We pile in, trying to be cool about the muzzle of the shotgun. The air is stale and hot inside the car, and the rear door handles are missing. The meaty patrolman induces some wheelspin for our benefit. We roll, unsure whether we're going home fast or to headquarters. Either way, we've been captured.
"Nice bunch of pintails you got there. Where'd you get 'em?"
"Yeah? Where are they?"
"Oh, out on the edge of the bay. South of the third PG&E tower."
"Yeah. We never get skunked there. We call it 'the Channel of Plenty.' "
My brother Dan and I grin at each other in the darkness of the back seat. Why should we tell him where we'd gotten the birds? Why get the real Channel of Plenty raided and wrecked by a horde of hungry cops?
"This where you live?"
"Yep." Our birds and muddy gear are dumped on the lawn.