Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (13 page)

She fixed me with a cynical smile. “Okay, take a seat, we’ll call you.”

After another half hour went by, with only one person called into the inner sanctum, I mumbled a curse. A skeletal, scabby-faced woman leaned over the empty seat between us. Judging by the looks of several others in the waiting room, Meth is the drug of choice in these parts. “Your friend looks too good,” she said, showing a mouthful of blackened, ragged teeth.

It took a great deal of control for me not to run away from her. “Excuse me?”

“She looks, like, healthy.”

For my money Jan looked to be knocking on death’s door, but compared to this meth head, she did look way too good to get fast attention. “Believe me, she’s really, really, sick.”

“I don’t suppose your friend is also an addict?”

“Would it help move her up the line?”

“Only if she’s suffering from severe withdrawal.”

“Like if she hasn’t had a fix in at least….”

The stringy haired woman, who could have been twenty-five or sixty-five, smiled that horrible smile and winked. “Forty-eight hours is the magic number.”

If that woman hadn’t looked so much like a Halloween ghoul, I would have kissed her. Instead, I slipped her a twenty. She took the money and left, no longer in need of meds, now that she could get right. I should have felt guilty, I guess, but desperate times and all.

I went back to the reception desk. “Uh, did I mention that Sister Jan is an addict, and hasn’t had a fix in forty-eight hours?”

I was rewarded with an angelic smile. “My, but aren’t you a fast study? And, thanks for making what promised to be my otherwise boring day. Someone will be out to fetch Sister soon.”

Within minutes, Jan was hooked up to an IV, and a couple of hours later we were at home armed with a bagful of free meds, and a referral to a rehab counselor. While Sister Jan had vehemently denied dabbling in illicit drugs, I gave the doctor a meaningful look and took the stack of twelve-step literature offered.

Tests were done to rule out amoebic dysentery, giardia, and other stuff, but the doctor said it was likely just plain old Montezuma’s revenge, which, because of her rundown state, was fairly fierce.

Jan, after two days of mostly sleeping and watching TV in bed, was still pale but up to a cocktail or two on the verandah. Craig and I had waited until now to grill her like a red snapper for the down and dirty details of this latest fiasco, and why she was here in Bisbee, instead of with her amour, Doctor Brigido “Chino” Yee, at his campsite in the Baja.

While tossing dog biscuits to Blue, she got down to the good stuff. “I don’t care if I ever see another whale, or Chino either, for that matter.”

“But why, Jan? What did he do to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, well, that explains it. No wonder you slunk off in the dead of night. The bastard!”

Craig laughed and Jan looked sheepish. “Put that way,” she said, “it does sound a little ridiculous. Call me self-centered, needy, whatever, but I would like, just once, to take precedence over a barnacle-encrusted behemoth.”

“Hey,” Craig protested, “I was a behemoth. What we lack in beauty, we make up for in cuddly.”

“You men always stick together.”

“Jan,” he reasoned, “you knew Chino was a dedicated marine biologist when you met him. What did you expect him to do during peak whale calving season? Take you to the Four Seasons for dinner? Shower you with roses?”

“Ha! There isn’t a flower within fifty miles of that friggin’ shack we live in. And no, I don’t expect the princess treatment, but a little attention on occasion would be nice. He needs an assistant, not a girlfriend. I’m tired of counting whales, talking whales, freakin’ dreaming whales. I am whaled out.”

“So,” I asked, “I can rule out fish for dinner?”

“Whales ain’t fish, but close enough. I may never eat fish again, ever. I’ve lived on fish tacos and refried beans for months now. If it wasn’t for limes, I’d probably have scurvy to complement my runs.”

Craig looked thoughtful, then told Jan, “I think you need a thorough physical. A real good going over.”

“I ain’t got no insurance, remember?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I need a marine biologist on my staff.”

“You want to hire Chino?”

“No, you.”

“Oh, come on, you know damned well I’m no marine biologist.”

“It’s on your resume, you know,” I chimed in, earning me a squinty frown.

“Oh, yeah, from another time I let you drag me into something smelly. You needed a marine biologist for a project, and presto chango, I was one.”

“So versatile,” Craig teased. “Never mind about that, I think your time on the Baja is qualification enough. First, though, you’ll need a full checkup, as required by my insurance company. Actually, I’ve already called the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale. I know someone there. They can take you.”

We both stared at him. This was an incredibly generous offer, and one she couldn’t turn down, but Jan looked stunned, and a little frightened. “You think I might have something really bad wrong with me?”

“No, sweetie, I’d just feel better if we ran you through the clinic. What do you say?”

“Well, heck, why not? I still feel puny, anyhow. When do we leave?”

“Day after tomorrow. We’ll be in Scottsdale a couple of days, then back here before you know it.”

We discussed this turn of events, then returned to the subject of Chino. Craig was especially interested in daily life at the whale camp, and the research they were doing. “You know, after the Mayo Clinic, I think I’ll go over to the Baja and give Chino a hand, since his assistant’s pitched a little Texas hissy and run off to Arizona.”

“Hmph,” said Jan. “You go right on ahead. I’ll stay here with poor Hetta.”

“Hey, what’s this poor Hetta thing? You’re the drug addict with no job and no health insurance. And, I might add, now you’ve even been kicked out of the convent.”

When Jan and Craig returned from Scottsdale she was a mite frazzled from all her tests. She even had a nuclear stress test where they detected an anomaly in her heartbeat, but they didn’t find anything serious. She started describing the details of the tests, but I cut her off. I hate needles and don’t even want to hear about them. I did, however, comment on that new glow she had about her, especially in the dark.

She was deemed healthy, if a little anemic. Even though now on Craig’s payroll, her salary of one dollar a year isn’t going to go very far toward more designer bags.

While my friends were off getting Jan examined by the best, I needed something to take my mind off Jenks. To push away the almost physical pain of worry about him, I threw myself into stacks of drawings and operating manuals, pulling together a big fat report for mine management that I hoped would justify keeping me on the payroll, even though the shutdown dragged on.

Craig, upon their return, decided he would definitely visit Chino in the Baja, probably to get a break from living with two women, especially Jan and me. His thankless job of playing the highhanded drill sergeant, and our threats to mutiny, were taking a toll on him. He accused us, on more than one occasion when he’d been at the library all day, of having enchilada breath.  Go figure.

Since Craig wanted to visit Chino, and I needed to check on my boat, we made plans for heading south.

I called Maria, who was one of the few people left in the skeleton crew at the mine.

“So,” I asked, “any news on the strike settlement?”

“No, Café, but
Señor
Orozco is working with the unions in Mexico City. He took your last report with him and told me the union leader was pleased with your proposals.”

“Good, that’ll keep me on the payroll, right?”

“I do not know of such things, but he told me to continue sending you drawings and files, so I think so.”

That was a relief. “I am going to San Carlos this weekend, so if you can get me through the gate, I’ll drop off another report. Will you be there on Friday?”

“Oh, yes. I will notify security.”

“I’ll have two people with me. Is that okay?”

“No problem. What time will you be here?”

“Around nine. Uh, is El Ratón still around?”

Giggle. “Yes,
Señor
Racón is here.”

“You know, I thought I saw him in Naco, Arizona, not long ago. Does he have friends over here?”

“I do not know. Do you want me to ask him?”

“No!” I shouted, not meaning to. Much quieter, I added, “It’s not important.
Hasta
Friday.”

“
Hasta luego
, Café.”

Jan peeked around the door. “Who you yellin’ at?”

“I overreacted when talking with Maria. That guy I told you about who works for the mining company, the one I call Rat Face? Craig and I saw him going into an RV over by the golf course, and guess who owns said RV?”

“The Xers?”

“What are you, clairvoyant?”

“Naw, Craig told me. Hetta, you aren’t snooping where your nose can lead us into yet another mess, are you?”

“Who, me?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I swear, if you so much as get me a parking ticket, I will kill you. I mean it this time.”

“Ya know, Sister Jan, drug withdrawal can make a person mighty cranky. You might want to consider a program.”

I ducked, but not fast enough. The morning newspaper hit me in the chest. I grabbed it and was saying, “Temper, temper, Sister,” when a headline caught my attention.

Cananea mine owners accused of negligence
.

Mexico City

Señor
Juan Orozco, Managing Director of Groupo Minera Cananea, denied allegations by miner union officials that the health of employees has been purposely jeopardized by management’s failure to maintain safety equipment properly. For years, according to the unions, the concentrator unit has not been functioning properly, subjecting employees to dangerous levels of dust.

One union official quoted a recent report on conditions at the mine. “The deliberate dismantling of dust collectors in the concentrator area processing plants by Grupo Mexico approximately two years ago means that workers in these areas have been subjected to high concentrations of dust containing 23% quartz silica, with 51% of sampled dust in the respirable particle size range, protected only by inadequate personal respirators. Occupational exposures to silica can lead to debilitating, fatal respiratory diseases including silicosis and lung cancer.”

Admitting there might be room for improvement, Señor Orozco said they have hired the services of a world-renowned mining expert to analyze the situation and, if necessary, recommend repairs.

I quit reading and speed dialed the Trob, and since Jan loves eavesdropping on my conversations with Wontrobski, which she likens to me taking a knife to a gunfight, I put the speaker on for her infantile amusement.

“Good morning, Hetta.”

“You know, Wontrobski, if you’re gonna replace me, you might want to give me a heads up so I can make other plans.”

“What are you talking about?”

I read him the article, then demanded, “So, just who is this so-called expert?”

“Well, Hetta, you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are the expert.”

“I am no way an expert on concentrators, or mines.” Or almost anything else, for that matter.

“Maybe so, but you are all they have.”

“In that case, they’re in deep doo doo.”

“You underestimate yourself. I have to go now. Goodbye.”

I held the phone in a chokehold at arm’s length and screamed.

Jan gave me a devilish grin and shook her head. “You experts. Sooo temperamental.”

“Big talk from a defrocked nun with a drug habit,” I retorted, then we both howled at the pun.

Craig came into the office to see what all the commotion was about. “Hey, what’s up? You two having a cat fight?”

“Nah, Hetta’s just trying to strangle the phone.” She filled him in on the latest expert stuff.

“Think how it’ll look on your resume, Miss Coffey,” he said. “Now, how about a nice brisk walk and some hot java at the golf course?”

“Say, Craig, you haven’t, by any chance, taken note of that rancher hunk drinking coffee there about this time every day, have you?”

“Hunk?” Jan asked. “Rancher hunk? Take me to him.”

“Oh,” I drawled, winking at her, “I have a feeling this cow poke, you should excuse the expression, only has eyes for our hunk, Doctor Craig.”

Craig tried to look indignant. “He’s only interested in my tracking chip.”

“So you say.”

Jan grabbed her bag. “Well, rancher or no, I want coffee and a close up look at those Black Muslim dudes you guys are always talking about. I saw them in the Jeep the day I arrived, the one you said that gal, Sonrisa, was bumming a ride in, but I was too sick to pay much attention.”

Craig frowned. “Speaking of, Hetta, did you call Ted and Nanci? Did Sonrisa get home safe and sound the other day?”

“Yep, but Nanci thinks Sonrisa must have taken the bus from Cananea, because she got home late. After dark, in fact. They were beginning to worry.”

“Maybe our X-men went to visit their good buddy, El Ratón, in Cananea, and dropped her there.”

“Maybe, who knows? I don’t even know why I care, she’s such a disagreeable little shit.”

“Takes one to know one?” Craig suggested. “Okay, get on your walking shoes, we’re headed out in search of exercise, breakfast, and caffeine.”

“And cowboys?”