Kirk Russell - Shell Games

“Hey, man, Fish and Game is a fucking joke. You think I’m risking something happening to Meghan or me?”

Marquez threw cold water on his face in the bathroom and ignored the sidelong look of a Richmond cop. He walked back in as Heinemann was telling Shauf how easy it was to poach and not get caught. He was in his head swimming underwater somewhere with a light stick when Marquez cut him off.

“Why’d Bailey run?” Marquez interrupted.

“You tell me.”

“Is Meghan Burris in on this too?”

Heinemann avoided the question. “Everything that happened to me I got forced to do.”

“How many times are you going to tell us that?”

“As long as you keep asking the same questions.”

“Who’s buying the abalone?”

“Ask Jimmy since you said he’s talking to you.”

“He’s talking to them, also. He’s convincing them it was you that fucked up. Maybe when you were on that boat with the Mexi-cans you were wondering, what’s going on, why am I not hearing from my friend, Jimmy? Should be hearing from Jimmy, right? Isn’t he the guy to get you off that boat? You’re not hearing from him because he put it all on you. Who’d they get Meghan’s name from if it wasn’t Jimmy?” Heinemann rubbed the back of his neck like a mosquito had bit him and Marquez knew they had an open-ing. Heinemann really was worried about his girlfriend. He studied Heinemann’s face, thinking about how he could bring the image home. “The divers who got killed up north were selling to the same people you and Jimmy have gotten involved with and you’re right to be scared of them. I was up there at Guyanno Creek; I saw those two. Do you know how they died?”

When Heinemann didn’t answer, Marquez asked the question again.

“Stabbed,” Heinemann said.

“Stand up. I want to show you what happened to them.”

“I don’t need the bullshit.”

“It’ll stay with you better if I show you.”

“You hit me, I’ll sue your ass.”

“Nothing like that is going to happen.”

Heinemann was visibly uncomfortable and squared his thick shoulders, showed a stance that said I can take care of myself and Marquez pressed two fingers low against Heinemann’s abdomen, just under his belt, enough to make him nervous, enough to make him feel sexual vulnerability and Heinemann’s eyes went to Shauf.

“Fuck man, what are you doing?”

“With the divers up north, these guys that got chained to a tree and killed, the knife cut was just above the pubic bone. He’ll push the knife in and not too deep, at first. I’ve heard that arouses him, but I don’t know if that’s true, or not. Only you and he will know that, because he’ll be pressed up against you. Good chance he’ll be talking to you, maybe asking you questions, telling you it can be okay still, that everything can work out if you’ve got the right answers. But then, after you’ve told him what he wants to know, he’ll push the blade in further. Not enough to kill you yet. We used to hear terrible stories about him making promises not to kill as long as you don’t scream. If you can take the pain and not cry out, he’s going to stop. Just don’t say anything. Just listen to him. Your blood will run down into your crotch and your scrotum will shrink back as your gut burns. You’ll watch his eyes change as he breathes into your face and you’ll know he’s not going to let you go.”

Marquez brought his fingers up Heinemann’s abdomen. He pushed Heinemann back against the wall with his fingers up under his breast bone. “The blade will rip up through your gut. Those divers up at Guyanno are no different than you. They messed up and he made an example out of them and when he’s done here, if we don’t get him first, he’ll wipe all his tracks and move on. That’s how he’s managed to survive and stay ahead of the FBI. And they’re not trying to bring him in, either. They’re way past that. They want to corner him and bring enough firepower to make sure it’s over.” Marquez dropped his arms to his side and stepped back. “Your best chance is to help us. I’m not kidding you, I know this man.”

“Then what do you need me for, if you know him?” Hein-emann smiled like it was nothing. “Hey, I haven’t seen any freaks and I’m not really involved in all this shit.”

“He’s tall, fairly thin, but not in a way that would make you think he’s weak.”

“Never seen him.”

“The day the man came down to Bailey’s boat there was another man up in a car Bailey said you went up and talked to.”

“He went up.”

“He said the man wanted to get a look at you and that makes sense to me.” Marquez let a minute pass with only the hiss of the recorder, then dropped it on him. “Bailey works for us as a paid informant. We gave him two grand for this ride.”

“Bullshit.”

“He was,” Shauf said, and slid over a report with Bailey men-tioned as a paid informant. It was dated over a month ago, Bailey’s name highlighted, Keeler’s signature, DFG stationery. They waited as he read, studied, and stared. Then, he changed, and Marquez saw it happen, saw his face pale, saw the difference.

“We’re going to leave you alone for five minutes and you think it over,” Marquez said. “Do you want more proof Bailey works for us?”

Heinemann shook his head, and they only made it as far as the door. “Yeah, I want to make a deal,” he said. “And, yeah, I met him and you’re right about the guy. He’s fucking weird.”

“I’m going to show you a photo,” Marquez said. “I’ve got a file.” He heard his own voice as strangely calm. “But I’ve got to get it out of my truck.”

He walked out to get it and his footsteps echoed in the corridor. The cool air of the night brushed his face and he crossed through the pooled light on the asphalt and heard the voices of the dead as he reached for the file, the promises he’d made.

Marquez opened the file, and the photos of Federales and cartel operatives had an almost quaint aspect, faces yellowed and cracked, haircuts dated. Half of those pictured were dead. Heinemann shook his head and Marquez flipped a page, smelling stone dust from under his house on the paper. He was still trying to get a better read on Heinemann, trying to get a sense of what made him roll over-or whether he really had-or was this another game. It was his experience that the vain often had a hard time seeing things for what they were.

He flipped another page and the face of Kline was there, fea-tures blurred, but the long head and heavy bones clear enough for Heinemann. Taken in Mexico City eleven years ago. He’d paid three hundred dollars for it and had tried to get the FBI to validate the photo, tell him it was Kline, but they’d turned him away. The photographer had been an expatriate American who’d refused to take pesos and Marquez remembered his argument with him regarding the grainy, fuzzy quality of the photo. Heinemann said nothing, and Marquez only paused long enough for him to get a quick view of each image. It didn’t take long to go through the file. He thought Heinemann had hesitated, yet he hadn’t said anything, had let him keep turning pages.

He prompted him now. “Did you get anything?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Nothing jumped out at you?”

“Jumped?” As if the word was odd, frustration at being trapped, probably. “No, nothing jumped.”

“Okay.”

Marquez shut the file and without asking, Heinemann reached for it and he let him take it. Heinemann flipped the first page, ask-ing, “What about computer enhancement?”

“What about it?”

“Couldn’t these faces be aged up to today?”

“You’d know him, you’d remember him.”