Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 5) (14 page)

www.nachomuchomacho.com

Se Habla Espanol

After a recent encounter with him on the Arizona border, he gave me his actual card, the one I was supposed to burn, eat, or whatever those undercover guys do. It reads:

L. Cranston Pest Control

1-800-got-bads?

We get what’s bugging you.

I didn't burn or eat it, as instructed, for a card like that is way too priceless to destroy. Besides, who knows when I might need him?

Fairly soon if Luján doesn't leave me the hell alone.

Nobody goes there anymore because it's too crowded.—Yogi Berra

I looked forward to going with Jan to Lopez Mateos for the weekend for several reasons, not the least of which is Chino's large and boisterous family make really good fish tacos and never run out of cold beer. As an added bonus, I love delving deeper into their family history. Proud of my own genealogical roots, my ancestors were pikers when it came to adventurous voyaging onto North American shores.

Doctor Brigido Comacho Yee, better known as Chino, is a descendant of a couple of men stranded in Magdalena Bay when their Manila Galleon sunk there in the late fifteen hundreds.

Comacho was a Filipino businessman who was moving his business from the Philippines to Acapulco in
Nueva España.
He and his family boarded the galleon, taking with them a few slaves, his head jewelry designer—a Chinese man named Yee and
his
family—a fortune in jewelry, silver coins, silks, Chinese porcelain and spices.

According to a written account passed down through the generations, Gómez Pérez Comacho and his family survived the ill-fated voyage of the galleon; a  hobbyhorsing, rat-infested vessel dubbed a “flying pig” because of her rotund shape. Comacho thought of her as a
fat
pig. With her round belly engorged with over two tons of cargo, and a forty-foot draft, the ship was a nightmare to navigate. Because she could not sail into the wind their ship, as well as the other galleons in their fleet, first voyaged north and east from the Philippines, striving to stay as near thirty degrees north latitude as possible. On this voyage, however, they had been driven far to the north in their quest for favorable winds.

They were badly off course and schedule before finally sighting land and turning southward. Plodding along the shore, they could only pray for northerlies to push them safely to Acapulco, but the treasure-laden ship sunk, stranding them in the uninhabited area of Magdalena Bay on Baja's Pacific coast, and generations later Chino is still looking for the shipwreck. He was elated when I dredged up an astrolabe—the ancient precursor to the GPS—with my anchor.

The son of a panga fisherman, Chino became fascinated at a young age with the influx of migrating whales each year, and especially their birthing grounds. Hired as a guide and boat driver to a British marine biologist expedition studying the migratory habits of those whales, he astounded the scientists with his knowledge. Chino, who later tested at genius levels, was an autodidact, self-taught in English, French, and German, and had read every book available to him on whales. He knew as much or more about the subject as the scientists who ended up mentoring him because he’d lived with the whales all his life.

His admiring mentors arranged for him to attend 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.

After graduating, at sixteen no less, with an education equal to that of a British Royal, he returned to Mexico and was back to running whale tour boats when the University of California Davis School of Veterinary Medicine got wind of him and offered him a full ticket to their doctorate program. It was there that he met Craig, my gay vet friend.

When I hired Chino, on a recommendation from Craig, for a study on the effects of a large water desalination project in Baja's Magdalena Bay, with its large migratory whale population, he fell hard for Jan and the rest, as they say, is history. History with one small twist: It never occurred to Jan her new amour, with two doctorates under his belt (along with, evidently, some other manly stuff left better un-discussed in polite circles) could be so young. When she discovered he was a dozen years her junior, she was dumbfounded. Now this age thing had become a relationship-killing obsession, which ticks me off because this is
my
year to obsess about age.

The matriarch of the Yee clan is Grandmother, or
Abuela
, Yee, who evidently started a familial tradition of early childbearing. She was fourteen when Chino's mom was born, and then Chino's mother was only fifteen when Chino arrived. The fact that Chino's mother is in her early forties sends Ms. Jan into a Texas tailspin.

Not as bad a tailspin as mine at being for…in my late thirties does, but close.

Jan and I left early on Saturday morning, taking my friend Geary's advice that during Semana Santa most of the revelers didn't start stirring until noon.

We planned on eating and visiting our way to Lopez Mateos, seeing old friends and indulging in Mexican cuisine along the way. We love road trips and from the grin on Po Thang's face, so did he. And like most dogs, he insisted on leaning over Jan's shoulder to catch a breeze from an open window and deposit dog drool on the side of my pickup.

Our first stop of the day was at Burro Beach, in Conception Bay, to see Baja Geary. He is one of the few full time residents there and a better man than me, because in the summer even the water temp is in the nineties. With no electricity other than what is provided by solar panels and a generator, he lives without the benefit of what I consider one of the staffs of life: air conditioning.

Geary is on ham radio every morning, giving the Sonrisa Net weather to eagerly awaiting boaters from San Diego to the Gulf of Tehuantepec. If there's gonna be a blow, he lets us know days in advance so we can hunker down in a safe anchorage. He is especially valuable to cruisers during hurricane season and even though Baja hurricanes can be fairly unpredictable, he at least is able to give boaters a heads up.

We timed our arrival at Geary's to coincide with his eight AM ritual of blasting a bagpipe version of "Amazing Grace" from speakers on his front porch. Boaters anchored in his bay come out on deck with their coffee each morning to enjoy such an enlightening start to the day.

Jan and I met Geary years before when we landed on his beach during a blow that neither our kayaks nor we could handle. I'd stopped in to see him again a couple of weeks before, when Jenks and I visited Conception Bay prior to his leaving for Dubai. Today, though, I was on a mission to find out what, if anything, he knew of Dickless Richard's activities at Conception Bay.

I'd spoken with Geary the day before on the Sonrisa Net. After listening to boaters all over the Sea griping about the Semana Santa crowds, I was a little worried we wouldn't even be able to reach his house from the main road.

Cruisers in San Carlos reported the normal ten minute trip from one end of town to the other was taking up to three hours as the population skyrocketed from three thousand to thirty thousand. Most had stocked up and were laying low in well guarded marinas.

Geary's Playa Burro, however, was indeed crowded, but as he'd told us, there was a clear path to his palapa, which was surrounded by a family he'd known for years.

One thing I've always admired about Geary is his non-judgmental, laissez-faire philosophy about life on the beach, and life in general. Hurricane blows down his Hughes system and washes water up onto his porch? Move upstairs and get the system operational when he can. Neighbors squabble? Let 'em. Hoards of Mexicans, in an old tradition of eating and drinking everything in sight while partying hardy on his beach during
Semana Santa
, or All Saints Week?  Go with the flow and enjoy the company. He lives with amazing grace, indeed.

As we picked our way through tents to his front porch, I noted that the only ones stirring were the old and young. Lumps rolled in sleeping bags and blankets accounted for the rest of the population.

Within an hour, however, jet skis began firing up and what looked like ten-year-olds, with two or three younger kids clinging on for dear life behind them, were zipping back and forth in shallow water. Not a life jacket or helmet to be seen.

I started to make some grumpy grownup-sounding comment about it, but then thought better. "Man, when I was a kid I would have loved being turned loose on a jet ski."

"Hetta," Jan said, "when you were a kid jet skis weren't invented yet."

"Smarty pants. Geary, anybody ever get hurt out here on those things?"

"Every year. Even had a couple of deaths. Same as in the States."

"I see all the boats that were anchored here in front of your place have taken a powder."

"Yep. Jet skiers use them for racing pylons, and once in awhile, a bumper car. The cruisers are hiding out there." He waved his hand toward several small islands.

"Can't blame them. We gotta get on down the road, but first I have to ask you about somebody. You know pretty much everyone around here, right?"

"If they live on the beach, I probably do." 

I recounted the story of our previous run-in with Luján at Mag Bay and asked if he'd heard of him. "He's a low-life real estate scammer and he's reportedly moved his slimy operations to Conception Bay."

Geary shook his head. "Don't know him, but real estate problems are always cropping up. I even thought I might have to move a while back, but it blew over. After the revolution the government granted parcels of land to
ejidos
, or farmer/family groups. Problem is, no one told the grantees, and land grabbers moved in, and some places have been sold and resold for a hundred years. Now, several generations later, educated children of the
ejidatarios
and their lawyers are suing for possession of the land they'd been duped out of."

I nodded, having already made the unpleasant acquaintance of one of these smarmy land thieves: Luján. "Oh, yeah, and people like him have bought their way into the
ejidos'
pockets and practically stolen the property again. No wonder so many Gringos are afraid to buy anything down here. You pay rent for the land you're on, right Geary?"

"Yes, and you never know when things will change and a new so-called owner will decide to burn down everything on the beach. Especially happens in the summer, when most of the Gringos have gone north."

I pointed toward barely visible blackened skeletal remains on an beach where houses used to be. "Like there?"

"Exactly."

Our next stop was scheduled for Café Olé, a small beach settlement at the south end of the bay. Philly, a Mexican national and a member of an
ejido
, and her American husband, Joe, have spent years building what I call a "cheeseburger in paradise" spot that includes a restaurant/bar, their house and a camping beach. They also rent out beachfront lots to others who, like Geary, have built homes. When Jenks and I were anchored there a few weeks ago, they were putting the finishing touches on a six-room hotel and I wanted to check it out as a get-away destination on weekends when I didn't go to Camp Chino and wanted a change of scenery.

Luckily we were so hungry we stopped for
huevos a la Mexicana
at Bertha's
tienda
on the way, because there would be no breakfast served at Café Olé this day.

Lines of large whitewashed rocks blocked the entrance to the entire place and seedy looking men with guns confronted us when we stopped in on that side of the highway and stepped from the pickup. Po Thang gave them a menacing growl, so they stopped short and yelled what sounded like a hostile warning to get lost. When we hesitated there was a show of firepower that needed no translation. We got lost.

Worried for the owners, Philly and Joe, we backtracked to Geary's and told him what was going on. He raised Café Olé on the VHF radio and was assured by Joe they were all right, if shook up. They were being allowed to walk out to the main road, but not take any of their vehicles. When they tried, the goons fired one over their heads.

"Check out our Facebook page," Joe told us, "and read all about it. We've gotten word to the police in Mulege, but so far no one has shown up. The cops don't like to get involved in property disputes and told us if they come all the way out here we'll have to pay for their gas and feed them lunch."

For some reason this sent Jan and me into fits of laughter.

Mexico, you gotta love it.

As we slowly passed by Café Olé again on our way south, I counted at least six armed men patrolling the road and beach. Then my heart almost went into full arrest when I spotted someone I knew and loathed strutting, like a preening banty rooster, along the hotel's front verandah.

It was that rat, Ricardo Lujàn, in all his Dickless glory.

Believe me, a thousand friends suffice thee not; In a single enemy thou hast more than enough. Ali Ben Abi Taleb

"You don't think Lujàn saw us, do you?" Jan asked as I hit the gas and sped around the bend and out of sight from Café Olé.

"Naw, but it was him, all right. No doubt about it."

"Well, at least now we know where he is. They say to keep your friends close and your enemies even closer. Looks to me like he's up to his old tricks of hiring goons and stealing property. I hope the folks from Café Olé are really okay. They gotta be scared. I sure would be."

I nodded. "A true
cacique
in action." Jan and I learned that word,
cacique,
the year before from Mexicans in Magdalena Bay.
Caciques
are large yellow and black birds known to steal other bird's nests rather than build their own, and the locals use it as a derogatory term for people like Lujàn and his ilk. Human
caciques
are known to seek out properties in dispute, pay the
ejidatarios
a token fee to take the problem off their hands, then claim the land and anything built on it as their own. 

Lujàn most likely has clerks at the county and state level on his payroll, always on the alert for something in dispute worth stealing.

It looked like Despicable Dickless was back in full
bandido
mode and I planned to stay far, far away from him. "Well, there goes any idea I had of staying in Conception Bay once in awhile, or bringing my boat down here any time soon. Looks like you're stuck with me at Camp Chino on weekends for the time being."

"And I plan to spend every weekend there and keep an eye on that Diane person. Speaking of, now that Rosario and she are alone for the weekend I'm hoping they're humping each other like those whales they count."

"You think? I know Rosario's smitten with her, but I can't quite see it as mutual. He's not in her league like Chino is."

Jan narrowed her eyes at me and growled. "Po Thang, how's about you and me throwing a big ole birthday party for Hetta. I'm thinking we should have it at Café Olé."

"You have a mean streak, you know that?"

"Yep. I got it from you."

"Well, then, you should be more grateful."

She shrugged. "Yabbut, you also taught me to be
un
grateful."

This set us cackling and when I caught my breath I told her, "About this birthday thing. If truth be known, I guess I’m afraid of not only getting old, but also being fat, short, alone
and
old."

"Well, hell, girl. Can't do anything about the
old
part, but you could stop eating, quit being a pain in the ass with the men who like you so they, namely Jenks, will stick around, and…uh…ya know, I saw one of those medieval racks on eBay. Maybe I'll get it for you for your birthday."

Seeing Lujàn again in Conception Bay rattled me. Now I knew where he was, and it was way too close to my boat. The question was, what could I do about it?

After arriving in Lopez Mateos, I put in a call to Jenks and as much as I hated to, I told him about Lujàn prowling around on
Raymond Johnson
and then seeing him at Conception Bay today. I didn't know who else to turn to for advice and even though Jenks was so far away, I trusted his judgment above any other.

He was not pleased. "I feel like I need to get on a plane.
Again
."

Crap. Had I not promised to stay out of trouble? And had he not warned me he was getting a little weary of bailing me out? My spirits sank at his tone and tears blurred my vision.

Although the camera wasn't activated on Skype, Jenks somehow sensed my distress when I clammed up. Or maybe it was because I didn't say another word; that's just not like me. Normally a challenge like that
again
thing would have me cussing a blue streak, or at least hanging up on him after some smart-assed comment, but my silence must have spoken volumes.

"Hetta, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I will gladly go anywhere, anytime, to help you out. I realize you had nothing to do with this...." I think he wanted to say
this time
, but thought better of it. "Look, enjoy your weekend in Lopez Mateos and don't give Dickless another thought. I'll think of something so you won't have to be looking over your shoulder. You have enough on your plate right now."

"But—"

"No buts. I'll come up with something, but until I do please be careful. And trust me."

"I do trust you, and I'm so sorry—"

"This one is not your fault, honey. I'm sorry I upset you. Last thing you needed was to feel any more alone than you already do."

I hung up feeling much, much better.

And that is why I love Jenks Jenkins.

Jan, Chino, Po Thang and I stayed with one of Chino's cousins who had a couple of spare rooms and didn't mind a dog in the house. Grans Yee said dogs are dirty, and besides that Po Thang might upset her own precious house pet, an ill-tempered, overweight goat named Preciosa. 

My room was really a small office with a cot, but it was located right by the front door so Po Thang could be let out easily.

Carnitas
was on the menu for dinner, so it's a good thing my cholesterol was running a little low. This traditional Saturday night treat is to die for; probably more literally than I'd like to think about.

Huge chunks of hog are first boiled in (what else?) lard, then grilled over a mesquite fire for the best ever pork. Rolled into fresh homemade tortillas—making sure pieces of fat are included in the roll—and topped with Salsa Mexicana made with chopped onions, tomatoes, cilantro and lime juice, this culinary delight is beyond good. Po Thang, for the first time since we met, actually could not choke down one more bite.

Luckily we ate early, because Chino heard there were a few whales hanging out by the dunes and since it was a full moon, he suggested I go out there and listen to them sing. He had a domino game planned with his cousins and Jan said she'd heard enough whales for a lifetime, so around six I threw a kayak and a six pack of beer into the bed of my truck and took off.

I hesitated taking Po Thang with me, as I wanted to paddle out to the whales and figured he would be happier hanging out with the domino players at the house than locked in my truck. I was, however, overruled by everyone in the household when all those
carnitas
went to work on the dog's digestive system and he started letting go with some hellacious farts.

The full moon reflecting off white sand dunes and water was enough to justify the trip out, but whale songs were the topping on the cake. There were quite a few others out to see and hear the whales, so when I paddled out Po Thang took up with some campers. I needn't have worried he would try to follow me into the water; he took one look at me getting into the kayak and headed for the nearest nice warm campfire, welcomed by campers who had no idea how fortunate they were that he was full.

However, while I was relieved I didn't have to lock him in the truck, I was somewhat concerned about him getting too close to the flames and setting off a methane explosion big enough to wipe out a bunch of nice campers and an entire tour bus full of Japanese tourists.

It was chilly, as I was on the Pacific side of the Baja, but I was bundled up and the water was dead flat calm so I didn't get wet. Before I knew it, it was almost midnight and I was out of beer, so I collected my dog and headed for bed.

At least by the time we turned in Po Thang's flatulence had abated, but I have to admit those dog farts made me nostalgic for my dearly departed pooch, RJ. We used to refer to them as "Eau de Chein" or, as Jan preferred, "Oh, de dawg!"