Black Delta Night

by Jessica Speart

  Unbelievable! Now this was all my fault?

  “If you feel so strongly about the situation, why didn’t you report it to me before now?” I retorted.

  Mavis opened her mouth to speak, and immediately closed it. Then she thrust back her shoulders and placed an authoritative finger on the bridge of her glasses.

  “I’m telling you now because it’s gotten out of hand, and I don’t think it’s right. There are a lot of hardworking Americans who are losing their jobs!”

  Uh-huh. Why did I get the feeling I was suddenly being looked upon as her personal cleanup patrol?

  Mavis got up and curled a finger at me to follow. “Come on. I want to show you something that I think you’ll find interesting.”

  Those were the magic words that always got me in trouble. I trailed her down a set of stairs and into a basement, which was even darker and danker than the room above.

  “You see that over there?”

  I followed the direction of her finger toward two vertical filing cabinets.

  “All the stuff I just told you about? Well, you get me that deal, and every bit of documentation in there is yours. I’ll give you till noon tomorrow. If I don’t hear from you by then, our agreement is off. The files will also have disappeared. And trust me—you won’t be able to find them.”

  My eyes had sufficiently adjusted by now to see that a large refrigerator stood in the far corner.

  “Is that where you keep your paddlefish roe?” I inquired.

  “Kept, you mean,” Mavis retorted caustically.

  I accompanied her across the room and watched as she opened the tomb. The fridge was empty but for a small, one-ounce tin that sat alone on a shelf. Centered on its sea-blue cover was the painting of a sturgeon resting on a bed of pearly eggs. The logo, Czar’s Choice, floated in yellow letters above it. Below were inscribed the words, Prime Caspian Beluga Caviar.

  Mavis reached in and removed the tin. “This is Galinov’s work. There’s about as much Russian caviar in here as I’ve got priceless antiques in this place.”

  Galinov’s work was impeccable, down to the Cyrillic lettering on the label.

  “He’s getting eighty-five bucks a pop for this crap,” she said in disgust.

  Were I to buy it as a consumer, I’d never have known the difference. I reached to take the tin from her hand, but she swiftly pulled it away.

  “Uh-uh-uh!”

  “What do you mean? I can’t even examine it?”

  “You’ve seen all you need to for now. Come back with a deal and I’ll give it to you as a gift,” Mavis said. “What I will tell you is that there’s a hell of a lot more going on than you have any idea of.”

  Mavis placed the tin back in the fridge and closed the door, signaling our meeting was over.

  “I still can’t believe that miserable piece of slime gave you my name!” she fumed, cursing Virgil as she walked up the stairs.

  Only after I’d left, and replayed our conversation in my mind, did I realize that Mavis had been desperate to make a deal. Given Galinov’s tactics, the woman must have been scared for her life.

  Eight

  It was time to head into work for another round of Let’s Make a Deal, and see how far Charlie would let me go before bringing out the hook.

  This time around, Fish and Wildlife’s office was situated in a prestigious area—on the southern campus of the University of Memphis. However, it was in one of the school’s less desirable locations, a ramshackle former military hospital. The building was all but deserted; even the rats had jumped ship for more pleasant surroundings.

  I parked in the lot and walked up to the second floor, entering a hallway that had become a graveyard for old windows that had been replaced years ago. They leaned against the walls like a bunch of sodden drunks.

  Also piled in the corridor were ancient, mustard-yellow chairs and wooden desks—the kind under which schoolkids hid during atom bomb drills in the fifties. Ah! The good old days, when Americans still believed that kneeling beneath a piece of plywood could protect you during a nuclear attack.

  I walked past a graveyard of filing cabinets so corroded that their handles were falling off. The paneled ceiling above was pockmarked with bullet holes, and drooped from excessive water damage. It reminded me of my old office back in Las Vegas—after it had been bombed.

  I made my way toward my new office, a cheerless space that had previously been used as a patient’s room. The interior was decorated with secondhand furniture that even Mavis would have turned down. The stuff went well with the gray industrial rug on the floor, its nap stained with enough greasy skidmarks to have passed as a landing strip. Peeling paint provided the final touch—along with a cartoon of Barney Fife cradling a gun. Beneath it was the quote, “Make My Day.” The picture was slapped on the front of Hickok’s desk; I couldn’t imagine a more fitting place.

  Hickok looked up as I entered, and grinned. “Glad to see you made it. You’re just in time for lunch.”

  It was a good thing I hadn’t counted on a sit-down at the Rendezvous for ribs; I’d have been in for a big disappointment. Laid out on the poor excuse for a table that was my desk were two pop-top cans of Van Camp’s Beanee Weenees, and a tin of Vienna sausages. No napkins or paper plates were in sight. But at least he didn’t expect me to eat with my hands—Charlie tossed me the plastic spoon from his coffee cup.

  “Help yourself.”

  “Wow, I see you went all out.”

  “Hey. You wanna be a real agent, ya gotta learn to eat like one,” Hickok grunted.

  He pulled out his pocket knife and speared a Vienna sausage with the zeal of a big-game hunter. Good thing for him I was hoping to score some brownie points, otherwise, I’d have been tempted to tell him exactly what the item he was shoving into his mouth looked like.

  “So, what did you learn from Our Lady of the Junkyard?” he asked between chomps.

  “It seems the local roe dealers have some competition these days. Mavis informs me the Russian Mafia is not only horning in on the trade, but that one of their representatives has set down roots in the area. And if that’s not enough, he’s tinning paddlefish roe right here and shipping it out as beluga.” Maybe now Charlie would buy me some lunch.

  Hickok stared while balancing a Vienna sausage in mid-air. “Shit! That’s absolutely, goddamned brilliant!”

  At least we agreed on something.

  “I’d heard rumors of paddlefish roe being sent over to Russia. Seems they’re adding in a few dabs of the Caspian shit there, re-tinning it, then sending it back to the U.S. to be sold for big bucks. It don’t take much to fake some Russian labels, alter export documents, and pay the right people off. They’ve been catching some shipments coming in through New York. Of course, they’ve got all that manpower up there. They’d never think of little ol’ me pulling off anything really big down here.”

  Hickok looked happier than a pig in shit as he stuffed some Beanee Weenees into his mouth.

  “Don’t you mean us?” I corrected him.

  “Yeah, yeah. You know what I’m talking about,” he groused. Sho ’nuf.

  Hickok reached back into the can of Beanee Weenees and extracted a couple of cold chunks of mystery meat. They quickly disappeared down his gullet. Then he tossed back his coffee, gave his stomach a few pats, and followed that up with a burp. The scent of cheap bourbon filled the air. No wonder he could eat this stuff.

  “I’ll be damned! So the Russian mob is coming to the South to play hardball, huh? Well, I’ll just have to show those Russkies a thing or two—teach ’em what a real Southern rebel can do. They’ll learn soon enough how the cow ate the cabbage!”

  There it was again, Hickok’s three favorite words. Me, myself and I.

  “Great. Then I take it you’ll also be the one going undercover and putting your life on the line?” I caustically inquired.

  “Hell, no. Don’t worry; that’s still you. After all, someone’s gotta remain in one piece and be the brains behind th
is project.” He guffawed.

  I decided that now was as good a time as any to hit him up with Mavis’s request.

  “Mavis Newcomb apparently has documentation on a number of the deals that have been going down.”

  “How did she get it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Good one, Bronx.” Hickok snorted. “No wonder the big boys sent you back to work with me again. Must be that damn Yankee streak that makes you such a slooowww learner.”

  I let the remark slide; sometimes the smartest thing one can do is simply to let men cling to their misguided fantasies.

  “What she did say is that she’ll give us access to all of her records. It seems the Russians are not only monopolizing the trade but have also started moving further south into closed waters.”

  “And what does the junk queen want in return for this information?” Hickok shrewdly inquired.

  “Total immunity, with a guarantee of protection.”

  “What!” Hickok exploded. “Who the hell does she think she is? Sammy ‘The Bull’ Gravano? She’ll get a deal like that when John Gotti gets involved in the trade!”

  “It would be easier if it were our own Mafia dipping their toes into the local water. I’d prefer that to taking on the Russian mob any day. Besides, Mavis implied this is only the tip of the iceberg. She said there’s more going on than we have any idea of.” I paused, trying to read his reaction. “I’m not sure what that means, but the woman is really afraid.”

  “Yeah. She’s afraid someone else is gonna hog all the roe and leave her fat ass sitting on top of that heap of junk,” Hickok retorted.

  I looked at Charlie without saying a word. How did he happen to know Mavis was trying to get out of the junk trade?

  Hickok edgily stood up and walked over to get himself more coffee. Once there, he slipped a flask from his pocket. Part of its contents were poured into his cup. Charlie turned around in time to catch me watching.

  “It’s some damn medicine I have to take. Doctor’s orders.” He lumbered back to his chair and eased himself down in the seat. “Shit! I’m getting older than dirt,” he grumbled.

  I knew that Charlie was also afraid—and exactly what terrified him. He feared time was running out before he’d be able to make his own indelible mark. I knew that for one very good reason: I felt exactly the same way.

  “Are you worried you don’t have the leverage to get this deal on Mavis approved?” I asked, fully aware the question might spark a firestorm.

  Hickok surprised me by continuing to silently drink his coffee.

  “Listen here, Bronx,” he finally responded. “I pick and choose my battles carefully. That’s the secret to surviving in this outfit. I’m just trying to make up my mind whether this is worth blowing the rest of my marbles on. What you don’t seem to realize is that victories aren’t overwhelming in this business. They come in itty-bitty pieces.”

  “True, but you’ve also told me something else. That you have to choose whether to go along, get your little promotions, and stay out of trouble. Or decide that you have the drive to make a difference in this world. This is the big one, Charlie—I can feel it! This is the case you’ll always be remembered for. You’ve only got eighteen months left. Why not go out with a bang?” Appealing to his ego was the best shot I had.

  Charlie studied me closely before allowing a conspiratorial grin to escape. “Damn, Bronx. Maybe you really do have some South in you, after all. What the hell—Mavis Newcomb’s only a little fish. Let’s turn up the heat and see if we can snag Moby Dick on our line.”

  I smiled—until I popped open my Beanee Weenees and saw the cold beans and hot dog meat suspended in thickly congealed brown syrup. This seemed a good time to actually stay on my diet.

  “Now, here’s what we’re gonna do. You head back up to Woody’s and tell him you’ve decided that you want a cut of everything he and Virgil are making.”

  Oookay. No wonder Hickok was in a better mood. He’d cleverly hit upon a plan to have me eliminated as soon as possible. That way he’d be back in New Orleans by Mardi Gras time.

  “And what makes you think they’d agree to something like that?”

  Charlie grinned while pulling two packets of Cheddar cheese crackers out of his drawer. “’Cause you’re gonna offer ’em a deal they can’t refuse. You’re gonna be the Cheez Whiz on top of their hound dog burgers. What you’ve got is access to important information that they don’t have.”

  Hickok lobbed a cracker into his mouth and my stomach started to rumble.

  “You’ll know exactly where state wildlife agents will be trawling their boats every night. You’re gonna offer them Hardys the inside scoop in exchange for a piece of the action. Tell those two morons that way they won’t have to worry about getting caught. The upshot is you’ll gain their confidence.”

  Charlie bit into another cracker, spraying crumbs in my direction. He finally noticed that I was hungrily eyeing his cheese snack.

  “Anyone ever tell you, you look pitiful when you beg?” he grumbled.

  “Yeah, but it works every time,” I retorted, grabbing the packet of crackers as it came flying my way. Mmm, this was more like it.

  “Now can we get back to business?”

  “Absolutely!” I happily agreed, polishing off a cracker in one large bite.

  “Give it that extra little push by explaining it all boils down to good business sense. Woody and Virgil will be able to fish all night long without any headaches, and make more money. Of course, Beavis and Butthead aren’t ever gonna take it out of their own pay, which means it’ll have to come out of the Russki’s pocket. And he’s gonna want to have a sit-down with you before he does anything like that. So, a meeting will have to be set up. My suggestion is that you use those womanly charms that I suppose you got hidden somewhere.”

  “And what might those be?” I asked, knowing it would make him squirm.

  Hickok immediately began to fidget in his seat. “For chrissakes, Bronx. You know that you’re a damn fine-looking woman. You might as well use it for something, instead of letting it all go to waste.”

  Boy, was I glad I’d asked.

  “Get to know who this head guy is and work your way into the action. Pretend you’re Mata Hari—you were the big New York actress,” Charlie snorted. “Just take the initiative and use the gifts God gave you. That’s how we’ll find out what’s going on, and be able to lay our trap!”

  The reality of what I was about to do finally hit home. Up until now, I had thought of it as nothing more than just talk.

  “This is the Russian Mafia that we’re dealing with,” I reminded him. “I understand they’re not the most trusting people around.”

  Hickok picked up on my misgivings. “What’s the matter, Bronx? Suddenly getting cold feet? I thought you were gung-ho to get out there and lock up all the bad guys. You still sure you got what it takes?”

  I could feel my face turn red. “Just tell me where the state agents will be making their run tonight,” was my cold response.

  I pulled the can of Beanee Weenees toward me. Picking up the spoon, I ate every single last bite as I listened, and then walked out.

  Nine

  A chorus of mournful howls was my welcoming committee as I parked next to the Coon Dog Express. But the fun didn’t stop there. No sooner had I exited my Ford than Woody’s two towheaded boys appeared.

  “You got any more candy?” asked Spunky, by way of greeting. He used his fingers as a tissue for his runny nose, then wiped them on his pants.

  I flashed the kid a dirty look that left no doubt he wasn’t getting so much as a single Raisinet.

  It took Little Prince Charming to rise to the occasion.

  “My pa says you’re just like one of his coon dogs now. He’s got you trained to do whatever he says,” he sniggered.

  Ah, kids! You’ve got to love them; they do say the darnedest things.

  “Is your father at home?” I asked the two budding hoodlums.
/>   “Pawpaw ain’t here and we ain’t gonna tell you where he is!” Woody’s younger son brayed.

  “No candy, no information,” Prince Charming seconded.

  Then they ran off to play with their new toys—a steel trap and a dismembered broomstick.

  I went to the house, hoping to have more luck with Tammy. Once there, I pounded on the door to be heard above the screams of her infant. Tammy finally answered, looking even more harried and bedraggled than she had yesterday.

  “Is Woody here?” I asked, wondering if she ever managed to snatch a few needed Z’s.

  Tammy V listlessly shook her head.

  “If you could tell me where he is, I’d appreciate it.”

  Tammy wearily nodded. “You can find him around Black Bayou, along Reelfoot Lake. He’s out there setting traps.” She hesitated for a moment, as if weighing the consequences of what she was about to say next. “You wanna come in for a cup of tea?” she finally asked.

  For the first time, I heard the note of melancholy in Tammy’s voice that clung to her words like a country-western singer’s teardrop. I had the feeling she wondered what life might have held had she followed a different path. Her eyes caught mine in a silent plea, clearly hoping that I’d stay for a while and chat. It had to be lonely out here for someone her age—especially with only Woody and her kids for company. A shriek from outside and the loud snap of the trap made me jump, abruptly ending my speculation.

  “Thanks, but I really need to get going. Maybe another time,” I declined, and almost instantly regretted my decision.

  Tammy V mutely nodded and looked away, as if she’d just been condemned to remain forever inside her solitary prison. I was tempted to tell her to pack her bags and get out while she could, but I already knew what her response would be. It was one for which I had no answer.

  Where will I go? What will I do?

  I walked away as she closed the door, each of us retreating into our own separate cocoons.