Kirk Russell - Dead Game

“My lawyer told me not to agree to anything until I have something signed by your superiors.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“That’s what I told him. Let me get the boat, I’ll be right back.”

He untied a dinghy to row over to his boat and then couldn’t get the Honest Abe started. The engines sputtered, died, and when they finally caught he over-revved them before they’d warmed up. He yelled back across the water again.

“These engines are junk, but I haven’t had the money to do anything about it.”

As they went upriver Raburn talked about his brother. “What Isaac should do is tear out the trees and put in vines. Everyone in the delta is doing that.”

“That might be a good reason not to.”

“The money isn’t in pears.”

They left the river and turned into a slough. They passed under a small bridge and, after rounding a bend, were in the quiet of the slough.

“Look, I’ve got to know for sure I’m not going to get prosecuted later. Do you really have the authority to do this?”

“I do.”

They came around another bend in the slough. Along both banks the trees leaned over the water. In the cold clear chill on the slough this morning, Raburn wasn’t such a bad guy. He obviously cared for his brother and his brother’s family. He pointed up ahead.

“It’s not much further. One of these guys got laid off from work and he’s got a kid sick with leukemia so he fishes sturgeon to pay for medicine. The fish they called about isn’t huge but he says it has roe.”

“How many times have you bought from them?”

“I don’t know. Enough.”

Raburn cut the throttle as they came through the bend. The bow dropped, and they slowed.

“Let’s talk about Beaudry’s Bait Shop,” Marquez said. “What else you know about Richie Crey?”

“He did time for drug dealing and he doesn’t want to go back in. That’s the thing you’ve got to know about him. He won’t deal directly with you. He’s got these two guys who work for him who handle the fish.”

“What are their names?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did Beaudry know he was selling to an ex-con?”

“He must have.”

The last time Marquez had been in Tom Beaudry’s shop a faded Goldwater bumpersticker had been tacked up in a corner up behind the counter. If you asked about it you’d wish you’d brought a bag lunch, because Beaudry had a lot of theories to share. According to Beaudry, when the country went for Johnson over Goldwater in 1964, that was a turning point. He felt sure that if Goldwater won, he would have nuked Hanoi and the war in Vietnam would have been an easy win afterward.

For years, in addit ion to the bait shop he’d also run a sport fishing boat out of Benicia and occasionally called CalTIP to report poaching. He was one of the first sport fishing captains with a website and sold custom sturgeon hooks and bait mixes off it. He also posted his political opinions on the website, along with the essays of other deep thinkers who proposed ideas such as defoliating Humboldt County in northern California to put the dope farmers out of business. From what Marquez remembered, Beaudry had a problem with all drug use, so it didn’t make much sense he’d sold his shop to an ex-con who’d been in for trafficking.

“Basically, I didn’t know Beaudry well,” Raburn said. “I stopped there and bought bait from him once, and he wouldn’t even let me use his bathroom-told me to go up the street to a bar.”

Ten minutes later, they met up with the two fishermen, and Raburn introduced him to the pair, one a blond kid, with a chromeplated construction toolbox bolted down in the back of his pickup, and an older Latino carpenter. It took all four of them to get the sturgeon into the boat. Marquez’s hand slid along the bony armor, the gray skin. He felt the abdomen for eggs and helped Raburn cover it before talking to the guys. Raburn pointed at Marquez.

“He’s your new money. I can’t afford you anymore. You call his cell phone from now on.”

Marquez shook hands with both. He scribbled down a number to call him at.

“Good to meet you guys, nice-looking fish. Call me when you land another like it.”

When they got back to Raburn’s houseboat a neighbor kid helped hump the fish up to Raburn’s truck. At the truck Raburn gave the kid ten bucks, and Marquez followed Raburn down to the pear packing shed where they took the ovaries out and made the call to Ludovna.

“He wants it,” Raburn said as he hung up with Ludovna. “But not until tomorrow.”

“Didn’t sound like you told him you’re bringing a friend.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

Raburn didn’t answer at first, instead lifting the heavy knife and hacking into the sturgeon again.

“Because you don’t understand this guy at all, and I don’t want anything to happen to me.”

Marquez walked with Chief Baird from headquarters to an Italian restaurant that Baird liked. It was early for lunch, and there wasn’t anyone in the dark room other than a bartender doubling as a waiter, sitting at a table folding napkins. He led them to a booth, took an order for two draft beers, and dropped a couple of heavy leatherbound menus on the table. Baird waited until he was behind the bar pulling the drafts.

“I think you know what I’m going to say, but what you don’t know is how proud I am of what you’ve done with the team in the past decade.”

So they were done. Marquez looked from Baird to the bartender drawing two pint glasses of beer.

“Lieutenant, you know my heart is in the field, always has been, that’s where our real job is.”

What Marquez knew was last year he had a one point one million-dollar budget to work with and this year 13 percent of that. Next year was slated to be less again and with no equipment upgrades. He had vehicles with 275,000 miles on them, but Baird was telling him that didn’t matter anymore. He wouldn’t need them.

“I don’t agree with Chief Bell that we can fill in the gap with uniform wardens,” Baird said, “but I agree we’re taking too many chances without sufficient backup. This event with the informant wouldn’t have happened if the team was at its former strength.”

“It depends on what happened.”

“The point is we’re stretched too thin.”

“Take everything that’s happened in the last decade, Chief, and this sturgeon poaching operation we’re up against now is the most organized and efficient we’ve dealt with.”

“This Raburn character is efficient?”

“No, but getting to the traffickers beyond him is hard. From the rumors and the number of CalTIP calls coming in, we know a lot of sturgeon is going out. We may be starting to feel pressure from the collapse of the Caspian Sea stocks.”

“You don’t really have any evidence to back that up, do you?”

“We know the overall poaching has heated up.”

Baird was quiet and watched the bartender return with the beers. He obviously wanted to do this in a way Marquez could accept.

“You’ve always spoken highly of DBEEP,” he said.

“Sure, they’re great. But they’re not enough.”

Baird took a sip of beer and Marquez looked at his own but felt no desire to pick it up. He listened to Baird order a meatball sandwich. When the bartender turned in his direction, Marquez shook his head. He didn’t have any appetite.

“Maybe you should work with DBEEP,” Baird said after they were alone.

“Give me another month, Chief. Let’s see if it works out flipping Raburn. Give us until the first of the year. The storms are coming through and that kicks up the bottom and gets the sturgeon biting. We can use the fog to our advantage.” He heard himself plead, couldn’t believe it had come to this. “We’ve got some new contacts and leads.” He told Baird the story of Beaudry, the bait shop, Richie Crey.