. “Not a bad idea, but looks to me like she’s having a fine old time in the company of those Black Muslim dudes. Odd combo, to say the least.”

Jan, curled up in the rear seat as best as her five-eleven frame allowed, popped up. “What? Where?” Evidently nosiness instantly overcomes nauseousness.

“Later,” I told her. “First, let’s get you home. You look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Thanks, Hetta, I can always count on you to cheer me up.”

“Hey, what are friends for?”

By late afternoon, it was obvious Jan needed more medical attention than a veterinarian and an engineer could administer. She’d spent the better part of the day making best friends with the toilet bowl and a bucket, and was badly dehydrated in spite of drinking glass after glass of water.

Since she’d let her American health insurance lapse, I decided she needed to do what the uninsured do: head for an emergency room.  Craig offered to drive her there, but I didn’t think showing up in a brand new Porsche with an indigent in tow was a great idea. My old VW was far more suited to the task.

Jan, doubled over in pain as we entered the Copper Queen Hospital, made for a chair in the reception area, while I went to the desk.

A sweet-faced woman whose desk nameplate identified her as Patricia Norquist, handed me a clipboard with a bunch of forms attached, and told me what she’d need from us. I took the forms back to where Jan slouched and moaned.

Rummaging through her handbag, I came up with her Mexican driver’s license, then filled out the paperwork while she made a dash for the loo. She returned, pasty faced, just as I finished. I asked the few questions I didn’t know the answer to and returned to the desk.

The woman perused my handiwork and sighed. “No insurance?”

“Nope.”

“She lives in Mexico?”

This question piqued the interest of others in the waiting room, who stared suspiciously at poor Jan, since the swine flu outbreak had originated south of the border.

“Yes,” I said loudly, “she arrived, sick, from Mexico. Today.”

Several people quickly left, improving our odds of getting Jan in sooner by leaps and bounds.

The woman checked the list of Jan’s symptoms again, seemed satisfied my buddy wasn’t Piggy Mary, and gave me a wry grin. “I don’t suppose you’d care to take responsibility for the bill?”

“Sorry, I’m broke. Uh, Sister Jan wouldn’t want me to tell you this, but, well, she belongs to a religious order and has taken a vow of poverty. They would have helped her out in Mexico, but up here….” I let that hang.

The woman looked past me at Jan’s gold handbag with its distinctive Fendi logo and drawled, “A designer order, no doubt?”

Dang, Ms. Patricia Norquist might work for a small hospital, but she knows her Fendi.

“Actually,” I said, thinking fast, “it’s The Sisters of Perpetual Poverty, a small convent headquartered in the Bay Area. So obscure that only the Pope knows about it.

“It’s a refuge for nuns who have, shall we say, strayed into unabashed materialism. Kind of a nun rehab.”

Ms. Norquist rolled her eyes at my unintended pun.

“They send them off to count whales and live on fish. You know, make them appreciate being nuns again. Anyway, they obviously have no medical insurance. And then there’s the fact that the Sister is a, shall we say, fugitive from political oppression in her home country of…Cuba.”