"You honestly don't think we'll find them, do you?"
"The Garl maybe. The cylinders — no way. Back in the days of Papa Coop, I did a little exploring in those waters. Do you have any idea what a tin can would look like after thirty or forty years in this salt water?"
"Sure," Hannah said. "Remember me? I'm the engineer on this little expedition into madness. But the Teutonic mind being what it is probably took all that into consideration. Suppose this guy Bachmann's device was made out of a high grade of stainless and properly sealed — then what?"
"When I'm not lecturing a bunch of snot-nosed kids or trying to grind out a tale or two, I do a little gambling. What you just described is a long shot — a very long shot."
"Just suppose they were intact. Huntington claims that he's thoroughly familiar with Bachmann's procedures and theories, and it's his contention that Rudolph Bachmann was far ahead of his time.''
"How the hell did this all get started?"
"There was a science fiction writer by the name of Neil Jones who dreamed up the scheme for a book, all of it based on some theories by a French biologist by the name of Rostand. Apparently that's all Bachmann needed. He took the idea and ran with it."
I did a fast appraisal and noted that a slight pinkish tinge was already apparent on the lady's nicely proportioned thighs.
"I'm kinda surprised you'd buy any of this. I'm no scientist, but I seem to recall that freezing something tends to break down the cell structure. How would you protect blood vessels when the coolant began to expand and formed ice crystals? Seems to me like it would shred the hell out of the walls of the arteries. And what about the brain? It's a catch twenty-two. The brain has to have oxygenated blood, doesn't it? Four to eight minutes without it, and that highly praised human part isn't much more than a useless blob of tissue. On the other hand, you'd have to purge the system with something — a chemical of some kind. The way I understand it, if you get a little contaminated blood in there, the brain dies."
"Mere technical problems," Hannah purred. "You haven't described any problem that, given some time, couldn't be surmounted." There was a disarming level of confidence in her voice, and I liked it.
Having put me in my place, the lady stood up, peeled off her blouse and meandered toward the bow, still soaking up the rays.
Sargent turned out to be everything I had hoped for and more. He eased us into Macklin Bay just as the sun slipped behind a bank of gathering rain clouds. From experience I knew the clouds would rumble ominously for 15 or so minutes, bless us with a sprinkle or two, then dissipate. The net effect was that the clouds would make the sunset slightly more spectacular, but little else.
The shower lasted the predictable amount of time then scooted on out to sea. In the meantime, I made ready to go ashore where there were any number of people to see. Huntington, sitting morosely in the aft cabin and looking slightly green around the gills, declined my invitation as did Hannah, who claimed she was going to be busy calibrating some of our gear. Only Maggie was up to being social. She donned a pair of white shorts and a revealing powder blue top. Sarge launched the Achilles raft with the little Yamaha three banger, and we scooted into shore, beaching at Hurlakee's next to the Ciel.
I paid homage to Sylvia, introduced her to Maggie and then informed my long-legged friend that we were going to have to hitchhike our way to Chicken Lavish.
An hour later, we were there — but Crompton wasn't. A skinny little white woman with bleached hair allowed as how she had been living with my old friend for the last seven months but hadn't seen him for several days. She was plenty talkative until I inquired what Crompton had been doing. Then she suddenly clammed up and started cleaning off the adjacent table.
"Okay," Maggie sighed a little peevishly, "who is Crompton?"
"An old friend who just happens to be the best diver in Negril and one of the few men I know with enough savvy to dive the leeward side of the reef."
"Did he know you were coming?"
"Only if Queet was able to get word to him. If you knew Crompton, you'd know what I mean; he's got a few eccentricities. He won't talk on the telephone, and since he can't read or write, ways you can get in touch with him are limited. If you want him, you leave word at Chicken Lavish and hope for the best."
"Why not leave it with the woman?"
"Can't trust her. She's lying. Crompton never kept any woman around for more than a week or two."
"Then is she lying about not knowing where he is?"
"Maybe. It's my hunch she took one look at you and decided she didn't want her man laying eyes on you."
Maggie managed a nice little blush. "I'm not interested in Crompton."
"Maybe not, but I'll bet you're curious."
The blush intensified. So while Maggie took a moment to recapture her equilibrium, I wrote a note, tacked it on a small board next to the cash register and hoped for the best.
From Chicken Lavish we headed for Rick's. The timing was perfect. Mookie Parker was holding court behind the main bar. He spotted me, shouted some vague obscenity about my birthright and rushed over to greet us. I doubt if the salutation would have been half as enthusiastic if Maggie hadn't been with me. When I introduced them, he couldn't take his eyes off of her.
"Would you like something to drink, Miss Chrysler?" he gushed. Maggie allowed as how it had been hot on the boat and that a gin and tonic would taste good, so Mookie hustled off to see that the lady got exactly what she wanted.
"He's cute," Maggie said.
I've always maintained that everybody looks like somebody else, and the best way to describe Mookie Parker is to say that he looks a whole lot like Sugar Ray Leonard. A little taller maybe, and maybe even a little darker, but possessed of the same supple muscles and a catlike grace that would do justice to a ballet dancer. He couples all of this with a devastating charm that earns him enough to drive one of the biggest Mercedes in Negril and live in a plush condo where being white is the name of the game.
Mookie planted himself in front of the fair Maggie and reached across the bar with her drink. "On me," he said. "When Mookie gets a lady in here as pretty as you are, Miss Chrysler, Mookie buys — just for the privilege of serving you."
Maggie was grinning from ear to ear.
"Okay, Mook, now that you've made her day, make mine. Tell me what's going on out at the Cluster."
The smile faded slightly, and he stepped back from the bar.
"Come on, Mook, that's not like you."
He shook his head and motioned for me to step over by the cigarette machine. "For Christ's sake, Elliott, if you're going to talk about the Cluster, keep your voice down."
"What is this? Mention the word 'Cluster' these days and everybody clams up."
"You seen Crompton?" he asked.
"He's not around. According to some lady in the know over at Chicken Lavish, he hasn't been seen in several days."
Mookie leaned in toward me and lowered his voice. "Several weeks ago, some guy shows up here looking for Crompton. I figure the guy has a dive job for our old buddy, and I want him to get it because he's got a bar tab here that would choke a horse. So I sent the guy over to Chicken Lavish. I figure they must have made a connection because I didn't see Cromp for weeks. Then one night he meanders in with some of the local dolls hanging all over him."
"So? Nothing new in that!"
"The difference, Elliott, is that our boy Crompton has money coming out his ears. He's throwing the bread around like there's no tomorrow. So I collar him, get him to settle his tab and ask him where he hit the mother load. He tells me he got a bonus. I ask him for what, and he tells me it's because he found what the guy was looking for."