Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series) Read online

  Just The Pits

  by

  Jinx Schwartz

  Just The Pits

  Published by Jinx Schwartz

  Copyright 2013

  Book 5: Hetta Coffey series

  All rights reserved.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, is strictly coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning to a computer disk, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without express permission in writing from the publisher

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As always, my first reader and hubby, Robert "Mad Dog" Schwartz, is my rock. His patient tackling of techie stuff that makes me scream at my computer is priceless. Maybe I should give him a raise?

  Holly Whitman has been the editor of every one of my books, and she keeps me out of the ditch when my story heads there. Thanks, Holly, once again for your wise input.

  And, I have beta readers! Thanks so much to Mary Jordan and Clay Rex Chambers, both sharp-eyed and invaluable.

  1

  ALL AT SEA (Nautical term): Lost because of lack of knowledge of one’s position: confused.

  Alarm clocks top plague and pestilence on my SCOURGES UPON THE PLANET list.

  I'd ceremonially tossed my old alarm nag, along with my wrist watch—the cheap one, not my Rolex of course—overboard when I steered Raymond Johnson under the Golden Gate Bridge, turned left and headed for Mexico over a year ago.

  Now I had this new annoyingly alarming device.

  I'd discovered her on a back shelf at a crammed-to-the-ceiling Mexican tienda selling everything from squeegees to chicken feed. Ever the optimist, I figured this particular clock, being an analog wind-up job, stood at least half a chance of waking me for the next few months in a place where the power grid goes tits-up on a regular basis, and battery operated devices have the lifespan of a gnat.

  My boat is where batteries go to die. A flashlight in my care is simply a repository for expired D-cells, my toothbrush runs through AA's like, well, toothpaste, and my engine room is a shrine to where large, very expensive 8-Ds commit suicide. A windup clock is therefore the best choice, but only if there isn't an operator malfunction resulting in a windup oversight. And this operator malfunctions on a regular basis.

  But even with a good chance I'd eventually forget to wind her, who could resist a clock set in a curvy senorita's navel with the winding key up her butt? You just gotta give good design its due.

  When the señorita's belly let loose a raucous clamor at five that first morning, I reached for my gun and then remembered I can't have one in Mexico, the one place where you really, really, could use a little firepower. Despite the fact that one lousy little pistola can earn you five years in a Mexican hoosegow, I'd been shot at enough times since arriving south of the border to know that not everyone is on board with this no weapons thing. I cursed, ruing the fact that for once in my almost, uh, thirty-something years, I'd stupidly obeyed a law.

  Cramming a pillow over my head did little to mute the wretched wench, so I pushed myself out of bed, stumbled across my cabin—I'd known better than to leave her within grabbing and heaving distance—whammed down the shutoff button, and slogged to my galley for a twenty-ounce mug of Nescafé Classico.

  Fortified by caffeine heavily laced with sugar and crema, I jumpstarted my day by checking email, then calling Mom and Dad back home in Texas to assure them that I was safely at a dock and gainfully employed, the latter of which my mother accredited to the fact that I had yet to show up for my first day on the job.

  Familial duty done, I brushed my teeth—taking note of the low battery alert light on my toothbrush—gave my red pixie cut a brush slap, shimmied and shook my way into a pair of well-worn, suspiciously snug, Ralph Lauren jeans from BB. BB stands for Before Boat, back when I thought nothing of shelling out three hundred bucks for a couple of yards of denim instead of a new bilge pump.

  A glance in the mirror reminded me that makeup might come in handy, so I glommed on a goodly amount of mascara, blush and lipstick. In my former life when I'd worked a regular day job, I'd discovered that a good way to get a day off was to show up without makeup; male bosses take one look at a pallid female and send them home to recover. Who knows when a little wanness might come in handy?

  Throwing on an oversized long-sleeved tee to camouflage an annoying tortilla-induced roll pouching over my waistband, I grabbed a windbreaker and hat, jammed money, SPF 30 lip-gloss and SPF 50 sunscreen into a pocket, picked up a backpack I'd loaded the night before and walked out on deck.

  Gulls wheeled and scolded, pelicans dove for breakfast, a couple of egrets eyed me with suspicion, but only wild life stirred. Not that I expected any sign of humans, as mine was the only occupied boat at the marina. Rumor had it that just before I arrived someone in Mexico City decided to double the slip rates and the place emptied faster than you can say cheap cruiser. The other marina in town, much less expensive, was where I'd stayed before, but it was chock full of said penurious cruisers, so I had the luxury model all to myself. A few boats wandered into my marina for a night or two from time to time, but real cruisers being what they are—low-budget—they quickly left. I was the only liveaboard, and certainly the only one with a J-O-B, which was the very reason for my Monday morning petulance.

  For the first time in years I was actually expected to punch a time clock, like, Monday through Friday. Not literally punch in, of course, but I was expected to show up near a certain hour and stay there all day. Other people’s schedules tend to grate on my already ticklish nerve endings, which is one of two reasons I founded Hetta Coffey, SI LLC in the first place: so I can call my own shots. The other reason was that no one else will put me on their payroll.

  I am Hetta Coffey, SI (my little phonetic joke for Civil Engineer), Chief Executive Officer, Chief Financial Officer, and sole employee of my consulting firm specializing in Materials Management for offbeat—some might even say shady—projects.

  The only saving factor on this otherwise annoying Monday morning was that I knew this was only a three-month commitment, max. Three whole months, however, of that galling gal's clangorous gut seemed untenable on the first day, but hey, I've been on projects in much less desirable locations than Baja California Sur. At least I can brush my teeth with the tap water. The downside to that is brushing one’s pearly whites with local water in many places promotes better fitting jeans.

  My new home, Santa Rosalia, is an old mining village with the moldering charm of another era. Because of her French founders, the town looks less Mexican than just about any place I've seen south of the border.

  Since the settlement was actually built to plan, the streets are wider than most Mexican village roads, but are now one-way to accommodate parking, wider vehicles and recently, cruisers. Not boat people, but a social event reminiscent of a 1960's movie. With new money in town due to the mine reopening, everybody has a car and the young people cruise the circuit, bumper-to-bumper, blasting music and flirting with each other.

  The town's wooden houses, each with a porch and many with a tiny balcony on the second floor, were built to the planner's design in a Victorian age and have that look. They are gaily painted, if somewhat peeling, and are festooned with bougainvillea and other flowers, making for a colorful and charming village. Wooden houses in a place where there are few trees? Yep, the unrefined copper was shipped to Washington State for smelting and the ships returned loaded with lumber.

  The French are long gone, but unfortunately for my waistline the El Boleo bakery
is still cranking out the best bolillos on the entire planet.

  The main church, designed by Carl Gustav Eiffel, is rumored to have been displayed along with his famed tower at the Paris Expo in 1889, then disassembled and shipped (some say by mistake) to Santa Rosalia and reassembled when the town was still in her mining glory.

  History has a way of repeating itself and now that the El Boleo mine just north of town is back in business (this time funded in part by South Koreans) Santa Rosalia is flourishing. The puebla is in full boom mode, importing goods and people from everywhere. Costco labels and kimchi abound on the sagging shelves of rickety tiendas, living space is at a premium, and now they have their latest import: Hetta Coffey, ingeniera civil.

  Unfortunately, my new project was neither as well-funded nor as far advanced as El Boleo, for that would be way too easy. Nope, my mine was farther northwest and inland, thereby guaranteeing freezing winter and sizzling summer temps. God forbid I should land work in a place with a water view or some such. Why can't they build copper mines in places like, say, Paris?

  As I always do when going onto a new construction site the first day, I squirreled away a couple of just-in-case cheese sandwiches, a bag of chips and some bottled water in my backpack. I'd been told I could eat at the "Man Camp"—welcome to Mexico, land of the less than progressive work place—where I'd break tortillas with a bunch of workers I wasn't welcome to live with. Fine with me. Sharing quarters with a passel of smelly men I didn't know wasn't way up on my warm and fuzzy list, especially when I had my own snazzy yacht to live on.

  I'd received an email instructing me to meet my ride in the marina parking lot. Right on time, according to my unearthed Rolex, a shuttle van aimed for me and screeched to a halt close enough to make me scoot back a step. My heel hit a rock and I almost went down, but regained my balance and grabbed the rock. I had a healthy grip on the potential windshield-bashing device when a young man jumped out of the driver's seat, said his name was Pedro, shoved me into the van and slammed the slider just shy of my butt. I did manage to drop the rock on his toe, but unfortunately he was wearing industry standard steel-toed safety boots. So just when did the OSHA rules and regs sneak across the border into Mexico?

  A little breathless, I snapped on my seatbelt and turned to my fellow passengers, a handful of sleepy looking guys, all foreigners like me who'd come to work on the mining project. Turns out they were temporarily living in Las Casitas, a small hotel up the hill, where they had individual cabins with an ocean view. I’d been told doublewides were on the way for we management types, but for now, they were busing us in. I'd already decided to remain trawler trash rather than join the trailer trash.

  Being the only female, and thereby the most inquisitive person in the van, I quickly ascertained for whom they worked, where they hailed from and more importantly, their marital status. Being men, they asked me how big my boat is (45 feet), what make it is (Californian), and what kind of engines she sports (twin 375hp Caterpillar 3208 TA Diesels).

  All of the men were single.

  I am technically single.

  Hmmm, this job might not be so bad, after all.

  Now all I had to find out was what in the hey-all I was doing here.

  2

  GIVE A WIDE BERTH (Nautical term): Provide sufficient space when anchoring or docking to avoid other ships (keep at a distance).

  Something Pedro could learn.

  The question, What in the hey-all am I doing here? was not a rhetorical one.

  I've heard it told that some people, before they take a job, actually check out a few things, like what the job is. That is not how I operate.

  I require a satisfactory answer to the following: What does it pay?

  The larger the amount, the less inclined I am to delve into petty details, such as, is it legal? Give me a location, a date, and a willingness to pay in US dollars, a reasonable escape plan in case things go south, and I'm your gal.

  So, on that Monday morning I was the only one on the bus who didn't know why they were there unless you counted the driver, who seemed dead set on doing everything except driving.

  Even the delicious-smelling smoke of a taco stand we roared past, normally a beacon for my attention, couldn't draw my horrified eyes from the man who held my life in such an inattentive manner.

  Cigarette in one hand, coffee cup in the other, cell phone balanced ear-to-shoulder, Pedro jabbered incessantly except when drawing a puff and taking a sip. What with all the traffic on narrow Mexican Highway Number One (referred to in Mexico as Mex 1) skirting Santa Rosalia, it was a miracle he only grazed a couple of pedestrians. Even more disconcerting was when he stopped talking and smoking, because he appeared to fall asleep. A joke by fellow Texan and humorist Jack Handey sprang to mind: When I die, I want to go peacefully like my grandfather did—in his sleep. Not yelling and screaming like the passengers in his car.

  Somehow old Jack's humor wasn't quite so amusing on this particular morning. And if I thought the first few minutes were bad, about ten miles out of town we began our ascent of—or more correctly, our assault upon—La Cuesta del Infierno.

  This lovely little two-lane stretch of Mex 1, charmingly known as the Hill of Hell, snakes over two miles of treacherous hairpin turns, switchbacks, and blind curves, all without benefit of guardrails, shoulders or turnouts. Mere inches from the tires, the maw of an abyss lurked, just waiting for us to slip, plunge and crash. I made the mistake of looking down and saw the scattered remains of almost unidentifiable pieces of twisted metal, broken glass and rotting tires.

  Obviously undaunted in the face of cockamamie possibilities like oncoming traffic, Pedro floored the van whenever impeded by a crawling transport truck in our lane. Shaving a thin layer of chrome off the creeping truck's front bumper, we narrowly escaped several head-ons. Only when the road straightened and smoothed did my hair follow suit.

  My clawed fingers lost all feeling after the first quarter-mile as I clung to anything within reach, and my right foot was numb from stomping an imaginary brake pedal. The poor guy next to me pried my fingernails from his perforated flesh and tried reassuring me. "It's okay," said he, "Pedro does this every day."

  Not with me on board he doesn't. I vowed, on the off chance that I survived this trip, to get a vehicle of my own. Problem is, every car rental agency within two hundred miles evidently has my name flagged with a tag that says, "Don't even think of renting a car to this nut job," for a minor incident last year. Okay, maybe not so minor, but it wasn't my fault the car was destroyed by a crazed druggie in a muscle truck. Besides, I'm sure the insurance covered the explosion.

  I'd have to go get my pickup out of storage in San Carlos, Sonora, seventy-some-odd miles across the Sea of Cortez. Although I didn't look forward to a return overnight car-ferry ride, it paled in the face of subjecting my precious self to Pedro’s daily Passage of Peril.

  We swerved—some drivers might turn, but Pedro swerves—off the main highway onto an unpaved but surprisingly smooth road, then up a hill past a large sign reading MINERA LUCIFER.

  Before we'd ascended the Hill of Hell, I'd spotted what looked like a smoking volcano much closer than I'd like, but fellow passengers assured me it was dormant and the plume was only a cloud formation. "Heck," one guy told me, "it's been over a hundred years since she blew."

  Hello? For a volcano a hundred years is a nanosecond. I hope someone's told it it's dead. And hadn't I read somewhere that the San Andreas Fault runs right smack dab down the center of the Sea of Cortez? Just a few miles east of Santa Rosalia? I'd been in Conception Bay just a few miles south of Santa Rosalia with Jenks, my significant whatever, before he left for Kuwait. We'd anchored off a beach with a rock pool, a soaking tub of sorts. These hot springs simmer up from the fiery bowels of the earth, the water so hot that you can only sit in the pool at high tide when seawater mixes in to cool it to a tolerable level.

  And, according to my fellow workers, just a few miles north of the jobsite they were testing for t
he possibility of a geothermal energy plant.

  Was I the only one detecting a pattern here? Hill of Hell, Lucifer's Mine, a smoking volcano, a geothermal field, an unstable fault line and hot water boiling up from some seething cauldron under the sea?

  I'd have to have a little tête-à-tête with that devil, Wontrobski, about my fee and maybe add a penalty clause to my contract about duty in unstable areas. Oh, wait, that's why they pay me the big bucks; he probably figures I'm more unstable than those I'm sent to mess with.

  My numero uno job-giver-outer (technical term) back in California, Fidel Wontrobski—his father was a Polish Communist, thus the name—is the one who hires me, or rather my company, on contract. His employers, the brothers Baxter, have made clear I should never again darken their payroll department after a little dust up in Tokyo when I ratted them out for gouging a customer, but somehow they didn't seem to mind when the Trob found me useful for their purposes. In fact, they don't much mess with the Trob in anything he does.