Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (8 page)

For some reason, probably the beer, Craig found this hilarious, and our laughter drew the company of one very good looking gay guy and a rugged cowboy, who bought me a beer. Tempted to stay awhile and flirt, we soon parted company with our admirers, lest those past devils messed with our good intentions.

On the drive home, snowflakes hit the windshield, which I thought was neat because I hadn’t seen snow in years.

While I was loading the coffee pot, Craig came into the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Thanks, Craig, for coming. I needed company and yours is just the ticket. I miss Jenks so much, and I’m terrified I’ll lose him if I keep screwing up.”

“So,” Craig said with a lopsided grin, “here’s a new concept for you. Stop. Screwing. Up.”

Nothing puts a hush over the land like a blanket of snow.

The golf course was a winter wonderland of white, dotted with yucca stalks standing stark against a brilliant blue sky. Excited, I jumped from bed and into the warmest clothes and shoes I had.

Set back from neighbors and traffic, the house was normally quiet, but this morning all sound seemed absorbed. The verandah’s half inch of snow was just too tempting to pass up. Scooping up two handfuls, I crept back into the house, over to Craig’s room, eased open the door and nailed him with a snowball.

Instantly awake, he launched a pillow at me, but not fast enough.

“You’d better have coffee ready, Hetta,” he yelled from the bedroom, “or prepare for a roll in the snow.”

I poured him a cup, handed it to him as he grumped into the living room in his Bugs Bunny flannel jammies. I’d already turned on the fireplace, so the lure of steaming coffee and a cheery fire diverted him from his threatened retaliation. “I’ll get the paper,” I offered, “just in case someone should drive by and witness those pajamas. I do have  reputation to uphold, you know.”

“Yeah, a bad one.”

I shot him the finger and headed for the front door, threw it open, and my heart and feet stopped at the same time on the threshold.  Inside the gated courtyard, footprints led to the front door, then out again. I slammed the door, which brought Craig to his feet.

“What is it?” he asked.

Pulling up the side window blinds, I pointed. “Look. We’ve had company.”

He got dressed, then together we reopened the door, crossed the courtyard and opened the gate. The Rottweiler across the road was silent, so we knew whoever had been there was long gone. Loca keeps close, vociferous, track of anyone she doesn’t know, and is the best guard dog I never owned.

“Did you hear Loca barking during the night?”

Craig, who sleeps like the dead, contemplated my question. “Maybe, but I’m a veterinarian. Dog barks are like white noise for me.”

“I think I heard her, but probably figured it was the paper guy punching her buttons.”

Two sets of tire tracks marred the fluffy snow. I grabbed the newspaper and we went back inside.

“Okay,” I said as we drank our coffee, “one set of tires belongs to the paper deliverer, but who walked to the door? It wasn’t him, or the paper would have been inside the courtyard.”

“I agree, Sherlock.”

“So, someone came to the door, but didn’t ring the bell, and it was after we went to bed because the snow just began falling in earnest when we got home.”

“Brilliant, my dear Watson.”

“Oh, hush. You didn’t see the security lights come on?”

“No, but then I sleep the sleep of the righteous.”

“Crap. Think I should call the cops?”

“And tell them what?”

He was right, what would I tell them?

The snow was gone by noon, and golfers emerged. The whole thing seemed a little schizophrenic.

A FedEx shipment from Craig’s parents arrived. In it were letters, photos, birth certificates, and all manner of family memorabilia, as well as a fairly pointed note saying if he was determined to vacation in Arizona so long, he might as well delve into his roots. Doctors Washington, the elders, were obviously none too thrilled with their up-until-now responsible and predictable son, Doctor Washington Junior, taking off on a lark.

Man, oh, man, were they in for a rude awakening some day.

We sifted through the stuff and found a family tree leading back to one Abraham Lincoln Washington, born 1899, died 1949. A photo, with an inscription on the back identifying the man as A.L. Washington in Huachuca Arizona with Blackjack Pershing, showed a jaunty young black soldier leaning casually on his rifle stock, campaign hat tipped rakishly, jodhpur-like pants ballooning from his knee-high riding boots.

“Wow, did you know your grandfather served under General Pershing?”

“Great-grandfather. No, I just knew he was a Buffalo Soldier.”

“What’s that mean, exactly? They were good buffalo hunters?”

“Nope, the Indians thought a black soldier’s hair looked like a buffalo’s curly top knot, thus the name.”

“Boy, howdy. Can you imagine what your Black Muslims over at the RV park would do to those Indians these days for an assessment like that?”

“They are not my Black Muslims,” he growled.

“Testy, testy.” I picked up another photo, one of a tent camp. When I flipped it over, I let out a whoop. It read, Camp Naco, 1914, during the Battle of Naco. For someone like me, a tenth-generation Texan fascinated with my own genealogy, this was like mining into a mother lode of information.

All thoughts of my own work vanished as we dug deeper, finding out more and more about Craig’s ancestor. Grabbing the tent photo, I dragged Craig out onto the verandah, held up the picture, and pointed. “Look right there, at the hills behind the camp.”

“This is amazing. That camp could have been right here where we stand. My great-granddad might have been wounded in this very spot. He said he was on his way to Fort Huachuca when they diverted to Naco, and he caught that piece of shrapnel in the leg. History, right in our faces.”

“Well, now,” I drawled, “I guess we’d better prepare to duck for cover, just in case history repeats itself and the Mexicans start lobbing explosives into our future.”

Sometimes the joke is on the joker. Albert Einstein was dead-on when he said, “I never think about the future—it comes soon enough.”

That box of memorabilia created a monster, one I can fully relate to, since I have spent countless hours in musty Texas libraries, and on the Internet, searching out clues into my own family history.

Craig became a genealogy junkie. Daily he took off for some local historical center, either at Fort Huachuca—touted as Home of the Buffalo Soldier—Bisbee, Douglas, or even Tucson.

We settled into a routine. Early each morning, we walked the two miles to Fort Newell, or what’s left of it, and back. Also known as Camp Naco and Fort Naco, the wooden buildings of the camp still stand, albeit in bad shape. Georgia Lou, the bartender at the golf club—and who turned out to be a gold mine of info—said it was bought by a neighboring city and slated for renovation, but it looked to me like they’d better hurry up. No signs told us to keep off the premises, so we snooped through those buildings not fenced off, and a couple that were.

With our daily exercise and lack of white stuff in my diet, I felt invigorated. Gone was the maudlin gal back on the boat, and it showed in both my work and attitude. Craig was down another five pounds but I, unwilling to give up my glass of wine before and with dinner, lost a measly two. Better than nuttin’.

We got to know regulars at the golf club, now that we were habitués. Duffers and pros alike mixed with business types, cowboys, construction workers, retirees, and border patrol agents for meals, drinks and golf. Boasting the only large event hall in the immediate area, the club hosted weddings,
Quinceañeras
—a Mexican girl’s celebration of her fifteenth birthday—golf tournament award dinners, community meetings and the like for people on both sides of the border. All in all, there was something for everyone. I’d feared isolation in some podunk border town and instead found a friendly community.

Sipping our morning coffee at the bar, we chatted with others, caught up on local gossip, and eavesdropped on conversations we found of interest. Snoopery being my favorite sport, I learned a lot.

“It just chaps my ass,” I overheard from a table of border patrol agents. Needless to say, my natural nosiness surfaced and I perked my ears.

Another man shook his head and sipped coffee. “Yeah, well the bastards can just bring it on.”

I wanted to yell, “What? Bring what on?” but held my tongue.

Another man shrugged. “You got that right. Who in the hell do they think they are? This is America, last I heard.”

“Maybe the politicians will think twice, now, about putting one of us in jail for shooting some dope dealer in the ass.”

I waited for them to finish their meals, then, as they dispersed, I headed for the ladies’ room and took a detour out the back door to ambush one of them, a fellow Texan named Tim Ramos I’d previously met at the club.

“Hey, Tim, how you doing?”

“Oh, hi, Hetta. All settled in the new house?”

“Yep, and as you’ve seen, I have company already.”

He cut his eyes back toward the building. “I noticed. Boyfriend?”  His  disapproval was obvious, but I didn’t confront it. Not a good idea to annoy a source.

“No, Doctor Washington is only a friend. You know, Tim, I overheard the guys saying something strange is going on around here. Anything you can share? You know how nosy we Texans are.”

He hesitated, mulling over an answer. “Well, I guess you’ll hear it on the news tonight anyhow, so I’m not speakin’ outta turn. We've been warned to back off from UDAs.”

“Would that be anything like ET?” I teased.

He rolled his eyes. “Undocumented Aliens. Like that’s actually gonna happen. Look, let me give you this, since you live so close to the border.” He took a card from his shirt pocket, wrote a number on the  back while telling me the latest. Handing me the card, he hitched his gun holster and sauntered off to his green-striped truck, not noticing I was stunned into silence by his news. I zombie-walked back to the bar.

Craig, still sipping coffee, asked, “Line in the loo?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to answer casually. “Nope, I sneaked out the back way to ambush ole Agent Tim.”

“Why?”

“Oh, he tells me stuff.”

“That explains it, oh nosy one.”

On our walk home, my mind swirled and paranoia descended. What I didn’t tell Craig was what the officer told me, something that made my blood run cold; a drug cartel had issued a death threat to anyone who reports drug or human smugglers, be they police, border patrol, or your average Joe Blow.

That would be me.

Craig left for some archive diving right after our morning walk. After the footprints in the snow, and that little talk with Border Patrol Agent Tim Ramos still fresh in my mind, I set the security alarm even though it was broad daylight and the doors were locked. Cowardice runs right smartly through my veins.

I entered Tim’s number into my cell and house phone memories, and was soon lost in my work.

While grateful for the job, and the ability to work from home, I was still mildly annoyed that not once had anyone given me any direction or priorities for what I was supposed to actually do. I’d bounced this lack of guidance off Wontrobski, but he said to just follow my nose.

What the mine management types didn’t know was, given no other guidance, my nose was deeply buried in a scathing exposé I’d found on the Internet. Since worker safety wasn’t something the owners mentioned as any priority, I figured I might as well make it so. I zeroed in on the most dastardly of their long list of misdeeds, the negligence involving a dilapidated and dangerous concentrator.

A concentrator is actually a processing plant where large boulders are reduced to a fine dust. Fine, deadly, powder that is supposed to be captured. The dust collection system was kaput, dismantled several years before. This alone was enough to give a stateside OSHA inspector apoplexy. Lack of a collection system had not only allowed the release of high levels of silica and other life-threatening substances into the air, these same hazards were now piled in visible heaps. Every time the wind blew, the entire area received a toxic dusting. Just rereading my own report had me holding my breath.

I went  online  and  ordered  several  face  masks with charcoal and HEPA filtration. Next time I was at the jobsite I’d closely resemble Jason, from the Friday the thirteenth movies.

My first whack at a revamp list was extensive. I’d faxed it to the mine office, along with a huge dollar figure required to make the changes, a week ago. I waited for an, “
Aye, Chihuahua
, you’re killing us here,” response, but got nothing. Maybe their peso conversion calculator shorted out over all those zeroes, but hell, a couple of hundred million to fix stuff up was chump change. They were capable of producing a hundred-and-eighty thousand tons annually, and even with copper under three bucks a pound, we’re talking ten billion, less operating expenses.

I called Maria.

“
Buenos dias
, Café. How are you?”

“Good, Maria, and you?”

“I am fine.”

Prerequisite social inanities out of the way, I got to the reason for my call. “Did you receive my fax last week?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And did you give it to
Señor
Orozco?”

“
Señor
Orozco is in Mexico. I gave it to Señor Racón.” I knew when she said Mexico, she meant Mexico City.

“Oh? And how is
Señor
Ratón?”

She giggled. “Do you wish to speak with him, Café?”

“I’d rather eat scorpions, but I guess I have to.”

Another titter, then dead air, then the big cheese himself, squeaked, “Yes?”

I cut to the chase. “Did you receive the report I sent last Friday?”

“Yes.”

“And?” My impatience with this jerk sent my voice up a couple of octaves, despite my resolve to give ulcers, not get them.

“And, yes, I received it.”

“Let’s try a harder question, if you are up to it, that is. Did you read it?”

A labored sigh, indicating his unwillingness to trade spars with lesser humans. “Of course I read it. What is it you want from me?”

Eat shitpie and die
?
Take a long walk off a short plank
? Unwilling to let his hauteur ruin my day, I inhaled a deep, cleansing, Yoga breath and, with all the coolness I could muster, answered. “Perhaps you could let me know if I am headed in the direction the mine operators expect?”

“Miss Coffey, you are the expert. That is why we hired you. We have no intention of telling you what to do.”

I’m an expert? News to me
. “Oh, well, then,” I said lamely. Shoot, I was spoiling for a fight. This was way too easy. One might wonder why.

Señor
Rat added, “Tomorrow, I will bring you the drawings you requested. Do you wish to meet me at the border?”

“Can’t get across?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. Yes, I will meet you, just call me when you get near Naco.”

I hung up, not looking forward to a face-to-muzzle, however brief, with the little shit. I was still puzzled with mine management’s lack of concern as to what I was up to. I’m used to working on my own, but I usually have some kind of direction other than,
We want to fix it, you tell us how
. I generally like to know what IT is.

But then again, why look a gift rodent in the mouth?

I took Craig with me for my meeting with El Ratón.

Of course, since I’d warned my friend of the Mexican’s ratty personality, the little creep was all sweetness and smarmy light when I introduced him. Possibly because I presented the huge and menacing Craig as my bodyguard? Okay, so I didn’t exactly say that in so many words, but it was strongly intimated.

Racón gave me my files and skittered away. Craig and I walked back across the border, both carrying rolled drawings and a few file folders. The border guys, despite their past undisguised desire to nail me for something, checked our passports and sent us home. Back at the car, I commented that maybe they’d decided I wasn’t a threat to national security after all, but Craig said that was because they didn’t know me.

We were in high spirits as we entered the golf course restaurant to catch lunch. Greeting regulars, nodding to strangers, we made our way to a table. As luck would have it we ended up near the pair I’d dubbed the Malcolms X.

They actually acknowledged our presence as we passed them. Not much of an acknowledgement, mind you, but they did nod. For some  reason, I didn’t think this was a good thing, and the scowl on Craig’s face confirmed it. As long as the two had ignored him, Craig did likewise. Now, however, that nod gave Craig an opening. Only a quick, sharp jab to his ribcage preempted what I feared would be a smart-assed remark.

“Ouch,” he yelped. “What was that for?”

“Be nice.”

“I wasn’t gonna—”

“Yes you were,” I hissed. “Now, what are we gonna eat?”

What I wanted was the Mexican combination plate, piled high with enchiladas, refrieds, rice, and a chile relleno, all topped with greasy melted cheese and chased with a cold beer. What I got, at Craig’s insistence, was a shrimp salad and iced tea.

After lunch, since we’d missed our walk that morning due to the meet with Rat Face, we headed for Fort Newell, snooped around, then circled back for the car at the golf club.

As we passed the RV park, I caught a glimpse of something that stopped me in my tracks.

I grabbed Craig’s arm. “I swear to God, I just saw that little shit, Racón, going into an RV. Don’t look, keep walking. I’ll show you which one later. Why would he meet us on the other side of the border if he was coming over here anyway?”

“Got me. Maybe he has a girlfriend stashed over here.”

“Could be. I’ll do some snoopery, find out who lives in that RV.”

“Or, Hetta, here’s an idea: mind your own business!”

“Silly boy.”

What do you get when you throw one creepy little Lebanese-Mexican and two shadowy Black Muslims into a million dollar RV? Hell, I don’t know, but it can’t be good.

Craig and I were mulling this over while tossing Blue his late afternoon treats. “Ya think it has something to do with the mine? Like the Xer’s are hired goons? Maybe to terrify the miners back to work or something?”

“Doubt it. From what you said, the mine owners are bullying the miners, legally, all by themselves. My guess is, there’s dope involved.”

“That’s logical, what with their proximity to the border. Think we should drop a dime on ‘em? I have Tim’s phone number, the border patrol guy I told you about.”

Craig grinned. “And tell Ramos what?”

“I don’t know. How about, ‘Say, it might behoove you to take your drug dog for a stroll in the RV park?’”

“That’ll give the feds a giggle, what with that hotbed of Canadian retirees over there. You gotta keep a sharp eye on those Canucks, you know.”

“Good point. You got any better ideas?”

“None.”

“You know Georgia Lou, the bartender? She’s the one who told me which RV belongs to our bow-tied buds. She lives only a few spaces from them. She was too busy this morning for details, but I’ll brace her at coffee tomorrow.”

“Brace her? You read too many cop books, but—phone, Hetta.”

It was Jenks.

“Hi, Honey,” he said, sounding like he was next door instead of a bajillion miles away. I did a quick calculation. It was four in the morning in Kuwait City, but then Jenks is an early riser.

“Let me guess, you’re calling to tell me you’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Nice try, but no, I just wanted to hear your voice. I do, however, have some information for you.”

I was determined not to whine. “You’ve got my voice, and I'm all ears,” I said, hoping I sounded upbeat, “so give me the info.” Upbeat, no. Prickly, yes.

Craig gave me a look under his eyebrows, shook his head, and went back inside. Blue watched him in anticipation, hoping for more goodies on his return.

“Hetta, you there?”

“Oh, sorry, Sweetheart, Craig distracted me for moment.” I thought the
sweetheart
was a nice touch.

“For a minute there, I thought you were mad at me or something.”

Mad? No. Lonely, mistreated, and abandoned? Yes.
I didn’t say so, though. “Must be the connection.”

“Maybe so.” He then told me what he was going to be doing over there, sort of. I didn’t like the sound of it.

“Jenks—”

He cut me off before I could protest. “Anyhow,” he said, “remember that friend I told you about who lives south of you? I got an email and he’s invited you, and Craig, to come down for a visit. I’ve forwarded the message to you, so maybe you guys can get together. Might make a nice little trip, take your mind off work.”

Take my mind off Jenks’s stubborn insistence at working in a war zone, more likely. I started to say something about just that, then remembered that I was living on the Mexican border, subbed out to an outfit rife with political unrest and riots. Pots must beware of calling the kettle black.

“And why, Jenks, do you think I’d enjoy a visit with some friend of yours, and his wife?”

“They own a winery.”

“Well, crap, why didn’t you say so? We’ll go down this weekend.”

Jenks laughed. “That’s my girl. I miss you so much.”

Not enough to come home
. I bit that back. “I miss you, too.”

“Gotta run, have a meeting later that I’m not ready for. I’ll call when I can. Like I said, Lars and I are traveling this week.”

“Jenks, you’re supposed to stay safe and sound in Kuwait City, not traipsing around in a war zone.”

“We will not be traipsing, as you call it. Don’t worry, we’ll be perfectly safe, just out of touch. It may be more than a week, so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me.”

"Well, I will worry.”

“I’ll call as soon as we get back to the hotel. I promise. Gotta run. Love you.”

Click.

“Love you, too,” I said into dead air.

“I love you, too,” Craig crooned. He walked to the pony wall, tossed Blue a treat, and cheered when the coyote snagged it in midair. Turning to me, he shook his head. “That Jenks must be a glutton for punishment. He calls, you give him crap. Here’s a little professional advice, in case you ever get another dog. If a dog comes when you call, don’t bite him, praise him.”

“I thought I was pretty danged nice, considering the circumstances. He told me he and his brother are leaving Kuwait City, but not where they’re going. Probably out into the desert, if I know him. When he took this job he said they’d be working in the city, safe and sound. He promised not to go into Iraq under any circumstances, but now this. I’m worried and pissed off.”

“Look, Missy Control, you’ve gotta lighten up. First off, how do you figure he’s going to Iraq? I suggest you call the man back, wish him luck on his trip, and tell him you’ll be thinking about him. What he doesn’t need, in addition to the stress of working in the middle-damned-east, is crap from afar.”

I started to protest, but Craig was right. I grabbed the phone and speed dialed, but only got voice mail. Damn. I left a properly sweet as pie message, and felt better for it. “Satisfied?” I asked Craig when I finished.

“Whoa, someone call channel thirteen so we can make the ten o’clock broadcast. Breaking News! Hetta Coffey actually took advice.”

“Oh, hush. Wanna go on a field trip this weekend?”