The Way of All Fish: A Novel (18 page)

What L. Bass Hess thought he possessed was control: control over his daily schedule, over his visits to his uncle-aunt, over his clients. What he had was no control at all, given that he wasn’t able to shift around times and people. So when one of his clients jumped ship, it might as well be the
Lusitania
going down. For Hess, it was complete disaster unless he could somehow undo it. He wasn’t interested in salvage. He wanted the whole creaking hulk set to rights, seaworthy once again.

The first thing he did was harpoon the cause of the disaster—in this case, Cindy Sella.

For L. Bass Hess, it was all down to her. Every misfortune he was suffering was the fault of Cindy Sella.

St. Pat’s Cathedral brought to mind an old school chum Paul hadn’t seen in years. Hadn’t he heard that Johnny got religion while he was in prison (out on good behavior in three) and completely jettisoned his old life, got up from that table of money, booze, and women, and sat down at the table of faith? A poker table, more likely, thought Paul with a laugh. Where was he now?

Paul went to his computer and brought up Facebook. He entered the name of Johnny del Santos, and there he was, looking in his little picture as crafty as ever. Now he appeared to be in charge of something called the Abbey, which looked like a monastery, done in some Southwestern-Mediterranean sort of architecture. It was near Sewickley, PA, which was outside of Pittsburgh. (Hadn’t Clive said Bass Hess was from Sewickley?) Paul was from Pittsburgh, but with his parents and his sister all dead, he rarely returned to that city. He shut his eyes for a moment, remembering his little sister, Jenny.

Pittsburgh was also Johnny’s hometown; they had attended the same high school in Shadyside. Yes, Johnny looked the same as when he was knocking over 7-Elevens and terrifying cashiers.

Paul shut down Facebook and thought about the Abbey. He looked at his list again. Cathedral. A connection? He shrugged and turned his attention to fishing, uncle/aunt, and Florida. The three obviously went together. A fishing accident, maybe? What kind of fish? Fish fish fish fish . . . a shark? Did Hess fish in shark-infested waters? A shark attack was no good, because it would be over in seconds and consequently lacked the retribution criterion.

What about a
near
accident? A godawful situation in which you find yourself almost drowned, harpooned, or otherwise dead? Florida. Lake Okeechobee, Big Cypress Swamp. Alligators. Snakes. Pity he didn’t know a snake charmer.

Wait a minute. Jimmy McKinney. Paul was up and thrusting his arms into his Burberry and writing a note to Molly that he’d be back in an hour or so.

When Paul Giverney walked unannounced into Jimmy McKinney’s office, the agent was talking to one of his clients, a blond woman who looked vaguely familiar.

“Paul! Good to see you! How are you?”

“Great. But I’m interrupting?”

“No,” said Jimmy.

“No, no,” said the woman.

Jimmy introduced her. “Cindy Sella.”

Paul’s jaw dropped. “You’re
Cindy Sella
? My Lord, haven’t I ever heard a lot about you!”

Cindy blushed and asked him what. The what got lost in his questions to Jimmy. “Listen, you’ve got this author, the guy who writes those Swamp something books?”

“Swamp Heart. Yeah, it’s a series. His name’s Colin Whitt.”

It struck Paul that it was odd Jimmy would have someone like that as a client. “Is there some way I can get in touch with him?”

Jimmy frowned. “I’ve got his details, but the guy’s in South Africa.”

“Shit.” Paul said this under his breath.

“What do you want Colin for?”

“I need someone who knows about alligators. No, someone who can handle alligators.”

Jimmy laughed. “What? You’re working on a new book? Where’s it set?”

“Big Cypress Swamp. Somewhere in the Everglades. I haven’t got a title yet. I’ve just—”

Cindy was holding up her hand like a kid waiting for the teacher to call on her. “I know somebody.”

L
et me get this straight,” said Paul. “You went out to Sunset Park on the N train just to buy a clown fish? You tramped its potholed pavements and engaged in repartee with four druggies you’d never seen before—”

“I wouldn’t call them—”

“—just to buy a fish?”

“A ghost clown fish. Frankie lost his when the goons shot up the fish tank.”

They had left Jimmy’s office and were now sitting in Ray’s coffee shop, he with coffee, she with a Diet Pepsi. It wasn’t far from Paul’s apartment in the East Village. She would have liked to point out they were almost neighbors, West Village and East Village, but thought that would be pushy.

“So one of these guys has experience with alligators?”

“He’s really good with them. He works with them when he goes to Florida. Those roadside attractions you mentioned—that’s where he does it. He says the place is awful. Not just cheap and tawdry but callous toward the animals.”

“What exactly does he do?”

Cindy told him about Molloy’s act.

Paul’s smile grew broader. “I’d like to meet him. You have his number?”

She shook her head. “Only the number of the house we met in. I got it from Craigslist.”

Paul rolled his eyes.

“That’s where they all hang out.”

“What about the others?”

Cindy thought as she sucked up her soda. “Monty. He’s the one who advertised on Craigslist. Monty goes to Florida, too, sometimes. He’s good with boats. Then there’s Bub. He works in a junkyard. I think he lives there. He’s writing a book that he says is in the Philip K. Dick vein.
Robot Redux
is the title. The idea is that all these pieces of metal somehow fly together—”

“And make a robot.” Paul smiled and drank his coffee.

“He’s into physics. Especially string theory, if you understand that.”

“Enough to know I don’t understand it.”

“Then there’s Graeme. He used to be part of a magic act at the Mirage.”

“You mean Vegas?” When she nodded, he said, “What kind of act?”

She was making noise sucking froth through her straw. “He throws light around, for one thing.”

“There doesn’t have to be another. This is some gang you hang out with.”

Gang you hang out with!
Could he have said anything more pleasing? No.

“I wonder . . .” He was looking in his empty coffee cup.

Cindy waited for him to finish the statement of wonder. Finally, she leaned over the table and said, “You wonder what?”

He looked up. “Besides the junkyard guy—”

“Bub.”

“Bub. Do these others have actual jobs?”

“Molloy does. He works in a place called Aquaria. It doesn’t sound like a full-time job, though.”

“Selling aquariums.”

“That’s right. I don’t know whether Monty has a job. It’s his place they all go to. He doesn’t act like he has a job right now. Why?” She frowned and turned her straw in her empty glass. “And why do you want to talk to someone who’s experienced with alligators?”

“My book. The one I’m researching.”

She continued to frown. “The one you told Jimmy about doesn’t sound anything like your usual books.”

“You’ve read them?”

“Of course I’ve read them. Like half the rest of the world.”

“Thanks. Anyway, can you fix it so I can meet these guys?”

She nodded, smiling. The notion that she was a fixer pleased her inordinately. “I can fix it. When?”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Okay. I’ll give Monty a call. I don’t think their calendars are full.”

C
andy and Karl agreed that meeting a contract killer in a crepe restaurant would cast serious doubt on his credentials if it hadn’t been Arthur Mordred they were meeting. Anyway, they weren’t looking for a hit; they just wanted him to fill in the rest of the action in Lena bint Musah’s story.

They found him in a booth eating lemon and lavender crepes. “House specialty,” he added. “Meyer lemons only.”

“Oh, well,” said Karl, seeing the smoking sign with the X’d-out red circle and taking out one of his thin cigars.

They had met Arthur Mordred in Pittsburgh. Arthur had been hired by Paul Giverney to protect Ned Isaly. If Paul Giverney hadn’t put his dumb idea in motion in the first place, Ned wouldn’t have needed protection. Thank God for scruples, they had said many a time since then; if they hadn’t had scruples, Ned Isaly wouldn’t be around to write another book.

“So, guys. Somebody need protection from the likes of you?” Arthur stuffed a slice of sleek lemon crepe in his mouth.

“Funny, ha-ha. No, Arthur, we want you to do a job for us.”

“Something you two can’t handle? Oh, dear, I feel like Elvis, with you guys as audience.” He wiped his fork, loaded with a section of crepe in lemony-lavender sauce, across his plate. “Sure you won’t join me? The champagne chai is to die for.”

“We probably would. No, we’re not talking about a hit.”

“Not protection, I hope. That’s such a bore.”

“If you’d shut up and let us finish,” said Karl. “How much do you know about endangered species?”

“About as much as I do a warm and loving home life.”

“We’re thinkin’ fish. To be more precise, exotic fish. Say like the Andean catfish or the Lost River sucker, or the—”

Karl cut in on this showing off. “If we feed you some info about the subject, you got a good enough memory to spit it back?”

“The Lost River sucker,
sic
. You sure that’s not some old geezer panning for gold back in Oklahoma a century ago?”

Karl shrugged. “Arthur, you can’t take us serious, we’re outta here.” He was denied a dramatic rise from the booth because he was on the inside, pressed against the wall.

“Don’t be so prickly. You haven’t told me anything to
take
serious. You haven’t said whatever the hell you want or as much as given a flying kiss re money. ‘Re’ goes with ‘
sic
.’ ”

Candy frowned. “You stoned? You on something?”

“Stoned? I’m just eating my lemon crepe. I may have a maple
crème fraîche
for dessert. I haven’t had a drink since Pittsburgh. That was my single brief relapse. I’m back to my A.A. meetings. My sponsor thinks I was trying for a geographic cure by going to Pittsburgh.”

“Which is shit. You got paid by Paul to go to Pittsburgh and protect Ned Isaly.”

“Yes, well, of course I couldn’t tell that to my sponsor.”

“Tell him Pittsburgh never cured nothing, baby, except boredom.”

They all laughed.

“Now, for this job, we’ve got in mind this organization called the Bluefin Alliance, a name someone would think up to make themselves sound like an insurance firm. Or maybe even sound like they’re into Greenpeace shit. This bunch is definitely operating under the radar. What they do is, they bring illegal fish, exotic endangered fish, into the country. They do know the Bluefin Alliance is as bad as your Mexican cartels.”

“How? How do they know that?”

“They know because we told them, Arthur.”

“I never heard of this Bluefin bunch.”

“That’s because it doesn’t exist.”

Arthur forked up a bite of crepe. “So who is they?”

“Couple of lawyers.”

Arthur Mordred actually put down his fork. “What are you guys looking for?”

“Well, not the
Law Review.
” Karl sniggered. “What we want is everything they have on Cindy Sella.”

This meant filling Arthur in on who she was and telling him about the papers passed between L. Bass Hess and the Richard Geres, Wally and Rod, and the Snelling legal outfit.

“We got some of those documents by mistake. But there’s nothing in them to prove anything came from the Snelling firm.”

Mordred squinted. “So I go in armed and make this turd open his files.”

“No,” said Karl, “although that’s a brilliant and really original plan.”

“I detect sarcasm. So, what
is
the plan?”

“We need you to come to a meeting at this address.” Karl scribbled it on the back of a coaster, pushed it toward Arthur. “She hasn’t given us a time yet.”

“Who’s she?”

“Lena bint Musah. You’ll like her.” Karl nodded toward Arthur’s cup. “Her espresso is terrific. So are her cigarettes.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“You will.”

P
aul Giverney had his plan outlined, albeit sketchily, for it depended upon the availability of talent.

He’d been working on this all morning when he should have been writing the next chapter of
The Drowning Man
(a title he disliked but liked more than
Like a Drowned Rat,
from Hannah, and who refused to be dissuaded despite there being no rats in the book). The new book was not yet under contract, nor would it be while L. Bass Hess was on the horizon; Hess was ignorant of the fact. He didn’t know it and was hard at work negotiating with Bobby Mackenzie, who had been prepped to offer terms either outrageously complex or merely outrageous. Or both.

L. Bass had not yet suggested shopping the book to other publishers. “Any publisher in New York would die for a book by you. Is Mackenzie insane?”

“You only just noticed?” Paul had said.