Dead Game jm-3

by Kirk Russell

  “I heard this morning you’re going to get shut down,” she said.

  DBEEP was funded by both the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation and the California Department of Water Resources. Their focus was the fisheries, and Ruax knew a lot more about sturgeon than he did. What she didn’t know more about was undercover work. “If that happens we’ll get together, and I’ll make sure you’ve got everything on everyone we’ve been watching. Did my chief call you?”

  “He did. He wanted to know if I’d ever met Anna Burdovsky and what I thought of her. I told him what I told you.”

  “That you think she’s a flake?”

  “Yeah.”

  In a lot of ways he liked Ruax, and he had a lot of respect for DBEEP. They had an identity, knew who they were, and Ruax was tough and serious and good at what she did.

  “We’re supposed to get the word this afternoon, Jo. If we go down, I’ll call you.”

  “What happens otherwise?”

  “We’re going to try to flip Raburn and take another run at it.”

  He caught the faint shake of her head. “Good luck,” she said. “He’s just about the last guy I’d want to have to rely on.”

  6

  Bell never called, and the next morning Marquez led the way down a muddy path in the rain. Off to their right was a rotting dock, then a clot of willow, cottonwood, and bay trees. Beyond that was a row of houses, each with river access and a modest dock, and though he lived near them, Abe Raburn wasn’t really part of their community. He moored his houseboat in a small cove beyond where the road ended. His work boat, the Honest Abe, was tied off on a buoy near shore. His old Ford pickup was parked between eucalyptus trees well above the river. Shauf called the cove “Raburn’s homestead.”

  Raburn saw them coming, and if he recognized Marquez, gave no sign of it. He was outside on the rear deck of the houseboat standing over a barbecue under a blue plastic tarp he’d rigged from the roof of the houseboat out to shoreline trees. Smoke from the barbecue swept violently sideways in gusts. White cotton line had been strung through the corner grommets of the tarp, but little had been done to cinch the tarp tight, and it snapped and pulled against the lines so hard it was just a matter of time before the tarp ripped loose, not unlike the way Raburn’s life was about to change.

  “Hey,” Raburn said, “good to see you, and I’ve got plenty of fish and beer. I was about to watch a football game.” He looked quizzically at Marquez, his joker’s expression frozen for a moment. “Who are your friends?”

  “My friends are game wardens, Abe.” Marquez showed his own badge. “We’re here to talk to you.”

  “I’ll be damned.” He shook his head. “Sonofabitch. I should have known.”

  Raburn wore sandals, shorts, and a T-shirt under a windbreaker. Stenciled let ters on the back of his windbreaker announced a police golf tournament in ‘92. Hairs on his legs glistened with rain. He was a gregarious man, but you didn’t have to look through the windows of the boat very long before you knew he lived alone. He did his business in bars, used them as offices, and watching him Marquez had decided that Raburn also needed to be among people before coming back here at night alone to his boat.

  “We’ve got a proposition,” Marquez said. “We’re not in a hurry. We’re here to talk with you.”

  Raburn tried to catch his stride again. He took a pull of beer that was on a shelf near the barbecue.

  “Anybody else want a sandwich?”

  “I’ll take you up on that,” Marquez said, “but I think you’d better lay off the beer until we finish.”

  Cairo shook his head no. Shauf never answered the question, and Raburn laid another piece of fish over the coals. He went inside, cleared magazines and newspapers off his table, grilled bread and finished making the sandwiches, offered Marquez a beer, and found another couple of chairs for the table. Then, inside, in the small space around the table, tension gathered. Through the windows the tarp swelled and lifted as if the houseboat was in an America’s Cup race.

  “We’re going to offer you a deal,” Marquez said. “The best one we’ve offered anyone in a long time.”

  Raburn was fifty-one, bloodshot eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, three or four days’ stubble of beard going gray, an eccentric in a part of California that prided itself on eccentricity. They’d followed him over hundreds of miles of delta waterways, told him that now, let him adjust to the truth that he’d been under surveillance for months.

  “I don’t know much about sturgeon.”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t poach as many if you did,” Marquez said and took a bite of sandwich. “You seemed to know a fair amount about it the other night.” He held the sandwich up. “Thanks for this. What we want you to do is switch sides and start working with us. In return we won’t charge you and arrest you. That’ll keep you out of prison. Here, take a look at some of the videotape and photos.” Marquez wiped his hands, checked the camcorder, and then showed Raburn how to operate it. “If we arrest you, then anything we negotiate would have to go through the DA, so we thought we’d try to work it out with you first and keep the District Attorney out of this. But if you feel like you should hire an attorney and defend yourself, that’s your call.”

  Raburn didn’t answer and picked up the camcorder. He played it back and then dismissed it.

  “I can’t tell anything. It’s not clear enough.”

  He laid the camcorder down.

  “I can’t even tell if that’s me.”

  “Do you think it could be your brother?”

  He scowled and said, “Isaac’s not involved. He doesn’t know anything about it.”

  Raburn’s twin brother, Isaac, owned a pear and apple orchard in Courtland called Raburn Orchards. It wasn’t far from here. The word was Abe and Isaac’s father had been a TV preacher who’d given his twin sons biblical names, then raised them with the brutality the self-appointed righteous seem to have such a gift for. The brothers had run away from home in their teens. They’d come to the delta and been here since, and even now, better than thirty years later, they lived just a short drive apart.

  As far as the SOU knew, Isaac wasn’t involved in sturgeon poaching. But there was a twist. Isaac boxed and shipped pears from the packing shed in the orchard. He also produced organic apple and pear butter, and Marquez had seen the pear butter in August Foods.

  “Okay, Isaac’s not involved, so it’s all you, and I can tell you it’s fairly certain we’ll get the sentence we want. Most likely three years, though you may only do a year to eighteen months. Then a fine for each felony count. The fines can get pretty big.” He laid a finger on the first photo after sliding it across the table to Raburn. “I was there for that one,” he said, waited, looked out at the rain on the river, caught Shauf’s eye as Raburn went through what they’d decided to show him.

  “You work on the DBEEP boat,” Raburn said to Shauf from across the table, taking it to the next level, trying to sort it out, figure out where he’d screwed up.

  Once again, Shauf didn’t answer, preferred to glare at him, and Marquez answered for her.

  “No, we’re not part of DBEEP, though they’re good. They know the delta salmon, sturgeon, and striped bass a lot better than we ever will. We’re undercover officers for Fish and Game, part of a special operations unit, the SOU.”

  “I’ve never heard of you.”

  “Well, now you’ve met us, that’s even better.”

  Marquez finished the sandwich as Raburn picked up the camcorder again. He turned the camcorder in his hands, probably looking for the erase button and the way out of this mess. Marquez had learned over the years that you can lay it all out for them, read them the riot act, but they still have to come to it on their own.

  “Sometimes I loan my boat out.”

  That got the start of a smile from Shauf, improved her day. Raburn’s twenty-three-foot Chris-Craft was tied off on a buoy just upriver from the houseboat. It left a persistent stain of blue smoke anywhere it went, and Shauf had joked abo
ut expecting to see it sink one day. Raburn pointed across the rain-pocked river at his boat. Marquez pointed at two sturgeons in a photo.

  “See, there you are, and you look good there, relaxed, the sun on your face, nice day. You don’t want to celebrate your next three birthdays in a prison cell.”

  “That’s what my father said would happen.”

  No one fielded that. They didn’t want any part of his childhood this morning. He was a complex man, cunning, a born smuggler, Shauf claimed. He earned part of his living brokering fish to a handful of markets in Stockton and Sacramento and lived modestly, but he had to be putting away cash with the amount of roe and sturgeon he was moving. He did other work as well, repaired appliances, did odd jobs, and they’d watched him install lights on a marina dock and tap into a PG amp;E line to draw illicit power for a friend living up a slough. He sold T-shirts with names like New York, Steamboat, Cache, or Terminous Slough across the front. Under the hundred or so shirts he routinely carried on his boat were two blue plastic coolers used to transport poached fish.

  Marquez rested an open hand on the file. “Either we cite you, arrest you, and take you in, or we try to see if there’s some way you can help us shut down the sturgeon poaching operation you’ve been selling into. If you do help us, we’ll forget the charges against you.”

  “I may as well kill myself.”

  He made his big face look sorrowful.

  Only Marquez heard Shauf’s whispered, “Sounds good to me.”

  “Who are you afraid of?” Marquez asked.

  “Will I be going into the Witness Protection Program?”

  This time Shauf spoke up. “Oh, sure, and live on a clear blue lake in a nice new cabin,” Shauf said. “How would Lake Tahoe be, or is that too close to the guys who will want to do you?”

  “We don’t have Witness Protection,” Marquez said. “That’s more a Federal deal. It takes a lot of money to relocate people. You’d still be here on your houseboat when it was over.” Marquez looked behind him across the small galley kitchen and at the thin wall of the bedroom. He realized the fish smell in here was probably permanent. “Still, this is bigger than any cell I’ve seen. Who exactly is going to kill you?”

  “Ludovna.”

  For a moment Marquez was unsure whether Raburn was gaming them, then realized he was serious. Raburn picked up a heavy fish hook lying on the table, a treble hook with three hooks joined together. Trebles were used to snag bottom feeders like sturgeon.

  “I saw him get angry at a guy selling sturgeon.”

  “Saw who get angry?”

  “Nick Ludovna, because the fish he came to buy was old, and he thought he was getting ripped off. But it was just a Mexican guy with no money who screwed up. He caught the sturgeon and he didn’t have any way of moving it, so he’d tied it off to a tree in a slough, just like the one I sold you the other night.” Raburn touched his gut. “It was full of eggs and on its way up the river last April. Anyway, this Mexican called me first, and I went out and took a look at it because I’ve bought from him before. When I checked it the fish was fine and still alive.” He shook his head. “I told him not to kill it, but I think he got scared the fish was going to get away so he clubbed it to death. Then he lied to Nick about when he killed it, and Nick knew he was lying and got real mad. It was out of the water by then. They’d dragged it up on the bank and there was a treble hook still in its mouth, and Nick worked the hook out. He wanted to see the eggs so they cut it open and took out the ovaries. They were filled with eggs and they would have been perfect for caviar, except that the sturgeon had been dead for too long. Nick got mad because he’d paid him already. He wanted his money back and the Mexican kept arguing and saying it had died just before they got there.”

  Raburn turned the treble hook in the air, gestured toward Shauf, sweeping it through the air slowly in her direction though nowhere close to her.

  “Nick took the treble hook and swung it at his face.” He gestured toward Shauf again. “Like that, and it went right through his cheek and he pulled him in like he was fish. He took his money back while the Mexican was screaming and trying to get the hook out.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “He told me to leave. He said go back to my boat and forget about it, so I left.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No.”

  Marquez had a hard time with that. It wasn’t difficult to picture what a treble hook could do, and there were plenty of fishermen poaching sturgeon who were poor and without work or money.

  The tarp tore loose and blew back over the roof of the houseboat. It covered the four windows on the river side and steam hissed off the barbecue. Raburn looked at the tarp but didn’t react to it and looked back down at the table.

  “I want to work with you,” Raburn said, “but I’m afraid of him, and I’m not ashamed to say it. He scares me sometimes. It’s like he’s okay and then he just blows up.”

  “We’ll deal with Ludovna, but you’ll have to testify.”

  “I don’t know about that either.”

  “We can set it up so it’s done in the judge’s chambers.”

  Marquez flipped a page in the file, slid more photos over. He knew the treble hook story might have been made up for them, but he didn’t think so.

  “We want to meet Ludovna and we’ll want to sell to him. We’ll take a ride this afternoon, and you show me your whole routine when you go to deliver to him. Then you’ll have to convince him you trust me and that I supply fish to you. After that I’ll cut you out of the business.”

  It took all of them to tie off the tarp before they left. While they were doing that, Shauf leaned into Marquez and, with rain running down her cheeks like tears, said, “He should be more scared of us. He should be more afraid of losing his boat and going to prison. I get the feeling he’s already working us.”

  “He’s all we’ve got.”

  “Then maybe it’s not worth it.”

  7

  Raburn’s cell phone played “Take Me out to the Ball Game” with each ring. He pulled the phone from his windbreaker as they followed the river road toward Sacramento.

  “Don’t answer it,” Marquez said.

  “It’s my brother.”

  “He’ll still be your brother after he leaves a message.”

  The phone stopped playing, and the windshield wipers slapped back and forth. It rang again a few minutes later, and Marquez looked at mist low over the fields and asked, “Are you and Isaac close?”

  “We’re twins, but he’s the hardworking one.”

  “And what are you?”

  “The fuckup.”

  Raburn smelled of fish and stale clothes. When Marquez lowered his window a crack the rain found its way in. A lot had to be going through Raburn’s head, but he probably didn’t see himself as a fuckup. Earlier he’d made a little stab at being a victim of his own ineptitude and alluded to ignorance of the game laws, but he wasn’t that guy either.

  “What’s your brother going to say about this?”

  “There’s no reason he needs to know.”

  “You work out of the pear packing shed, and we’re going there. He’s going to find out.”

  “He doesn’t have to, and he’s got enough problems already. Leave him out of it.”

  They drove through Courtland, and, as they neared the sign for Raburn Orchards, Marquez slowed. But he didn’t turn down the steep road. Below on the levee island were long rows of pear trees, some still with fall leaves, wet red-brown, turning in the storm wind. They looked like a fire burning across a field. Between the rows, the soil was dark from rain. Pears had all been picked before the end of July this year, Bosc and Reds last. A hundred yards from the road was the pear packing shed, a big wooden building with a gable face that Raburn worked out of.

  There were other outbuildings, an equipment barn, two aluminum prefab structures, and the main house in the distance, a big three-story wood frame with a sagging roof. Half an hour l
ater they drove past Ludovna’s one-story ranch house in the Land Park area of Sacramento. Brick wainscoting. Painted redwood siding. Lawn out to the street. A good-sized but ordinary house in the suburbs. On one side of the garage was a white BMW 330i, the car’s polish gleaming through the rain.

  “Ludovna’s car?”

  “He has a lot of cars.”

  “Is he into cars?”

  “I don’t know what he’s into.”

  “Fair enough, but when we made the offer to you, Abe, we did it because we believed you know enough to help us. If it turns out on the drive that you don’t remember anything, we’ll have to rethink it all.”

  Marquez jotted down the plates as though it was new information, but it wasn’t as if he’d never seen this house. There was a man who worked for Ludovna who drove this car. They called him Nike Man because his standard outfit was a running suit. The BMW was registered to Ludovna’s fish brokerage business. They’d assumed Nike Man was both an employee of Ludovna’s Sacramento Fresh Fish and a bodyguard. In the last month they’d steadily tried to gather more information on Ludovna, but their focus had been August, Raburn, and a dozen poachers who were feeding sturgeon to Raburn and a couple of other suspects. He turned back to Raburn.

  “How much does Ludovna pay you?”

  “A dollar fifty a pound for meat, fifty dollars a pound for roe. Sometimes I freeze the eggs, sometimes I make caviar.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “He found you?”

  “Right.” He stared out the windshield. “His guy just showed up at my boat one morning, and I could barely understand him. Ludovna speaks English okay, but not the guys that work for him. They’re all from Russia or places like that.”