Tanked -

And now he was in the hands of Chester “Chet” Marlin, owner of The Gilded Grouper, a man who served imitation crab and called it “artisanal loaf.”

“You’re holding a beloved aquatic performer for ransom,” she said. “That concerns every small business owner in this zip code.”

Reginald, as if on cue, waved a tiny claw. It might have been a greeting. It might have been a command for more algae wafers. With Reginald, you could never be sure. And that was exactly the point.

Barn watched Reginald perform a perfect, slow-motion backflip off the plastic arch. “Most people don’t have a shrimp with a better agent than they do.” Tanked

Karma leaned against the counter, holding a mug of terrible coffee. “You know,” she said, “most people would have just paid the ransom.”

They emerged through a rusty grate into the basement of The Gilded Grouper. It was a fluorescent-lit horror show of canned goods and dust. And there, in the corner, was the tank.

Karma stopped wiping. She set the glass down. She leaned forward, her face a mask of profound, professional concern. “How much?” And now he was in the hands of

“Tanked” was the only bar in a three-block radius that opened before 10 a.m. It was a dim, sticky-floored haven for off-duty carnies and day-drinking plumbers. Behind the bar, wiping a glass with a rag that was dirtier than the glass, was Karma.

Chet lunged. It was not a strategic lunge. He tripped over a box of single-use ramekins and went sprawling. The aquarium net flew from his hand. In that split second, Barn saw his chance. He didn’t go for Chet. He went for Reginald.

He scooped the shrimp into the Tupperware with a smooth, practiced motion. Reginald didn’t even flinch. He simply shifted his weight, adjusted his antennae, and gave Chet a look that could only be described as smug. It might have been a command for more algae wafers

Karma stared at him for a long, slow ten seconds. Then she reached under the counter and pulled out a ring of rusted keys that looked like medieval torture devices. “I’m not letting you in,” she said. “I’m coming with you. I’ve been waiting six years for a reason to ruin Chet Marlin’s day.” The storm drain was cold, wet, and smelled like old secrets. Karma moved with a surprising grace, her boots splashing quietly. Barn followed, clutching a butterfly net and a Tupperware container.

“My shrimp has been kidnapped,” Barn blurted.

The ransom note was written on a napkin from a rival truck, “The Gilded Grouper,” and pinned under a salt shaker. $5,000 or the shrimp gets the big sleep. No cops. No crustacean psychics.

“Five grand.”