Devil's Harbor

by Alex Gilly

  Finn stared at him. He wondered if he had heard right. “Murder?” he said.

  Diego was deadly serious. “That’s what people are saying they’ll charge you with, Finn. Remember those border-patrol guys in Texas, shot that dope smuggler in the ass? He claimed he was unarmed, they couldn’t prove otherwise, they got put away for twelve years. And he admitted he was a dope smuggler.”

  “Didn’t the president commute their sentences?”

  “You’re gonna bet your life on that?”

  Finn remembered what Mona had said after he’d told her about shooting Perez: “You’re not in a war zone anymore.” And that other thing, too: “The system’s broken.”

  This nightmare could ruin his life, Mona’s, and even Diego’s, he thought. He wished he could make the whole thing go away. He glanced up at the top shelf.

  “It’s a bummer. Anyway, whatever happens, you know you can count on me, right?” said Diego. “And on Mona, too, obviously. Actually, especially on Mona. She can be a pain in the ass, but she’s the most determined person I know.” As an afterthought, he added, “Like a dog with lockjaw. And I mean that as a compliment.”

  Finn straightened, patted his friend on the back. “Thank you,” he said.

  Diego nodded. He gave Finn a look, like he wanted to say something more. Whatever it was stayed unsaid.

  “Mona got a lead on La Catrina,” said Finn. He told Diego what he’d learned from Mrs. Gavrilia down at the Self Help.

  “So let me get this straight,” said Diego, “She’s saying those boys went aboard La Catrina, then … what?”

  “Exactly,” said Finn. “No one knows.”

  They were both quiet for a moment.

  Then Finn said, “We found Espendoza’s body in the same patch of water as La Catrina.”

  Diego looked doubtful. “Espendoza was from East L.A., not Mexico. And we found them almost two weeks apart. If he came off La Catrina, no way we would’ve found him after two weeks. Not with all those sharks around.”

  Finn nodded. He wanted it to be coincidence. But his gut told him differently.

  “I called Espendoza’s probation officer,” said Diego. “She confirmed that he definitely’d been on the streets, messing up, trying hard to become a gangbanger. She said she would notify his mother. It’s too bad. Kid was only sixteen.”

  “What about the father?”

  “Far as I know, there isn’t one.”

  He’d lost his father when he was Espendoza’s age, and he’d gone off the rails, too, Finn thought. He glanced up at the TV. In a replay, the Cowboys’ offense was setting up a shotgun formation. The pundits, with all the genius of hindsight, were explaining why it had been a bad idea.

  Diego continued, “I told the probation officer we found him out in the channel and right away she says, ‘I knew he shouldn’t have gone on that boat. He couldn’t swim.’”

  Finn turned away from the game. “What boat?” he said.

  “Part of the deal to stay out of juvenile was, the kid had to get a job. He wasn’t in school, obviously. She said he’d found a gig on a commercial fishing boat out of San Pedro called the Pacific Belle, operates out of the commercial port just down the road here. So I called the port authority. They said the Pacific Belle came in Wednesday morning, six A.M.”

  “Six A.M. Right after we lost—”

  “The phantom’s signal. Right.”

  “You check if—”

  “Anyone called in missing crew? I checked with the coast guard. No one did. So I dropped by the port on the way here and found the boat, but there was no one aboard. I asked around the rest of the fleet, but they’re a tight-lipped bunch, those fishermen.”

  “Should be easy enough to figure out who owns her,” said Finn. “Just call the DMV, get her registration.” He nodded in Cutts’s direction. “Meantime, we can ask the Irishman what he knows.”

  Cutts, behind the bar in a short-sleeved white shirt, was sliding glasses into racks. Finn, who hadn’t seen him for a year and a half, was shocked by how much the man had aged. The Irishman seemed a decade older. He was moving slowly and avoided bending, as though favoring a wound in his gut. He hadn’t shaved, and the ash-gray stubble on his pale face was doing nothing to cloak his pockmarks. Finn had never seen Cutts unshaved before. The man was usually meticulous about his appearance. He looked pale and gaunt, frail despite the coarsened tattoo, visible on his left forearm, of a Kalashnikov underscored with the words THE PRICE OF FREEDOM, and of some words scrolled in Irish under a Celtic knot with a ship in it on his right arm. Finn had once asked him what the words meant. “There’s hope from the sea but none from land,” Cutts had told him.

  Diego signaled Cutts over and ordered another round.

  Cutts put a Dos Equis in front of Diego. Then he used the soda gun to fill a glass with club soda. “And another soda for the lady,” he said.

  Finn let it go. “You ever heard of a smuggler called La Catrina? A sport fisher, going into Catalina, maybe?” he said.

  Cutts wiped the counter. “Smuggling what?”

  “We were hoping you’d tell us,” said Diego.

  “I never heard of any smuggling boat going to Catalina. What would be the point?”

  Cutts winced, reached for his side.

  He hasn’t answered the question, Finn thought. “You feeling all right?” he said.

  “I’m fine. Some trouble with my insides, is all.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?” said Diego

  Cutts flipped his bar rag over his shoulder and scowled. “For a while there I thought I was going to fulfill Mrs. Cutts’s dearest wish and die. But then last week I had an operation, and the doctors put things right. I got out of the hospital this morning. The doctors told me I have a few more years in me yet.”

  “Never believe what doctors tell you, Cutts. You’re going to die,” said Finn.

  “Here’s to Mrs. Cutts,” said Diego, raising his beer, “May all her prayers be answered.”

  “I didn’t hear anything about your boat, lad,” said Cutts, looking at Finn, “but while I was in the hospital I did see on the news how a marine interdiction agent shot a fisherman dead. Would that be the sport fisher you mean?”

  “Don’t believe everything you see on TV, Cutts,” said Diego.

  Cutts seemed keen to cut the talk. “La Catrina. I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Always happy to help my friends in Customs and Border Protection.”

  He wandered down the bar to serve another customer. Finn watched him go.

  “He looks sick, doesn’t he?” said Diego.

  Finn shrugged. “He’s old. You get the feeling he knows more than he’s telling?”

  Diego nodded. “You think we ought to put the pressure on, ask to see the receipts for these TVs?”

  Finn picked up his soda. It tasted of nothing. He put it down again.

  “So what now?” said Diego.

  “I put in a call to Vega down in Mexico, asked him to run Perez through their computer. Meantime, I still think the answer’s on La Catrina. I’m going to take another look. Also, that fishing boat Espendoza was on? I think we need to talk to her captain. You think you can meet me down at San Pedro at first light tomorrow?”

  Diego glanced at his watch. “In that case, I’m going home. Those guys start real early.”

  Finn nodded. He noticed that Diego hadn’t finished his beer. He couldn’t remember ever having left a drink unfinished.

  “Yeah, me too,” he said.

  They both slipped off their stools. Cutts came over to clear up.

  “I got an easy one for you this time, Cutts,” said Diego.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The Pacific Belle. That name mean anything to you?”

  Cutts’s eyes darted to the ceiling, then back to Diego. “What’s that, lad, a boat?”

  Diego gave Cutts a look of mock indignation. “No, it’s a brand of bra. Of course it’s a boat.”

  “A commercial fishing boat out of San Pedro, ju
st down the road here,” said Finn.

  “Never heard of her,” said Cutts.

  “You mean no one from the Pacific Belle ever drinks here?” said Diego, disbelieving.

  “If they did, I’d have heard of her, wouldn’t I?”

  Diego tsk-tsked. “It’s hard to take you seriously, Cutts. What kind of informant are you, doesn’t know anything?”

  Cutts gave Diego a hard look. “I never heard of the Pacific Belle or of the other one. But doesn’t mean I can’t find out what you want to know. What are you lads working on?”

  Finn knew that informants were a two-way street. It was best not to give them information you wanted to keep confidential. But before he could stop him, Diego leaned in and said, “We found a floater out in the channel might belong to her. A cholo from East L.A. named Espendoza. Thing is, she hasn’t reported any missing crew.”

  Cutts’s pale eyes stayed fixed on Diego for a moment. Then he set down a pad and pencil. “Give me your cell. I learn anything, I’ll call.”

  Diego wrote down his number on a square of paper. Finn watched Cutts slip it into his shirt pocket, then walk away. He glanced up at the bourbon on the top shelf.

  Finn and Diego left the bar. Each got into his truck, pulled out, and slipped into the traffic. Diego was in front. Finn kept his Tacoma below the speed limit, letting cars get between him and Diego’s black Silverado. Then he got caught at a light, and Diego’s truck went out of sight. Finn flicked on his indicator, went around the block, and parked in front of Bonito’s again.

  He took out his wallet, pulled out the card for the counselor. Ruth Grace, Ph.D., specializing in trauma and bereavement. There was a phone number, along with an e-mail and a street address. Finn got out his phone.

  Then he flicked the card onto the floor, locked the phone next to his Heckler & Koch in the glove compartment, and got out of the truck.

  He walked through the door back into the bar, feeling like a shook-up soda can, ready to pop.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Finn stood swaying on the sidewalk. He was trying to remember where he’d left his truck. It was late. He wasn’t sure how late, but he knew it was late because the sky was dark. He looked up at the halos around the vapor streetlamps and decided that they made him happy. He had no right to be happy, yet that was how he was feeling. What he was going to do now, he decided, was get into his truck and drive home. There was something about that proposition that seemed not quite right, but whatever it was slipped from his mind like an oyster from its shell.

  Staring at the vapor lights, he realized, was making him dizzy. He lowered his head, blinked a few times, and stumbled south along Harbor Boulevard, looking for his truck. He walked past Bonito’s, past an empty block, past a cut-price dry cleaner’s. By the time he got to the end of the block, he’d forgotten what he was looking for. He considered the gutter for a while. Then he turned around and stumbled back toward the bar, paying no mind to the two figures walking toward him. Finn stopped and stared at a truck with a dent in its front left panel. The dent looked familiar. After a minute, he realized he was looking at his truck. He stumbled toward it and felt around in his pocket for his keys.

  “Hey, sailor,” said a voice.

  Finn looked up and a knuckle caught him square on the nose. He fell back and slammed against his truck, dropping his keys. Another fist came in, this time into his kidney. The hit forced all the air out of him. He tried to take a swing, but he wasn’t seeing straight and he didn’t have anything to aim at. His eyes were all messed up and he couldn’t see the faces of whoever was hitting him. But he could smell them—they smelled of fish—and he definitely felt the knuckle-bones crash into him the third time, slamming into his jaw now, a good left hook with plenty of hip-swivel in it. Finn’s head hit the ground and decided to stay there awhile. His vision returned briefly, and he stared helplessly at two pairs of shoes. Finn noted, absurdly, that both his assailants were wearing sneakers. He saw something shiny on the ground between him and the shoes. His keys. A hand, not his own, picked them up. He tried to look up at the face that belonged to the hand. Before he could, he saw one of those shoes coming at his face.

  * * *

  Finn came to and through swollen eyes saw a stretch of dark sidewalk. He pushed himself up to his feet. That alone took everything he had. Every part of him ached. Especially his jaw, his nose, and his teeth, as well as his back, knees, elbows, ribs, kidneys, and eye sockets. He looked around. The sidewalk was deserted.

  His truck was still there. He leaned against it and felt his face. There were lumps in all the wrong places and his hand got wet with blood. He groaned and patted himself down. His wallet was still there, which surprised him. He pulled it out and checked it. It contained no cash, but then it probably had been empty when he’d walked out of Bonito’s. His credit cards and driver’s license weren’t missing.

  He lurched over to Bonito’s and tried the door, but it was locked. He move back toward the truck, looked down and saw his keys on the ground. Pain seared through his body when he bent down to pick them up. He got into his truck, closed the door, and leaned over to the passenger side. The glove compartment was open. He felt around inside.

  He found his phone and checked the time: 2 A.M. He felt around some more.

  “Goddammit,” he said.

  His Heckler & Koch was gone.

  * * *

  A noise woke him. He opened his eyes, took a moment to realize that he was at home, in bed. The palm was scraping against the windowpane again.

  Finn couldn’t remember driving home. He looked down and saw that he’d fallen asleep on the bed fully clothed. Mona’s bottle of white wine lay on its side on the floor. Next to it lay another bottle, of bourbon. Also some cans of beer.

  Finn didn’t remember drinking any of it. He’d have to clean it up before Mona got back. White wine, beer, and bourbon. It didn’t strike him as a wholesome combination.

  His stomach agreed: he stumbled to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. Then he went to the sink and splashed water on his face. When he looked up, he saw, reflected in the mirror, Mona standing in the bathroom doorway.

  “I had to take a cab from the airport,” she said. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

  Finn suddenly remembered that he had promised to pick her up at LAX. He wanted to disappear. He turned to face her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Her eyes were wide. “What happened to your face?” she said.

  “These two guys…”

  “Which two guys? Who? What happened?”

  He shook his aching head. He didn’t know.

  She turned and ran from the bedroom, down the stairs. Finn went after her. She’d left her suitcase, the handle extended, by the front door. He knew it was because she’d just returned from Sacramento, but it looked like she was all packed, ready to go, like she’d been planning to leave all along, the way Finn’s mother had left, all those years ago, her case ready by the door, his mother on the couch with her hands on her lap, waiting for his father to come home from the pub to tell him she was leaving.

  Mona had the door open and her hand on the suitcase handle when he caught up with her.

  “Mona, please, wait…” Feeling pathetic and terrified at once, he stood in front of the door, blocking her exit.

  She was crying. “Please, just let me go.” She avoided meeting his gaze.

  He put his arm out, blocked her way. “Mona, I’m sorry.”

  Now she did meet his gaze. “Sorry is easy. You were sorry last time, too. Remember?”

  “It won’t happen again, I swear.”

  “Just like last time. This is déjà vu.”

  Finn was getting angry. Didn’t she realize how much pressure he was under? Then he remembered, he hadn’t told her about the indictment hanging over him. Once she heard that, he figured, she’d go easy on him. She’d give him a get-out-of-jail-free card. Of course she would, once she knew what kind of pressure he was under. Any wom
an would, unless she had a stone in place of a heart.

  But when he told her, the flare-up in her eyes didn’t subside.

  “So, what? You expect me to stick around and help you? Is that it?” Mona was speaking really fast, spitting her words. “You want me to say, ‘Poor Nick, he’s in trouble, he’s stressed, so it’s okay if he leaves me stranded at the airport? It’s okay if he gets wasted, blacks out, comes back with broken teeth not knowing who broke them’? You’re not sorry for what you did, Nick. You’re just feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Finn held his ground. “We’re a family, Mona. This time, I promise—”

  “Don’t make promises again. It’s insulting. You think I want have a baby with you now? So she can see you drunk, with two black eyes? Get out of my way.”

  Finn felt the fight go out of him. He wanted the ground to open up beneath his feet. He stepped aside. Mona rushed out the door, got into her car, and was gone.

  * * *

  He searched through the kitchen drawers until he found the Advil. He washed down four with water that he drank directly from the faucet. Then he put the coffee on, sat down at the table, and waited.

  He listened to the fridge hum. He listened to the percolator hiss. Every now and then a car passed outside, but none of them stopped outside the house. None was the sound of Mona coming back.

  I’ve fucked it all up. Just like my father, he thought.

  Finn dug out his cell from his pocket. There were eight missed calls from Mona. He called her cell. It rang twice, then went to voice mail. She’d rejected his call.

  “Sorry,” he said. He wanted to say more, but the words didn’t come. He clicked off.

  Last time it had happened, she’d gone to her parents’ house. He considered calling them, or even going over there. Then he remembered the state he was in, the bruises and scrapes on his face, the alcohol soaked into his shirt.

  He poured himself some coffee and sat back down at the table. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t shot Perez, he thought. He needed to clean himself up, get back on the wagon, set things straight. Maybe he’d try one of those meetings she was always talking about. Yeah, that’s what he would do. He would clean up, then he would call her and say he was ready to go to a meeting.