Page 26 of Go First

The man turned.“Got a dollar?”

Kate looked at Marcus.Marcus, unhappily, handed over a five.

“Got no change,” said the man, making the note disappear up one ragged sleeve.

“Alright.What do you know?”Marcus asked.

“I know that it’s always a pleasure to assist the Federales.”

After saying that, the man gave them a grave salute, then began pushing his cart away.

“Hey!”Marcus shouted.

Without turning or stopping, the man called out, “Fish market, Payson.”

The cart wheels squealed away into the distance, leaving them with nothing but the cold morning air and a dozen new questions.

Marcus swore under his breath.“He stiffed us.”

Kate watched the retreating figure, her jaw tight.“He stiffed you.”

“Youstiffed me.”

By the time they reached the fish market, the sun was just dragging itself above the horizon, casting a pale wash of light across the wharves.The market itself was a frenzy of sound and motion.

Forklifts beeped as they maneuvered pallets of ice.Crates clattered onto concrete, bursting with gleaming fish—cod, mackerel, flounder, a multitude of weird and bewhiskered species Kate couldn’t even name.The air was sharp with salt, brine, diesel, and a Babel of tongues.Men shouted in English, Spanish, Vietnamese, Somali and Basque, their voices rising over one another as auctions unfolded in rapid bursts.

Stacks of cash changed hands openly, thick bundles rubber-banded, slipping from one calloused palm to another, men warding off the morning chill with much stamping of feet and swigging of hip-flasks.Buyers scribbled notes in ledgers, barked orders to crews, and vanished into refrigerated trucks.

It was an ancient scene, or like stepping into another land, one where the laws of ordinary time and space had been suspended.Here it was always dawn, always chaos, always the gamble of the day’s catch.

Kate felt eyes turn toward them the moment they stepped inside.Two Feds in suits, even without their badges displayed, stood out like blood on snow.

The first man they asked—a wiry Vietnamese wholesaler with hands like claws—merely shook his head.“Martinez?Go already.One hour before.”

The second—a burly Somali in a knit cap—snorted.“Not here today.Wrong place.”

But the third, a broad-shouldered and ruddy-faced man with a broken nose and a slightly wicked grin, seemed more inclined to assist.

“Ah, Hector,” he drawled, loud enough for a circle of men around him to hear.“Now, that’s a relatively common name amongst them of a Hispanic persuasion, so would that be the short Hector or the tall Hector?”

“Um.”Kate didn’t know how to answer: the photograph she’d obtained of Martinez’s driver’s license didn’t reveal that kind of detail.She turned her phone towards the man so that he could see.

“Aah.That’sLittle Hector.But you mustn’t ever call him that.He’s sensitive about it, ain’t that right, boys?”

Laughter erupted around them.The man spread his arms wide, enjoying the show.“The size don’t matter, honey, it’s what you do with it.Ask Officer Dibble over here!”

More laughs.Marcus’s jaw flexed.Kate held up a hand to keep him back.The laughter was a wall, and the more they pushed against it, the stronger it would get.

She was about to steer them out when something caught her eye.

Beyond the auction floor, down a narrow slip where trucks lined up with their engines idling, a food truck eased into motion.She recognized it at once: the colours, the kanji characters and manga-style illustrations, an octopus dancing with a shark.

“Martinez,” she breathed.

Marcus turned.“Where?”

She pointed.The truck was pulling away, its brake lights flaring.