Kirk Russell - Dead Game

“Okay, where are the eggs?”

“They’re in my truck with the fish. They come as a package.”

The guy didn’t get it, took it as a straight line, said, “Back into the garage.”

A beat-up gold-colored Le Mans sat out in front of the house. It was rusted down along the base of the doors, and the ass end was humped from a rear-ender and sloppily sprayed with primer. It looked more like it had been tagged than painted. Someone had also done a hand job painting black stripes on the hood, and Marquez figured it could be either of the two men inside.

After the garage door went up, the second man drifted in, and Marquez got his name. Liam Torp. He offered his hand for Marquez to shake. Everybody was a businessman this morning. This was the business of trying to get a sturgeon deal done without missing too much of the show on TV that Torp had been watching.

“Is it worth the hassle, man?” Perry asked, face serious, doing his own risk/reward analysis.

“Is what worth the hassle?”

“Dealing sturgeon and fish eggs.”

“Sometimes it’s worth it.”

“Yeah? What kind of money can you make? Maybe I’ll get into it.”

“It’s messy. You deal with a lot of fish guts, and you’ve got to watch out for the Gamers all the time.”

“Richie says there aren’t that many of them.”

“Well, he ought to know. He’s your boss, right?”

Marquez had the cooler top taped down with duct tape. He peeled that off and showed them the eggs. Explained how to make caviar and answered more questions. It was like conducting a seminar. He looked at Perry, deciding that insulting him might be the easiest way to get rid of him.

“We’ll trade you some weed for your eggs,” Perry said.

“No, you won’t.”

“You don’t have to smoke it, man. You sell the weed, you’ll make more than you’d make the other way. Want to take a look at it? You’re welcome to a hit.” He turned to Torp. “Where’s that stub you had earlier?”

“Look, I just want to get paid and take off.”

“At least take a look.”

“What’s up with you guys? Does Crey know you’re offering this trade?”

Perry had a red birthmark along the back of his neck. His wiry friend, Torp, needed a change of clothes and had a way about him that bothered Marquez. In fact, they both annoyed him. Now, after standing around watching and saying nothing, Torp suddenly felt like he had to lower the garage door. Shauf and Roberts had been videotaping, and the lowering ended that.

“What are you doing, I’ve got to get my truck out. Open the door again.”

“Chill, man,” Perry said. “We just want to show you the weed. Wait here a minute.” He came back with a bag of weed. “Put your nose to it. If you don’t like what you smell we’ll shut up.”

“Then I don’t like it.”

“Smell it.”

“I’m not interested.”

“You’ll make more money selling the weed.”

“You’re the dope dealers; I sell fish.” Marquez figured that either they were comfortable enough with Crey to screw around with his deal or Crey said check him out, push him a little, see what happens. “How about you call Crey and tell him we’re done and I’m ready to get paid?”

Perry got a hold of Crey on his cell, cradling the cell with his chin, a couple of days’ growth of whiskers holding the phone in place. He described the eggs, tasted them when Crey told him to. When he hung up he said, “He’ll pay you when he sees you.”

“You’re kidding me, after all this you guys don’t have the money?”

“Hey, you could have had the dope.”

They gave him the address of a bar on Main Street where Crey would meet him, and Marquez talked with Shauf before going into the bar.

“I’ve got to cut this pair out of the picture.”

“They just got into an old Le Mans out on the street.”

“Run the car, let’s find out what we can about them.”

Marquez was inside the bar on Main Street, waiting for Crey to show up. The bar was empty, no daylight drinkers yet, the bartender glancing up at the light flooding in from outside but not really paying Marquez any attention, maybe registering a big man occupying a stool at the far end. Then Perry and Torp came in the door. Perry waved at him and started toward him. They took stools next to him on either side. Perry drummed on the bar to get the bartender’s attention.

“We got to thinking since you’re the man with all the money this morning, maybe you should buy a round,” Perry said.

“I guess that means there aren’t any more cartoons on TV.”

Perry leaned over the bar, looking past Marquez at his friend. “Hey, Fishman made a joke,” he said. Then more seriously to Marquez, “Liam doesn’t like people laughing at him.”

“Who does?”

When Crey arrived he stopped to say hello to the bartender as though he’d just returned to his office and wanted to know what had happened while he was out. Torp oozed off the seat next to Marquez, and Crey took it. He slid a hand onto Marquez’s thigh.

“I’m not feeling you up. Reach down, I’ve got something for you.”

“Better not be pills or dope.” Marquez reached down, felt the money, and said, “This is a lot of work for one fish.”

Roberts walked in, took a seat at the far end of the bar near the door, and ordered before they did. Crey’s team studied her, Perry, on Marquez’s left, immediately saying, “I’d do her.”

The bartender came over, took drink orders, Marquez asking for a Coke, saying he’d drunk too much last night. Marquez laid one of the hundred-dollar bills on the bar top.

On his left Perry said, “A Coke? That’s pussy-assed, man,” and ordered himself a draft beer and a vodka chaser. The hundreddollar bill got broken and change spread in front of Marquez like a poker hand, the bartender fanning out the twenties. Marquez talked fishing with Crey and watched Perry down the vodka, get up from his stool, move halfway down the bar, and summon the bartender. The bartender drew four more drafts and carried one over and put it in front of Roberts, who already had something to drink. The other three he brought to their end and asked Marquez if he wanted a refill on the Coke. Marquez shook his head, turned to Crey.

“This is disrespect. What’s this little greaseball doing ordering drinks for himself and his friend with my money?”

“Next time they’ll buy.”

Perry lifted his glass to Roberts. She lifted hers, acknowledging the gesture but not touching the beer.

“I’m out of here,” Marquez said, “and these guys need to apply for welfare. I can keep the sturgeon coming, but I can’t deal with these losers.”

Torp heard that, though Perry didn’t because he was down the bar, trying to hit on Roberts.

“Don’t go yet,” Crey said. “Let’s you and me talk a little more.”

Whatever Roberts said, Perry didn’t like. He came back a few minutes later and leaned on the bar near his stool, looking past Marquez and Crey at his friend Torp. He looked angry.

“I’m not good enough for the bitch,” he said to no one in particular, though Marquez answered him, saying, “Makes sense to me,” and then turning back to Crey. “It depends on the bite, but with the storms forecast it could be good fishing this next week.”

They negotiated some more, but it all felt lowlife. Roberts got up to leave before they did, and before she reached the door Perry was off his stool. He reached around and tapped his friend on the shoulder.

“We’re going too,” he said, “catch you later, bro,” to Crey.

“Those two are going to end up back inside,” Crey said as the pair went through the door.

“Whatever. But either way I don’t want them around when I deal with you. They stick out too much.”