Drowned Hopes Part 9

Wally swung around in his swivel chair, facing away from the computer for the first time, looking up eagerly at Kelp, saying, "But it isn't wrong, Andy! Okay, the first idea was, the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p finds the treasure. Or whatever finds the treasure. But then the magnet attaches to it, and you pull it up out of the water."

"Wally," Kelp said gently, "what we figure, roughly figuring, the treasure weighs somewhere between four hundred and six hundred pounds. That's gotta be a pretty big magnet you're talking about."

"Well, sure," Wally said. "That's what we thought."

"You get it the same place you got the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p," Dortmunder told Kelp.

Wally swiveled around to look up at Dortmunder, his expression earnest, moist eyes straining to be understood. "It doesn't have to be a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p, John," he said. "Like, a submarine, you know, a submarine's just like a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p."

"Well, that's true," Dortmunder admitted.

"Or a boat," Wally said. "Once you find the treasure, you know exactly where it is, you can lower the magnet, pull the treasure up."

"Yeah, but, you know," Dortmunder said, more gently than he'd intended (it wasn't easy to be hard-edged or sardonic when gazing down into that round guileless face), "you know, uh, Wally, part of the problem here is, we don't want anybody to see us. You put a boat, a big boat with a big magnet, out on the reservoir, they're just gonna see you, Wally. I mean, they really are."

"Not at night," Wally pointed out. "You could do it at night. And," he said more eagerly, getting into the swing of it, "it doesn't matter about it being dark, because it's going to be dark down at the bottom of the reservoir anyway."

"And that's also true," Dortmunder agreed. He looked over Wally's soft head at Kelp's grimacing face. Kelp seemed to be undergoing various emotional upheavals over there. "We'll do it at night," Dortmunder explained to Kelp, benignly.

"Wally," Kelp said, desperation showing around the edges, "show us solution number three, Wally. Please?"

"Okay," Wally said, eager to be of help. Turning right back to his computer, he tickled the keyboard once more, and away went 2A) MAGNET. In its place appeared: 3) PING-PONG b.a.l.l.s.

Kelp sighed audibly. "Oh, Wally," he said.

"Well, wait a minute," Dortmunder told him. "That's not a bad one."

Kelp stared at him. "It isn't?"

"No, it isn't. I get the idea of that one," Dortmunder said, and explained, "That's like one of the things in that book I brought back from the library, that Marine Salvage book. Of course, I only read a little of the book on the subway coming home, before Andy said let's go see what you have on all this."

Kelp said, "John? Ping-Pong b.a.l.l.s are in the book?"

"Not exactly," Dortmunder admitted. "But it led me to the same kind of thought. There's sunken s.h.i.+ps where to get them up they fill them with polyurethane foam or polystyrene granules, and it's really just plastic bubbles of air taking the place of all the water inside the s.h.i.+p-"

"That's right!" Wally said. He was so excited at the idea of actual brain-to-brain contact with another human being at this level that he positively bounced in his chair. "And what is a Ping-Pong ball?" he asked rhetorically. "It's just a ball of air, isn't it? Enclosed in a thin, almost weightless skin of plastic!"

"It's a way to get a lot of air down to the s.h.i.+p in a hurry without a lot of trouble," Dortmunder went on, explaining it all to Kelp. "So I was thinking, maybe you could fire them down through a length of hose."

Kelp stared at his old friend. "John? This is your kind of solution?"

"Well, no, because the problem is," Dortmunder said, and looked down at Wally's gently perspiring face, "the problem is, Wally, this isn't a s.h.i.+p. It's a closed box, and if we open it to put the Ping-Pong b.a.l.l.s in, we're gonna get water in there and spoil all the, uh, treasure."

"Well, that's solution three-A," Wally said, and his fingers played a riff on the keyboard, and now the screen said: 3A) PLASTIC BAG.

"Oh, sure," Dortmunder said. "That makes sense. We're down there, somehow, probably in our s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p, and we find this six-hundred-pound box and we dig it up, probably with our giant magnet, and then we put it in our giant plastic bag, and then we fill that with Ping-Pong b.a.l.l.s, and it just floats right to the surface. Easy."

"Well, kind of," Wally said, his feet shuffling around among the casters of his swivel chair. "There's still some bugs to be ironed out."

"Some bugs," Dortmunder echoed.

"Wally," Kelp said desperately, "show us solution number four."

"Well, Andy, there isn't one," Wally said, swiveling slowly in Kelp's direction.

Kelp looked aghast. "There isn't one?"

"Not yet," Wally amended. "But we're working on it. We're not finished yet."

"That's okay," Dortmunder told him. "Don't worry about it. This has been a very educational experience."

Kelp looked warily at Dortmunder to see if he was trying to be sardonic. "Educational?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah," Dortmunder said. "It clears up my thinking a lot, between tricky and simple. I know which way I'm going now." Patting Wally's soft shoulder-it felt like patting a mozzarella cheese-Dortmunder said, "You've been a great help, Wally. Just like Andy said."

FIFTEEN.

"Walk in?" Kelp demanded.

They were at that moment strolling through Paragon Sporting Goods, on Broadway and 18th Street, heading for the underwater department up on the second floor. "That's the simplest way I can think of," Dortmunder answered, as they trotted up the wide steps. "And, after that little song and dance from your pal and his computer-"

"Wally was a great disappointment to me," Kelp said. "I must admit it. But still, the original model he did was something terrific."

They reached the second floor and turned right. "Wally's a great model maker," Dortmunder agreed. "But when it comes to plans, just like I was telling you from the beginning, I don't need help from machines."

"Sure you don't, John," Kelp said. "But just to walk in? Are you sure?"

"What could be simpler?" Dortmunder asked him. "We put on underwater stuff so we can breathe down there. We get a flashlight and a shovel and a long rope, and we go to the edge of the reservoir and we walk in. We walk downhill until we come to the town, and we find the library, and we dig up the box, and we tie the rope to it. Then we walk back uphill, right along the rope, and when we come out on dry land we pick up the other end of the rope and we pull. Simple."

"I don't know, John," Kelp said. "Walking down fifty feet under water never struck me as exactly simple."

"It's simpler than s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps from Zog," Dortmunder said, and stopped. "Here we are."

There they were. For reasons best known to management, the underwater equipment at Paragon is upstairs; top floor, off to the right of the wide staircase. When Dortmunder and Kelp walked into this section and stopped and just stood there, looking around, they did not at first glance seem as though they belonged here. At second glance, they definitely didn't belong, not in this department, not in this store, probably not even on this block. One was tall, stoop-shouldered, pessimistic, walking with a shuffling nonathletic jail-yard gait, while the other was shorter, narrower, looking like the sort of bird that became extinct because it wouldn't ever learn to fly.

The flightless bird said, "So what are we looking for?"

"Help," said the pessimist, and turned around to see a healthy young woman approaching with many questions evident on her face.

The one she chose to begin with was, "Looking for anything in particular, gentlemen?"

"Yeah," Dortmunder told her. "We wanna go underwater."

She studied them with doubt. "You do?"

"Sure," Dortmunder said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "Why not?"

"No reason," she said, with a too-bright smile. "Have you gentlemen ever done any diving before?"

"Diving?" Dortmunder echoed.

"You are talking about diving, aren't you?" the girl asked.

"Going underwater," Dortmunder repeated, and even made a little parting-the-waves gesture to make things clearer: putting the backs of his hands together, then sweeping them out to the sides.

"In the ocean," the girl said dubiously.

"Well, no," Dortmunder said. "In a kind of lake. But still, you know, under. In it."

"Freshwater diving," the girl said, smiling with pleasure that they were communicating after all.

"Walking," Kelp said. Sticking his oar in, as it were.

So much for communication. Looking helplessly at Kelp, the girl said, "I beg your pardon?"

"We're not gonna jump in it," Kelp explained. "Not diving, walking. We're gonna walk in it."

"Oh," she said, and smiled with great healthy delight, saying, "That makes no difference, not with the equipment." Turning slightly, to include Dortmunder in her smile, she said, "I take it you gentlemen haven't gone in for diving before."

"There's a first time for everything," Dortmunder told her.

"Absolutely," she said. "Where are you taking your instruction?"

"Instruction?" Kelp said, but Dortmunder talked over him, saying, "At the lake."

"And what equipment will you be needing?"

"Everything," Dortmunder said.

That surprised her again. "Everything? Won't you be able to rent anything at all from the pro?"

"No, it don't work that way at this particular lake," Dortmunder said. "Anyway, right now we're just looking to see what we'll need, what kinda equipment and all."

"Tanks and air and all that," Kelp added, and pointed toward a number of scuba tanks displayed on the wall behind the gla.s.s counter full of regulators and goggles and waterproof flashlights.

The girl lost her smile for good. Frowning from Dortmunder to Kelp and back, she said, "I'm not sure what you gentlemen are up to, but it isn't diving."

Dortmunder gave her an offended look. "Yeah, we are," he said. "Why would we want the stuff?"

"All right," she said crisply, either giving him the benefit of the doubt or choosing brisk explanation as the quickest way to get rid of these noncustomers. "Clearly," she said, "you don't know anything about the world of diving."

"We're just starting out," Dortmunder reminded her. "I told you that, remember?"

"You can't do it without an instructor," she said, "and it's pretty clear you don't have an instructor."

Dortmunder said, "Why can't we just read up on it in a book?"

"Because," she told him, "there are only two ways you can dive. Either with an accredited instructor right there beside you, or with your certification that you've taken and pa.s.sed the three-day introductory course."

Kelp said, "You know, you're not supposed to drive a car without a license, too, but I bet some people do."

She gave him a severe look and shook her head. From a sunny happy healthy young woman she had segued with amazing suddenness into the world's most disapproving Sunday School teacher. "It doesn't work quite the same way," she said, sounding pleased about that. Pointing at the display of tanks, she said, "I'll sell you as many of those as you want. But they're empty. And the only place you can get them filled is an accredited dive shop. And they won't fill them unless you show your certification or agree to have an instructor go with you." Her look of satisfaction was pretty galling. "Diving or walking, gentlemen," she said, "you will not want to go very far underwater, or for very long, with empty tanks. If you'll excuse me?" And she turned on her heel and went off to sell a $350 Dacor Seachute BCD to a deeply tanned Frenchman with offensively thick and glossy hair.

Leaving, slinking away, clumping morosely down the wide stairs toward Paragon's street level with their tails between their legs, Dortmunder said, "Okay. We gotta getta guy."

SIXTEEN.

It was raining. Doug Berry, owner and proprietor and sole full-time employee of South Sh.o.r.e Dive Shop in Islip, Long Island, sat alone in his leaky s.h.i.+ngle shed built out on its own wooden dock over the waters of the Great South Bay, and read travel brochures about the Caribbean. Steel drum calypso music chimed from the speakers tucked away on the top shelves behind the main counter, sharing s.p.a.ce with the Henderson cold-water hoods and the mask-and-snorkel sets. The rickety side walls of the structure were decorated with posters distributed by various manufacturers in the diving field, all showing happy people boogieing along underwater with the a.s.sistance of that manufacturer's products. From the fish net looped below the ceiling were hung sh.e.l.ls, s.h.i.+p models and various pieces of diving equipment, either the real things or miniatures. In a front corner, facing the door, stood an old used store-window dummy dressed in every possible necessity and accessory the well-turned-out diver could possibly want.

Outside was more of Doug Berry's empire. The dock, old and shaky, rotting planks nailed to rotting pilings, was three feet wider than the shed, which was built flush to the right edge of the dock, leaving the three feet on the left for an aisle back to the eighteen feet of additional dock extending out into the bay beyond the rear of the shed. Piled on this dock, under gray or green tarps, were spare air tanks and gasoline tanks and other equipment, all chained against thievery. Tied up on the left side of the dock, also under a tarp, was Doug Berry's Boston Whaler, with its 235-horse Johnson outboard. The compressor from which air tanks were filled was also out there, under its own s.h.i.+ny blue plastic tarp.

On the landward side of Doug Berry's domain was the gravel width of customer parking area, containing at the moment only Berry's custom-packaged black (with blue and silver trim) Ford pickup, with the inevitable b.u.mper sticker on the back: DIVERS GO DEEPER. Beyond the parking area was the potholed blacktop driveway leading out past the marine motor dealers.h.i.+p and the wholesale fish company to Merrick Road. All of this was Doug Berry's, and there he sat, in the middle of his realm, dreaming about the Caribbean.

Yeah, that was the place to be. No G.o.dd.a.m.n April showers down there. Just warm sun, warm air, warm sand, warm turquoise water. A fella with Doug Berry's looks and training and skills could...

... rot on the beach.

There he went again, dammit. Doug Berry's worst flaw, as far as he himself was concerned, was his inability to ignore reality. He'd like to be able to fantasize himself into the dive king of the Caribbean, the bronze G.o.d in flippers, slicing through the emerald waters, rescuing beautiful heiresses, discovering buried treasure, either joining pirates or foiling pirates, he'd like to sit here in this miserable shack on this rainy no-business day and dream himself two thousand miles south and twenty degrees warmer, but the reality bone in his head just wouldn't ever give him a break.

The fact was, guys whose total a.s.sets were youth, health, good looks, and an advanced diving certificate were not in exactly short supply in the Caribbean basin. (The pestiferous phrase "dime a dozen" kept circling through Doug Berry's irritated head, above the aborted fantasies.) And when, in addition, the fellow also already had a couple of clouds over his head-charged with (but not convicted of) receiving stolen goods, for instance-and when he's already been ejected from the two largest and most prestigious licensing a.s.sociations in the field, PADI (Professional a.s.sociation of Diving Instructors) and NAUI (National a.s.sociation of Underwater Instructors), and when in fact he was now found acceptable only by DIPS (Diving Instructors Professional Society), the newest and smallest and least picky a.s.sociation around, his smart move-no, his only move-was to stay right here in Islip, do a moderate summertime business with college kids and Fire Islanders, do a miserable wintertime business selling equipment to people going away on vacations (there was no way to compete more directly with the big outfits, furnished with their own indoor swimming pools), supplement his livelihood with carpentry and clamming, stock his shelves as much as possible with goods that fell off the back of the delivery truck, and sit here in the rain trying to dream about the Caribbean.

Doug Berry, twenty-seven years old. He used to have a hobby; now, the hobby has him.

Movement beyond the rain-streaked front window made him look up from Aruba-tan sand, pale blue sky, aquamarine sea, no rain-to see a vaguely familiar car coming to a stop out there next to his pickup. It was a Chevy Impala, the color of a diseased lime. Its winds.h.i.+eld wipers stopped, and then three of its four doors opened and three men wearing hats and raincoats climbed out, flinching as though water were poisonous.

Squinting through the streaky window, Doug finally recognized one of the three: the driver, a bent-nose type named Mikey Donelli. Or maybe Mikey Donnelly. Doug had never been certain if the accent was on the first syllable or the second, so he couldn't be sure if Mikey were Irish or Italian. Not that it mattered, really; Doug and Mikey had a business-only relations.h.i.+p, and the business would be the same wherever Mikey's forebears hailed from.

Mikey was, in fact, the provider of those stolen goods Doug was alleged to have received, and of a lot of other stolen goods as well. Given the realities of the South Sh.o.r.e Dive Shop, Mikey was just about the company's most important supplier.

But who were the other two? Doug had never met any of Mikey's a.s.sociates and was just as glad of it. This pair walked with their hands in their raincoat pockets, chins tucked in low, hat brims pulled down over their eyes as though they were extras in a Prohibition movie. Mikey led the way from the car to the door as Doug got to his feet, closed the Caribbean brochure, and tried to put a ready-for-business expression on his face. But what was Mikey doing here? And who were the two guys with him?

Doug spent most of his life just slightly afraid. At the moment, it was up one notch above normal.

Mikey came into the shop first, followed by his friends. "Whadaya say, Dougie?" Mikey said.

"Hi, Mikey," Doug said. No one else on Earth had ever even thought to call him Dougie. He hated it, but how can you tell somebody named Mikey-particularly a tough somebody named Mikey-that you don't like to be called Dougie? You can't.