Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 5) (11 page)

WHISTLE FOR IT/WHISTLE FOR THE WIND (Nautical term)
:
From the tradition of superstitiously whistling to summon the wind (hope for the impossible). Why didn't I think of that?

"You about ready to head for home, Hetta?" Safety's voice torpedoed me from my flu med torpor.

After I'd raided Po Thang's doggy bag, I'd swiveled my desk chair to the back wall and tried to pose myself as though studying some papers in my lap. I promptly fell asleep. That Nyquil is magnificent stuff.

"Uh, yeah, sure." I swiped drool from my chin before swiveling to face him. Judging from his amused smile, I doubt I'd fooled him with that studying the papers in my lap ploy. Probably because I was snoring? And if you think you are really important at work, take a three-hour nap and see if anyone at all notices.

I excused myself for a trip to the
Mujeres
, where I bolstered myself with even more Nyquil, then gathered my backpack and jacket and shuffled out behind Safety. We were almost out of the office when I spotted a big poster festooned with fake flowers. Several candles were lit in front of it, illuminating Rosario's photo. I stopped dead in my tracks, studying the face I now knew quite well.

Safety turned and shook his head sadly. "I guess they've given up the hunt for him. Too bad, he was a nice kid."

A nice kid you got drunk and tried to murder?
I wanted to say, but bit my tongue. I guess I didn't bite it hard enough. "Didn't you say you shared an office with him early on? Before he set up shop in my closet?"

"Yes, I did. Why?"

"I kinda wondered if anyone from here went out looking for him when he went missing. I heard the boat was found unharmed on the beach the next morning."

"Mexican Navy did the search."

"Oh." I climbed into the pickup and sulked into my corner.

A mile or so down the road, Safety broke the silence. "You think we didn't care enough to look for him, don't you?"

I shrugged. I'd already said enough and painting Safety with the brush of disapproval would not work in my favor right now. I was dozing off once again when Safety yelled, "There he is!"

"Rosario?" I said, jerking awake confused and a little dazed.

"No. That dog of yours." He pointed ahead and sure enough, there was the dog we now dubbed Po Thang.

Rats, I'd eaten the dog bait.

Safety glanced at his rearview and side mirrors. "No one behind us and as far as I can tell, no one coming. Wanna try to get him?"

"Sure, but how?"

"I'll stay in the truck, you see if you can get a leash on him. There's a length of rope in the back seat."

Paranoia raised its ugly head. Get out? How did I know he wouldn't drive off and leave me? Or worse, turn around and run both me and the dog down? I only had seconds to make up my mind so I undid my seat belt, snatched the piece of line and jumped out of the truck, which isn't a great idea when your balance is already impaired by a soporific.

As I picked myself up and dusted my butt, Safety yelled through the open window, "If I have to leave, I'll come back for you. Good luck."

Good luck? Holy hell, I guess. Po Thang and I shared less than a six-foot shoulder, a tiny piece of real estate he'd staked out as his own. When I stood, he'd skittered backward, perilously close to the edge of the bajillion-foot drop-off behind him. Less than five feet of trash-strewn roadside separated us.

I knelt down to his level. "Hey, sweetie," I cooed, "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm trying to save you."

He let loose with a low rumble. It wasn't a very convincing growl, but there was a show of teeth.

An air horn sounded behind me and I heard Safety drive off in response. Both trucks disappeared around a sharp curve and there was a sudden hush unlike anything I'd ever experienced. A brisk wind blowing up the cliff gave off an eerie wail, raising goose bumps the size of Kilimanjaro.

Beyond Po Thang's tiny piece of roadside and far, far below, miles of jagged frozen lava wrinkles covered in red dust brought Mars to mind.
Los Tres Virgenes
volcanoes loomed menacingly on the horizon. I cast a longing look at the too distant turquoise water of the Sea of Cortez sparkling in the late afternoon sun like a small beacon of hope. Tears sprang into my eyes for no apparent reason, other than the fact that I was stranded on Hell Hill with a possibly vicious dog.

Another air horn startled me as a truck rounded the curve, the driver no doubt thinking,
What in the hell is that stupid Gringa doing up here?

Yeah, what
was
this stupid Gringa doing up here? The dog barked, reminding me of my mission, then he glowered and growled again. I think he somehow knew I ate his lunch.

"Okay, big guy," I said in my nice-doggy voice, "let's see if I can lasso your scrawny ass."

That garnered a faint tail wag, so I took a step forward. Once again he backed up. This was not going to work. I didn't come out here to kill Po Thang by running him off a bluff, or worse, into oncoming traffic. I sat down in the dust, cross-legged, and waited. Oh, for a dog biscuit!

Feeling in my pockets, all I came up with was a pack of gum. Slowly unwrapping a stick, making sure the foil made lots of noise, I held it out. He craned his neck toward it, sniffing, but sitting his ground.

Scooting ever so slightly forward on my butt, I inched toward him. He didn't move. I waited. He waited. We waited. He/she/it waited.

Several trucks and cars rumbled by, the people in them probably shocked to see a red-haired Gringa and a reddish golden retriever, both sitting on a tiny sliver of dirt on one of the most forbidding stretches of highway in the Baja. No one stopped, but I can't blame them; stopping on this road is for the insane and they could clearly see that someone had already filled that slot.

I heard a horn beep out, "Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits," and figured it was  Safety returning. However, the ditty is also used by Mexicans, but never in the presence of cops because it will earn the driver a ticket. The Mexicans have changed the words to the song to charmingly say "
Chinga tu madre, cabrón
": Go eff your mother, A-hole. Their insults have a recurring fixation with mothers and sexual acts, as long as it's someone else's mom.

I stood and so did the dog. One of his back legs slid over the edge, sending a cascade of rocks down the precipice and my heart cascading into my stomach. I quickly retreated, lest I send him over the edge. A horn blared and a whoosh of air hit my back close enough to scare the living hell out of me. Or something else.

"Okay, that's it! You listen to me you little turd," I commanded in my best bossy yell, "I've about had it with your lousy attitude. Now you come over here," I stabbed my finger down next to me, "and let's get off this godforsaken mountain before one of us gets killed. And I mean right now!"

Po Thang stood his ground. I hurled down the line in disgust just as Safety rolled to a stop next to me, threw the door open and yelled, "We've got about three minutes before a truck coming up behind me knocks us off this bluff. Let's go!"

In a sudden head rush, the Nyquil hit and almost knocked me off my feet. I swayed and took a step forward, only to feel my legs splay in two different directions. I wondered if I was experiencing an overdose when rocks showered down a steep bluff onto the other side of the highway, and I realized it wasn't cough medicine rocking my world, it was an earthquake.

Catching my balance I sprinted—or as close to a sprint as I could manage on moving earth, or solid dirt, for that matter—for the waiting truck. Bad as I hated leaving Po Thang out there, when it comes to self-preservation its every dog for herself. Maybe that didn't come out quite right. Anyhow, I abandoned my rescue attempt faster than you can say cluck.

Hitching myself onto the bottom step of the dually, I grabbed a handle and launched myself upward, planning to swing into the seat.

An ear-splitting whistle almost made me lose my hold, as did the sudden flurry of paws, fur, and slobber vaulting over me, into the truck's back seat.

Safety reached over, snagged my jacket collar and hauled me in as he stomped the gas and the heavy door slammed, barely avoiding breaking my ankles.

Catching my breath I turned and glared into the back seat.

Po Thang was already asleep, looking for all the world like any other dog happily taking a ride with his people.

"You whistled and he came?" I yowled. I didn't know I could yowl so good, but this seemed like an appropriate time. "I risked my life for the ungrateful little cur and all you had to do was whistle?"

Safety smiled. "Sometimes, Hetta, it's all in the lips."

If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and man.—Mark Twain

I later learned the quake was only a four pointer and no damage occurred except to my nerve endings.

The epicenter was somewhere out in the Sea, sixty miles away, and the quake was felt as far as San Carlos. I also found out this was a common occurrence, not something I wanted to hear, especially since I survived a couple of years of the pesky temblors while working in Tokyo. A four on the Richter scale barely makes the evening news in Japan, so I was usually the only one who ducked under my desk in our high-rise office building, which, by the way, was built on rollers. After awhile even I became accustomed to the almost daily shakeup and constant swaying of the building. 

Before we opened the truck doors, Safety tied a line on Po Thang so he couldn't escape into the marina parking lot. After being personally snubbed by the mutt I'd just as soon he took off, because now that we'd snagged him, I really didn't know what to do with him.

Jan never even felt the quake on the boat, as is usually the case. She took one look at our new fur-faced friend, sniffed and decreed, "Food and soap and water, in that order and lots of all of it."

Po Thang decimated my refrigerator's contents, eating almost everything that wasn't frozen solid and some that were not completely thawed.

Jan was nuking the last of my leftover beef stew when Safety and I tackled the dog with Dawn dishwashing liquid and a garden hose. The water ran red around us, and it took several soapings to rid his matted coat of accumulated desert dust and crud. Po Thang liked the bath and attention, not growling at us even once. I guess he forgave me for stealing his lunch.

His good behavior supported my opinion that he wasn't a total
perro de calle
—street dog—but someone's lost pet. Cleaned up, he looked to be about a year old and maybe even a pedigreed Golden Retriever. Although with all the designer dogs on the market these day, I'm not sure what a pedigree is worth. One thing for certain, this was no plain old Mexican dawg.

Rosario, quiet as a mouse, was imprisoned in the guest cabin while Safety was around, so as soon as we had Po Thang towel dried and basking in what was left of the late afternoon sun, I shooed Safety away. He wasn't all that happy about leaving the presence of the loverly Jan, but I told him since it was Jan's last night on the boat for a while I wanted my friend to myself.

As soon as Safety left, Jan rapped on Rosario's door. "All clear."

He looked out on the deck and smiled. "That is a very handsome dog you have." Po Thang, now practically dry, did look good. With his fluffy reddish-gold coat and contented smile, it was hard to believe that only a couple of hours before he'd been a belligerent mess. The dog gave out a sigh, thumped his tail, and went back to sleep.

"He's all yours, Rosario."

Rosario lost his smile. "Hetta, I have no place to keep a dog. I have no job, no home, no life."

Jan walked over and put her arm around his shoulders. "Don't feel bad, Rosario, Hetta's quite often without those things and look at her."

Rosario's face fell even farther and I gave Jan the look she so richly deserved.

"And anyhow," Jan continued, "we're gonna get this whole thing straightened out for you. Aren't we, Hetta?"

"I hope to hell. But we need some kind of plan. First and foremost, we have to figure out who tried to kill you, Rosario. If they did."

"What do you mean? Of course they did."

I shook my head. "Maybe, maybe not. What if the guys all got drunk, decided to go out fishing or some dumb thing like drunks do? Then you fell overboard, they were too drunk to find you, they panicked and beached the boat at San Lucas and left it. Maybe they didn't want to get in trouble for taking the boat out and decided on a cover up?"

Jan nodded. "Yeah, Hetta, should know. She does lots of dumb stuff when she's drunk."

"I might remind you that you are usually with me, Miz Jan."

"Well, yeah, but the dumb stuff is always your idea."

Rosario had evidently grown tired of our banter. "Ladies, please. Let us get back to the idea of a plan."

Jan and I glared at him and yelled, in unison, "Don't call us ladies!"

Rosario looked confused. "You are not ladies?"

"No," I told him. At his perplexed look, I explained. "Rosario, your English is excellent, but trust me, do not ever call a woman a lady unless she has a British title. It pisses us off."

"What about Lady Gaga?"

"
Her
you can call Lady, even if she ain't one. Just not us."

Rosario's computer held a wealth of project-related information, which he transferred to both our PCs. He'd downloaded purchase orders, change orders, material takeoffs, and about anything else to do with equipment and material for the project. He didn't have all the financials, but it was pretty clear, after Jan and I spent several hours going over what he had, that at least payouts to the subcontractors were pretty straight forward. Not that there couldn't be ripoffs, but at least we could move the subs to our least likely suspect file.

We knew, from the latest report to investors, that there were cost overruns in the hundreds of thousands, so either the original estimates sucked or something more sinister was afoot. Finding the fishy stuff wasn't going to be all that easy. Hell, auditors had spent weeks going over the financial reports and still came up puzzled. No one area raised a red flag as the cause of a budgetary deficit. Maybe, if Rosario
had
stumbled onto something, he'd told what he knew to the wrong men, and they tried to kill him because he was too close to the truth? Problem is, he had no idea what could have tipped him close enough to get him killed for his findings.

Yep, we needed a plan. 

Jan had inspected Po Thang for fleas during his bath and found none, so he was deemed suitable for an inside dog. When he was dry enough, I brought him in, but didn't trust him yet with my decor so we kept him tied to a chair leg.

"Hetta, do you make it a habit to tie both people and dogs to chairs?" Rosario asked in what he thought was an attempt at humor.

"Only until we can trust them. Which, by the way, the jury is still out on you, so don't get cocky."

All Po Thang wanted to do was eat and sleep, so didn't balk at being tethered. When I took him for a walk it was evident he'd been leash trained, once again confirming my suspicion that he was someone's pet.

"Maybe he's got a chip," Jan speculated when I reported that he heeled on the leash.

Rosario, who knew all about computer chips, wanted to know what a chip has to do with a dog. Jan explained the implanted chip was to ID lost dogs and Rosario thought that a great, if very un-Mexican idea. I had to keep reminding myself that even though he spoke English with an American accent because of his schooling, he had still never been outside of Mexico. I also didn't know if they chipped dogs in Mexico, but I'd find out.

"My friend, Craig, who is a veterinarian in Arizona has invented a GPS tracking implant for finding animals who have strayed. He uses them on his cattle ranch to track his herd. Saves time and money. Also, if the cattle are stampeding because of a predator, an alarm goes off, alerting him to grab his rifle and take off on his four wheeler to save the day."

Rosario grinned. "A modern day cowboy."

"Oh, you have no idea," I told him, thinking of my friend, the gay caballero.

Talking about Craig reminded me I should call him and see if he'd heard any more about that stupid lawsuit. I'd told the Cochise County authorities my side of the story by phone and Craig had a lawyer working the problem for me so maybe that was the end of if. 

Hope springs infernal.

After dinner, which Jan had to fetch from the local Chinese restaurant because Po Thang had eaten us out of boat and home, we sat around the dining table and forged that much-needed plan. I had all the window blinds closed so no one could spot Rosario with us, even though Jan had disguised him pretty well.

He now sported a bleached blonde buzz cut and was growing a beard. In a few days he would be barely recognizable as the mining nerd someone tried to off. I'd unearthed a Hawaiian shirt and shorts from Jenks's locker, along with a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Add sandals and a backpack and he fairly screamed Gringo tourist.

Still though, he could not stay on the boat much longer, what with Safety popping by. No amount of peroxide would keep him from figuring out who Rosario was up close.

Rosario, reunited with his computer, was happy as a tornado in a trailer park. While Jan and I cleaned up the galley after dinner and took our wine outside to the sundeck, he went online with his gaming buddies from around the planet and was soon lost in a world neither Jan nor I knew anything about.

Jan nodded her head toward the main saloon. "He's a nice guy, just really naïve. We really ought to cut him some slack."

I thought back to the couple of times we'd reprimanded him and agreed. "We keep forgetting he's not an American."

"Yeah, but it's more than that. He told me today about how he grew up. The uncle in the States couldn't visit because he was an illegal alien and afraid he'd get caught trying to re-cross the border. His mother basically lived only for her son. Between his mom and uncle they sent him to a whole string of expensive schools, but his social life was nil to none when it came to the other students. He was basically a shut in. Home straight from school every day, he and his computer were best friends."

"Didn't he say he was on a swim team?"

"Yeah, for one year. Mom kept changing his schools, I think in a well-meaning attempt to protect him from being outed as a poor kid. The swim team was the only sport where they provided all his equipment and paid for trips to swim meets. When he attended a school that required a clean uniform each day, he came home, washed and dried and ironed it for the next day. His fellow students didn't know he only had one."

I could relate, in a small way. We moved around so much I barely got to know my classmates before we took off, usually for another country. Still, I did make friends in each place. Didn't keep them over the years, except a couple from my senior year in Texas, but I wasn't a hermit. Hell, I was even a cheerleader one year.

"I know what you're thinking, Hetta, but you have an outgoing, if sometimes annoying,  personality. Rosario doesn't. Your privileged childhood went way beyond the classroom. When he left the school each day, he became a lower-class Mexican. He lived a charade. It's a miracle he isn't bitter."

"Yeah. We have to find his father, you know. We have to help him out."

"Agreed. Let's get to it."