Part 2Cold Storage For The Greedy

It didn't take long for the "authorities" to arrive. A few minutes after I called the complaint line, a man in a faded windbreaker with an official-looking lanyard pushed through the crowd. He was balding, with a gut that hung over his belt and a bored expression.

Big Mike grinned the moment he saw him. "Director Halloway! Glad you’re here. This guy’s causing a scene, killed my fish, and now he’s trying to skip out on the bill."

I pointed to the high-definition security camera mounted directly above the stall. "Director, please check the footage. I was two feet away. I asked a price. I never touched the tank, let alone the fish."

Halloway didn't even look up at the camera. He didn't even look at me. "Cameras have been down for maintenance since Tuesday," he muttered, his voice flat. "Line issues."

I let out a short, sharp laugh. How convenient.

Halloway tucked his hands into his pockets, looked at the fish on the ground, and started in with a practiced, bureaucratic drone. "Look, son. Mr. Vancini has been a staple of this pier for fifteen years. Honest guy. These deep-sea fish are delicate. You start waving your hands around, you stress 'em out. If they flip, it’s on the person who caused the stress. That’s the code of the docks."

It was a masterpiece of gaslighting. This man was likely on my payroll indirectly—Voss Maritime paid a hefty "security and management" fee to the city for this district—and here he was, acting as the muscle for a shakedown.

Just then, an older man in a stained chef’s coat pushed through the onlookers. He sighed, looking at me with a face full of weary disappointment.

"Listen to him, kid," the old man said, sounding like a concerned grandfather. "I’m a chef at the bistro around the corner. Sea bass are high-strung. One bad shock and their hearts give out. These vendors work twenty-hour days for pennies. You look like you’re doing well for yourself. Don't be that guy. Don't ruin a man's day over a few bucks. Pay the man, and let's all get back to work."

The crowd murmured in agreement.

"Exactly. Look at his shoes—they cost more than my rent."

"Rich guys think they can just do whatever they want."

"Just pay him, you jerk."

The theater was flawless. They had their villain, their victim, and their moral compass. I was being cast as the heartless elite.

Halloway saw me go quiet and took it as a sign of surrender. He pulled a crumpled citation book from his pocket and ripped off a yellow slip, flicking it toward my chest.

"Enough talk," Halloway said, his voice hardening. "Pay the one-fifty plus the cleaning fee. If you keep obstructing the flow of trade, I’m calling the pier security to hold you in the cold storage office until you cool off. And believe me, you don't want to see the 'processing fee' for that."