“That’s cause to celebrate?” I asked.
“For some.”
I shook my head. Sanchez grinned, pleased with himself. We drove on mostly in silence. Mexico is home to some pristine beaches. In California, the pristine beaches would have been turned into multimillion-dollar properties. Here, the beaches were mostly left alone, broken up by modest-sized homes that were often tagged with graffiti. We passed a variety of cars, but the prevalent vehicles were old pickup trucks piled dangerously high with junk. Where all that junk went to, I hadn’t a clue.
“Ever been to Ensenada?” I asked.
“Often.”
“Do you know where the illegal fish markets are?”
“No,” he said, “but we can ask around.”
“Will people talk to you with me around?”
Sanchez looked at me from the passenger seat. “Probably not. You look like a cop.”
“A big cop,” I said.
“With a big head.”
I shook my head. “I should never have told you that story.”
Sanchez grinned and sat back and closed his eyes. “Too bad for you.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Two hours later, we were in Ensenada.
A minor resort town, Ensenada even boasted a modest port that could birth a massive cruise liner. Which it currently did. The thing looked impossibly big and shiny, like a skyscraper lying on its side. Or a mother ship docking from outer space.
“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. Sanchez 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.”
“Just try not to look so white.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. “But no guarantees.”
Chapter Twenty-five
I found the 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?”