Kirk Russell - Deadgame: a John Marquez crime novel

Raburn climbed back up the muddy bank, shielding his eyes from the headlights as he looked at Marquez. He smiled and scraped mud from his boots. He was happy about what hed found.

Shes still alive, he said. Were okay.

He went to his pickup, started the winch, and Marquez stood near the edge of the levee road looking down at the dark water of the slough as the steel cable tightened and the sturgeons head broke the surface. With the pickups pale headlights shining from behind him, he could just make out the gray-white shape as it was dragged toward the bank. He heard Raburn calling to him over the pickup engine and winch.

Is she out of the water yet?

Almost.

Tell me when.

As the cable pulled the heavy fish from the water, the sturgeon rolled onto its back, and spiny scutes, the armor on the sturgeons back, dug into the bank mud. It plowed through the low brush, began climbing, and was every bit as big as Raburn had claimed, probably close to eight feet, as big as any Marquez had seen poached in the delta in the years hed run California Fish and Games undercover team. It was hard to watch but, without turning, he held his left hand out, thumbs-up to signal Raburn that it was on its way up.

The pickup engine revved as Raburn tried to give the winch more power. The sturgeons ascent slowed and the winch cable sawed through mud at the edge of the levee road, but the heavy treble hook in its mouth did not pull free and the fish continued an upward slide. When it crested the road, Raburn hurried over. He clapped Marquez on the back.

Look at the size of her!

They worked the fish onto a plastic sheet spread in front of the truck. It gasped. Its tail flopped as Raburn rummaged in his truck. He returned with a knife and a sledgehammer, and handed Marquez the knife.

Your baby, he said, unless you want me to cut them out for you.

Marquez had made the buy for eleven hundred dollars. He wore a wire and had recorded the haggling theyd done in Isleton before driving out here, and he had shown Raburn, the fish broker, the money but hadnt paid him yet. Theyd made several buys from Raburn, had more than enough to arrest and charge him, yet couldnt seem to get him to talk about another suspect they were trying to get close to, a Russian immigrant named Nikolai Ludovna, or Nick, as Raburn called him.

The traditional way to make caviar was to cut out the ovaries while a sturgeon was still alive. After death, the bodys enzymes altered the chemistry and tainted the taste of caviar made from the roe. But they werent going to keep it alive tonight. The fish had suffered enough, hooked and brought here, tied off on the tree for two days, and now pulled alive up the slope.

Go ahead. Kill her first, Marquez said.

Raburn smiled, didnt comment, didnt want to do anything to mess up the sale. He was a good-sized man, limber and strong, a middle-aged gut on him, but still agile and he swung the sledgehammer easily. One blow wasnt enough, and each made a flat hard wet sound striking the fish. Marquez watched the fish die, then leaned over her belly and slit her open. He removed the ovaries and rested them on ice in a cooler.

Now they would find out what they had, and he waited for Raburn to reposit ion the f lashlight, then gently squeezed eggs from an ovary as Raburn held the light above him. The eggs were black and slimy and not mature enough for caviar. That had always been the risk with this one. The main sturgeon run in Californias Sacramento/San Joaquin River delta was months away in April, and though sturgeon varied, it was only late November.

She was already on her way into the delta so I thought when I caught her she was further along, Raburn said. Remember, I called you and told you I caught her in the delta.

Raburn was afraid hed back out of the deal. Marquez glanced at Raburn then back at the sturgeon. He figured the sturgeon was close to fifty years old, same as himself and Raburn. Hed let Raburn kill the fish and now he had to make this work.

You connect me to Nick Ludovna and the deal stays the same, he said.

He watched Raburn pick up the cooler, walk it over to the side of the slough road, then dump the ice along with the ovaries. Raburn pushed an ovary with his boot to get it to roll down the embankment toward the slough and away from any warden who might find this site later. He kicked at the mound of ice.

Garbage, he said, as though theyd been cheated.