“It was something Princess. And it was a Hans Christian.”
“Okay, I’ll move him from the A’s to the P’s.”
“A’s?”
“I had him under Alpha Hotel,” Hetta said with a grin, referring to the ham radio acronym for “asshole.”
While stuffing themselves on Jenks’s famous sourdough pizza, they arranged for Al to watch HiJenks while they visited La Paz. They'd move HiJenks to a mooring next to Norma Jean in the main anchorage first thing the next morning.
“Just start the generator once a day to charge batteries. Oh, and make sure the propane freezer keeps freezing. That’s about it,” Jenks said.
“No problem. I’ll run you up to the highway in the morning to catch the bus.”
Al left, Hetta washed the dishes, and while Jenks checked out the engine room, she dragged out her laptop.
Log of HiJenks , November 12, P.E Clear and Calm
Barometer: Steady
Mary and Gary Goodall are dead and it’s our fault. We’re going to La Paz to see John Colt. Maybe he can help us decide what to do. I’m really, really scared. H.
In bed that night, when Hetta closed her eyes, an unwanted and terrifying picture painted itself in her head. She did not have to imagine the horror of the Goodall’s deaths: she knew .
When she was a child her father moved the family to Haiti, where his company had a construction project. One day, when Hetta was eleven, she rode her horse to a local village to buy fruit, and blundered into a mini-revolution. Before galloping to safety, she witnessed a Haitian soldier hacked to death by a machete wielding mob. Hetta had seen first hand what a heavy, three-foot razor-sharp knife can do to a human being. It wasn’t something one easily forgot.
Chapter 17
O villains, vipers...
—Shakespeare
The American turned down the ham radio chatter and snatched up his cellphone. “Yes?”
“It’s me. How’re things in L.A. Paz?”
The American rolled his eyes. “I know it’s you,” he hissed. “You’re the only one with this number.”
“Sorry, jefe . Will do Mister B.,” Hector said, sarcastically emphasizing the Mister and “ jefe .”
“Cut the crap and start explaining. And do try to remember that cellphones are not secure. No details.”
Hector almost dropped the phone. That freakin’ pilot’s got a big damned mouth...couldn’t wait to rat me out. “Sure,” he wheedled, hating the Gringo for making him do so. “It was like this, we had to, uh...weed out a stray and they saw it. We chased, but were low on fuel and had to head for San Carlo—”
“Shut the fuck up, you imbecile,” the American cut him short. “No names, no places.” Jesus Christ, didn’t I just tell Hector that cellular telephones weren’t secure? Why doesn’t the spic just call CNN and make a fuckin’ announcement?
“I was just tryin’ to ‘splain what happened, bro. Anyhow, its all taken care of now.” Instead of giving me a hard time the bastard should be giving me an effing medal. No witnesses, no problemos .
“I’m not your brother, I’m your boss. There shouldn’t have been anything to clean up. Now, I want everything, and I do mean everything , to work as slick as olive oil next week. Don’t make me sorry I brought you in on this. And don’t make me come up there. Am I clear?”
“Oh, yes, Boss. No problemo. You got my word on it. Everything is under control ’cept the weather, and I can’t do nothin’ about no stinkin’ weather,” Hector whined in a Cheech Marin East L.A. accent.
“If I were in your boots, pardner, I'd consider trying. One more screw up and you’re out. And I mean out.”
Hector Lopez slammed the phone shut and cursed under his breath. Then he turned to Martine and growled, “I’ll slit that arrogant Gringo’s throat one day. I make that promise on my mother’s grave.”
Martine smiled nervously at his cousin. Hector was a breed of Mexican unknown to Martine: born in Mexico, but
“Okay, I’ll move him from the A’s to the P’s.”
“A’s?”
“I had him under Alpha Hotel,” Hetta said with a grin, referring to the ham radio acronym for “asshole.”
While stuffing themselves on Jenks’s famous sourdough pizza, they arranged for Al to watch HiJenks while they visited La Paz. They'd move HiJenks to a mooring next to Norma Jean in the main anchorage first thing the next morning.
“Just start the generator once a day to charge batteries. Oh, and make sure the propane freezer keeps freezing. That’s about it,” Jenks said.
“No problem. I’ll run you up to the highway in the morning to catch the bus.”
Al left, Hetta washed the dishes, and while Jenks checked out the engine room, she dragged out her laptop.
Log of HiJenks , November 12, P.E Clear and Calm
Barometer: Steady
Mary and Gary Goodall are dead and it’s our fault. We’re going to La Paz to see John Colt. Maybe he can help us decide what to do. I’m really, really scared. H.
In bed that night, when Hetta closed her eyes, an unwanted and terrifying picture painted itself in her head. She did not have to imagine the horror of the Goodall’s deaths: she knew .
When she was a child her father moved the family to Haiti, where his company had a construction project. One day, when Hetta was eleven, she rode her horse to a local village to buy fruit, and blundered into a mini-revolution. Before galloping to safety, she witnessed a Haitian soldier hacked to death by a machete wielding mob. Hetta had seen first hand what a heavy, three-foot razor-sharp knife can do to a human being. It wasn’t something one easily forgot.
Chapter 17
O villains, vipers...
—Shakespeare
The American turned down the ham radio chatter and snatched up his cellphone. “Yes?”
“It’s me. How’re things in L.A. Paz?”
The American rolled his eyes. “I know it’s you,” he hissed. “You’re the only one with this number.”
“Sorry, jefe . Will do Mister B.,” Hector said, sarcastically emphasizing the Mister and “ jefe .”
“Cut the crap and start explaining. And do try to remember that cellphones are not secure. No details.”
Hector almost dropped the phone. That freakin’ pilot’s got a big damned mouth...couldn’t wait to rat me out. “Sure,” he wheedled, hating the Gringo for making him do so. “It was like this, we had to, uh...weed out a stray and they saw it. We chased, but were low on fuel and had to head for San Carlo—”
“Shut the fuck up, you imbecile,” the American cut him short. “No names, no places.” Jesus Christ, didn’t I just tell Hector that cellular telephones weren’t secure? Why doesn’t the spic just call CNN and make a fuckin’ announcement?
“I was just tryin’ to ‘splain what happened, bro. Anyhow, its all taken care of now.” Instead of giving me a hard time the bastard should be giving me an effing medal. No witnesses, no problemos .
“I’m not your brother, I’m your boss. There shouldn’t have been anything to clean up. Now, I want everything, and I do mean everything , to work as slick as olive oil next week. Don’t make me sorry I brought you in on this. And don’t make me come up there. Am I clear?”
“Oh, yes, Boss. No problemo. You got my word on it. Everything is under control ’cept the weather, and I can’t do nothin’ about no stinkin’ weather,” Hector whined in a Cheech Marin East L.A. accent.
“If I were in your boots, pardner, I'd consider trying. One more screw up and you’re out. And I mean out.”
Hector Lopez slammed the phone shut and cursed under his breath. Then he turned to Martine and growled, “I’ll slit that arrogant Gringo’s throat one day. I make that promise on my mother’s grave.”
Martine smiled nervously at his cousin. Hector was a breed of Mexican unknown to Martine: born in Mexico, but
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