Silent Hunt (2 page)

“Hunt sounds better.”

“Apology accepted.”

Hunt joined Trona in the shade and offered his hand. “Wyatt.”

“Are you fishing out of Baja Joe's?”

“First time.”

“Always an adventure.”

Trona watched a gaggle of pretty Mexican flight attendants walk-roll past them and into the terminal. One glanced at him, trying to be furtive, then let her gaze brush off of his face and into the sky where she pretended to be interested in a descending passenger jet. Even with a hat on and the brim pulled low, Trona's scar-studded face was spectacularly
there
. By now, after living thirty-odd years with that face, Trona actually forgot about it sometimes. Of course, the reminders were always quick to come—reflections, people from adults to children, even dogs.

“You're the deputy from Orange County,” said Hunt. Trona nodded and enjoyed the inevitable beat of silence. “It's been ten years since all that.”

“It's good to be out of view.”

“Don't I know,” said Hunt.

“Those murders you worked in San Francisco were big news down south. Took you all the way back to '78 and Jones-town. Man.”

“History isn't so ancient.”

“No,” said Trona. “Not when Richard III shows up under a parking lot. How's the PI work?”

Hunt shrugged. “I read about the cartel trouble here in La Paz. Zetas barging in on La Familia is what I heard.”

“Long as they stay away from Baja Joe's,” said Trona.

“All I want is six days of peace, quiet, and fishing. Maybe some bourbon.”

“Let's fish together tomorrow. I'll show you what I've learned.”

“Twist my arm.”

The van and its six passengers bounced down the beaten two-lane asphalt that led toward the bay. Trona looked out at the cardón cactus and the elephant trees and the vultures circling precisely in the blue. He couldn't wait to get on the water. They slowed down for a Policía Preventiva officer standing by his truck, flares in an angled line behind him, belching pink smoke. He saw more vehicles up ahead. The cop talked to the driver and the driver showed ID and the cop looked at each fisherman then waved them through. When they passed the other cars Trona saw that one was a white Suburban, new and shiny, windows riddled with bullet holes and smeared with red. Two bodies slumped within. Two more lay on the road shoulder, one covered with blankets, one not. Another police officer hurried them past.

“There is very little crime in this part of Baja,” said the driver, resolutely. “Very little. Occasional only.”

Trona wondered what the occasion was. He looked at Hunt, who had to be thinking the same thing.

AT DAWN HUNT AND TRONA
were skidding across the Sea of Cortez in a
panga,
both holding their hats in their hands, spray flying and the red paint of sunrise spread out before them. Cerralvo Island was a gray behemoth in the distance. The captain was named Israel and his
panga
was
Luna Sombrero
. He said little and regarded the anglers skeptically. Hunt shot pictures left and right, swung the camera, and before he could think, he'd shot Trona not once but twice. As Hunt slid the camera back into one of the many pockets of his fishing shirt he felt embarrassed for barging into Joe's face like that, then saw the minor joy on it, the joy that a cursed childhood could not prevent, the joy of being on the water.

Two boys raised by adoptive parents go fishing, thought Hunt. What a cool thing.

As the Yamaha screamed along, Hunt saw Israel turn to Joe, take his hands off the wheel, and swing an invisible baseball bat. Nice form. Buster Posey–ish. Beside him, Trona gave the captain a thumbs-up and a smile appeared beneath Israel's sunglasses.

“What's up?” Hunt asked.

“Baseball. The captains all play. Israel says there's a game tonight. It's quality ball if you want to go.”

“Done.”

The water shone pale, flat, and nacreous in the early day, the sun barely a foot off the horizon. Already Hunt could feel its heat and could only imagine what it would be like when it reached its zenith.

Suddenly Israel swung the wheel and the
panga
pitched hard left, heading into a cove along the shoreline where another small boat, now just visible, had anchored. Behind them, the other fishermen from Joe's fell in line, and within five minutes they were all floating around the bait boat. Hunt wasn't expecting bait, and with all of his new flies, why would he? But bait seemed to be part of the ritual here. Whatever its purpose, he'd soon find it out.

Once everybody had loaded up with sardines, the captains held a short conference and then they were off again away from the shore and out over the vast expanse of water. With Israel leading the way and nothing even remotely like a GPS, they were all heading toward a destination that must have been clear to them, although Hunt couldn't make out any kind of a marker or buoy.

The target, a good ten minutes and perhaps a mile out, was a white one-gallon plastic Clorox container, tied to some rope that probably had a sea anchor attached down below to keep it more or less in place. Hunt thought that Israel locating this random piece of flotsam out on the endless unbroken surface of the water a fairly impressive feat of navigation.

“Fish here?” he asked.

“Shade,” Trona said. “A little goes a long way.”

Meanwhile, the captain had cut the motor and now Trona grabbed his rod and stepped up, taking the more precarious position on the bow. “Showtime,” he said, playing line out at his feet. At his place in the middle of the
panga,
Hunt stood and started doing the same as Israel threw a couple pieces of the bait out into the water around them.

Nothing.

They waited. There was no swell and after a minute or so the light chop of the other
pangas
had dissipated as well and it was
dead-still. Hunt, tensed for action, dared a look around at the other four parties who'd killed their own engines and fallen into a semicircle behind them. Suddenly, though, Israel leaned forward and slapped a heavy palm on Hunt's shoulder. “Hey, hey!” Pointing into the well of the boat at Hunt's feet.

Hunt turned back, looked down, saw nothing. “What?” he asked. Then, over to Trona, “What's he want?”

Trona risked a quick glance over. “You're standing on your line,” he said. Hunt backed up off it. Israel leaned over and tossed a five-gallon plastic bucket up to Hunt's spot. “Put your line in that,” Trona said. “Keeps it out of the way. Don't let it wrap around your leg, or your hand for that matter, and especially your fingers. Hundred-pound tuna hits and your finger's wrapped with eighty-pound, it'll amputate right then.”

Hunt got himself squared away. Israel threw another couple sardines out into the clear, blue, still water. Trona scanned the horizon in a wide arc.

Then, a sudden swirl at the surface out in front of Hunt, and Israel came alive. “Dorado! Dorado!”

Hunt got his rod up, pumped, cast, fed line, back cast, waiting what seemed interminably for the rod to load as he'd been taught, then let it rip again. This time the instant that his fly landed, one of the big fish struck.

He'd never really imagined anything like this kind of acceleration in any fishing context. Suddenly, just about immediately, all the line that he'd so carefully dropped into his plastic bucket—fifty or sixty feet of it—was gone and now he was on to his reel, already nearly to the backing, holding on for all he was worth with one hand as the reel spun beneath his other palm and the running fish ran off yard upon yard and then, sixty or seventy yards out, jumped once, twice, a third time.

Unable to stop himself, or even aware of it, he let out a scream. “Heee-ya!”

“You got him,” Trona said. “Let him run. Stay cool. You got him.”

AFTER THE FISHING AND A
brief siesta back at the hotel, Joe borrowed Baja Joe's van and drove to Los Planes to see the baseball game. Over the years he'd become a fan. The boat captains were all good players, and Israel's tiny village of Aqua Amarga was pitted against mighty La Paz. Hunt rode along. As soon as the sun went down and the heat dropped slightly, the game started under sparse lights, before a big and boisterous crowd. Israel was on the mound, carefully picking his way through La Paz's heavy hitters.

Trona and Hunt drank Pacíficos and ate spicy peanuts, compared California's new austerity to the poverty they saw here. Hunt noted that either one could produce fine baseball. Joe waved to Israel's sister, Angelica, sitting just a few rows down with three of Israel's four children. No sign of Israel's wife or oldest son. Joe felt the burn on the back of his neck, something no amount of sunscreen could prevent here in Baja. But it was a good feeling and he felt his heart downshift.

Halfway through the third, a fleet of four black SUVs came tearing across the flat dusty desert from far away, hopping over the creosote bushes and dunes, converging from all the outfield directions. The field they were playing on here had no home run fence, and so nothing stood between these intruders and the players. Murmurs rose, then tense voices rippled through the crowd and some of the spectators clambered down the bleachers heading for where they had haphazardly parked.

Israel stood in an alert posture on the mound, watching. Trona saw no emblems or roof lights or radio antennae on the SUVs.

“I don't think they're fans,” said Hunt.

“Oh, they're not.”

“I left my bazooka at home.”

Joe felt for the .45 that was not on his hip, the .40 that was not on his ankle, then finally the .44 derringer that was not in his pant pocket and thought: Mexican law is Mexican law—gringo law enforcement or not. The SUVs slid to dusty stops one by one and disgorged cumbersome, heavily armed men. Trona saw the Zetas patches on their shoulders and his heart went cold. He and Hunt had joined the crowd surging down the stands then ducked under one of the bleacher benches and like monkeys lowered themselves to the ground.

Joe peered through the scaffolding and saw Israel still on the mound, waiting for four Zetas who strode toward him from center field. Their M-16s shone dully in the lights and the outfielders stood frozen, watching them with what might have been resignation or terror. Everywhere Joe looked he saw another fire squad of Zetas closing in, nine men in all, a baseball team's worth of armed men.

Fans hustled through the dust of the parking area, children scampering out ahead, car doors opening and slamming shut. At the mound the four Zetas surrounded Israel. One of them motioned with his gun and Joe could see that Israel and the man were talking and that Israel was nodding his head in agreement. The other five Zetas came trotting in from across left field, straight in Joe's direction. He had been in a situation like this before, many years ago, and he had killed several men but failed to protect the man he had pledged his life to protect.

Something touched the back of his arm and he reeled to find Angelica and Israel's three small children behind him.

“That man is Hector,” said Angelica. “He left Aqua Amarga five years ago to be a Zeta. He wants to be known for his cruelty. Now Hector has come for him.”

“For Israel?”

She shook her head no. “For his son. Joaquin,” she said. “Joaquin comes to the games but not to this one.”

The five Zetas were nearly to second base now and still coming directly toward Trona and Hunt and Angelica and Israel's children. “Joe,” said Hunt. “Time to move it.”

“When they don't find Joaquin here, they go to Aqua Amarga. They know.”

Joe took Angelica's hand and crouched and led her and the children away from home plate and the refreshment stand and the parking lot. Wyatt brought up the rear. Where the grandstands ended they stopped and huddled, half hidden from the stadium lights in the scaffolding.

Automatic gunfire burped from the parking lot and screams rose in the sudden silence. Some of the parking lights burst and smoked. Laughter. Then more shots, and more lights exploded.