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.”