“ Let’s head to the waterfront,” said Sanchez.
“ That’s what I always say.”
He led the way, and soon we were cruising down mostly-clean streets that reminded me a bit of Key West. One thing stood out immediately.
“ There’s no graffiti,” I said.
“ Not here,” said Sanchez. “But never very far.”
We moved down a narrow street peppered with outdoor cafes, tourist shops and random street stalls, all crowded with Caucasians moving around in small, protective herds. If anything, the Corona advertisements had become even more prolific.
Sanchez spotted me looking up at an overarching street sign that seemed to be advertising the local fresh markets. And Corona Beer. In fact, the beer logo was nearly twice the size of the real purpose of the sign, which was to advertise the various shops.
“ Don’t say anything, gringo. Yes, we Mexicans like our Corona. Let it go.”
“ I’ll let it go, if you quit calling me gringo.”
Sanchez rolled his eyes. In his world, we had a deal.
We cruised further along the street. A street vendor was selling fresh churros. The cinnamon scent somehow wafted into my partially rolled-down window. I think it was a sign. I pulled over and bought a couple of bags.
Sanchez shook his head. “Churros? Really?”
“ They smell heavenly.”
“ They do.”
“ They’re like longish donuts.”
“ Whatever you say.”
We snacked and drove and soon we came upon a narrow street lined with open stalls. And now another smell assaulted my olfactory.
“ The fish market, I presume,” I said.
“ You presume correct.”
“ Negro Mercado,” I said. “The fish black market.”
“ Right.”
“ And why’s it called that?”
“ Because they sell just about anything here. Legal, illegal and everything in-between.”
“ Would they sell shark fins here?”
“ We’ll see, but that’s sort of a hot topic. Shark fins attract bad publicity these days.”
“ And tourists shop here,” I said, noting the many gringos pouring in and out of the huge building as we cruised slowly down the side street.
“ Right.”
I wasn’t sure what we were hoping to find here, but the Negro Mercado seemed as good a place as any to begin our search for the La Bonita. S anchez had me park near an empty stall, and as we both got out, we brushed the cinnamon off the front of our tee shirts.
“ Hard to be badass when you’re covered in sugar,” said Sanchez.
“ Speak for yourself.”
“ Here’s the plan,” said Sanchez, ignoring me. “No one in there is gonna talk to me with you around. So entertain yourself while I ask around.”
“ I’m good at entertaining myself.”
“ J ust try not to look so white.”
“ I’ll do my best,” I said. “But no guarantees.”
Chapter Twenty-five
I found t he fish market disturbing.
Live eels squirming in filthy plastic trays. Live lobsters waiting to be boiled alive. Live sea urchins piled in buckets. I even watched as one vendor plucked an urchin from a bucket, sliced the spiny creature open, and displayed its yellowish insides to an interested customer. As the creature squirmed on the man’s palm, the customer nodded, shrugged, then moved on. The irritated vendor discarded the urchin into another bucket, where it continued to squirm for a few seconds more until it finally stopped moving altogether.
I strolled through the market, at once appalled and fascinated. Most stalls featured display cases packed with fish and ice. Most of the fish I didn’t recognize, but even a landlubber like me could spot the occasional halibut with its two eyes nearly side by side, or a massive bluefin tuna.
The market, which was easily twenty or thirty degrees cooler than outside, was packed tightly with stalls. Many of the stalls were overflowing with seafood and customers. It was hard to believe that this much animal life could be taken from the ocean on any given day, much less day after day, year after year. No doubt the oceans surrounding Ensenada were heavily exploited, which stood to reason why some Mexican shark hunters were forced to venture further north into U.S. waters.
After ten minutes of going up and down aisles, I spotted Sanchez speaking with an older man in the far corner of the massive, open-spaced building. The older man was sitting next to what had been a sword fish. The man held a machete, and every now and then he hacked off a chunk of fish flesh for an eager customer. The swordfish looked like it had seen better days.
With Sanchez busy, I feigned interest in a bucket of purple-shelled mollusks. So far, I had yet to see any shark fins. Or even sharks for that matter, although one stall nearby was selling the silver and white torso of a creature that looked suspiciously like a young great white shark. The sign above it read “Marlin.”
Then again, what did I know?
A few minutes later, Sanchez found me and pulled me aside. As he did so, I said, “Is it me, or have you noticed a sort of fishy smell in here?”
“ It’s always you, Knighthorse,” he said. Then added, “They don’t sell the shark fins here, muchacho. Shark fins are too hot even for the black market.”
“ So where to next?”
“ I’ve arranged for someone who will take us to the real black market.”
“ And why would they do that?”
“ Because they think we own an upscale seafood restaurant in Seattle.”
“ Why Seattle?”
Sanchez shrugged. “Large Asian population. Lots of money. Far enough north that it’s off their radar. Or maybe I just pulled it out of my ass. Does it matter?”
“ Fine,” I said. “So what’s next?”
“ We wait.”
“ Wait where?”
“ There’s a bar outside.”
“ Now that sounds like a plan.”
Chapter Twenty-six
We waited upstairs in a next-door dive bar called Tacos Luceros. Our seats were near the railing, which overlooked the fish market and some of downtown Ensenada.
Even from here, the stink of fish was heavy. I suspected I was going to smell like it for some days to come. A prospect I wasn’t looking forward to.
Just to mix things up a little, we were drinking Tecate. We had already crushed a bowl of chips, and soon, the cute waitress was bringing us more. As she set the bowl down, along with more salsa, she smiled shyly at me. As she left, I decided her curved hips might just have been perfect.
“ Too skinny,” said Sanchez, wrinkling his nose.
“ If she had smiled at you, she would have been perfect.”
“ If she smiled at me, Danielle would have come down here and tear apart her restaurant.”
“ Your wife scares me,” I said.
“ Me, too.”
“ But I admire her…passion,” I said.
“ Me, too,” said Sanchez. “So, do we have a plan, muchacho?”
“ A plan for what?”
“ In case we come across La Bonita?”
We had a nice view of the parking lot leading up to the fish market. I also had a nice view of the nearby harbor and a lot of Spanish-style architecture with pale yellow and red walls. The sun was shining nearly straight down and, other than the strong fish stink, I could have been chillaxing on my balcony in Huntington Beach. I idly wondered what Jack was up to. Probably busy putting out some fires.
“ Well?” said Sanchez.
I drank more Tecate and finally shrugged. “No clue.”
A leggy young lady strolled beneath us. Her legs, I saw, had a bruise or two. Her shorts were too short, and her top was too tight.
“ Prostitute?” I said to Sanchez.
He nodded. “Would be my guess.”
“ Are we generalizing?”
“ And stereotyping,” he said.
“ We’re on a roll,” I said.
Sanchez drank more beer. “So what do you hope to accomplish by coming here, kemosabe?”