Just Needs Killin (3 page)

The party was in full swing when we arrived, complete with pigs roasting on spits, and hula dancers swaying to some pretty fancy ukulele plucking. Both the dancers and musicians looked suspiciously Mexican, but it's the theme that counts.

Surveying the crowd, I didn't spot any formal security forces checking for invitations and crashers, just a pretty Mexican girl who greeted us with leis. She was, however, flanked by a couple of huge, mean-eyed dudes incongruously garbed in flowered shirts.

Properly lei'd, Jan and I made for a thatch-roofed tiki bar.

"We'll have six triple Mai Tais," I told the Mexican bartender. He grinned and gave us each a huge hurricane glass, complete with umbrella and a bunch of fruit. I stuck the umbrella behind my ear and chewed on a chunk of pineapple while checking out the crowd, most of which, except for staff, entertainers, and what looked like a few local hookers, seemed to be Asian. Jan and I stood out like, well, murder suspects.

"Jan, for God's sake, look innocent. Let's find out who's the big kahuna here. I mean besides your dead kahuna."

Scanning for kahunas, I noticed that one man in particular drew a crowd like remoras to a shark. I elbowed Jan. "
Banzai!
Little wrinkled dude, three o'clock. Follow me."

I led Jan to an elderly Japanese gentleman dressed in impeccable white pants, what looked like a vintage Hawaiian shirt, and draped with at least a dozen orchid leis. We'd only rated one lei each: plumeria.

He spotted us coming his way—or rather,
Jan
coming his way—and said something into the belly button of a towering goon-type Sumo wrestler who was glowering at us. The bodyguard stepped back at his master's command, but reluctantly, judging by his sour puss.

"Aloha," I said with a slight bow to the old man. "Great party. Thanks for inviting us. Actually Ishi-san invited us, but...by the way, where is he?"

With a more formal bow in return, the man said, "You are very welcome.  I was told Mr. Ishikawa invited guests, but had no idea how charming they would be."

Charming? Me? Was
he
in for a surprise! Knowing how I react when patronized, Jan quickly, charmingly, ran interference with a smile and a little dip. "Why, thank yew. So kind. We are just delighted to be here." Southern dripped from her voice like moss off a cypress.

"I am Tadashi Fujikawa, but you may call me Tadassan."

"And, Tadassan," I bowed again, a little lower this time, "you may call me anything but late for dinner." See, I can be charming.

He got it and laughed.

On a roll, I set out to grill him like that spitted squealer I planned on devouring later.  "So, are you and Ishi-san business associates? And where is he, anyhow?"

Fujikawa didn't miss a beat. "I had supposed he was...detained, but now...." His voice trailed off as he eyed Jan, whom he obviously thought to be the alleged detain
er
, which told me Ishi-jerk had been bragging about his date for the weekend.

"So, he's not here yet? Well, then," I grabbed his arm and led him to a table by the fire pit, "we can get to know
you
better until he turns up." Big ugly dude, whom I decided was more Samoan than Sumo, took a step forward when I strong-armed his boss, but my new best friend waved him off with a subtle hand movement.

Lava Lava clouded up, but acknowledged the order with a wave of his own hand. Which, I noticed as my stomach lurched, was missing a couple of fingers. Oh, crap! "Finger shortening" is an almost sure sign of a Yakuza thug. And the Japanese Yakuza run the largest and most vicious crime organization in the world. I thought it prudent not to mention this to Jan just yet.

I sucked in a deep breath to calm my rattled nerves. "Uh, think your man could get us another drink, Tadassan?" I cooed. I don't coo nearly as well as Jan, but she'd grown uncommonly silent and I hoped it wasn't delayed shock. "Jan, would you like another?"

"Huh?"

"Drink. Want one?"

"Sure."

Our new BFF barked an order at Samoa Boy, who sullenly turned to fetch drinks. But he was smarter than he looked, and collared a waiter for the task. He was back on guard-glower duty way too soon for my druthers.

Oh, well. "So, you're in business with Mr. Ishikawa? Lucky you, he sure knows how to pitch a party."

"We are associates, not partners. We work together on some projects."

"Here in Mexico?"

"At times. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I just like to know if there are new projects about. Never know when a gal might need a job."

He looked at me closely and cocked his head. "I did not catch your name."

"I didn't throw it. You can call me Hetta-san, or if you prefer, Coffey-san. I answer to almost anything if the money is right."

His eyes did their best to widen as he looked downright alarmed. "Hetta Coffey? Ishikawa's Hetta Coffey?"

I took this as a bad omen.

Oh
, 'kuso!'
as they say in Japan
.

When Tadassan blew his inscrutable-ness and blurted, "
Ishikawa's
Hetta Coffey?" I experienced a revelation. Actually it was more like an acid reflux attack.

Why I hadn't put
ni
and
ni
together and come up with Ishikawa before, I don't know. Sometimes I can be a little on the slow side. I still decided to play stoopid, which at the moment was pretty easy, since adding two and two got, 'Oh, Crap!' and numbed my brain. Or maybe it was that mini-bar? Anyhow, I somehow managed to squeak out, "Why, yes, I am
a
Hetta Coffey. Have we met?"

Oddly enough my question sent him into a fit of laughter bordering on apoplexy. When he finally got control of himself, his cheeks matched Jan's fuchsia bikini, but at least he was breathing. Once again he waved off Samoa Boy who, like me, probably thought the old dude was gonna croak on us. Two croakers in one night is way over my body count limit.

"Are you all right, Mr. Fujikawa?" Jan, now recovered from her momentary brush with the vapors, asked as we both pounded his back.

Short-fingers handed his boss a drink that looked to be pure whiskey of some kind. He downed it, and wiped his eyes. "Yes, yes, I am fine. I was caught by surprise that Hiro Ishikawa would invite Hetta Coffey to his luau. Or anywhere else, for that matter, what with your, uh, history."

Jan cocked her head, clearly puzzled, so I asked her, "That name, Hiro Ishikawa, ring any bells with you, Miz Jan?"

She scrunched up her face like she does when she thinks. When I do that I look like I have gas. She manages to look cute. A light went off somewhere under that blondeness and her eyebrows shot up under her bangs. "Oh, dear!
That
Ishikawa?"

"Methinks, yes. Who knew?"

"But why would he come here and bring—"

I cut her off to shut her up. "I have no idea why he is here in Mexico. Maybe Tadassan can help us out with that one?"

Our new best friend didn't look all that friendly anymore, and Mount Samoa moved into our circle like a Rottweiler that'd caught a whiff of prime rib.

"Oh, my," I said, holding up my bare wrist, "look at the time. Jan, we'd better go, uh, powder our noses before dinner." I was already backing away, pulling Jan with me, ready to bolt if necessary.

It wasn't necessary. Fujikawa called off his dog as Jan and I beat feet for the lobby, and the little
Mujeres
room. Once inside we stared at each other for a minute, each of us plainly wondering how we could be so dense.
Hiro
Ishikawa
, for crap's sake? How did we overlook the obvious?

Okay, so the name, Ishikawa, is Japan's equivalent to Smith in our country, and the last person on earth I'd figure would bring his family to commune with whales was the same guy who, just a few months ago, was planning to can them. Not his family, the whales.
Baby
whales, to boot. And, even though neither of us had ever met him face-to-face, Jan and I were responsible for foiling his whale-packing plot and getting him, and his cohorts, up to their necks in hot sake.

"Okay, that tears it, Jan. We really gotta get out of here. Look for a window or something outta this bathroom."

No luck with windows, but I did, however, find a door with a sign picturing a stick figure man walking through it. He was circled in red with a slash, the international symbol for, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT DOING THIS. It read AVISO! SOLO EMPLEADOS!

I tried the knob, but it was locked. Fortunately I always take a credit card with me, even to a luau. I have this little velvet purse I string around my neck to hold lipstick, money, and a credit card—and, back in Arizona, my Ruger LCP—cuz you just never know. Unfortunately, Mexico takes a grim view of an armed citizenry, so only the cartels have guns, and not me, who seriously needs one at all times.

The lock proved no challenge for my Visa card, and once inside the EMPLOYEES ONLY room we discovered cleaning equipment, toilet paper and towels, and lockers with both uniforms and the clothes left by worker bees currently on duty. "Let's suit up, team."

"Okay, but then what, Hetta? We have to get back to our room. Hell, even the car keys are there."

"I know, but both of us don't have to go. Help me tie this scarf over my head. And you, try to look shorter and browner."

My clothing benefactor was obviously a supersize woman, probably a maid, since the lobby staff all looked like Tecate beer models. I cinched in the flowered dress with the extra-large flowered pareo I use as a beach wrap. Jan, on the other hand, actually looks like a Tecate beer drinker's dream, so we picked kitchen staff gear for her; a little ugly-ing up with a black hair net and white hat was the best we could do in her case. 

I shoved a load of folded towels into Jan's arms and told her to hold them high enough to obscure her face, hoping kitchen staff sometimes doubled as room maids.

"Take a look at this emergency exit chart. Looks like this door," I tapped on the plastic sign, "leads out the back. Go check out the parking lot and, if the coast if clear, I'll meet you at my pickup." We wanted to make a run for Mex 1 despite the guard post on the hotel's road. Since it was dark by now, our chances of escaping unnoticed from the hotel, and maybe even slipping by the guard, were vastly improved. Not ideal, but better than in broad daylight.

My decision to take the stairs instead of the elevator wasn't one of my best, considering our room was on the fourth floor. By the time I vaulted the stairs two at a time, I was gasping and vowing to embrace a StairMaster in the near future. Evidently taking a dog for a daily two-mile walk on flat roads doesn't do much for the old lung capacity. Surprisingly enough, my legs still felt strong, which wouldn't do me much good when a lung collapsed.

When the room door clicked into OPEN mode, I literally fell through it, catching myself on a chair to prevent splattering my oxygen-starved brain all over the tile floor, which, considering the condition of Ishikawa's room, didn't seem fair to the cleaning staff.

Collapsing into the upholstered chair, I recalled hearing stories about people who passed out because they didn't take the time to cool down after strenuous exercise and this simply was not the time for anything like that. Shoving myself to standing, I swung my arms over my head and did a few arm pumps while running in place, then used my cool down walk to move from room to room, stuffing our belongings—and the remaining contents of the raided mini-fridge—into a hotel pillowcase. I figured they owed Ishi at least one lousy pillowcase, considering what the tab was going to be for that emptied mini-bar. Poor old Ishikawa's bank account was gonna take it in the neck, so to speak, by our bar bill alone.

Scanning the room, I was satisfied we'd left very little to lead anyone directly to us, if you discount about a million fingerprints, enough DNA to create a new person or two, my name on the hotel registration, at least fifty witnesses who saw us at the luau, and my pickup logged in with the gate guard. All circumstantial, in my opinion.

Bad as I wanted to bolt for the parking lot, there was still one more thing I felt I needed to do. My camera in hand, I rushed for Ishikawa's suite. Jan said the door was unlocked, and for some reason I felt the need to document the murder. It was, of course, an unreasonable reason, but just felt right.

His door was indeed still unlocked, and the body—both pieces of it—lay in a brown colored liquid I doubted was Jack Daniels. A combination of best unidentifiable bad smells inside made me reluctant to enter very far into the room, but I zoomed the lens and got off a couple of quick photos, then wiped down the door handle with my skirt, and slid the door closed, locking it from the inside as I did so. 

Flying back down the stairs, pumped up with fear and adrenalin, I doubted anyone in authority saw me, since I looked like a bag lady with her entire belongings—or some hotel guest's valuables—slung over her shoulder. Hotel employees are trained to overlook the antics of guests, but someone dressed as I was pushed the limits of normal.

I reached the main floor level and was rushing along the route I hoped led to the parking lot, and Jan, when we almost had a head-on collision. 

As we danced around each other to maintain our balance, Jan whispered, "I drew a big fat zero. There are several hotel employees hanging out in the parking lot. Hell, one of them is sitting on your pickup's hood. I think they're waiting for a bus or something."

"Dammit! Okay, back into the locker room. We'll think of something else."

The
Mujeres
room was still luckily devoid of
mujeres
, so we spent a few minutes coming up with a new idea.

"Okay, I think I've got it. Where are our bathing suits?"

Jan waggled a garbage bag at me. We put our suits back on despite the evening chill, left the workers' clothes in a locker in the EMPLOYEES ONLY room, and scooted for the beach using the lush hotel shrubbery for cover. At least now we had money, IDs, and car keys. What we didn't have were a couple of sweaters, which we sorely needed. The sun was gone, a brisk, cool breeze came off the land, and we were trudging down a deserted beach toward a bar we'd spotted from our balcony earlier in the day. A bar with several pangas parked outside.

"Okay, Jan, here's our story and we're sticking to it. We came here from Puerto Escondido with a couple of jerks who got drunk and belligerent. We had a tiff, and they left us. We need a ride back to port."

"Gotcha. Did we come by car or boat?”

"Boat. I saw a couple of speed boats in the harbor this afternoon with a bunch of partiers on board. As for my truck, we'll get it one way or another. Right now we just need a way out of here. Pronto."

Business was a little slow at the Playa Blanca Bar, as it was early yet. We immediately spotted a couple of older Mexicans who might belong to those pangas, so I steered us to a table next to them while ignoring the surfer dude types ogling Jan from the bar. We were the only females in the room.

I ordered two
cuguamas
of Tecate—thirty-two ounce bottles of beer named for sea turtles—and two cheeseburgers with
papas fritas
to keep our strength up.

Turning my attention to the two Mexican men, I said, "
Buenas noches
."

Obviously startled that a
Gringa
was zeroing in on them, they both nodded and politely replied, "
Buenas noches
" and went back to their conversation.

Our beers arrived, and we'd chugged them by the time the burgers showed up. When the men at the next table scooted their chairs back, I waved a greasy salt-and-ketchup laden fry in their direction. "Say, do you know where we can rent a boat?"

Now I was speaking their language. With a wide grin, one asked, "You wish to go fishing or snorkeling,
señora
?"

"No, we just want to take a boat ride."

"We have good boats." He nodded toward the pangas. "We can take you to the islands." He reached into a back pocket and pulled out a brochure featuring the usual photos of whales, underwater shots of colorful fish, and someone fighting a huge marlin. Handing it to me, he asked, "When do you wish to go?"

"Uh, now?"

They eyed our huge, empty, beer bottles, probably trying to assess just how drunk we were. I noticed the guys at the bar were eavesdropping on our conversation, so I turned to Jan and said, under my breath, "Showtime."

Jan stood, tugged off the scarf tied around her waist, turned those big old baby blues on our prey, and mustered a tear, which I suspect was induced by a salty finger. Dabbing it with the scarf, she wailed, "Can you please help us? We came here with some mean old men who left us. We have to get back to Puerto Escondido. Tonight."

Every man in the room, including the bartender, rushed our table. Jan sniffled while I embellished our sad tale of woe, adding we had money to pay for the panga, but needed to leave immediately. Within ten minutes we were bundled up in loaned surfer-dude windbreakers, and sat mid-panga with our mitts wrapped around two more
cuguamas
.

Since the wind was offshore, our eight-mile ride north was smooth and rapid. Of course, the panga had zero running lights, but with so little traffic on the water, the occasional flick of a flashlight alerted others we were coming. Anyone out there now was probably setting lines and nets, so they could easily hear us anyway.

In no time we were on the dock and waving our saviors a fond farewell. They were all grins, probably because I paid them double what they asked, which was most likely double what they usually charged.

Since I didn't want them connecting us with
Raymond Johnson
, we told them we were staying at the nearby Tripui hotel, thus the dock drop. Now we had to figure out how to get to
my
boat.

Luckily for us, someone left a dinghy at the dinghy dock.

Silly bugger.