The Deep

“The police?” Sanders said. “I told you, Cloche said he has friends in the police. I know he does.”

“We’ll do it all very quietly. I’ll call you as soon as we know anything.” Hall stood up.

“I do want to thank you for coming by. How long will you be here?”

“Why?”

“Because if it will make you more comfortable, I’ll be happy to have a policeman assigned to you.”

“No,” Sanders said. “Thanks. We’ll be all right.”

They shook hands, and the Sanderses left Hall’s office.

Outside, they walked along Front Street. The sidewalk was crowded with window shoppers from the Sea Venture,

who peered at the Irish linen and Scottish cashmere and French perfume in the window of Trimingham’s, and calculated the savings on the duty-free liquor advertised in the spirit shops.

“Do you think he believed us?” Gail said.

“I think so, but I think if we wait for him to do anything, we’ll die of old age.”

A few doors ahead, Sanders saw the Pan American ticket office. When they were abreast of the door, he touched Gail’s arm and pointed.

She stopped and looked at the foot-high blue letters “Pan Am” painted on the window. “We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t,” she said. “I don’t know if I could live with the pressure at home; the threat, the not knowing, always wondering: What if…?”

David gazed at the lettering for a few seconds more, then said, “Let’s go see Treece.”

“I’ll not say ‘I told you so,” Treece said. “Bloody fools have to be scorched before they’ll admit there’s a fire.”

Sanders said, “Did you register the Spanish ship?”

“Aye. You didn’t tell the noble Mr. Hall about it, did you?”

“No.”

“He was pretty… reserved… about you,” said Gail.

“Reserved?” Treece laughed. “That’s not the word for it. Paper-pushers can’t figure me out. All they understand is bullshit and politics, which amount to the same thing.”

“You think they’ll do anything?”

“Maybe, around the turn of the century.” Treece shook his head, as if to dismiss the government from his mind. “So,” he said, “now that you’ve a half interest in what may turn out to be nothing, what are you going to do?”

“Stay,” Gail said, “we don’t really have a choice.”

“You’ve figured your risks?”

Sanders said, “We have.”

“All right. A few ground rules, then. From this moment on, you’re to do what I tell you. You can question all you want, when there’s time. But when there’s not, you jump first and ask questions later.”

Gail looked at David. “Leader of the pack.”

“What’s that?” Treece said.

“Nothing, really. When we were diving, David got annoyed at me for not obeying him.”

“And rightly, too. We could get through without a bruise, but there’ll be times when getting through at all may depend on how quick you respond. Any time you’re tempted to buck me, know this: I’ll kick your ass out of here in a trice. I’ll not have you getting killed on my account.”

“We’re not out to fight you,” Sanders said.

“Fine. Now”—Treece smiled—“bad-ass decision number one: Go back to Orange Grove and turn in your mobilettes. Pack your gear, check out, and call a cab to bring you out here.”

“What?”

“See? You’re bucking me already. If we’re going to get into this mess, I want you where I can keep an eye on you, and where Cloche’s people can’t. Back there, Christ knows who-all will have you in their sights.”

“B…,” Gail protested. “This is your—was—”

“It may not have all the amenities of your hundred-dollar-a-day bungalow, but it’ll do. And you won’t have to worry about some tomcat planting voodoo dolls in your bed.”

VIII

When the taxi had departed, leaving the Sanderses and their luggage outside Treece’s house, Gail said, “You think we’ll sleep in the kitchen?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s the only room in the house we’ve ever seen.

He’s never even let us in the front door.”

The screen door flew open, and the dog bounded down the path toward them. She stood inside the gate, wagging her tail and whining.

Treece appeared in the doorway. “It’s okay, Charlotte.” The dog backed away a few feet and sat down. “Need any help?”

“We can manage.” Sanders opened the gate, hefted the two large suitcases, and, with Gail following him, walked along the path to the door. Gail had an air tank slung over each shoulder.

“You have meat on you,” Treece told her. “Those aren’t light.”

He held the screen door for them and ushered them into the house. The doorway opened onto a narrow hall. The floor was bare-wide, polished cedar boards. An old Spanish map of Bermuda, the parchment cracked and yellow-brown, hung in a frame on the wall. Beneath the map was a mahogany case with glass doors, full of antique bottles, musket balls, silver coins, and shoe buckles.

“In there,” Treece said, pointing to a door at the end of the hall. “Here, give me those bottles.

Are they empty or full?”

“Empty,” Gail said.

“I’ll set ’em out by the compressor.”

Sanders said, “You have your own compressor?”

“Sure. Can’t dash into Hamilton every time I need a tank of breeze.”