Street Justice (2 page)

“I’ll take all you can get me,” Adrian replied, leaning back, trying to look relaxed. As much as he’d hated the shot, it was already swimming though his brain and was helping him match his outward appearance. He took a swig from one of the bottles in front of him to sell his image.

“That is a lot of product,” Mack said from beside Adrian. Adrian turned but because of the tight quarters, he couldn’t quite get turned a full ninety degrees so he had a better view of the kitchen and the portal where they’d entered than of Mack.

“So what are you going to do with it all,” Brian asked.

“Well, not that it’s any of your business, but I have some friends in the Land of the Rising Sun who'll take it off my hands.”

“You know it’s a pain to transport right? Do you have a way to move it?”

“I’m not sure that’s your problem,” Adrian replied.

Mack’s voice rose slightly as he interjected, “It is our business. If you’re sloppy and they bust you then they get one step closer to us. We can’t have that. You can’t just by the ducks' a seat on a plane.”

“Risks are part of the game,” Adrian said, taking another sip of his beer.

“Risks are. Stupid risks, like selling to an amateur are not,” Mack replied.

“Fine, I’ll tell you if you tell me. How do you get the ‘ducks' past fish and wildlife?” Adrian tried to maintain a straight face. When he’d first heard about the underground gooey duck market he mocked it more than worried about it. But as he researched he found that illegal gooey ducks was a multi-million dollar market and ninety percent of it was based in the Puget Sound - and that the illegal smugglers of gooey ducks were every bit as ruthless as any drug dealer.

Gooey ducks are a large relative to the oyster. They can grow up to two feet long and grow in large beds around the Puget Sound. But because of their slow growth and the large size of adults, it took them a long time to mature. This meant that unchecked fishing was decimating their population. So the Fish and Wildlife Department and licensed commercial gooey duck fishers and limited how much they could catch. But the gooey duck was a delicacy in Asian countries and the amount the Fish and Wildlife Department had set was much too low for demand, thus the black market for them.

Mack looked at Brian. Brian gave him a small nod, “Well as you may or may not know, “'The Chive” here is a licensed gooey duck boat. This gives us a reason to be out at the gooey duck beds. We use external tanks, magnetically attached to the sides of The Chive. We then deposit a portion of what we haul up from the bottom in these containers.”

“But that idea is not new, though most folks using magnetic containers simply leave the harvest out of the official hold tanks, overboard in net or bags. The Fish and Wildlife guys know about this and they check. How do you get around the checks?” Adrian pursued.

“Ahh, there is the magic, and it’s why we use the magnetic tanks. We time our runs to when other boats are traveling near the beds and headed toward these docks. Then we motor the tanks over on sleds and attach them to those boats. They travel in, never knowing they are carrying the tanks, the Fish and Wildlife people don’t check out the boats that aren’t carrying Fish and Wildlife things and customs isn’t checking for external gooey duck tanks since it’s not their issue. Then we use the underwater sled to go get them later, usually at night,” Mack sat back obviously proud of the plan. Adrian had to give a slight nod of appreciation, it was simple yet effective. It also explained why this fishing boat was tied up in a shipping yard.

Brian reached over and put his fingers on one of the shot glasses. That was the indication that it was time to take another shot. Adrian’s head was starting to swim already, Adrian was not much of a drinker. He tenderly reached out for the shot glass. No sooner had his fingers touched it than Brian said, “A bird with one wing can’t fly.” Then he and Mack slammed back their shots. Adrian’s mouth flooded with saliva, not out desire for the drink, it was his body’s way to try and start diluting the liquor as he brought it to his lips. Rather than shoot it, he took two large sips. This turned out to be a bad choice as it allowed him to taste more of the strong brown alcohol. His face scrunched up involuntarily and he shook his head.

He set the glass back down and took a sip of his beer trying to remove the taste of the whiskey from his mouth. A small burp came up and the contents of his stomach tried to follow. Adrian took a few deep breaths, then brought his hand to his mouth and clinched his jaw shut. The two other men watched Adrian with silly grins on their faces. After a moment Adrian removed his hand and relaxed. He paused for a moment and waited to see if his body would use this opening to try and reject the contents of his stomach again. It didn’t, so he relaxed further.

“So we showed you ours, now show us yours. How do you plan on getting them from here to your contacts?” Brian prompted as he refilled the shot glasses. Adrian paused as the smell from the pouring whiskey nearly caused his stomach to try another rebellion.

“Well,” Adrian paused, trying to relax again, “As you may or may not know, those large container ships that come over here are usually bringing in goods from China or Japan. OK, you most likely knew that, but did you know that for every two containers that come this way, we send one back. And not empty, one of the most common items sent back is scrap metal. Cars, appliances, construction debris, et cetera. And did you know one of the largest processing centers for scrap metal is here in Seattle?”

Without pausing for an answer to his rhetorical question, Adrian continued, “So I have a friend…” Adrian was feeling quite a buzz now and used his fingers to make air quotes when he said the word “friend.” “…who manages this yard, who can get specially made tanks into these returning containers. These tanks have all the ‘ducks need for a two week trip sealed up and surrounded by literally tons of scrap metal. Then on the far side, our guys pick up the containers and drive them out of the yard.”

“That sounds reasonable, and well enough thought out, so now down to brass tacks,” Mack said, “The gooeys are ten bucks a pound at wholesale, ours will cost you eight dollars a pound. How does that sound?

“Sounds,” Adrian paused for effect, “Like you two are under arrest.” Adrian reached in and pulled out his badge, but in his state of dulled senses, he did not quite close his fingers on the badge and it slipped from his hands. The metal shield in the thin leather case made a dull thud. For a moment the three men all froze. Adrian realized the position he was in and a shot of adrenalin rushed through his veins. He looked up from the badge, which was sitting face up on the table, at the two men. They glance at him, then at each other.

Adrian reached his hands toward his belt line. His left hand grabbed his belt which he intentionally left loose, his right hand streaking down toward his groin. Mack started to move out of the booth and around the small table. Brian was trying to come straight over the top. Adrian’s fingers found the small .22 he’d tucked in tight to his crotch and pulled it. His hand with the gun cleared his belt and was swinging toward Brian when Mack caught his arm with a meaty, calloused hand and jammed it back behind his head. Adrian did not let go of the small weapon.

Adrian shifted away from Mack, then stood up, allowing his arm to drop from being tucked behind his head out and down to shoulder level. From there, he had leverage against Mack and he pushed down. Mack crashed into the table, his head cracked the edge and he fell to the seat, blocking Adrian in. Mack moaned and let go of Adrian’s arm but almost immediately started trying to right himself.

Brian, by this point, had finished extricating himself from the far side of the table and was scrambling over on his hands and knees. Adrian met him face-to-face. Adrian jerked his right arm, trying to get the gun clear from under the table so he could bring it to bear on Mack. But Mack was already across the table and tackled Adrian, wrapping both arms around his torso.

The bench was too small for Adrian to fall back or even move more than a few inches, but he also couldn’t extract himself. Adrian tried to break free but Brian was more than a smuggler, he was a dock worker and a fisherman. Twenty years of hauling cargo, moving traps and rigging lines had made Brian strong and tireless. Brian was bent back, his arms wrapped low around Adrian’s arms, nearly at the elbow, not giving Adrian any leverage. Brian’s rough beard was jammed against Adrian’s neck. Adrian could feel Brian’s heavy wet breath on his shoulder.

The two men struggled back and forth for a few seconds, Adrian trying to break free with Brian tenaciously holding on. The struggle lasted for a few seconds then both men stopped to breathe. Brian’s heavy weight sat on Adrian’s chest restricting his ability to suck in oxygen while Brian’s odd body angle made everything difficult. The men struggled again, rested again. The two men seemed to be at an impasse. Adrian saw a small movement out of the corner of his eye and realized that Mack was regaining awareness. He redoubled his attempt to break free but Brian held fast. Brian too heard Mack and knew he only had to hold on a little bit longer before help arrived.

Mack stood, and quickly reached over to Adrian’s right hand which was pinned against his thigh. With a rough twist, he wrenched the small gun from Adrian’s hand. He raised it and brought it down hard on Adrian’s skull. Adrian went woozy. The room spun and the edges of his vision blackened, making small tunnels for him to see through. But Adrian did not pass out. Still he closed his eyes.

“Did you kill him?” Adrian heard Brian ask. He felt Brian’s grip ease, slowly and tentatively.

“No, I can see him breathing but I may have given him a concussion. Adrian felt himself being pulled from the booth roughly. They dropped him on the floor. While Adrian knew this was happening his body was not responding to his brain’s signals and he could do nothing to prevent his head from hitting the floor sending another shock of pain through his brain. His cheek squished into the thin, grimy carpet.

Adrian heard the noise of the two men moving to either side of him. He opened his eyes. While his vision was still a bit tunneled, he could see the yellow-green carpet covered in unidentifiable stains and the black toe of Mack’s well worn boot. He could smell the musty mildew seeping from the carpet and feel a thin line of drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. He tried to flex his arms. They moved slightly but not enough. Still, some control was coming back.

Four hands strengthened by years of working on boats and docks picked up Adrian as if he weighed nothing. “What do you want to do with this piece of shit?,” Brian asked.

“I don’t know. It'd be easiest just to kill him, but he’s an FBI agent, that could bring down some heavy heat,” Mack replied, “Still I don’t know what else to do. We can’t let him go, how else can we keep him quiet?”

“There isn’t any other way,” Brian offer, “I say we kill ‘im and be done with it. They’ll never find him at the bottom of the Sound.”

“Would you shut up, I’m trying to think,” Mack spat back, “Screw it, you’re right. Let’s hurry. Let’s not move The Chive, it’ll be suspicious for us to move the entire boat. Let’s quickly, and quietly, move him to one of the launches, then we’ll take that out to the middle of the Sound and drop him.”

Mack hadn’t even finished talking before Brian was already headed toward the door. Adrian tried to move his legs but they still weren’t moving enough to do any good, not against these two. The group was too wide to fit through the tiny portals leading outside three abreast so Brian took the lead and stepped through. “Hold him,” he hissed to Mack when they got to the dogged hatch leading outside.

Mack easily took Adrian’s weight. Brian opened the door then took up his side of Adrian. Brian stepped through the portal and immediately asked, “What are you doing here?”

Mack heard a muted, “Hey man” from just behind the open door.

“Who is it?” he asked looking out the door to Brian who was washed in the orange phosphorous light while Mack stood in the dimness of the tiny hallway.

Brian looked back at Mack and replied, “It’s just the bum.

“He was just a bum, now he’s a witness,” Mack said.

Without a word, Brian let go of Adrian and lunged toward the bum. There was less than two feet between Brian and the bum when he lunged, and Brian’s movements were quick through years of dodging unexpected booms and objects moving due to snapped lines. Brian lunged through where the bum was, trying to put his shoulder hard into the man’s chest.

But trying was the operative word. In the blink it took Brian to get to the bum, the bum had already moved. Brian’s momentum carried him away from the still open hatch. The bum sauntered past Brian and poked his head around the door, “Hey, watcha doin’?” The bum’s tone was almost childlike.

“Get out of here,” Mack snarled. The bum locked eyes with Mack. Rather than the dull, shifty eyes Mack had expected, the bum’s eyes were bright, they almost seemed to dance, and they noticed everything.

Without breaking eye contact with Mack, the bum quickly took three steps backward, leaning his back over the rail slightly, just enough to let Brian’s stocky frame rush past him in yet another failed attempt to wrap him up. With Brian past, the bum moved forward, toward Adrian and Mack. He stepped calmly over the combing and into the tiny hallway, pressing up against Adrian. Mack instinctively took a step back.

In one smooth motion, the bum closed the door and dogged it closed. He finally broke eye contact with Mack long enough to snap the lock into place so the door couldn’t be opened from outside. Mack used this moment to step back into the kitchen dragging Adrian’s body with him. Adrian was still slowly recovering and was now able to support part of his weight but was still unable to resist Mack’s strong grip.