David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

Meanwhile, three TSA officers had broken through the ranks of onlookers and one of them—Hillyer by his name tag—advanced on them, arms spread out, asserting control. “All right, everybody. Easy. Easy now. What’s going on here?”

“This guy,” Hunt said, “was making off with my duffel bag.”

“It’s mine, sir,” the scarred man replied, dead calm.

With his own first look at the man’s face, Hillyer, too, took an extra beat, then came back to Hunt, who said, “That’s my duffel. You can check it out. It’s filled with fishing gear. I’m on my way down to Baja.”

“So am I,” the scarred man said. He reached into his shirt pocket and held out a boarding pass. “With your permission, sir,” he said to Hillyer. Going to one knee, he pulled around the identification tag attached to the strap and held it out first to the TSA officer, then to Hunt.

“Joe Trona,” he said. “That’s me.” He stood and reached behind him and took out his wallet, which also revealed a badge. Hillyer inspected the badge and seemed to read every word on it, twice looking from badge to man. “I’m a police officer and I promise you I did not steal this man’s duffel bag.”

Hillyer unzipped the duffel for a quick look. Hunt saw the neatly arranged reels and spools of fishing line, similar to his own. Hillyer looked at Trona, then to Hunt. “When did you last see your own duffel bag, sir?”

“I left it at the bar when I went to the bathroom. The man sitting next to me was watching it. But then when I came out, I saw . . .” He stopped because there was nothing more he could say. “I’m a horse’s ass, Mr. Trona,” he said. “I owe you an apology.”

Trona looked at Hunt but said nothing.

“Let’s go see if your duffel’s still at the bar,” Hillyer said to Hunt. “As our announcement says, many items of luggage look the same. If it’s still there, let’s not leave it unattended anymore. How’s that sound?”

JOE TRONA STOOD IN THE shade outside the La Paz terminal, his back to the wall in the infernal Baja heat. His duct-taped quiver of rod cases lay safely along the wall, along with his duffel and a cooler. The van would be there any minute. “The horse’s ass.”

“Hunt sounds better.”

“Apology accepted.”

Hunt joined Trona in the shade and offered his hand. “Wyatt.”

“Are you fishing out of Baja Joe’s?”

“First time.”

“Always an adventure.”

Trona watched a gaggle of pretty Mexican flight attendants walk-roll past them and into the terminal. One glanced at him, trying to be furtive, then let her gaze brush off of his face and into the sky where she pretended to be interested in a descending passenger jet. Even with a hat on and the brim pulled low, Trona’s scar-studded face was spectacularly there . By now, after living thirty-odd years with that face, Trona actually forgot about it sometimes. Of course, the reminders were always quick to come—reflections, people from adults to children, even dogs.

“You’re the deputy from Orange County,” said Hunt. Trona nodded and enjoyed the inevitable beat of silence. “It’s been ten years since all that.”

“It’s good to be out of view.”

“Don’t I know,” said Hunt.

“Those murders you worked in San Francisco were big news down south. Took you all the way back to ’78 and Jones-town. Man.”

“History isn’t so ancient.”

“No,” said Trona. “Not when Richard III shows up under a parking lot. How’s the PI work?”

Hunt shrugged. “I read about the cartel trouble here in La Paz. Zetas barging in on La Familia is what I heard.”

“Long as they stay away from Baja Joe’s,” said Trona.

“All I want is six days of peace, quiet, and fishing. Maybe some bourbon.”

“Let’s fish together tomorrow. I’ll show you what I’ve learned.”

“Twist my arm.”

The van and its six passengers bounced down the beaten two-lane asphalt that led toward the bay. Trona looked out at the cardón cactus and the elephant trees and the vultures circling precisely in the blue. He couldn’t wait to get on the water. They slowed down for a Policía Preventiva officer standing by his truck, flares in an angled line behind him, belching pink smoke. He saw more vehicles up ahead. The cop talked to the driver and the driver showed ID and the cop looked at each fisherman then waved them through. When they passed the other cars Trona saw that one was a white Suburban, new and shiny, windows riddled with bullet holes and smeared with red. Two bodies slumped within. Two more lay on the road shoulder, one covered with blankets, one not. Another police officer hurried them past.

“There is very little crime in this part of Baja,” said the driver, resolutely. “Very little. Occasional only.”

Trona wondered what the occasion was. He looked at Hunt, who had to be thinking the same thing.

AT DAWN HUNT AND TRONA were skidding across the Sea of Cortez in a panga, both holding their hats in their hands, spray flying and the red paint of sunrise spread out before them. Cerralvo Island was a gray behemoth in the distance. The captain was named Israel and his panga was Luna Sombrero . He said little and regarded the anglers skeptically. Hunt shot pictures left and right, swung the camera, and before he could think, he’d shot Trona not once but twice. As Hunt slid the camera back into one of the many pockets of his fishing shirt he felt embarrassed for barging into Joe’s face like that, then saw the minor joy on it, the joy that a cursed childhood could not prevent, the joy of being on the water.

Two boys raised by adoptive parents go fishing, thought Hunt. What a cool thing.

As the Yamaha screamed along, Hunt saw Israel turn to Joe, take his hands off the wheel, and swing an invisible baseball bat. Nice form. Buster Posey–ish. Beside him, Trona gave the captain a thumbs-up and a smile appeared beneath Israel’s sunglasses.

“What’s up?” Hunt asked.

“Baseball. The captains all play. Israel says there’s a game tonight. It’s quality ball if you want to go.”

“Done.”

The water shone pale, flat, and nacreous in the early day, the sun barely a foot off the horizon. Already Hunt could feel its heat and could only imagine what it would be like when it reached its zenith.

Suddenly Israel swung the wheel and the panga pitched hard left, heading into a cove along the shoreline where another small boat, now just visible, had anchored. Behind them, the other fishermen from Joe’s fell in line, and within five minutes they were all floating around the bait boat. Hunt wasn’t expecting bait, and with all of his new flies, why would he? But bait seemed to be part of the ritual here. Whatever its purpose, he’d soon find it out.

Once everybody had loaded up with sardines, the captains held a short conference and then they were off again away from the shore and out over the vast expanse of water. With Israel leading the way and nothing even remotely like a GPS, they were all heading toward a destination that must have been clear to them, although Hunt couldn’t make out any kind of a marker or buoy.

The target, a good ten minutes and perhaps a mile out, was a white one-gallon plastic Clorox container, tied to some rope that probably had a sea anchor attached down below to keep it more or less in place. Hunt thought that Israel locating this random piece of flotsam out on the endless unbroken surface of the water a fairly impressive feat of navigation.

“Fish here?” he asked.