Lord of the Deep (4 page)

CHAPTER
4

MIKEY TURNED and scowled at the lures. “Take one,” he whispered to the fish wandering the depths below.

Bill needed something to happen.

Something these guys could take home and talk about.

Mikey thought he saw a glistening black shape dart across the wake. He unfolded his arms and squinted.

Nothing.

But he was sure he’d seen something.

They trolled north, two miles offshore. The shape didn’t return. It was one of those mysteries that would haunt him for hours, Mikey knew. Unless something hit the line; then every thought in his head would vanish instantly. That was how it was on the water: either it was so quiet and boring you just sat around trying to stay awake, or it was so exciting you almost forgot to breathe.

That was deep-sea fishing.

Mikey went into the cabin, passing Cal and Ernie and the girl, who was now sitting on the bunk across from them.

“How you doing, honey?” Cal said to the girl. “Feeling okay? Not getting queasy, are you?”

“Why’d you think I’d be getting queasy?” she said.

“Oh, I don’t know, just that you’re a . . . you know . . . you’re . . . you’re not used to boats, and all.”

She shook her head and looked back down at her book, which lay open in her lap.

Ernie said, “Ah, lighten up, Ali. Hey, listen. You hear about the idiot who got a camera for his birthday? He just got his first set of pictures back—twenty-four shots of his left eye.
Bwahahahahahah!
”

“That’s lovely, Uncle Ernie,” the girl said. “Was your next roll like that, too?”

Ernie laughed harder, slapping the table. Even Cal smiled. “Come on, Ernie, stop yakking and deal.”

“All right, all right.”

Mikey thought it was weird the way the girl talked back like that. These people were really strange.

Mikey checked the depth recorder. Forty-eight fathoms. While he watched, it jumped to seventy, then back to fifty-one. He figured Bill was following an undersea shelf. He made note of the coastline, looking for rock formations or tree clusters that he could use to pinpoint this trolling spot again, this shelf. A fisherman needed all the secrets he could collect.

He sat in the seat across from Bill with his back to the window. The hull rose and fell over the mild, easy-moving swells. He breathed deeply.

Bill glanced over and nodded.

The engines droned.

Bill dug out a chart and studied it, his forehead furrowed. He reached over and turned on the shortwave radio, which spat static over a small, faraway voice. Some Honolulu boat, fishing out near Penguin Bank.

Cal and Ernie played blackjack. Drinking slow morning beers. Smoking cigars. The smell was sharp and strong, but Mikey didn’t mind it.

After a while, Ernie placed his cards facedown on the table and sat back. He took a deep pull on his cigar and let the smoke out around his words. “So, Billyboy, I’m kind of wondering where that action is. Can you give us a clue?”

“It’ll come,” Bill said.

“Marlin?”

“That’s the idea.”

Cal put his cards down, too, and turned in his seat to face Bill. “Guy at the hotel bar last night told me a story about some skipper here whose swordfish stuck its bill in the bottom.”

Bill nodded. “That was a strange one, all right. He fought that fish for hours. Finally, it got so enraged it sounded, went straight to the bottom and stabbed its sword into the sand. Got stuck there.”

Bill shook his head.

“Of course, on board they didn’t know that. All they knew was the line was stuck. Well, that skipper was stubborn. Most guys would just cut the line and move on. But he didn’t like losing a fish like that. So what he did was he pulled out his Aqua-Lung and went down to see what was going on.”

“Not,” Mikey said. He couldn’t even imagine doing that.

“It’s true,” Bill said. “He went down to look. What he found was a dead marlin. Probably died of exhaustion and pressure. So the guy dug the sword out and went up and pulled the marlin aboard. It weighed in at over four hundred pounds. Now that’s stubborn.”

“What boat was that?” Cal said.

“He’s long gone. That was a while back.”

Cal pursed his lips. “Too bad.”

“That kind of stubborn is what it takes, ain’t it?” Ernie said.

Cal picked up his cards. “Yup.”

CHAPTER
5

THE CHROME CLOCK above the companionway clanged the half hour. Mikey watched the minute hand click forward. One stiff step, then another.

He glanced back at the girl.

She was sitting cross-legged on the bunk. The notebook she’d brought was a sketchbook. The purselike thing held pencils and a black-ink drawing pen, which she was using now. Mikey couldn’t see what she was drawing, but he watched her movements, loose and fast. Was she any good?

She glanced up just as he stretched his neck to get a better look.

He shifted his eyes, pretending to look beyond her. At the rods, maybe. Or the lures, jumping in the wake.

“Why we staying so close to shore?” Cal said suddenly, now back to his cards.

“Philosophy,” Bill said, and grinned.

Cal looked up. He gazed over his shoulder at Bill. “What the devil’s that supposed to mean?”

Bill turned down the radio static.

“Some guys like to race on out to the marlin grounds. Set out the lines when they get there, start trolling. Go straight for the big ones. But they do that, they miss out on some of the best fighting fish you can find in these waters. They’re just smaller, is all. But they give you your money’s worth, all right.”

Cal
humphed
and turned back.

Ernie, hunched over his cards, said, “Well, I guess we’re in the right place, then, because we could sure use our money’s worth.”

Bill said nothing.

The skin at the corner of his eyes was already cut with the lines of permanent squint. Real fishermen fish. Fake ones wear mirror sunglasses and white hats. Bill never wore a hat, or sunscreen, and sometimes not even his T-shirt.

Cal slapped some cards on the table. “Gimme three.”

Ernie gave him three cards.

“You boys know what an ono is?” Bill asked.

Ernie said, “It’s a wahoo, right?”

“That’s it. Looks like a barracuda. Good fish to fight, good fish to eat. You find those right around here, close to shore. But the best fighting fish in these waters is mahimahi. That’s a fisherman’s fish. In my opinion.”

“Marlin,” Cal said. “
That’s
a fisherman’s fish. In my opinion.”

Bill nodded. “We’ll give them a shot, too.”

“Hey, boy,” Ernie said. “Grab me a beer, would you? And not one of your local rotguts.”

Mikey jumped up, went aft, and dug around in the cooler for one of the Mexican beers, buried deep. He liked the Spanish printed on the label. He pried off the cap, wiped the bottle dry with a towel, and took it to Ernie.

Just as Ernie reached for it, one of the reels screamed. The rod bowed out over the water, jerking and jumping in its holder.

Bill throttled down, then leaped out of the pilot’s seat and rushed aft. Mikey leaned into the table to let him pass, then raced after him.

Cal and Ernie dropped their cards and scrambled out of their seats. The girl hugged the sketchbook to her chest.

“Mikey!” Bill shouted.

Mikey knew what Bill wanted and ran to release the stinger on the port outrigger. He started reeling in the lure, keeping the rod in the rod socket.

It was the port flatline that had been hit. The pole leaped and bobbed. The clicker kept screaming, the wailing oh so sweet in Mikey’s ears.

The boat rocked in the sea, inching slowly forward while they got the lines in. The noise of the engines had dropped to a gurgle. Exhaust bubbled up into the cockpit, making Mikey’s stomach turn.

The girl came out and stood one step up on the chrome ladder to the flying bridge. She held her hair aside with one hand.

“Who’s up first?” Bill shouted.

Mikey knew Bill was anxious to get someone to take up the rod and start working the fish before it took half the line off the reel.

“Ali,” Cal said, turning to the girl. “You take this one.”

She backed up the ladder. “I don’t want to.”

Bill madly reeled in the starboard flatline to get that lure out of the water. He glanced over his shoulder. “Someone take the rod out and sit in the chair!”

The girl didn’t move.

Cal grabbed the rod and pulled it out of the socket. He yanked it back to strike the fish, sink the hook deeper. “Come on, Ali. It’s why we’re here.”

“I said I don’t
want
to.”

The reel jumped in Cal’s hands, as if alive. He spread his feet apart and braced himself, the clicker still wailing.

Mikey finished bringing in the port long line. He dropped the lure onto the gunnel, out of the way, then started in on the starboard flatline.

Bill shoved him aside. “I’ll get this. You watch the wheel.”

“Ali, for heaven’s sake, give it a try,” Cal said.

The girl shook her head.

Mikey ran in and slid behind the wheel and turned the boat so the line was directly off stern.

“Good God, give it to me,” Ernie said.

He grabbed the rod from Cal and wrestled it back. He fell into the fighting chair and set the base of the rod into the chrome cup between his legs.

Mikey kept his eyes pinned on the action, looking back over his shoulder. It was his job to keep the line directly off the back of the boat.

No mistakes.

Ernie fumbled with the drag on the reel. The clicker was making a terrible racket as the fish ran with the bait. Bill stopped reeling in the flatline and reached over and shut the clicker off.

“Lot of line going out,” he said, hoping Ernie would take the hint and start working the fish.

Ernie put his back into it, pulling, then reeling as he fell forward.

The initial run was fast and furious. But after Ernie started working it, the fish slowed. In minutes it seemed to have lost some of its fury. But its strength showed on Ernie’s pinched and sweaty face when he turned to Bill. “What is this? Fights like a pit bull.”

“Yes sir,” Bill said, grinning.

Finally, the Crystal-C was producing.

Cal stood beside the chair, coaching. “Pull with your back, Ernie. Use your legs, that’s what they’re there for.”

“I know what I’m doing!” Ernie snapped.

The fish ran to port. Mikey wheeled the boat to starboard, keeping the line where Bill wanted it, straight back. Some fishermen liked the line off to the side. Some even liked to wander around the boat, standing with the butt of the pole in a waist cup.

But Bill liked it this way.

While Mikey guided the boat, Bill grabbed the fish glove and the gaff, a three-foot pole with a barbless chrome hook on it, for pulling the fish out of the sea. He set them on the gunnel.

He stood at the transom, waiting.

Ernie worked the fish closer, pulling and reeling, pulling and reeling, taking line in inch by inch.

Ten minutes later the fish gave up.

As the leader rose from the water, Bill reached out and grabbed it with a gloved hand. He pulled the fish closer, hand over hand.

Mikey put the throttle in neutral and ran back.

Bill, and now Mikey, leaned over the transom, looking down into the depths. The gleaming blue and silver ono paced back and forth, swimming on its side with the line running up from its mouth.

“Got you a fine wahoo,” Bill said.

Cal peered over the stern between them.

“Stand back,” Bill said. “This fish has razor-sharp teeth. I don’t want anyone getting cut up.”

Cal moved back.

Ernie, still in the chair, pulled his feet up.

The girl climbed one step higher on the ladder.

Bill tugged the ono closer.

He gaffed it just behind the head, near the gills. The ono went crazy. It writhed and shook, churning the water white.

Bill dropped the leader and picked up the billy club. He lifted the fish out of the water just far enough to club its head—one, two, three, four times, good solid thumps.

Whock! Whock! Whock! Whock!

An ugly, hollow sound.

Whock!

One last time.

A live ono flipping around on deck could be big trouble.

The fish shuddered, and died.

With a grimace, his muscles wet and bulging, Bill hefted the ono up and over the transom, holding the gaff in both hands. He laid it on the deck so all could see.

“Keep back,” he said.

Mikey ran to the six-foot fish box and tore off the foam seat cushion. He lifted the lid. With the ono still on the gaff, Bill carried the fish to the box and dropped it in.

Four feet long, about. Spiky teeth gleaming.

The girl came down off the ladder. Cal and Ernie— the rod still in his hands—crowded in to see the fish, long and slick and cobalt blue. A wahoo, with jutting jaw and shiny silver belly and dark vertical stripes along its flank.

The girl opened her mouth, but no words came out.

“Looks like he swallowed the hook,” Ernie said. He looked at Bill. “How you going to get it out?”

“Pliers.”

Bill closed the fish box.

“But first I’m going to let him be dead a little bit longer. Bring her up to speed, Mikey.”

Mikey ran forward and throttled up to eight knots. He set the course toward open sea, then put the boat on autopilot and went back out into the stern cockpit.

“Beer, boy, three cold ones,” Ernie said. “One for Cal, two for me, and make it fast. I’m sweatin’ like a pig.”

Mikey got the beers. Fast.

While Bill reset the lines, Mikey scooped a bucket of water out of the ocean and sloshed it over the deck, then scrubbed the floorboards clean with a long-handled brush. The water swirled and sloshed and funneled out a deck hole, bringing a welcome coolness. Mikey stowed the bucket and brush.

It wasn’t all that big, the ono, maybe thirty-five or forty pounds. But it was a decent catch and it was safely stowed in their fish box. And Mikey’d kept the line just where Bill wanted it, he’d scrubbed down the deck and gotten the boat back up to speed.

The girl stood at the transom with her arms crossed, studying the wake. What was she was thinking about?

Cal drained his beer and tossed the bottle into the ocean. He looked at the back of the girl’s head a moment, then went inside to the table and picked up the cards.

The girl climbed up to the flying bridge.

Bill took off his shirt and swiped it across his face and neck, then stuck it in his back pocket, where it hung like a tail.

Mikey took his shirt off, too. He wiped his face and stuck the shirt in his pocket in the same way Bill had. Nothing felt quite as good as doing your job the way it was supposed to be done.

They stood awhile, watching the water.

“I’ve been thinking, Mikey,” Bill said, looking into the wake with his hands on his hips.

Mikey turned to look at him.

“What would you think about having a name like Mikey Monks?”

“What do you mean?”

“Change your last name.”

“You can do that?”

“Little paperwork is all.”

“Really?”

Bill turned and grinned. He brushed a hand over Mikey’s hair. “You’d have to let me adopt you.”

Wow.

“Just something to think about.”

Bill looked at the lines one last time, gave Mikey a wink, then went back in to the wheel.

Mikey’s gaze followed him.

When he saw Cal watching, he turned back to study the wake.

Mikey Monks . . . yeah.

The girl came into his mind. Why didn’t she want to fight the fish? That was why you chartered a boat.

You can ask, he thought. You’re supposed to talk to her.

Now’s as good a time as any.

He climbed up to the flying bridge.

“Hi,” Mikey said.

She gave him a look that said Yes?

Mikey hesitated. “Uh . . . how come you didn’t want to catch that fish?”

“I don’t like fishing.”

“Oh.”

He thought a moment.

“Well, why’d you come out with us today?”

“Does it really matter?”

Mikey wanted to go back to the lower deck. “Uh . . .”

Cal saved him by popping his head up from down below. He stood halfway up the ladder with a cold strawberry soda in his hand.

“Thought you might be thirsty, Ali,” he said.

The girl glanced at him, then looked away. “I don’t like strawberry.”

Cal opened his mouth to say something more, but decided not to. He started back down the ladder.

“Wait!”

The girl reached out.

Cal smiled and gave her the can.

Cal left.

Mikey watched her take a long gulp.

“You don’t get along with your father?” he said. Then wished he hadn’t.

“What kind of question is that?”

“I don’t know. Just seems like . . . well, like you don’t like him . . . or something.”

“He’s my father. I have to like him.”

Mikey nodded.

A moment later, the girl spoke, so softly Mikey could barely hear it. “My mother told him to take me, not that I wanted to go. ‘Why don’t you do something with your daughter for once?’ she said. Just like that. Right in front of me. And Dad looked surprised, like he’d never even thought of such a thing. Like, Are you kidding? How do you think that made me feel?”

Mikey thought before answering. “Kind of bad?”

“You got that right, Ace.”

“So . . . why’d you say you wanted to go?”