“Check the belt.”
I checked the belt running into the building. It appeared deserted.
“Nobody around,” I said.
“Just keep watching for a minute,” said Zapata.
Stick put lighter to cigarette and hunched down behind the wheel.
A man with a clipboard came out of the shrimp house. He was a short man with a white beard, rather
benevolent looking, with a stomach that was used to too many beers. His bullet head was covered by a
bright green fishing cap, and he was checking wooden crates piled against the back of the building. I
watched him for a full minute before I realized it was Tuna Chevos. A new beard and dark glasses
were my own excuses. I knew that face well.
“Son of a bitch,” I said. “There he is, the missing link. I knew it! I knew that old bastard had to be
around here. That means Nance can?t be too far away. How did you tumble on to them?”
“Shit, this was easy,” Zapata said. “You said Chevos ran barges on the Ohio River. Seemed logical
he?d stick to the same trade, especially since shrimp boats move a lot of grass. So I got out the phone
book, turned to shrimp companies. I got lucky. This is the third place I checked out.”
“What?s the name of this joint?” I asked.
“Jalisco Shrimp Company,” Stick answered.
“Let?s find out who owns it.”
“Check.”
Another man joined Chevos, a tall, lean, ferret of a man who walked on the balls of his feet, loose and
rangy. His head moved constantly, as though lie were stalking some unsuspecting prey. I could almost
smell his feral odour three hundred yards away.
“There he is,” I said, no longer trying to conceal my hatred of Turk Nance. “That?s Nance.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Zapata said. He was grinning like the man in the moon.
“You did good, Chino,” I said.
“Thanks. Piece of cake, this one.”
“You really have a hard-on for Nance, don?t you?” Stick said.
“I owe the son of a bitch.”
“Well, maybe we can fix it so you?ll be accommodated,” Zapata said almost gleefully.
“That would be nice,” I answered. “At least we know they?re all here.”
I watched them taking inventory of the shrimp boxes.
“They look like they?re actually working for a living,” I said.
“These are the real bad ones, huh?” asked Zapata.
