Dead Game

by Kirk Russell

  “No, I can’t. It looks to me like they quit when their anger got spent.”

  Selke just nodded, left it at that. They walked toward Marquez’s truck.

  “I’ve got something for you as long as you’ll scan the photos and email them to me. We found these in Burdovsky’s Sacramento apartment.”

  Marquez got in his truck and got out the evidence bag. He unfolded it and got out the passport and photos, told Selke about his meeting with the FBI and the possibility they could help him with Burdovsky. He gave Selke Stan Ehrmann’s name but not the phone number Ehrmann had given him. Selke could start with the duty officer, and Marquez didn’t doubt Ehrmann would talk to him.

  “Ehrmann is very interested in Russian immigrants. He’ll call you back.”

  An hour later Marquez helped get the corpse out of the refrigerator. They slid her into a body bag, and the refrigerator got loaded onto a truck, and the police vehicles left one at a time, Selke last and slowing alongside Marquez’s truck, asking him why he was still here.

  Marquez stayed until dawn. He slept a few hours in his truck. When the sun rose he looked at the ruts on the slough embankment the refrigerator had made sliding down the steep slope. It wouldn’t take Selke long to find out what kind of banding tool was used, who made it, and where the bands came from. Then he’d find out who sold it, and they’d trace the refrigerator back. They’d be able to say how she died and how long she’d been dead. But the kind of mind that butchered a face that way, you couldn’t find the answer for that anywhere.

  He knew it wasn’t Anna but felt a need to prepare for the possibility it was. He thought of August’s coming in and sitting for a videotaped interview, no lawyer, combative and unconcerned. August had no problem admitting she’d stayed at his apartment, even suggested she was lovesick and that Selke “dredge the river.” Whatever the sarcastic comment had been about Anna drowning herself. Marquez turned these things in his head as he watched morning light come to the slough. The water was very calm and dark green. He watched a mallard fly the length of the slough. It was clear and cold, and he stood on the bank and watched another duck go past before walking to his truck. It was unlikely, he thought, that in the history of the world there had ever been a species crueler than his own.

  16

  “It’s cold,” Katherine said.

  “Where are you?”

  “In Vermont looking at Middlebury College.”

  The way she said it made it sound like that wasn’t necessarily fun. Maybe it was the cold.

  “How are the roads?”

  “Oh, they’re fine. It was snowing this morning but it’s stopped. White sky, cold wind, it all makes me remember why I moved to California. I was hoping she’d like Middlebury, but it’s the wrong time of year.”

  “What has she liked most so far?”

  “Shopping in Boston.”

  “What about you, Kath? How are you?”

  “I’ve been better. Maria is in looking at the library, then we’re going to get lunch in town.”

  “And then north to Colby?”

  He’d memorized their circuit, or thought he had.

  “South.” There was too long a pause before Katherine said, “We’re headed to Vassar.”

  “I don’t remember Vassar on the list.”

  “It wasn’t, but now that she’s told me what she told you a month ago we’re abbreviating the trip.” This was the quiet moment where he knew he was supposed to explain, but his heart wasn’t in it. “You don’t have to explain,” Katherine said. “I know she asked you not to say anything, so I understand.”

  “But your feelings are hurt.”

  “Wouldn’t yours be?”

  He looked at the dark almost black line of Mount Diablo and the high concrete curve of the Antioch Bridge, the three-bladed white windmills with the dark blue sky beyond them. His feelings probably would be hurt, but it was still Maria’s to explain, not his. He’d respected her wish not to say anything, and Maria had procrastinated. You kept your word to Maria, he thought. Let her take her own heat; she’s old enough.

  “Oh, she’s told me some things,” Katherine said. “Like she’s not going to college next year and we’re wasting our time on this trip. She wants to live with her two friends in the city, keep working at Presto, and go clubbing every night. How much trigonometry do you think she’ll remember after a year of clubbing, excuse me, after taking a year off to recover from the rigors of high school? I raised a kid who is so selfish she thinks she’s doing me a favor to come back here. I would have given anything to have what I can give her. Why did she wait to tell me?”

  “I don’t think she knows her own mind yet, Kath.”

  “Well, she’s not going to spend next year screwing around in San Francisco. What’s life going to do to her if she can’t handle high school and needs a break to recover? I need you to help me bring her around, and I don’t understand why you’re defending this idea of hers.”

  “I’m not defending anything, but Maria is seventeen going on eighteen, and the days when we can tell her what to do are almost over.”

  “So is she going to start paying her way?”

  “You can’t make her want to go to college.”

  “No, I really can’t, and now I’m wondering if she even sent all her applications. I didn’t read her essays. Did you?”

  “If she said she sent them in, she did.”

  “Here she comes. I’ll call you later.”

  She hung up, and he drove, thinking about how he might help close the rift between Kath and Maria. He had interrupted several of the fights and tried to mediate and had heard about the worst ones when he wasn’t there. Maria was as stubborn as her mother, and each time she got punished she came back harder, and yet she continued working for Katherine at Presto on Union, rather than try to find a different job.

  When he hung up with Katherine he returned a call from Ruax, and she was cheerful this morning.

  “I’ve got a fish for you,” she said. “You’re becoming quite the dealer.”

  “Any roe?”

  “I can’t promise roe.”

  “It’s got to be fresh or I won’t take it.”

  She chuckled, and they picked a spot to transfer the sturgeon to his truck later that morning. He called Richie Crey.

  “Do you want it? It’s just out of the water.”

  “Okay, guy, let’s give it a go. Let me tell you where to take it. Guys that work for me will be at the house when you get there. It’s not far from my shop. You take it there. They’ll know what to do.”

  Marquez picked up the fish from Ruax and drove over the bridge to Rio Vista. He planned to cut through these two front men and sell directly to Crey. In their remaining three weeks they were going after Crey, Ludovna, and August, and they’d need to deal face-to-face with Crey to generate enough evidence to build a case the DA would accept. Now he circled the block once. He parked and knocked twice before a man opened the door.

  “I’m looking for Lou Perry.”

  “That’s me. Are you the guy with the fish eggs?”

  Marquez nodded and saw a second man on the sofa watching TV. Stale air flowed from inside, bad breath, dust, the sweet smell of dope.

  “What’s your name, Mr. Fish Eggs?”

  “John. What’s yours, sport?”

  “Lou.”

  Marquez smiled as though the name Lou was funny sounding. He wanted to make it clear early on that they weren’t going to be friends.

  “Okay, where are the eggs?”

  “They’re in my truck with the fish. They come as a package.”

  The guy didn’t get it, took it as a straight line, said, “Back into the garage.”

  A beat-up gold-colored Le Mans sat out in front of the house. It was rusted down along the base of the doors, and the ass end was humped from a rear-ender and sloppily sprayed with primer. It looked more like it had been tagged than painted. Someone had also done a hand job painting black stripes on the hood, and Mar
quez figured it could be either of the two men inside.

  After the garage door went up, the second man drifted in, and Marquez got his name. Liam Torp. He offered his hand for Marquez to shake. Everybody was a businessman this morning. This was the business of trying to get a sturgeon deal done without missing too much of the show on TV that Torp had been watching.

  “Is it worth the hassle, man?” Perry asked, face serious, doing his own risk/reward analysis.

  “Is what worth the hassle?”

  “Dealing sturgeon and fish eggs.”

  “Sometimes it’s worth it.”

  “Yeah? What kind of money can you make? Maybe I’ll get into it.”

  “It’s messy. You deal with a lot of fish guts, and you’ve got to watch out for the Gamers all the time.”

  “Richie says there aren’t that many of them.”

  “Well, he ought to know. He’s your boss, right?”

  Marquez had the cooler top taped down with duct tape. He peeled that off and showed them the eggs. Explained how to make caviar and answered more questions. It was like conducting a seminar. He looked at Perry, deciding that insulting him might be the easiest way to get rid of him.

  “We’ll trade you some weed for your eggs,” Perry said.

  “No, you won’t.”

  “You don’t have to smoke it, man. You sell the weed, you’ll make more than you’d make the other way. Want to take a look at it? You’re welcome to a hit.” He turned to Torp. “Where’s that stub you had earlier?”

  “Look, I just want to get paid and take off.”

  “At least take a look.”

  “What’s up with you guys? Does Crey know you’re offering this trade?”

  Perry had a red birthmark along the back of his neck. His wiry friend, Torp, needed a change of clothes and had a way about him that bothered Marquez. In fact, they both annoyed him. Now, after standing around watching and saying nothing, Torp suddenly felt like he had to lower the garage door. Shauf and Roberts had been videotaping, and the lowering ended that.

  “What are you doing, I’ve got to get my truck out. Open the door again.”

  “Chill, man,” Perry said. “We just want to show you the weed. Wait here a minute.” He came back with a bag of weed. “Put your nose to it. If you don’t like what you smell we’ll shut up.”

  “Then I don’t like it.”

  “Smell it.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “You’ll make more money selling the weed.”

  “You’re the dope dealers; I sell fish.” Marquez figured that either they were comfortable enough with Crey to screw around with his deal or Crey said check him out, push him a little, see what happens. “How about you call Crey and tell him we’re done and I’m ready to get paid?”

  Perry got a hold of Crey on his cell, cradling the cell with his chin, a couple of days’ growth of whiskers holding the phone in place. He described the eggs, tasted them when Crey told him to. When he hung up he said, “He’ll pay you when he sees you.”

  “You’re kidding me, after all this you guys don’t have the money?”

  “Hey, you could have had the dope.”

  They gave him the address of a bar on Main Street where Crey would meet him, and Marquez talked with Shauf before going into the bar.

  “I’ve got to cut this pair out of the picture.”

  “They just got into an old Le Mans out on the street.”

  “Run the car, let’s find out what we can about them.”

  Marquez was inside the bar on Main Street, waiting for Crey to show up. The bar was empty, no daylight drinkers yet, the bartender glancing up at the light flooding in from outside but not really paying Marquez any attention, maybe registering a big man occupying a stool at the far end. Then Perry and Torp came in the door. Perry waved at him and started toward him. They took stools next to him on either side. Perry drummed on the bar to get the bartender’s attention.

  “We got to thinking since you’re the man with all the money this morning, maybe you should buy a round,” Perry said.

  “I guess that means there aren’t any more cartoons on TV.”

  Perry leaned over the bar, looking past Marquez at his friend. “Hey, Fishman made a joke,” he said. Then more seriously to Marquez, “Liam doesn’t like people laughing at him.”

  “Who does?”

  When Crey arrived he stopped to say hello to the bartender as though he’d just returned to his office and wanted to know what had happened while he was out. Torp oozed off the seat next to Marquez, and Crey took it. He slid a hand onto Marquez’s thigh.

  “I’m not feeling you up. Reach down, I’ve got something for you.”

  “Better not be pills or dope.” Marquez reached down, felt the money, and said, “This is a lot of work for one fish.”

  Roberts walked in, took a seat at the far end of the bar near the door, and ordered before they did. Crey’s team studied her, Perry, on Marquez’s left, immediately saying, “I’d do her.”

  The bartender came over, took drink orders, Marquez asking for a Coke, saying he’d drunk too much last night. Marquez laid one of the hundred-dollar bills on the bar top.

  On his left Perry said, “A Coke? That’s pussy-assed, man,” and ordered himself a draft beer and a vodka chaser. The hundreddollar bill got broken and change spread in front of Marquez like a poker hand, the bartender fanning out the twenties. Marquez talked fishing with Crey and watched Perry down the vodka, get up from his stool, move halfway down the bar, and summon the bartender. The bartender drew four more drafts and carried one over and put it in front of Roberts, who already had something to drink. The other three he brought to their end and asked Marquez if he wanted a refill on the Coke. Marquez shook his head, turned to Crey.

  “This is disrespect. What’s this little greaseball doing ordering drinks for himself and his friend with my money?”

  “Next time they’ll buy.”

  Perry lifted his glass to Roberts. She lifted hers, acknowledging the gesture but not touching the beer.

  “I’m out of here,” Marquez said, “and these guys need to apply for welfare. I can keep the sturgeon coming, but I can’t deal with these losers.”

  Torp heard that, though Perry didn’t because he was down the bar, trying to hit on Roberts.

  “Don’t go yet,” Crey said. “Let’s you and me talk a little more.”

  Whatever Roberts said, Perry didn’t like. He came back a few minutes later and leaned on the bar near his stool, looking past Marquez and Crey at his friend Torp. He looked angry.

  “I’m not good enough for the bitch,” he said to no one in particular, though Marquez answered him, saying, “Makes sense to me,” and then turning back to Crey. “It depends on the bite, but with the storms forecast it could be good fishing this next week.”

  They negotiated some more, but it all felt lowlife. Roberts got up to leave before they did, and before she reached the door Perry was off his stool. He reached around and tapped his friend on the shoulder.

  “We’re going too,” he said, “catch you later, bro,” to Crey.

  “Those two are going to end up back inside,” Crey said as the pair went through the door.

  “Whatever. But either way I don’t want them around when I deal with you. They stick out too much.”

  Crey looked into his drink, thinking it over, then agreed, “They’ve got some rough edges. But how polished do they have to be to hump a fish around?”

  “They’re the wrong type of guys. What were they in for?”

  “Perry for robbery and Torp did time for rape, only it was a lot worse than what they were able to pin on him, and there were others they didn’t get him for. Problem is I owe Perry, and he’s trying to get back on his feet.”

  “He tried to trade me dope for the sturgeon. Did you tell him to do that?”

  Crey didn’t answer, and his eyes kind of glazed over. It told Marquez that Crey had known the offer to trade would get made. He could rea
d the pores on Crey’s nose, see every mark on his face, but couldn’t read much in his eyes, and the feeling came out of nowhere, that he wouldn’t miss having to deal with guys like this.

  They finished their drinks now and walked out into daylight.

  “I did four years and I’m not going back inside,” Crey said. “You want to know about me, that’s all you need to know. If I’ve got to use some help like Lou and Liam, that’s what I’ve got to do then. The boys aren’t so bad. I know Torp has got some problems, but sometimes I need their lifting power. And they can deliver shit. All they have to do is drive a car, right? You don’t have to talk to them.” He saw he wasn’t getting anywhere with Marquez and added, “I can handle a sturgeon a day if you can do it.”

  “Why not live straight? You’ve got your sport fishing business and the bait shop. Why risk it all?”

  “Kind of funny of you to ask that.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re talking straight, so I’m asking.”

  “The answer is I’ve got some other obligations.”

  Marquez nodded and saw Crey was tracking the Le Mans, which was heading toward the bridge.

  “Look at them,” Crey said. “They’re trying to follow her home, and you can bet they’ll go back there some night. That’s about the only way either one of them can get close to a woman.” He picked at something on a tooth, adding, “I swear to God sometimes I wish I could just start all over.”

  17

  “The Le Mans is registered to a Sherri La Belle. Stockton address,” Shauf said, and then read off the address to Marquez.

  “They’re still on her.”

  Roberts cut in. “They’re on me, and they’re not doing a bad job of it. They’re staying with me, Lieutenant.”

  “What’s your location?”

  “Just passing the Ryde Hotel, coming up that side of the river. They’re hanging back about a third of a mile.”

  The pink art deco hotel with the water tower behind it was a straight run up that side of the river. If they stayed behind her they’d be very visible and easy to track.

  “Let’s try to turn it around on them and see what we learn. How are you doing for gas?”