Kirk Russell - Shell Games

Mauro’s business was sandwiched between a produce supplier and another seafood delivery business. Its street face was corrugated aluminum siding and two sliding doors sheathed with battered and dirty galvanized sheeting. A man stood out front hosing down the sidewalk and nearby street. A delivery truck with the company’s logo, a blue and yellow fish with a smile on its face as it leaped from the ocean into a net, was in the building being loaded by two men in dirty white uniforms. They looked like they’d been working cleaning fish, and they paid scant attention as Marquez and Roberts walked in.

Billy Mauro was in his office on the phone and waved them in without knowing who they were. He seemed an energetic man, pointing to the phone, meaning that he couldn’t get out of the con-versation yet, but studying them, his round face quizzical. The room smelled like cigar smoke and Mauro in his short-sleeve white shirt looked like a middle manager from four decades back. He had the attentive eyes of a man used to solving problems and Marquez solved one for him, right now. He got his badge out and showed it to him. Mauro got off the phone soon after.

“I have a friend in Fish and Game,” Mauro said. “Chief Wagner.”

“He retired,” Marquez said, “and died of a heart attack about five years ago. He was a good man, where’d you know him from?”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Really.” Mauro looked away. He shook his head, the unlit cigar clamped in his teeth again. “What can I do for Fish and Game today?”

It was Marquez’s plan to tell Mauro what he’d been accused of and if he reacted to that, try to keep him off balance and see what they could learn.

“Someone has accused you of buying illegal abalone.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Of course, but we have to follow up on these things.”

The cigar came out now and Mauro laid it down on the desk. The wet end of it stuck to his finger and he had trouble getting his fingers loose.

“There are so many regulations now compared to when I started into this business. Not Fish and Game regulations, but for example the health department was just here yesterday. They want me to put Sheetrock on the inside of my building.” He looked as though he expected a reaction. “It has been the same way for thirty years and no one has ever gotten sick eating anything I shipped.” He shook his head at the absurdity and then reached down and picked up the cigar again. When he looked up again his eyes were cautious and distant. “I bring in Mexican abalone, but that’s legal. I’ll get the papers if you want.”

“You bring it in boxed?”

“Boxed and frozen, by boat and truck. They’re talking about a dock strike very soon so I have more than usual, but you can see it’s all legal.”

He pushed the papers across to Marquez. He used the cigar to point at the name, Carcenaros, the same Mexican firm Bailey’s boxes were from. He could feel the change in Roberts, felt her tighten next to him as she put it together, and Marquez threw another brick through the window as Mauro looked for his papers.

“We have videotaped testimony from Tran Li. He names you as one of his buyers. We’ve showed it to the DA and it’s enough to go on for commercial trafficking charges. We sent our last ab poacher to prison for three years and impounded all his equipment and boats. The middle men got longer sentences.”

“He’s lying.”

“He drove a long way to tell us.”

“Li is scared you’ll trick him, so he’s making things up he thinks you’ll like. He’s an immigrant. They’re all afraid of the police. You know how it is. He stills lives like he doesn’t belong here.” Mauro looked for confirmation, for understanding. “But I’ve never bought anything illegal, never even once.” He tapped his desk with an index finger. “Li is trying to cut a deal, right?” He tapped his chest lightly. “I’ve bought urchin from him, but never abalone.” Shook his head for emphasis. “Never abalone.” He pointed at the wall behind him. “Next door is my competitor. If you ask him what I say when people try to sell me illegal product, he’ll tell you I tell them that I’ll call Fish and Game if they don’t get the hell out of here. Look.” Mauro opened a desk drawer and removed a card that he handed across to Marquez. “Deputy-chief John Wagner,” he went on, “I show them the card, tell them he’s my friend and I don’t buy anything illegal. Li is trying to save himself by placing blame on me. If you ask people you will find I’ve been in business as long as I have because I’m honest.”

“I have to tell you that Li has made a full confession,” Marquez said. “He feels he has nothing more to lose.”

“As I said, I know the family, and losing their son was very hard. He’s probably very scared of you.”

“That doesn’t cover it.”

“Should I call my lawyer?”

“You could, but I think it makes sense to talk first. We have enough for a case against you, and you’re right, it’s your worst nightmare, a plea-bargain deal was cut with Li after the DA was sure our case was solid.” He paused. “That was before Jimmy Bailey.” He saw Mauro’s face pale and then tighten high on the cheeks. “But we’re not really after you. We’re after the buyer moving product through you and we want all the places you ship to. If you can’t give us that, if you can’t contact them or they’re gone, or you want to deny it all, then we’ll put the charges together and padlock your building when we arrest you.”

“This is all nonsense. I have bought fish from Li, but never abalone, and you have no proof of anything.” He picked up the cigar again. “I am very legitimate.” He pointed to an Oakland Chamber of Commerce commendation framed and hanging on the wall. “People know this about me.” His face colored. “Enough of this.” He picked up the phone, fumbled with a Palm Pilot and started punching in numbers. “We’ll see,” he said. “We’ll see. You have no case against me and you’re not going to bully me.”

“We’re not trying to bully you. In fact, we’re giving you a chance to cooperate. Ordinarily, we’d stake out your place and build a case, but we don’t have time and we don’t think we need any more than Li has given us. I can show you the video. I can show the Carcenaros boxes we took from Jimmy Bailey’s house when we searched it. But those are only pieces of the puzzle and your problem could get a lot bigger. You’ve got to decide whether it’s worth letting that happen.”

Mauro hung up the phone, pushed the shipping papers forward, again. “Look for yourself.”

Marquez didn’t pick them up again. This was how the game was played, the same papers used over and over. They could be dated from last December and still be in use today.

“Where do you ship the Mexican product?”

“Everywhere.”

“Local restaurants?”

“Everywhere. Hong Kong. Washington, D.C. Paris. Everyone wants legal abalone. Come on, I’ll show you the walk-in.” Mauro got to his feet.

“All right,” Marquez said. “We’d like to take a look at it and we’d like to show you the boxes we took from Bailey’s house.”

“No one is going to believe Bailey. No jury will believe him and whatever he says about me is a lie.”

“Let’s tour the walk-in.”

There was a large prefabricated walk-in freezer and stacks of white boxes marked “King Salmon.” Marquez opened a few and looked in at the salmon steaks. There was Chilean sea bass and gulf fish and shrimp, Hawaiian albacore, even urchins. The red epoxy floor was clean, the air chill, the lights a sterile fluorescence. Mauro said he ran a careful operation and reaffirmed there was no reason to have any misunderstanding. May as well get everything in the open and clear his name. The demand for abalone was very strong, he said, but it was Carcenaros that shipped to him and he didn’t deal with anyone else. They were welcome to use his phone to call Mexico and confirm that he’d done business with them for years. There were workers here who spoke Spanish and one of them could act as a translator.