There was the matter of sleeping arrangements, next, complicated by the fact that we didn’t want to split up. The more of us there were, in one locked space, the stronger our chances—who was to say another contingent of hotel employees wouldn’t show up, this time with firearms and greater powers of coercion? So we decided to camp out on sofas and the floor, posting sentries throughout the night. We’d take shifts, two at a time, one at the front window and one at the sliders; we kept the outside lights on. As Rick pointed out, if they had real brains they’d cut the power to our cabana, but it hadn’t occurred to them to do that, I guess—and here again their incompetence, as adversaries, was helpful.
But before we could sleep there was the problem of Chip’s appointment with the undercover spearfisher. He couldn’t keep it alone, since we didn’t do solo travel. We decided that Rick, Chip, and I would do the sortie.
It seems a little poignant, in retrospect, to think how we armed ourselves with kitchen knives—mine in particular, since it was a bread knife with a rounded end. I didn’t feel comfortable carrying a butcher’s knife, figured I’d slice myself to ribbons. So I took up arms with the bread knife, meaning the worst I could have done to an attacker was scrape him, kind of broadside—cause an abrasion of some kind.
But night served us well as we crept along the backs of buildings. Chip had mapped our route out in his head; he had orienteering skills gained while gaming in made-up lands. We didn’t use flashlights, though Thompson had lent us some, but relied on our eyes and Chip’s sense of direction, and whenever we heard the electric whir of a golf cart in the near distance we’d dodge behind a clump of trees, taking cover.
By and by we fetched up behind the main building, near the bar’s patio, where we were screened from view by an oleander hedge. It was five minutes till the meet time. We stood there wordless, waiting. The tampon spearfisher was late, of course, punctuality wasn’t his strong suit. When he finally stumbled out onto the patio, beer in hand, I could see right away he was a few sheets to the wind.
“Psst!” said Chip. “Over here!”
It took the fisherman a minute to make us out, shadowy figures behind the screen of foliage. He fought his way through branches, swearing; he dropped his beer bottle on the flagstones, making noise, and then complained it had been almost full.
“I have your cash,” said Chip. “But first we need the goods.”
“This is some sneaky shit,” said the fisherman, and actually belched. “So what’s your angle, man? Still trying to keep the mermaids for yourselves?”
“Not for ourselves,” said Chip. “That’s not the point at all.”
“Enough with the chitchat,” said Rick. “You’re here to make a buck, right? What’ve you got? Was there another sighting?”
“Nah,” said the fisherman. “They dropped the nets, though, and those nets are massive, man. We’re talking goddamn miles of them. Saw tons of dolphins.”
It was good, I thought, they hadn’t seen any mermaids, but I felt a pang about those long, long nets. I wondered if they were the kind that scrape along the floor of the ocean, wrecking and killing everything. I’d seen a documentary. They probably were, I cogitated gloomily. Otherwise how could they be sure of sealing it all off?
“Then what’s the plan?” said Chip. “What’s next?”
“Tomorrow we search the grid. They’ve got it all mapped out, you know, into these squares. And as we search, they move the nets. We basically search the area, square by square, right? And as we exclude the squares, we bring the nets closer in.”
“I see,” said Chip. “How about leadership? Who’s in charge of this operation?”
“Shit, I don’t know. They brought in suits from Florida. Plus there’s this geeky professor dude.”
Chip and I exchanged glances.
“An anthropologist? From Berkeley?” I said.
“Yeah, right,” said the spearfisher. “An anthrocologist. Yeah, he’s advising the suits. On search logistics.”
I could barely believe it. Nancy’s old colleague was a turncoat too. You couldn’t trust anyone, in this world we inhabited. Or was he just a stooge? Had they even told this guy what happened to Nancy? Did they secure his help under false pretenses?
My mind has cogs, and they were spinning.
“So what’s their endgame?” prodded Chip. “They want to, what? Sell tickets? To this Venture of Marvels? Sell tickets to see the mermaids?”
“Biggest tourist destination in the world,” slurred the fisherman. “It’ll be like Disneyland. You kidding me?”
“They already do fine with tourism,” demurred Rick.
“But see, the reefs, man,” slurred the fisherman. “Everyone knows they’re bleaching. Everyone knows they’re dying out. Shit. You can see it with the naked eye. Every reef man knows. I’m a reef man, see? But it’s some dying shit, those reefs. The reefs are done, dude. Done like a dinner. Global-ass warming. Acid oceans. Hey. Can I go in, get me another brew? I’ll come out again.”
“No, man,” said Chip. “Come on. Talk to us first. Then get your beer.”
“Killjoy,” said the fisherman. “Listen. It’s too bad, but the reefs are over. This is the next big thing, my dudes. Without the coral reefs, out here, we don’t have shit. Sand, water, you can get that boring crap in Florida. Hell, even in Jersey. This is the next big meal ticket. Man, this is it. I mean this is all we’ve got.”
And with that he held out his hand for the cash.
IT’S FAIR TO say we felt downcast, as we walked back to the cabana. I was remembering
