Death Dives Deep

by Michael Avallone

  Artie semaphored and shouted something about leaving an anchor hanging in the bait shack for him. The Naked Lady shivered as wind tickled her sails. Her trim nose dropped, her bows dipped and she ran gently and easily out of the harbor as Artie guided her with sure hands. He treated the Lady the same way he handled women. With gentle but sure fingers.

  I watched until the very last second. The ship hove out of view about three hundred yards offshore as Artie slipped around the jughandle curve of the inlet. My last glimpse of Serena was a good one. She was parked on the bow like a sea sprite, long golden hair flying in the breeze. Then she and Artie and the Lady were gone for the day.

  "Seenor Healey, no good this, I theenk."

  I stuck a finger in my ear, digging for wax. Nothing came out. Turning, I saw Constant Smith. I should have been able to smell him first.

  He was as big as I am but twice as greasy and three times as dark. He was browner than a coffee bean. Even dungarees and an Army surplus GI shirt couldn't Americanize him. The white cigarette poking from his mouth looked out of place. I shouldered past him.

  "What's eating you now?"

  "Is womans. That's what. Bad business. Seenor Artie one damn fool, I theenk."

  "I think Artie can take care of one dame. I know he could handle five if he had to."

  Smith's eyes rolled and his skin glistened with sweat. He kept in step with me as we walked back to the office shack just above the pier. His smell kept pace with me,

  "Who she? You know her, Seenor Harry? Maybe could be bad thing. She get on board, smash boat—— "

  "Shut up. Come on and play poker with me but shut up. Artie will be okay, Constant. The dame is just a dame and business will be wonderful and your wonderful business will survive. We play poker, okay?"

  His kinky head wagged. He had a right to sing the blues. Healey-Sothern did a lively trade with his live-bait shack. Naturally, he wouldn't want anything to happen to good old Artie. Or me.

  "Okay, okay." He stuck out his brown hands. "No butt in. Poker like you say. But I still theenk bad idea. Womans no funkin' good on boat."

  "Maybe yes, maybe no."

  "You see. You wait."

  "Besides," I flung open the door of the shack, looking just once at where the sky met the sea, "they're just going out for a short run. They ought to be back before you lose too much money."

  He grinned at me, Constant Smith did, but his gimlet eyes were still worried. The Almighty Dollar was his personal God. He couldn't be trusted too far.

  I had said the right thing, only it didn't turn out to be the truth. They didn't come back real soon.

  And they didn't come back the way they had gone out.

  Not nearly the same way.

  I sipped my scotch very slowly and carefully. The lines of the manuscript now seemed to leap right off the pages. I read on.

  Night comes late in the Keys. Blazing white sunlight chokes the sand and the coral in a bear hug. It just doesn't let up at all. And just about when you're ready to resign yourself to Death Valley Days forever, night comes on. Settling in slowly with easy west winds cooling the islands and shaking the Keys.

  The day wore on with no sign of The Naked Lady. Or Artie. Or his Serena. I was beginning to think she was some kind of crazy mermaid that the tide had turned up. A green-eyed mirage.

  To while away the waiting time, I played draw poker with Constant Smith in the live-bait shack. A lousy poker player, always losing his greasy shirt to me, Smith kept up a broken-English put-down of Serena, the green-eyed mystery lady. And drank a lot, too.

  "Bad business, Harry." The drunker he got the less he called me Seenor. "That lady. Maybe Jonah, I think."

  "No kidding. I'll take one and play these." The inside straight in my hand was begging for a seven but Smith handed me a crummy jack of clubs. I threw in my cards. Smith showed three nines and raked in the dollar-heavy pot.

  "You see? You play bad today. All time you win. Today you play bad. Quick in a hurry. Why? Is womans why. She bad luck."

  "Sure."

  The interior of the bait shack smelled like the Fulton Fish Market. Smelly, salty and stuffy. Smith's specimens squirmed around in tanks and jars. I gritted my teeth.

  "Why you no worry about the lady like me, Harry?"

  "Knock it off. She's just a dame."

  "She Jonah, Harry. Bad luck."

  "Her name's Serena. Not Jonah. And there's only one thing that's important about her. Whether she was a virgin or not. Artie has the answer to that one by this time."

  "What make you think he ever coming back?"

  "What makes you think he won't?"

  Smith spread his hands. I didn't like the oil I saw all over his face. I didn't like his dirty smell, either.

  "Harry, no get mad. But we got good thing here. You and Artie fine business for me. I get you bait, run like boy for what you want—— "

  "For which we pay you good."

  "No say different." He leered. "It what I mean. We good for each other. Maybe someone else know this. See this. Want to cut in. Spoil Healey-Sothern. And Constant Smith."

  His tone fell to a stage whisper. Suddenly, I couldn't recall how he ever got the name Constant.

  "Maybe girl out to hurt Artie. Maybe ruin boat. Business no good without boat."

  "You're nuts," I said. "Go on and deal."

  He shook me off.

  "I'm crazy maybe like you say. But why they not back yet?"

  That had been bothering me too.

  "She's a damn good-looking piece, Constant. Artie's been on a pretty strict diet."

  "No answer. Something go wrong."

  His wailing wall was just getting a little too high for me.

  "Stop it, you stupid bastard. Stop it. A guy takes a girl out for a ride and you start riding a broomstick and hanging crepe and reading tea leaves. Cut it out. I got a lousy headache. Artie knows what he's doing."

  "Sorry, Harry. Only trying to help. Want a drink, amigo?"

  I did. I was feeling rocky again. It had been like that for almost a week now. The headaches, the stiffness. And now hearing things like green-eyes talking underwater. Artie and I had anchored the Lady off Skeleton Key and searched for sponge specimens for Doc Ponto about a month ago. Doc had a nice lab in Melona which the Florida government supported as a maritime research program. I remembered my ears popping in a funny way as I plowed through the cold water about six fathoms down. Among a pile of seaweed and coral. On the floor of the ocean. It could have happened then.

  Smith was shoving a thick bottle in my face. It was lousy island gin, a hard poison some Melona distiller whipped up between boats from Miami. It was between-boats time again. Lousy gin is much better than no gin at all. I drank. Too much.

  Time sweated by. The stink from the bait tanks and jars was unbearable. They weren't pretty to see, either, wriggling all over.

  I don't know when it was but somewhere I got drunk. Very drunk. And the tin-shaded lamp in the room was dancing on the ceiling and I was beating Constant Smith within an inch of his greasy life.

  I don't even know how it started. All I can remember is Smith whispering things about Artie, knocking Artie, telling me how Artie was no good for me and how much better off I'd be without him for a partner. How much better I'd be with Smith for a share-splitter.

  Nobody can put down Artie to me. Not the Artie who pulled me off the bough of a banana tree and carried me a thousand yards to pay dirt. The Army gave him a medal for that.

  That must have been when I started kicking hell out of Constant Smith. I could see my fists sinking into his oily face. I shouted each time they thudded into his soft belly. He was tough all right, but I was in better condition. He kept backing away from me and I kept on crowding him. He was crying out in terror.

  I had nearly killed him when this terrible grating noise rolled up from the beach outside. Above the gentle lapping of the tide against the sandy shore. the soft sound of the breakers washing the coral reefs.

  I stagg
ered out of the shack. It was a brilliant night. The sky was a sea of blue shot through with a million white stars. My head was banging like a kettledrum but I could still see straight.

  Rapping up against the rickety pier like a pretty ghost bobbing on the staircase of a haunted house was The Naked Lady. Low swells were pushing her trim lines up to the sand level, grounding her hulk.

  It was bad seamanship. The worst kind. I ran toward her. Even from the doorway of Constant Smith's shack, one thing was as plain as the day and as terrible as the night.

  The Naked Lady was pilotless.

  I was roused from the manuscript by the smacking of rain against the office windows. For a second, I had lost contact with reality. The salty sea fable had begun to capture my interest. It took me just a few seconds to close the windows and get back to the desk. The mouse auditorium was as quiet as a convent during the meditation period. The life and times of Harry Healey had begun to remind me of a few pertinent things. His Key Alma was less than one hundred miles from Castro's Cuba. Also, he sounded like the sort of man I wouldn't have minded knowing. He was a New Yorker, a guy who liked to do his thing and he was loyal. That was three points for his side. Now, he had me hooked, besides . . .

  I cursed all the time I was running down the beach toward The Naked Lady. Anything is excusable but bad seamanship. An irresponsible skipper is a crying shame. A crime, really. The empty wheel meant only one thing to me. Artie was below decks having his fun with green-eyes. The loud grating noise that had stopped me from beating Constant Smith to death was the hull of the Lady sideswiping the big reef fifty yards out to starboard. Hitting it was bad enough. Not being at the wheel was worth a drumhead court martial.

  My worrying about his neck was forgotten because I was so damn mad. I jumped onto the deck screaming his name at the top of my lungs. The ship rocked gently with the incoming swell. The only other sound was the wind crying over Key Alma.

  I stamped my foot four or five times on the wooden boards and waited. I was sore but I couldn't see myself busting in on Artie while he had his pants down. But I still didn't get an answer. So I slammed the galley doors wide open and went below. I was making enough of a racket to wake the dead.

  The cabin was empty. The one double bunk-bed was still made up and doors and closets were all secure. There was no sign of Artie or Serena. The cabin wasn't even disturbed. Puzzled now and getting scared, I went back topside.

  The Naked Lady isn't very long. Just about sixty feet from nose to stern with maybe fifteen feet across the bows. It took me only five seconds to give her the once-over. Five seconds was enough.

  Moonlight flooded the deck. Like a big spotlight turned on. Everything seemed shipshape. No signs of funny business, all the equipment in place. Everything was A-O.K.— except for one thing. The skipper. Everything in the world was wrong with him.

  He was spread-eagled at the stern. Lying on his back with his arms out like a bird. He was still brown and handsome and still wearing the khaki slacks. Still naked from the waist up. And he was going to stay dead for a very long time.

  I stared down at Artie Sothern and one of my worlds ended. A world of easy laughs, good times and doing business with a guy of your own choosing. My partner. A guy who'd come most of the distance with me and now had dropped out. Or had been pushed out.

  It was hard to look at him like that. His face was puffed and swollen. One look was enough. I've seen drowned people before. One summer long ago doing the lifeguard bit at Orchard Beach I'd pulled a guy ashore after he'd gone down for the last time. I was too late then and I was too late now. He and Artie both could have posed for the same picture.

  I wasn't drunk anymore. My head cleared, ache and all. It didn't hurt anymore, maybe because the hurt had changed locations. The only sensible thing I could think of was how could one of the best swimmers in the world drown?

  Mechanically, I explored the ship from prow to stem. Midships there was one wet aqualung and tank set, flung aside as if it had been ripped off very suddenly. The tank's silver side showed the stenciled name—H. HEALEY. My tank. Artie had probably dug it out for Serena to use. But where was Artie's tank? And where the hell was Serena?

  I rubbed my temples in sheer frustration and agony. I was losing my mind. The world had turned upside down in a day. My ears were shot, my partner was dead and I was suddenly a lost man. All riddled with doubt and worry and nerves.

  "Harry . . . Harry . . . what is wrong, amigo?"

  It was Smith, fumbling onto the pier, swaying like another ghost, his smashed and bloody face looking like Halloween in the moonlight.

  "Give me a hand, Constant." My voice sounded crazy to me.

  "No . . . tell me . . . what happened. . . ." He wouldn't leave the pier. He was still frightened.

  "It's Artie. He's dead. Help me bring him ashore."

  "Dead? That bad joke, Harry . . . you make joke. . . ."

  "Yeah. I make joke. Come on. He's heavy."

  He came clumping onto the ship, ogling me with wild eyes. When he saw Artie, his hot breath fanned over my neck. "Madre de Dios!"

  His eyes rolled like marbles. "And the womans?"

  "I don't know."

  "Where you think she is?"

  "Shut up and take his feet."

  "He is heavy. Madre, that it would come to this. I told you, Harry . . ."

  "Don't talk. Walk. And shut up. Let me think."

  "Si . . . I no talk no more. . . ."

  Between the two of us, we got Artie onto the pier. We lay him down gently. I was biting my lips to keep from crying. Constant Smith could only stare. Without thinking twice about it, I hopped back on board the Lady and went to the wheel.

  Smith shrieked like a girl. "Where you go? You no leave me with him—— "

  "Stay with him, Constant. Call Melona. Doc Ponto can take it from there. I'm heading for Skeleton Key."

  "Amigo, I no think—— "

  "Stop thinking and listen to me. Somebody killed Artie. Maybe that girl. Maybe it's a swindle like you said. Either way I've got to find out. I only know one place to look. Skeleton Key. If there is an answer, it's gotta be out there."

  Smith scratched his kinky head but his eyes never left the drowned Artie spread out in front of him.

  "You be careful, Harry. I call Ponto. But you watch. Don't want lose two partners all on same day."

  "Don't worry. You won't."

  I spun the wheel. The Lady eased off the pier, turning tail into the wind. I set her prow for Skeleton Key, giving her all the sail the wind allowed. She shivered but reached out to meet the breeze.

  I left Constant Smith on the dock. Standing watch over a dead man. Swaying and shaking his head like he had nits.

  I headed for the open sea, feeling pretty dead myself.

  It was dark even though the moon was big and bright. Normally, not the best time to navigate, but the route to Skeleton Key was like the palm of my hand. I knew every crease and fold of the ocean. I wanted to get there while the trail was still fresh. It would have been smarter to wait until morning but I couldn't sit on my hands doing nothing. My head was full of crazy pictures. Artie's bloated face and the green eyes of a woman I only knew as Serena.

  The Naked Lady made good time. Skeleton Key is twenty-three miles from Key Alma, but with a good wind the Lady can do five knots. The miles fell away in a slashing spray. We were flying.

  Two hours later, Skeleton Key gleamed in the moonlight off the port bow. It was going on four in the morning. I rode the Lady in a wide turn so that I could get a good look at the beach.

  Skeleton Key is a pretty rough place. The coast line veers sharply from the mainland at that point and the Key runs out to sea like a piece of leftover land that the water hasn't quite completely submerged yet. Peninsula-style, it's shaped almost exactly like a gigantic door key. A place shunned by everybody—except Healey-Sothern. Jagged formations of murderous coral lie under the surface ready to rip the guts out of any vessel silly enough to come in too close. Only
a pair of sea hounds like Healey-Sothern ever got any good out of Skeleton Key. And their Mexican jumping bean, Smith.

  We had made the Key pay off. It was a gold mine. Since everybody else stayed away, we made all the fishing hauls and deep-sea grabs there were. We had found a sponge bed of particular interest to Doc Ponto. He paid plenty for those sponges and what was left was marketable in Melona.

  But I wasn't thinking of sponges now. Artie Sothern was dead and I was all alone. Looking for his murderer. Or at least the answer to what had happened to him.

  I really didn't know where the hell to begin. Here I was out in the middle of the Atlantic on a dark night with a splitting headache and not a friend in the world.

  I went to the stern, dropped anchor and watched the rope play out into the quiet water like a snake. Then I sat down against the starboard bow and shivered. The blood was rushing around in my head. The hootch hadn't helped at all. My brains were pounding together like conch shells. A sense of confusion was paralyzing me.

  So I did it.

  Without any help at all.

  I passed out.

  When I woke up, a seagull was making a terrific racket overhead. I felt a lot better, though. Refreshed and wideawake again. I could think straight once more. I didn't panic, I didn't have to ask myself where I was. I've slept too many times on board not to know the feel of a shifts deck under me. The Lady was pitching slowly with the offshore tides. It was always a lulling sensation. It lulled me now.

  The sun was just above the mizzenmast. As bright and hot as a four-alarmer. Cooling winds rippled through the sails. My watch said it was almost twelve.

  I remembered Artie Sothern, too. And yesterday. It was a new day all right. But I was still the guy whose partner might have been murdered.

  At the rail I looked at Skeleton Key. It stood out stark and hard in the sunlight. The coral reefs looked more jagged than ever. This was where Artie had taken Serena—had intended to take her. This was where the solution had to be.

  I got ready.

  In the cabin room, I skinned out of my shirt and slacks and donned a pair of trunks. Unpacking an aqualung, I searched for my oxygen tank. With a sudden jolt, I remembered it was up on deck, discarded like a kids toy. Memory made me wince. I went topside again. I wasn't hungry. Didn't even feel like a cup of coffee. The galley was always well stocked with canned fruits and meats but not even a blue-plate special would have interested me that morning. I had things to do.