Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (7 page)

Feeling sheepish about practically accusing the Trob of sexual discrimination, I made a note to get him some Bisbee Blue. I mean, how expensive can a little piece of turquoise be?

Mulling over my day, I realized that as crappy as it started, I’d now landed in tall cotton.

In celebration of this turn of good fortune, I gave Blue extra treats as I told him that I no longer faced a daily commute across the border, and I didn’t have to work in a dusty, possibly deadly, mining compound surrounded by armed guards and disgruntled strikers. He congratulated me with a wag.

Now I could honestly tell the parents and Jenks the good news without the bad should they ask. No use stirring up things when they were already settled,
n’est-ce pas
?

The seemingly endless tasks required for setting up a working office filled the next couple of days. Equipment leasing, signing up for myriad services, reconnecting lines of communication—schmoozing, actually—with engineering contacts I’d later tap for info. I made lists of lists, color-coded on Post-it notes, which I consider one of the best inventions
ev
er. Walls, windows, and the refrigerator door were aflutter with an informational Post-it snowstorm.

The Safeway items, which I cleverly dubbed Craig’s list, grew large. Dr. Craig isn’t much of a drinker, but I bought a case of Tecate, just in case. He eats beef, so two whopping filets waited in the fridge for our first night’s dinner, along with all the fixings for twice-baked potatoes, and a Caesar’s salad. For lunch on the day he arrived, I planned on serving grilled eggplant, feta cheese, and sun-dried tomato paninis, his favorite.

He called on his way in, so I was out front when he pulled up, not in his van, but in a brand new candy apple red Porsche. As he unfolded from the snazzy car, that was not the only surprise of the day. “Okay,” I called out, “whoever you are, what have you done with the rest of my friend Craig?”

He grabbed me in a bear hug. At six-four to my five-four he hoisted me off my feet to do so, then he set me down and did a twirl. “So, what do you think?”

I used my best Billy Crystal accent from a Saturday Night Live skit. “Dahling, you look mahvelous.”

“So do you.”

“Liar.”

We put his fancy new wheels in the garage, then spent half an hour unloading it. “Ya know, Craig, if you’da told me you weren’t bringing the van I wouldn’t have given you such a big list of stuff to get me from Jenks’s apartment.”

“I wanted to surprise you with my new wheels. Besides, I got it all in somehow.”

With everything stashed in his room and my closet, we retired to the verandah for an iced tea. The day was warm and golfers were out in force.

“Wow,  Hetta,”  Craig  said,  “this  house  looks  like something you’d design and decorate. It’s fantastic. I’d say this equals that great place you had in Oakland.”

“That was a nice home, wasn’t it? It seems like a lifetime ago since I sold it and moved onto the boat. I had put my heart, soul, and a ton of money into renovating that old mini-mansion, but after RJ died, it wasn’t the same.”

“I know. I sure miss that dog. But you’ve found a new way of life on the water, and you met Jenks, so things have a way of working out.”

“Um-hum,” I said, unwilling to dampen our reunion with my insecurities. “Okay, Craig, let’s hear it. Were you a candidate on one of those extreme weight loss shows?”

He shook his head and looked sad. My heart froze. “You aren’t sick, are you?”

Reaching over, he patted my hand. “I’m fine, far as I know.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Truth is, I had an epiphany. One of those Oprah, oh, I get it, moments. That little shit Pierre, the guy I was seeing when you left Oakland, did me a big favor in a nasty kind of way. Barely six months into our relationship, he wanted me to buy him a, get this, Porsche.”

“Why on earth would he think you’d do that? You, of the old vans?”

He shook his head sadly. “Because, I guess, he thought he had me where he wanted me. You know, I never really trusted him. Too cute and needy. Anyhow, I say no, he pitches a little queer-boy hissy, telling me he’d already gone to the dealership and picked out his car. He also told me he’d assured the salesman I’d be down to pay for it. The fight got nasty, and ended up with him screaming that I was so fat and ugly that if I wasn’t rich, no one would want me.”

“Oh, Craig, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not. I did exactly what he wanted me to do.”

“What? Are you nuts?”

“Probably. I went right on down to that car dealership and bought the Porsche. For myself.” He beamed with satisfaction.

“My hero. So, where did you bury Pierre?”

Craig laughed softly. “I admit I was cut to the quick. The truth hurts. Instead of curling up and licking my wounds, I removed Pierre from my life and hired your personal trainer, Pamela.”

“The Paminator?”

“Yep, she’s fantastic. Unlike you, I let her train me. It works if you actually do what she says.”

“You mean just hiring her doesn’t count? Go figure.”

“I’ve lost over seventy pounds in five months, more to go. Because she’s worked me so hard, my muscle tone is good, and I now run five miles every day. She couldn’t do much about my face.”

“There is nothing wrong with your face. It has…character.”

“I know. I look like my dog, Coondoggie.”

“Coondoggie’s cute, in a hang dawg kinda way. Besides, now that you’re so svelte, your face is downright handsome. Okay, maybe in a puppy dog kind of way, but trust me, sweetie, if you were straight, you’d be fighting women off with a bat by now.”

He brightened. “Really?”

“Would I lie to you, Craig?”

“Yes, but thanks anyway.”

“Okay, what’s the secret, other than the Paminator?”

“No white stuff.”

“You’re only dating black guys now?”

“Cute. Not dating anyone anymore. No white stuff is my diet regime: no sugar, rice, pasta, starch, flour. Period.”

“That’s it?”

“That and exercise.”

“Uh-oh,” I said, then gave him the day’s menu. “I’ll sign on for your diet, but not until tomorrow, right around two.”

“I’ll splurge today,” Craig said, “and have a panini, but why put off your diet until mid-day tomorrow?”

“Because the golf course restaurant serves menudo on Saturdays, and I believe hominy qualifies as white stuff.”

Menudo is a spicy Mexican soup touted as a hangover cure, and  is  traditionally  served  on  weekends  and  during  the Christmas season. Its ingredients include tripe, hominy, lime juice, dried chile flakes, onion, and epazote, a Mexican spice they make tea with. Topped with  chopped fresh cilantro, basil, and onion, it’s this Texan’s idea of comfort food.

Craig wrinkled his nose when he heard the recipe, and opted instead for a vegetarian omelet topped with salsa. He didn’t touch the tortillas. Too white.

We’d already walked two miles before brunch, so we were pushing the lunch hour by the time we sat down at the club  restaurant. Half the people ate a late breakfast, others were into luncheon fare. We took our time, enjoying several glasses of iced tea while watching golfers frustrate themselves on the practice putting green out front.

We were leaving the dining room when the two black dudes from the RV park sauntered in. Craig stiffened visibly as they passed. The men didn’t acknowledge our presence, even though you’d think they’d give a nod to the only other black guy in the place.

Outside, Craig muttered a curse. “What?” I asked.

“Those brothers. Didn’t think I’d see them in these parts.”

“You know them?”

“Not
them
, personally, but Oakland has a bunch of these thugs operating under the auspices of friendly neighborhood Black Muslim groups.”

Now I realized why those two looked familiar. Bay Area newspapers and television stations had featured photos and videos of men dressed like Louis Farrakhan, the Nation of Islam leader, when a story broke they’d been mixed up in alleged nefarious activities. The cops had raided at least one bakery, whose owners were suspected of ties to a murder, extortion, and kidnapping for hire plots.

I nodded. “I remember the news.”

“Mark my words, there will be a day of reckoning. I had a friend who was gunned down in broad daylight while jogging around Lake Merritt. No one was ever charged, but I know who did it, and so do the police. My friend was working on an exposé related to a renegade offshoot group of the Black Muslims, and he got too close to the truth.”

“That’s awful, Craig. You think they’ll ever nail the jerks that did it?”

“Oh, yes. The bastards are getting bolder and bolder. As I said, their day of reckoning is coming.”

“I don’t know much about them, but what I’ve heard wasn’t especially good. I know Farrakhan has been accused of anti-Semitism and homophobia.”

“He is, no matter how much he says he’s misquoted. Trust me, I know. When I was an undergraduate, they tried to recruit me. They didn’t know I was gay. Hell, I didn’t know I was gay.”

“Little slow on the learning curve there?”

“Total denial. Anyhow, I was raised in an all white neighborhood, the son of two doctors, and the grandson of a state senator. I was the fat fly in the buttermilk and one lonely dude. Guess what the other students called me behind my back.”

“No  idea,” I said, but of course I was thinking,
Craigosaurus
.

As if reading my mind, he said, “No, not Craigosaurus, neegarosaurus.”

I barked totally inappropriate laughter, then clapped my hand over my mouth, but another guffaw escaped. I finally gasped, “I’m sorry, Craig. I know it’s not funny.”

He grinned. “Actually, it is. If it wasn’t aimed at me, I would’ve laughed, too. You gotta give cleverness, even when it’s vicious, it’s due. I was an overweight nerd and believe me, kids know how to spot a loser when they see one.”

“You are not a loser.”

He shrugged. “I’m working on that. Anyhow, I guess I thought once I got away from my high school tormentors I could start anew, but hate groups prey on loners, so I was a prime target. At first the Muslim brothers at Berkeley who befriended me pushed the black pride thing, my African roots, all the stuff that I hadn’t learned much about in predominately lily-white Atherton. I have to admit, I was flattered by the attention but, little by little, their malevolence surfaced. By then, though, I realized I didn’t fit well at Berkeley and transferred to UC Davis, since I already planned to attend Vet school there. Not many militants hanging out at Davis, so I graduated a virgin, non-militant, closet dweller. By the time I had my first fling, AIDS was a well-known killer, so my refusal to admit the truth may have saved my life.”

I reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze, and teased, “And look how far you’ve come on the high school social scale. I mean, here you are, friends with an ex-cheerleader.”

That made him chuckle. “Oh, yeah, I’ll bet you were class sweetheart, as well.”

“Hardly. I was odd gal out, sent to live with my grandmother in a very small, Baptist, Texas town while my parents finished up a job overseas. I might as well have stepped off the bus from Mars. Yes, I was a cheerleader, but only because I knew what one was. I had one close friend, but trust me, the others thought I had a secret tail.”

“So, we have that in common. Maybe that’s why we get along so well. One thing, though, your parents seem to accept you for the rebel you are. I’m still in the closet, parent-wise.”

“Surely your folks know you’re gay by now.”

“Nope, or at least we’re in a don’t ask, don’t tell mode. I think they suspect, because they never, ever, drop by my house uninvited, and I don’t invite them if someone is there.”

“That must be so hard on you.”

“Not really. Not yet. But if I ever meet someone really important to me, I don’t know what I’ll do. As they say, we’ll cross that bridge if we have to.”

I tilted my head back toward the clubhouse. “So, what do you figure those two bow-tied types are doing down here in the Arizona desert?”

He glowered in that direction. “I have no damned idea, but I’d bet it ain’t to take a tour of Tombstone, watch the shootout at the OK Corral.”

In his first full day in town, Craig and I drove into Historic Bisbee so he could check out what a national organization named one of the quirkiest places to retire in the United States.

“Quirky is a pretty good description, but those retirees better have some serious legs on them,” I chuffed when I finally caught up with Craig on the top step of a tier of the famed Bisbee stairs. Craig was mounting two at a time and then jogging in place with the faked nonchalance of an exercise nut. I bade scourges upon him as I labored upward in the five thousand foot altitude.

Already light-headed, gasping like a guppy who’d escaped his bowl, I ultimately made it up the first one hundred and fifty steps of the one thousand he wanted to climb and shooed him on, wheezing I’d meet him at the car. Oddly enough though, I pushed through, got a second wind, and made it to step five hundred before packing it in. Afraid my wobbly legs might trip me up should I try descending via the stairs, I slowly walked the winding road down to town, stopping often to inspect charming old miner’s shacks.

Or what used to be old miners' shacks. Some looked to be completely renovated, others new, but built to look old. I’d been told that the town hit on tough times in 1975, when the mine closed. At that time, you could buy almost any house in town for a few hundred  dollars. Of course, once word of cheap housing in a scenic setting got out, artists, mostly from California, flocked in. Little by little, Bisbee became a tourist attraction. Its cool temperatures in summer months draw folks from Phoenix and Tucson, and the mountainside perches are being snapped up and restored as fast as the historical society can approve plans. Even now, some are still only accessible by those dastardly stairs. Quaint, and when I was younger and feeling artsy, I’d have bought one. No more. Been there, done that.

Craig was smitten, however, and was already checking out real estate listings when I met him at the car. While I headed to the Bisbee Coffee Bar for a latte, he hit several more offices and returned with a handful of flyers touting possibilities, all of which I deemed way overpriced and much too much work. I gave him three words of advice: foundations, plumbing, and electrical. I’d renovated a 1906 Italianate in the Oakland Hills and knew well the pitfalls of a money-sucking real estate black hole. But then, I own a boat, so who am I to talk?

We drank our coffee while he read up on Bisbee’s history, marveling that, in the early 1900’s, it was the largest city between St. Louis and San Francisco. Then came 1975, and the bustling city turned ghost town, albeit one with appeal. Miners' shacks sold for a song, more and more people were drawn to the town, renovations began, and the rest is now history.

Meanwhile, the stairs the miners built to access their hillside abodes fell into disrepair, so a group named Save our Stairs was born. The Bisbee 1000 Stair Climb has grown from two hundred intrepid stairistas in 1991 to over nearly fifteen hundred climbers from all over the world  who attend the yearly October event.

“No more talk of stairs,” I groaned. “I need an aspirin and a nap.”

“Wimp.”

We bundled up and sat on the verandah that afternoon, despite a growing chill. Watching the sun sink beneath ominous clouds, I filled him in on the romantic saga of my friend,  Jan,  and  Craig’s  old  schoolmate  Doctor  Brigido Yee, also known as Chino. It was Craig who first put me in touch with the acclaimed marine biologist, whom I’d hired for his expertise in whales when I needed one for a project on the Pacific side of the Baja peninsula. Now Jan and the doc were an item, even though Jan had serious reservations about their age difference. When they met she had no idea she was twelve years older than he. After all, he had all those degrees.

I told Craig of Jan’s shock when she found out she was cradle-robbing and asked, “Hey, since you are my age, how is it that you and Chino were in school together? He’s at least a decade younger than any of us.”

“Guy’s a genius of some kind. Finished college at sixteen. I met him at UC Davis Vet School while he was taking on a second doctorate.”

“That ‘splains it, but he seems so…normal.”

“He’s a great guy, and was way mature for his age when I met him. He wasn’t raised rich, that’s for sure. He told me that when he was a kid, he was hired to drive a boat for some British marine biologists doing a study at Magadalena Bay. Chino was an autodidact, self-taught in English, French, and German, and had read every book available to him on whales. Hell, he knew about as much as the scientists did, plus some, because he’d lived with the whales all his life.”

“So they mentored him?”

“I’d say. They sent him to special schools in the UK, then on  to Imperial College, near Hyde Park in the heart of London, which focuses on science, engineering, and medicine.”

“Oh, yeah, I know it well. Not that I could have gotten in. Great school.”

“After graduating with an education equal to that of a British royal, he returned to Mexico and was back to running whale tour boats when UC Davis Vet school got wind of him and brought him up here.”

“And now he’s back in the Baja, once again communing with whales.”

“He prefers the simple life, so how did he end up with Miss Jan? Or rather, she with him? I always considered her high maintenance.”

“Love conquers all?”

“I guess so. Maybe I’ll go down for a visit. I haven’t seen Chino in years. Tell me about Mexico. I’ve never been there.”

I had to think for a minute. How does one describe Mexico? “Everything south of the border is more, and less,” I told him.

“What does that mean?”

“More rules than you can shake a stick at, but no one seems to really know what they are, and are not inclined to enforce them, except when you don’t expect them to. Everything takes more time, but generally costs less money, except when you don’t expect it to. Stuff like that.”

“So, Hetta, what do you like most?”

“The excitement, I guess. It’s like living in a casino. Every move you make, there’s a chance you’ll win, or lose. The Mexicans seem to make a game of everything. For instance, they set up speed traps, but when a friend of mine was caught in one, and then inadvertently backed his van into the cop’s car, they only shrugged and let him go. Didn’t even give him a speeding ticket.

“Another friend was taking a lit-tle more goods across the border than Mexican law allows, and by the way, we never know exactly what that is, and got stopped for inspection. They glanced inside the van, and waved him on, but his car wouldn’t start. Thinking he was royally screwed when a customs pickup with two big guys rolled up, he figured on a big fine for smuggling, but what did they do? Helped him jumpstart his van. And on another day, other people have had their boats, cars and everything in them confiscated for not having the proper paperwork, even though other officials told them they didn’t need it. It’s a crap shoot.”

“I don’t think most Americans want to live with that kind of uncertainty. We hear horror stories.”

I shrugged a fairly good Mexican shrug. “Oh, ca-ca occurs. Cops looking for payoffs, or
mordida
, the bite. There’s much less of that now, but the escalating cartel wars and human smuggling are far more dangerous. Many Americans won’t cross the border. Folks in Nogales, Arizona, used to walk over to the Mexican side for dinner, but no more. Drug thugs peppering your enchiladas with automatic weapons fire is crappy for tourism. Here, at this border though, no problem. So far.”

“Except that you’ve already seen armed smugglers. As for random gunfire, people have been shot at in Oakland restaurants. And speaking of, those bow tie dudes at the golf course this morning? The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that they are up to something, and it ain’t good. Stay away from them.”

“Gee, and here I was, thinking of asking them over for cocktails.”

He grinned. “Muslims don’t drink, and by the way, after you finish that glass of wine, neither do you. Cocktails are curtailed for at least ten days.”

“Ten days? Are you nuts?”

“Nope. Ten days, then you can have a glass now and again.”

I mulled that over, changed the subject back to Mexico. “I hope the Mexicans get this drug war thing under control soon. I’ll be driving back and forth to San Carlos and, when I can, the mine. I have to admit that I’m a little on edge, and you know I ain’t no scaredy cat. If I can get spooked, it is no wonder tourists are staying away in droves.”

“America is a country of laws, even if we do grouse about too much government interference. We know what is expected of us, and what the consequences are when we decide to break the rules. Unfortunately, the bad guys use those very laws to get away with  just about everything. What do they care if they get a few days in the clink, make bail, get a sleazy lawyer and return to the streets to break more laws? Other than a little speeding or tax evasion, most of us manage to stay out of jail, and like to know where we stand at all times.”

“True, but Gringos who live in Mexico are different. For starters, they’ve taken a step away from the ordinary by moving to another country. Some do it for economic reasons, some for romance, others for the beaches and culture. Expats are a breed unto their own.”

Craig looked thoughtful. “You think I’d like it there?”

“Absotively. You’d be a natural. Well, except for the fact that Mexicans hate Blacks and Gays, you’ll fit right in.”

Craig brayed just as Blue, who for some reason hadn’t shown up the night before, trotted up for a treat. The coyote, startled by the laugh, skittered away, then returned and sat, waiting. Now that they’d met, my two buddies engaged in a stare-down, Craig’s a look of curiosity, Blue’s wily, as he carefully checked out the large black human on my porch.

Craig whistled softly. “Whoa, Hetta, you weren’t justa wolfin’, that is one big old handsome coyote. Gimme a biscuit.”

I grabbed a handful of dog treats from the kitchen and Craig lobbed them, each one a little closer. Blue seemed to have no qualms about moving near, and got within two feet of the pony wall. He now snagged his biscuits in mid-air, and with each catch, Craig’s grin widened. “I, of all people, should know better than to mess with wild animals, but I gotta admit this is a kick in the ass. I’m having trouble building up guilt here. This guy is a hoot.”

“I enjoy him. He is a little hairy, but he’s all I got in the here and now. Pitiful, ain’t it?”

Craig’s smile vanished. “Beats having nothing.”

“Wanna go cry together over spilt beer?”

“We can’t have beer.”

“We’ll give it up tomorrow.”

“Oh, what the hell. Where?”

“St. Elmo, where we’re sure to find trouble.”

“Super.”

St. Elmo bar, in Bisbee’s famed Brewery Gulch, shows every year of its hundred, and is my kind of joint. Dive, actually.

When we bellied up to the bar, it was still early, so we were not the only tourists. A few locals were about, looking as though they’d been there since their first breakfast beer. The famed jukebox played at a decibel level a tad lower than that of a sonic boom. We could barely hear each other as I recounted the adventures of Hetta and Jan on our trip down the Baja, and the messes we got into.

“I knew you two were headed for trouble when you left with that dishy Mexican boat captain.”

“Fabio. Yep, he’s a looker, all right. A happily married looker, so no trouble there, darn it.”

“You talk a good game, but I don’t think Jenks has a thing to worry about with you. And now Jan has hooked up with Chino. You know,” he turned up his beer bottle, finished it off and signaled for another. “I think I
will
go to the Baja for a visit with them.” The Craig I know and love rarely drinks more than one beer, and he sure as hell doesn’t take off on trips on a whim, like I do. I fixed him with the evil eye. “Okay, that’s it. What happened?”

“Like I said, I had an epiphany. I want to change my life, and I’m starting with actual free time. I’ve worked my ass off ever since I started my business, and now it is time to smell the roses.”

“Oh, God, you’re not going to take off for Nepal to contemplate your navel, are you?”

That got a grin. “Nope, but I am doing a lot of thinking while I’m out on those walks and runs. Losing weight has to be for the right reason: me. If I do it just to attract a partner, I have failed myself.”

“Dang, that’s deep. You know, I set out to change my life a couple of years ago when I bought the boat, and in a way, of course, I have. But what started out as a manhunt ended up with a new life. I did meet Jenks, but only after I let go of some of my own demons. Jenks finds me refreshing, or so he says. I’m so glad I didn’t meet him a few years back. Don’t think he’d have found me refreshing at all. More like a ball breaking feminist hell-bent on self-destruct.”

“You did have a distinctive chip on your shoulder, and very bad taste in men.”

“You can talk. However, you’re right about my history, and you know what worries me the most?”

He shook his head.

“That if I lose Jenks I’ll revert to type.”

“No, I don’t think so, Hetta. You’ve mellowed.”

“Must be the age, because my bad habits still lurk, they just have to go to bed earlier.”