J. Rain - Hail Mary

So I arranged to meet Heidi a few hours later at a Starbucks in Sunset Beach. Sunset Beach is famous for the world’s stupidest house. A converted water tower, it soars high above the surrounding two-story clapboard beach homes and inns and used car lots. It’s an example of what too much money can buy. As I sat in Starbucks waiting for Heidi, I could just see the monstrosity. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so ugly if it didn’t sit atop a tangle of steel beams. Maybe, I don’t know. As it was, it looked like an architect’s practical joke.

Shortly, Heidi came in. She spotted me and came over, sitting opposite me. I couldn’t helped but notice that she was dressed in a nice pantsuit. Her face was made up, as well.

“ You want a drink?” I asked.

She shook her head. Her eyes were even redder than the last time I had seen her. Her nose was about as puffy as before.

“ I’m sorry about your boyfriend,” I said.

She nodded again.

“ The police say he was shot,” she said.

“ He was.”

“ You saw him?” she asked.

I nodded. She was about to ask something else, something she probably shouldn’t ask, something that might scar her for life, and I simply shook my head. She got the hint and closed her mouth.

The day was mostly sunny, but there was a wispy cloud coverage that made things interesting. A woman was sitting in her car at the far end of the parking lot feeding seagulls what looked like a chocolate donut.

“ They killed him,” she said after a few minutes. “Those motherfuckers shot him and dumped him in the harbor.”

“‘ They’ being the shark hunters?”

“ Yes, the shark hunters.”

“ Can you tell me when you last saw Mitch?” I asked.

“ The night he disappeared.”

“ Do you recall your last conversation?”

Her last conversation was summarized in the police report, but I wanted to hear it from her. “We were in our apartment in Huntington Beach. Over on Yorktown. He told me he was heading out to meet some of our guys.”

“ Your guys?”

“ Guys who work for us. We have a few dozen volunteers.”

I nodded. “And he went out drinking with these volunteers?”

“ Yes.”

“ Why didn’t you go?”

“ Boys’ night out.”

“ Are these boys night outs his idea?”

She shrugged. “I don’t mind them. Gave us a break from each other. Sometimes you need a night or two off.”

I nodded. She spoke the truth. “Has he ever been out all night before?”

“ Never.”

“ Did you ever suspect him of cheating?”

She looked at me coolly. The glitter around her narrow eyes caught some of the fancy track lighting above. “Never once.”

“ Was he wearing swimming trunks when he left the house?”

“ No. Jeans.”

“ Did he own a red pair of swimming trunks?”

She frowned. “No.”

I next brought up the subject of our working agreement. Mitch, after all, had been found. Would she be interested in hiring me to look into his murder?

She looked at me as if I was a little dense. “Of course.”

I indicated her nice outfit. “You didn’t get dressed up just for me, did you?”

“ I’m meeting with some supporters. Although we’re non-profit, we still need backers to do what we do. Or, I guess, I still need backers.”

I nodded. She went on.

“ We have a website with a PayPal donation button, but we need more than just the occasional fifty-dollar donations to do what we do.”

“ Of course.”

“ Don’t get me wrong. The fifty-dollar donations help. Everything helps. But if we can get a sizable donation, well, we can really make progress. And we were, until the bastards…”

Her voice trailed off. I waited an appropriate length of time, then asked. “Are you going to be okay?”

“ I don’t really care about me, Mr. Knighthorse. I care about them.” She indicated the nearby shoreline. “ They need to be protected from the true animals, and I’ll do whatever it takes to do so.”

I believed it, too.

Cannery Row is at the far end of Lido Park on a little peninsula within a peninsula in Newport Beach.

I didn’t know much about commercial fishing or canneries, but I was developing a soft spot for little critters who couldn’t defend themselves.

Go figure.

I passed by the famous Cannery Restaurant, which had once been home to the biggest of the old-time fish processors in the 50’s. I knew this because I had eaten here a few times with Cindy, and the building itself was impressive.

I continued on Lido, crossing over a bridge, passing hip restaurants and nice boats and condos and Mediterranean-style homes that probably cost more than I would ever make in my lifetime.

I hung a right on Shipyard Way and took it to the end, following the address I had written on a small notepad. I don’t keep my files with me. Should someone break into my car and steal my file, well, I would be up shit creek and my clients’ anonymity would be compromised.

I parked in a parking lot and waited. At Starbucks, Heidi Mann had gone over the key players of the illegal shark finning operation. Shark finning, a term that meant catching sharks solely for their fins, is illegal off the shores of California. Ironically, it is legal to catch and process a shark-that is, kill it for its meat and fins. What’s actually illegal is to de-fin the shark and dump the still-living creature back into the ocean.

Bastards.

Heidi explained some more. The majority of the finning was done just south of the border. Shark fins are big business. Too big to ignore, and too big to care about the shark themselves.

The use of dogs and cats as bait seemed to be a relatively new phenomena, and it was practiced by poorer fishermen. Where the bigger ships used gill nets, which captured many sharks at once, the unlicensed fishermen with smaller boats would use any means they could to capture the sharks.

I had asked Heidi why these fishermen didn’t use chum and fish as bait, and answer was appalling. The kicking of the live animals, especially when added with the blood that poured from the hooks in their paws and muzzles and necks, was just too inviting, nearly guaranteeing a shark.

I imagined the little guys swimming in the ocean, terrified, bleeding, hurting, alone and abandoned, begging for mercy while hungry predators circled below.

I rubbed my forehead and cracked open the passenger side window.

According to Heidi Mann, one man was a key player in the local shark finning trade. One man who didn’t give a damn from where the fins came, be it from gill nets or the poor fishermen down south using dogs as live bait.

A man who might know something about Mitch Golden’s death, Raul Trujillo was called a fish broker, or a fish buyer. A harmless enough title, and not one generally associated with illegal dealings. It only became illegal, of course, when one dealt with contraband or poached seafood.

It was time to meet with Raul Trujillo.

The office was small and didn’t smell like fish. Go figure.

In fact, the office was only just a little bigger than my own, minus the dozens of newspaper and magazine articles featuring yours truly. And minus the bullet holes, of course.

The man sitting behind the desk was shockingly good-looking. He was wearing a casual blazer that was designed, I think, to look distressed or well worn. It was covered in pockets and, dammit, he looked good in it. A shimmery dress shirt seemed to fit him perfectly as well. His hair was neatly trimmed and his face was freshly shaved. He looked like a model out of a J. Crew catalog.

I hated him immediately, of course.

He looked up from his open laptop. His eyes sparkled. His teeth gleamed. He seemed generally happy to be him.