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smiled.
    “Well, that’s about how I’m feeling,” Sturman said. “Hey, amigo, thanks for bringing her back, and for taking care of the dog.”
    Wincing, he raised his arm to shake Joe’s hand. His buddy had been there to take care of his two most prized possessions—his boat and his dog. Joe had a family and long hours with the sheriff’s department, but Sturman could always count on his help when he needed him. Joe shook his head. “Man, so you’re really all messed up? You don’t look any shittier than normal. Is that lady gonna be okay?”
    “I don’t know. Her husband will probably sue me, even though he’s the one who lost her.”
    “No shit. You should’ve just left her ass down there.” Joe raised his hand to the bartender, pointing at himself. “I’ll have what our cowboy’s having.”
    “Put everything on my tab, Jill.”
    Joe was always making fun of Sturman’s cowboy hat and slight country-boy drawl. Sturman didn’t wear boots much anymore, but he would always be a cowboy.
    Joe tried to get the story out of his friend. Sturman knew Joe wanted more details, but he wasn’t much of a talker. When Sturman explained how he had freed the woman from the ship hatchway, Joe said, “Too bad you can’t talk underwater. You could’ve gotten that chick to agree to anything for an escort to the surface.”
    “Hell. I’da been happy to just get a tip.”
    As was his way, Joe kept up the bad jokes. Beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol, Sturman laughed despite himself. That was Joe Montoya. When he wasn’t working, the man was never serious. Sturman had always figured that was a cop’s way of dealing with seeing gang-war victims and four-year-olds dismembered along highways.
    After another round of Dos Equis, the conversation died off. On the other side of the pub, someone struck a cue ball and the racked billiard balls separated with a loud smack a moment later.
    “Hey, man, you’ve dove and fished in this area for a long time. You know anything about a big fish called ‘the devil’ or a devil fish or something?”
    Sturman was silent for a moment. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Some guy got attacked by a shark or something a few days ago, and the kid we’re holding now claims the guy said something about the devil before he died. Looks like a shark laid into him.”
    Sturman sipped his beer. “Some people call mantas ‘devils’ because of the shape of their head. I’ve never heard of a ‘devil fish,’ though.”
    “Mantas don’t attack people, right?”
    Sturman grinned. “You sure don’t know shit for a cop with a boat. Mantas are sure as hell big enough, but they don’t even have any teeth.”
    “Huh. Anyway, this was another one of them coyotes smuggling immigrants by boat. The kid we arrested says he was supposed to pick up a bunch of them and shuttle them back. Can you believe that shit? Some Mexican just dumped them in the ocean, and this other guy was supposed to pick them up.”
    “You fuckin’ Mexicans.”
    “Fuck you, Sturman. Anyway, kid says only this one dying guy was there when he showed up. Coast Guard went out, but never found anyone else.”
    “Not many shark attacks around here. Not many dangerous sharks.”
    “True, but not many people float around in the ocean offshore at night. I don’t know. I figure the kid’s probably full of shit anyway.”
    A man across the room began shouting at Sturman. “Hey! Hey, shithead! Yeah, I’m talking to you. Fuckin’ cowboy in here again?”
    The men looked to the back of the bar at a group playing pool. The tallest of them, a shaggy-haired older man in a muscle shirt, was leaning on his pool cue and staring at Sturman.
    “You hear me, shithead? I’ll bet you my left nut I can take you in the next game.” The shouting man grinned, revealing yellowed teeth and a golden-capped canine.
    Joe shook his head. “You still hanging out with that lowlife?”
    Sturman couldn’t hold it against his