Mickey Spillane - Something’s Down There

It was hot, the way it gets in the Gulf Stream during mid-July. Since sunup, Hooker had been stretched out in the ancient canvas deck chair, letting the sun bake him even darker, enjoying the strange feeling that the intense solar radiation was squeezing out all the aches and pains he had ever had in his life.

For the past hour he had been going through his ritual of forgetting, letting the present take hold. It was another nice day, almost too hot for people. Every so often the birds would circle overhead and squawk, but they didnt dive, so he knew there were no baitfish surfacing yet.

He was totally awake, even though his eyes were closed, and he could sense Billy Bright looking at him. Old Billy was one of the few real Caribs left around the islands, and even though his skin was a bare two shades darker than Hookers, white men were white men and damn well were supposed to stay that way, and when nature turned them toward his color something was very funny indeed.

Hooker felt a grin pull at his mouth and let his eyes come open. For a second they met Billys, then the Carib jerked his head away. Self-consciously he straightened the captains hat his new boss had given him and lifted the lid on the bait box to check the dozen blue runners swimming around inside.

When you going to catch me a fish, Billy?

Not looking up, Billy said, We do not catch the fish, Mr. Hooker sar, the fish, she catch us.

Better be soon, then, Hooker told him. We got nothing on the table tonight.

Billy let the cover slam down and turned around, a puzzled scowl on his face. Mr. Hooker, sar, in my life, many men I have taken to the fish. Some want them for the excitement, some want them for the wall, some want them for the money. But you want them for the stomach.

I like fish.

All the time?

Hooker nodded. Know anything better?

Perhaps the wife...

I like women too, but not when Im fishing.

For a moment Billy looked thoughtful, then he said, On the other side of Peolle Island, sar... a very pretty lady, she lives there. Once I worked for her and...

Come on, dont line me up any dolls. Catch me a fish.

Idly, Billy Bright looked up at the sky. It will not be too long, sar.

The breeze freshened then and the beat-up old forty-footer rolled gently. Hooker grinned and reached for another beer, wiped the ice off the sides, then dropped it in the Styrofoam cup and popped the top. Yeah, it was another nice day. He was the owner of a boat he had paid cash for, two thousand gallons of high octane in a buried storage tank on shore, and now he could enjoy his retirement.

Back on the mainland they could go scratch themselves, except everybody hated each other too much to bother. Good luck to them all. Hooker had retired and had gone fishing. He had never fished for a living before and he had never expected to do it now, but by golly, here he was.

The reel only made a few fast clicks, but Billy looked over quickly. So did Hooker. In a few weeks he had learned what the sound could mean. There was a heavy drag on the eighty-pound test line and anything that could move it had to be big. Hooker got up slowly and pulled the rod out of the socket, getting ready to set the hook when the time came.

Once again the line ran out, but Hooker didnt move. Its playing with me, Billy.

They do that, sar.

How deep is the planer?

Fifty, maybe sixty feet down.

Hooker nodded and reset the drag a fraction. Hand me my beer, will ya?

Billy reached for the can just as the fish hit. The initial strike was hard and Hooker set the hook in without waiting for any further action. Billy was about to tell him he was nothing but a hell-to-gone dumb mainlander even if he was a white man and his boss to boot, then he saw the line tighten and run and kept his mouth shut, because even hell-to-gone dumb mainlanders can get lucky once in a while.

Hooker read the expression on Billys face. Hes on there, buddy. I can feel his mouth lapping right over the bait. That baby is on there right up to his nostrils.

With a shrug, Billy stepped back and watched his new friend handle the line. He has lost weight, he thought. There was little fat left and it was easy to see that he was a powerful man. In a short time the sun had made him almost black until he took his shorts off, but while his skin had turned darker, his hair had bleached almost white. Even his eyebrows and the hair on his arms were an odd yellow color. For a moment he wondered why it didnt happen to him that way, losing himself in an age-old problem of genetics, then he saw that Hooker was winning the fight against their supper and he picked up the gaff to drag it aboard.

Hooker staggered and almost fell on his tail. He said, Damn! and winched in his line furiously.

You didnt loose he, sar, Billy said.

He sure went someplace, Hooker said. I hope you like eating blue runners for supper.

They are not so bad, sar. He grinned at his friend, watching him closely as the leader cleared the water.

Damn, Hooker said again. On the end of the line, the blue runner bait still sticking out of its mouth, was only the head of what would have been a fifty-pound wahoo.

Mr. Shark got you, sar. He like to eat your fish supper too.

That baby Id like to eat.

Billy shook his head. He be too big, sar. Look down, he pointed, see, thar he go and what a big mister he is.

It looked more like a shadow than a real thing, but there was no mistaking what it was. For a moment it circled out of sight, then came back and rose slowly until the full length was visible, turning on its side so the enormous black eye seemed to be looking straight into Hookers.

Id like to catch that sucker, he said.

But why for, sar? Mr. Shark, he must eat too.

Not my fish, Billy.

There is still plenty for all of us. Tonight I take the head of your fish and make a fine stew.

You must be kidding!

Billys face looked hurt. My cooking is no good for you?

Hey... your cookings great. You hear me yell about it yet?

Then you will like my stew.

Billy...

What, sar?

Take out the eyes first, okay?

Sar... that is the best part.

Do it for me, please? Hooker asked.

For you sar, Billy told him reluctantly.

It was a good deckside supper, he had to admit, even if Billy wouldnt let him look in the old chipped enamel pot. He wiped up the last of the gravy with the sourdough bread and wondered if the crazy Carib had really taken the eyes out of the wahoo head or not. When he thought about it again it hardly bothered him at all. When he first got to the islands hed no more eat out of a native pot when he saw what they were cooking than dive into a septic tank. Now he could handle almost anything. Except the eyes. Somehow that just plain got him. Eyes were not for eating.

Billy took his plate and handed him a fresh beer just as the raucous blare of a carrier wave erupted over the radio speaker. The talk came on fast, a rapid staccato of garbled tones that sounded like nothing more than human static. Hooker knew what it was even if he couldnt understand. It was some islander, probably in a frenzy offshore because he ran out of gas. He looked at his watch. It was an hour and a half from dark.

Superstition alley, Hooker thought. No way you were going to get a native to be out on the sea after sundown, no way at all. Two hours ago Billy had turned the Clamdip on a heading toward Peolle; they were only forty-five minutes out now and Billy was happy. Tonight he wouldnt get et by the thing that et boats.

The radio ceased for a moment and Hooker asked, Who was it, Billy?

Peter-from-the-market, sar.