Mermaids in Paradise - Lydia Millet (phonics story books txt) 📗

the first dinner with Nancy, when she’d said the same thing—except for the part about mermaids and meal tickets, of course. I know all about economic incentives; it’s my job. This was a big machine, I thought. A big machine you couldn’t stop. Once it was started, it kept moving. And who were we? We were honeymooners, tourists. We didn’t even live here.

“But they’re overlooking something,” said Rick suddenly, just as we reached the Pearl Diver. We were going in from the back, the way we’d come out, fighting our way through more flowering hedges to get to the patio. “That’s what Nancy would say. They’re overlooking one major aspect, if that’s their plan.”

“What’s that, Rick,” said Chip wearily.

“The likelihood that the mermaids also depend on the reefs,” said Rick.

We stood there, on the patio, Chip and Rick and I.

“Exactly!” said Chip.

“That’s where we saw them,” said Rick. “It’s probably their home. Just like so many other fish-type animals, right? Sure, we don’t know their biology yet, Nancy’d be the first to admit it. But chances are, the reefs are probably a major food source for them. Their hunting grounds, as it were.”

We nodded slowly, all three of us, like so many bobbleheads on my coworker’s computer.

“Then, to have the mermaids to show off for tourists, they’d have to save the reefs,” I said. “Right?”

“Easier said than done,” said Rick.

“But that has to be part of our message,” I urged. “What we broadcast with Miyoko. That they’re wrong, these mermaid hucksters have it totally wrong. They can’t use mermaids as their meal ticket when all the reefs are gone. It’s not either/or—it’s both.”

“I bet they plan to feed the mermaids,” said Chip. “They’ll make, like, kind of a zoo for them, I bet. Like, artificial reefs.”

Then we all felt discouraged again. A mermaid zoo. Yep: we could see that happening in a heartbeat.

It was a rollercoaster for us, the hope followed by the disappointment.

MIYOKO, I THINK, stayed up most of the night working on footage for the “B-roll,” as she put it. I slept a total of four hours, tossing and turning on my blanket on the narrow couch when I wasn’t on sentry duty. Chip slept even less; he finally settled down at three only to wake up again at five, when he received a text from Thompson: Santa Claus was coming down the chimney.

Chip didn’t wake me up right then—he was worried about me getting enough sleep after what Janeane called the psychic trauma of the kidnapping—but when dawn came I was woken by the soughing, restless trade winds rattling the palm fronds.

And then he told me right away.

I think it was the first time I’d seen him crack a real smile since Nancy.

I donned some fresh clothes borrowed from Janeane, since I didn’t want to wear my bikini for another day running, so I was dressed like a bona fide hippie, in a flowing, brightly colored dress that looked to me like maternity wear, when Thompson knocked on the sliding doors. And when I pulled the curtain back he raised two fingers in the V of victory.

I FOUND I warmed to Thompson quite a bit, after that. I appreciate a person who can get things done. And though his methods are sketchy, i.e. illegal, unsafe, and destructive, Thompson simply is such a person.

For here was our tape—now in the form of a shining silver unmarked DVD—and there, right on the screen when we popped that disc into the drive on the side of Miyoko’s laptop, were the mermaids, just as I remembered them. As soon as I saw that familiar footage, I had a renewed appreciation for the cunning and expertise of our nation’s armed forces, and in particular the Navy. A sigh of delight ushered from us—a sigh, some whoops, a couple of happily uttered swear words. Thompson was embraced, clapped on the back, heartily congratulated and thanked.

Had he been discovered? asked Chip. Had he met with any resistance?

Thompson shook his head. Surgical strike. He’d actually encountered people a few times, he said, as he made his rounds of the yacht, rummaging in strangers’ rooms and belongings; but he’d played it cool, like his presence was completely authorized, and no one ever questioned him.

“Well, not quite true,” he admitted. “A drunk woman asked me what my star sign was. A lady of a certain age. But I told it to her straight: I don’t give a shit about star signs, and I like my ladies young.”

“You’re a hard case,” said Chip.

“Huh. Not too young, I hope,” said I.

We drank some coffee and planned the logistics of our media strike. Go time was 8 a.m., the hour of Miyoko’s program in Japan, I guess, which came on at night, around the same time as the news. We wouldn’t be able to hide, once we were broadcasting, so the stealth team was going to be retasked: their new job was security. We’d make a circle around Miyoko, except for Rick, who would be filming her, and me and Chip, who would be guarding Rick. (Janeane would stay in the cabana, to guard it, as she said, though frankly Janeane couldn’t guard a hamster. She didn’t like to be alone there, she conceded, but she’d done it the day before and she could do it again.) Miyoko had to send the mermaid footage first—she swore her producers were trustworthy—and that would take a while to upload to their server, along with her B-roll, so we were on a tight schedule. She bent over her computer, focused, industrious.

“No guns, right?” I asked Thompson. “No guns.”

“Agreed,” he said. “Guns would attract undue attention. Give the rent-a-cops an obvious excuse. However, we will have other weapons. From my martial-arts collection. I stashed them in my jeep. Mostly numchucks. Correctly known as nunchaku.”

“No way,” said Chip, gleeful. “That’s pretty rad.”

“You’ll need a brief tutorial,” said Thompson. “It’s an ancient art form. No hope you kids will