Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

“In a way. It’s a quote from Joseph Conrad. ‘The sea never changes and its works, for all the talk of men, are wrapped in mystery.’ ” Austin tapped the map with his fingertip. “Whales die every day. We lose some to natural causes. Others get tangled in fishing nets and starve to death, or they get nailed by a ship, or we poison them with pollution because some people think it’s okay to use the sea for a toxic waste dump.” He paused. “But this doesn’t fit any of those categories. Even without interference from humans, nature is always out of kilter, constantly adjusting and readjusting. But it’s not a cacophony. It’s like the improvisation you see with a good jazz group, Ahmad Jamal doing a piano solo, going off on his own, catching up with his rhythm section later.” He let out a deep laugh. “Hell, I’m not making sense.”

“Don’t forget I’ve seen your jazz collection, Kurt. You’re saying there’s a sour note here.”

“More a universal dissonance.” He thought about it some more. “I like your analogy better. I’ve got the feeling that there’s a big bad-ass shark lurking just out of sight and it’s hungry as hell.”

Zavala pushed his empty plate away. “As they say back home, the best time to fish is when the fish are hungry.”

“I happen to know you grew up in the desert, amigo,” Austin said, rising. “But I agree with what you’re saying. Let’s go fishing.”

From Ensenada they got back on the highway and headed south. As in Tijuana, the commercial sprawl thinned out and vanished and the highway went down to two lanes. They turned off the highway past Maneadero and followed back roads past agricultural fields, scattered farm houses, and old missions, eventually coming into rugged, lonely country with fog-shrouded rolling hills that dropped down to the sea. Zavala, who was navigating, checked the map.

“We’re almost there. Just around the corner,” he said.

Austin didn’t know what he was expecting. Even so he was surprised when they rounded the curve and he saw a neatly lettered sign in Spanish and English announcing they were at the home of the Baja Tortilla Company. He pulled over to the side of the road. The sign was at the beginning of a long, clay drive bordered with planted trees. They could see a large building at the end of the driveway.

Austin leaned on the steering wheel and pushed his Foster Grants up onto his forehead. “You’re sure this is the right spot?”

Zavala handed the map over for Austin’s examination. “This is the place,” he said.

“Looks like we drove all this way for nothing.”

“Maybe not,” Zavala said. “The huevos rancheros were excellent, and I’ve got a new Hussong’s Cantina T-shirt.”

Austin’s eyes narrowed. “Coincidence makes me suspicious. The sign says ‘Visitors Welcome.’ As long as we’re here, let’s take them at their word.”

He turned the truck off the highway and drove a few hundred yards to a neatly tended gravel parking lot marked with spaces for visitors. Several cars with California plates and a couple of tour buses were parked in front of the building, a corrugated aluminum structure with a portaled adobe façade and tiled roof in the Spanish style. The smell of baking corn wafted through the pickup’s open windows.

“Diabolically clever disguise,” Zavala said.

“I hardly expected to see a neon sign that said, ‘Welcome from the guys who killed the whales.’ ”

“I wish we were toting our guns,” Zavala said with mock gravity. “You never know when a wild tortilla will attack you. I once heard about someone being mauled by a burrito in Nogales—”

“Save it for the drive back.” Austin got out of the car and led the way to the ornately carved front door of dark wood.

They stepped into a whitewashed reception area. A smiling young Mexican woman greeted them from behind a desk. “Buenos días,” she said. “You are in luck. The tour of the tortilla factory is just starting. You’re not with a group from a cruise boat?”

Austin suppressed a smile. “We’re on our own. We were driving by and saw the sign.”

She smiled again and asked them to join a group of senior citizens, mostly Americans and mostly from the Midwest from the sounds of their accents. The receptionist, who also acted as guide, ushered them into the bakery.

“Corn was life in Mexico, and tortillas have been the staple food in Mexico for centuries with both the Indians and the Spanish settlers.” She led the way past where sacks of corn were being emptied into grinding machines. “For many years people made their tortillas at home. The corn was ground into meal, mixed with water to produce masa, then rolled, cut, pressed, and baked by hand. With the growth of demand in Mexico and especially in the United States, the tortilla industry has become more centralized. This has allowed us to modernize our production facilities providing for more efficient and sanitary operation.”

Speaking in low tones as they trailed behind the others, Austin said, “If the market for Mexican flapjacks is in the U.S., why isn’t this place closer to the border? Why make them down here and ship them up the highway?”

“Good question,” Zavala said. “The tortilla business in Mexico is a tightly held monopoly run by guys with close government connections. It’s a billion-dollar industry. Even if you did have a good reason to locate this far south, why build overlooking the ocean? Nice place for a luxury hotel, but an operation like this?”

The tour went past the dough mixers which fed into machines that produced hundreds of tortillas a minute, the thin flat pies coming out on conveyor belts, all tended by workers in laundry-white coats and plastic caps. The guide was ushering the group to the packaging and shipping department when Austin spied a door with words written in Spanish on it.

“Employees only?” he asked Zavala.

Joe nodded.

“I’ve learned all I want to know about burritos and enchiladas.” Austin stepped aside and tried the door. It was unlocked. “I’m going to look around.”

Eyeing Austin’s imposing physique and blazing white hair, Zavala said, “With due respect for your talents as a snoop, you don’t exactly blend in with the people working around here. I might be less conspicuous than a giant gringo stalking the hallways.”

Zavala had a good point. “Okay, snoop away. Be careful. I’ll meet you at the end of the tour. If the guide asks, I’ll say you had to go to the restroom.”