by J. R. Rain
“Pretty good, gringo.”
“You haven’t called me gringo in years.”
“When you’re in Mexico, you’re a gringo.”
“I think that might be racist.”
“Gringo is a term of endearment.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s a celebration of the lack of pigment in your skin.”
“That’s cause to celebrate?” I asked.
“For some.”
I shook my head. Sanchez grinned, pleased with himself. We drove on mostly in silence. Mexico is home to some pristine beaches. In California, the pristine beaches would have been turned into multimillion-dollar properties. Here, the beaches were mostly left alone, broken up by modest-sized homes that were often tagged with graffiti. We passed a variety of cars, but the prevalent vehicles were old pickup trucks piled dangerously high with junk. Where all that junk went to, I hadn’t a clue.
“Ever been to Ensenada?” I asked.
“Often.”
“Do you know where the illegal fish markets are?”
“No,” he said, “but we can ask around.”
“Will people talk to you with me around?”
Sanchez looked at me from the passenger seat. “Probably not. You look like a cop.”
“A big cop,” I said.
“With a big head.”
I shook my head. “I should never have told you that story.”
Sanchez grinned and sat back and closed his eyes. “Too bad for you.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Two hours later, we were in Ensenada.
A minor resort town, Ensenada even boasted a modest port that could birth a massive cruise liner. Which it currently did. The thing looked impossibly big and shiny, like a skyscraper lying on its side. Or a mother ship docking from outer space.
“Let’s head to the waterfront,” said Sanchez.
“That’s what I always say.”
He led the way, and soon we were cruising down mostly-clean streets that reminded me a bit of Key West. One thing stood out immediately.
“There’s no graffiti,” I said.
“Not here,” said Sanchez. “But never very far.”
We moved down a narrow street peppered with outdoor cafes, tourist shops and random street stalls, all crowded with Caucasians moving around in small, protective herds. If anything, the Corona advertisements had become even more prolific.
Sanchez spotted me looking up at an overarching street sign that seemed to be advertising the local fresh markets. And Corona Beer. In fact, the beer logo was nearly twice the size of the real purpose of the sign, which was to advertise the various shops.
“Don’t say anything, gringo. Yes, we Mexicans like our Corona. Let it go.”
“I’ll let it go, if you quit calling me gringo.”
Sanchez rolled his eyes. In his world, we had a deal.
We cruised further along the street. A street vendor was selling fresh churros. The cinnamon scent somehow wafted into my partially rolled-down window. I think it was a sign. I pulled over and bought a couple of bags.
Sanchez shook his head. “Churros? Really?”
“They smell heavenly.”
“They do.”
“They’re like longish donuts.”
“Whatever you say.”
We snacked and drove and soon we came upon a narrow street lined with open stalls. And now another smell assaulted my olfactory.
“The fish market, I presume,” I said.
“You presume correct.”
“Negro Mercado,” I said. “The fish black market.”
“Right.”
“And why’s it called that?”
“Because they sell just about anything here. Legal, illegal and everything in-between.”
“Would they sell shark fins here?”
“We’ll see, but that’s sort of a hot topic. Shark fins attract bad publicity these days.”
“And tourists shop here,” I said, noting the many gringos pouring in and out of the huge building as we cruised slowly down the side street.
“Right.”
I wasn’t sure what we were hoping to find here, but the Negro Mercado seemed as good a place as any to begin our search for the La Bonita. Sanchez had me park near an empty stall, and as we both got out, we brushed the cinnamon off the front of our tee shirts.
“Hard to be badass when you’re covered in sugar,” said Sanchez.
“Speak for yourself.”
“Here’s the plan,” said Sanchez, ignoring me. “No one in there is gonna talk to me with you around. So entertain yourself while I ask around.”
“I’m good at entertaining myself.”
“Just try not to look so white.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. “But no guarantees.”
Chapter Twenty-five
I found the fish market disturbing.
Live eels squirming in filthy plastic trays. Live lobsters waiting to be boiled alive. Live sea urchins piled in buckets. I even watched as one vendor plucked an urchin from a bucket, sliced the spiny creature open, and displayed its yellowish insides to an interested customer. As the creature squirmed on the man’s palm, the customer nodded, shrugged, then moved on. The irritated vendor discarded the urchin into another bucket, where it continued to squirm for a few seconds more until it finally stopped moving altogether.
I strolled through the market, at once appalled and fascinated. Most stalls featured display cases packed with fish and ice. Most of the fish I didn’t recognize, but even a landlubber like me could spot the occasional halibut with its two eyes nearly side by side, or a massive bluefin tuna.
The market, which was easily twenty or thirty degrees cooler than outside, was packed tightly with stalls. Many of the stalls were overflowing with seafood and customers. It was hard to believe that this much animal life could be taken from the ocean on any given day, much less day after day, year after year. No doubt the oceans surrounding Ensenada were heavily exploited, which stood to reason why some Mexican shark hunters were forced to venture further north into U.S. waters.
After ten minutes of going up and down aisles, I spotted Sanchez speaking with an older man in the far corner of the massive, open-spaced building. The older man was sitting next to what had been a sword fish. The man held a machete, and every now and then he hacked off a chunk of fish flesh for an eager customer. The swordfish looked like it had seen better days.
With Sanchez busy, I feigned interest in a bucket of purple-shelled mollusks. So far, I had yet to see any shark fins. Or even sharks for that matter, although one stall nearby was selling the silver and white torso of a creature that looked suspiciously like a young great white shark. The sign above it read “Marlin.”
Then again, what did I know?
A few minutes later, Sanchez found me and pulled me aside. As he did so, I said, “Is it me, or have you noticed a sort of fishy smell in here?”
“It’s always you, Knighthorse,” he said. Then added, “They don’t sell the shark fins here, muchacho. Shark fins are too hot even for the black market.”
“So where to next?”
“I’ve arranged for someone who will take us to the real black market.”
“And why would they do that?”
“Because they think we own an upscale seafood restaurant in Seattle.”
“Why Seattle?”
Sanchez shrugged. “Large Asian population. Lots of money. Far enough north that it’s off their radar. Or maybe I just pulled it out of my ass. Does it matter?”
“Fine,” I said. “So what’s next?”
“We wait.”
“Wait where?”
“There’s a bar outside.”
“Now that sounds like a plan.”
Chapter Twenty-six
We waited upstairs in a next-door dive bar called Tacos Luceros. Our seats were near the railing, which overlooked the fish market and some of downtown Ensenada.
Even from here, the stink of fis
h was heavy. I suspected I was going to smell like it for some days to come. A prospect I wasn’t looking forward to.
Just to mix things up a little, we were drinking Tecate. We had already crushed a bowl of chips, and soon, the cute waitress was bringing us more. As she set the bowl down, along with more salsa, she smiled shyly at me. As she left, I decided her curved hips might just have been perfect.
“Too skinny,” said Sanchez, wrinkling his nose.
“If she had smiled at you, she would have been perfect.”
“If she smiled at me, Danielle would have come down here and tear apart her restaurant.”
“Your wife scares me,” I said.
“Me, too.”
“But I admire her...passion,” I said.
“Me, too,” said Sanchez. “So, do we have a plan, muchacho?”
“A plan for what?”
“In case we come across La Bonita?”
We had a nice view of the parking lot leading up to the fish market. I also had a nice view of the nearby harbor and a lot of Spanish-style architecture with pale yellow and red walls. The sun was shining nearly straight down and, other than the strong fish stink, I could have been chillaxing on my balcony in Huntington Beach. I idly wondered what Jack was up to. Probably busy putting out some fires.
“Well?” said Sanchez.
I drank more Tecate and finally shrugged. “No clue.”
A leggy young lady strolled beneath us. Her legs, I saw, had a bruise or two. Her shorts were too short, and her top was too tight.
“Prostitute?” I said to Sanchez.
He nodded. “Would be my guess.”
“Are we generalizing?”
“And stereotyping,” he said.
“We’re on a roll,” I said.
Sanchez drank more beer. “So what do you hope to accomplish by coming here, kemosabe?”
I thought about that. Sanchez had a way of focusing my thoughts, which was a good thing. “I would like to convince certain parties to give up their nefarious ways.”
“And what are their nefarious ways?”
“The practice of using live dogs as bait, and, perhaps to convince said parties that cutting up live sharks is a shitty thing to do.”
“We can’t shut them all down, Knighthorse,” said Sanchez.
“One’s enough,” I said. “For now.”
“You do realize that by shutting one down you might be eliminating the sole source of income for an entire family? Perhaps many families. An ethical paradox.”
I nodded. “By saving innocent creatures, I could hurt an innocent family.”
“So how do you come to terms with it, Knighthorse?”
“Because it’s not really a paradox, since the innocent creatures have no choice.”
“And the family does?”
“The hunters do. The hunter does not have to mistreat the kill.”
Sanchez drank some more beer and watched the scene below us. Without looking at me, he said. “You do realize we might be running for the border after this with the Federales on our asses?”
I grinned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Shit,” he said.
A few minutes later, with the second batch of chips nearly finished, a young man in a tank top came over to our table. The smell of rotting fish preceded him.
I looked at Sanchez. “I think our escort has arrived.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
As far as black markets go, this wasn’t much.
It was coming on evening, and a broad swath of gold rippled over the ocean. The golden swath led all the way to the setting sun. Beautiful. Except I wasn’t here for beauty.
The rooftop market was high above prying eyes.
Here, after being led away from the shinier streets of Ensenada, we found ourselves in a much dingier marina, in an area clearly not meant for tourists. Sanchez and I were next led up an exterior flight of stairs. And there, on the rooftop, I could appreciate the true decimation of our oceans. Lying on blankets, presumably to dry, were hundreds, if not thousands, of shark fins.
The blankets were arranged in sections. Behind the blankets were men and women, all looking at Sanchez and I suspiciously. The stink up here was strong. But it wasn’t a fish stink. It was a meat stink. A flesh stink. Shark fins, apparently, did not smell much like rotting fish.
Our young guide went over and spoke to a handful of people who had sort of shifted in our direction. He spoke urgently, nodding towards us, and finally one of the men nodded. Guards? Custodians of the fins? Perhaps the owners of the building? I didn’t know.
Apparently we had been accepted, because he returned, smiling. Then he stood by our side and waited. Sanchez looked at me. Slow on the uptake, I finally fetched my wallet and slipped the man a twenty-dollar bill. He blinked at it, shrugged, and turned and left.
Sanchez and I strolled the many rows of shark fins. Some of the fins were laid out on blankets. Others, I saw, were spread over wide tables. Most were dried, and others were drying.
I understand there’s no love lost between man and sharks. We have a natural fear of the toothy bastards. But right is right, and wrong is wrong. Chopping up a living creature and letting it die an agonizing death is fucked up. Plain and simple.
“You’re getting that look again,” Sanchez.
“What look?”
“Like you want to turn over these tables and start bashing skulls.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“Except most of these dudes are armed and they’re operating outside the law, and they would kill you before you moved on to the next table, or even bashed your first skull. Then, for sport, they’d probably plug me.”
“You’re no fun anymore.”
“Just stay here and try not to look like you’re gonna go nuclear on someone. Just relax and let me ask around about the La Bonita. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
I liked our odds. According to Joe Fossil of the California Fish and Game, Ensenada was the hot-bed for shark fin trafficking in this area. The Gulf of Mexico had an even bigger market, which was hard for me to fathom as I looked upon the rows and rows of inexpertly chopped-up fins.
The La Bonita had to sell its fins somewhere, and this was the closest place to do it. Perhaps there was another shark market in town, but it was hard to imagine a bigger one than this.
Like I said, I liked our odds.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sanchez talking with some people. He then moved on and talked to someone else. I stopped in front of a handsome young man who was watching me suspiciously. I pointed to the fins and asked him how much. He said something in Spanish. I know a little Spanish. And I know how to count fairly high in Spanish, too. The number he quoted me sounded suspiciously in the thousands and thousands of dollars.
Sweet Jesus.
The sharks didn’t stand a chance. Not with numbers that high.
No wonder these guards are packing heat. There was a fucking fortune up here.
Sanchez came back. “Let’s go.”
I didn’t ask any questions. When one is undercover in a highly illegal environment and one’s partner says “let’s go,” you go. No questions asked.
We were down the stairs and moving quickly toward the nearby docks when Sanchez finally spoke. “It was getting dicey up there.”
“Too many questions?”
He nodded. “That’s right. But I did learn one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“Where most of the shark hunters dock their boats.”
“And where’s that?”
He pointed toward the marina in front of us. “Dead ahead, matey.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
As far as I could tell, we hadn’t been followed.
Here, the docks looked old, and there wasn’t a single Corona sign to be had anywhere. I decided to keep this last observation to myself.
As late afternoon faded into evening, it was hard to get a feel for the place, but my perception was that th
is was a forgotten stretch of marina. Maybe it was a carefully cultivated look. Forgotten and ignored were helpful to those in the illicit trade of shark fins. Or the illicit trade of anything else, too.
Seemingly forgotten boats that didn’t look entirely seaworthy bobbed and rocked near piers that looked shaky at best. Other boats were docked around the sturdier perimeter of the marina itself, which seemed like a better idea. Old boats were piled around the dock, some literally on top of others. More than anything, a heavy stink filled the air. A combination of rotting fish, rotting boats and rotting humanity.
“You know what this boat looks like, right?” asked Sanchez.
“I know,” I said, and described the forty-foot vessel that had been clearly modified to easily accommodate shark hunting. Such as, a removable bulwark where the hunters could haul up their catch and pull it easily onto the deck. I recalled the fisherman discarding the bleeding, dying hammerhead. They had simply pushed it off the boat.
“Not to mention it says La Bonita on the stern,” said Sanchez.
“That too,” I said.
We split up, each covering one side of the decrepit marina, which was separated by about three long piers, all of which had listing boats tethered to them. Trash and other flotsam huddled around the foaming waterline. I would be shocked if anything was alive within two hundred square yards of this cesspool.
After my perimeter sweep turned up nothing, I headed out onto the first floating dock. I sidestepped rotting fish and fish guts and other organic material that could have been anything. Human brain? Hard to know. I powered through the seagull crap since there was really no way of avoiding it.
I examined every boat, dismissing only those that were clearly too small or big. I felt like Goldilocks...looking for the one that was just right. Goldilocks, of course, didn’t have shoulders wide enough to swing from.
I read many a stern. Most were written in Spanish, although a few were in English. None said La Bonita.
I continued on to the second floating pier. Sanchez, I saw, was still working his way down the pier closest to his side. Slacker. Water slapped the floating bridge, which swayed under my feet and created a general state of nausea in my stomach. Either that or I had eaten a bad batch of corn chips and salsa.