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Sharon Goldberg was just as gorgeous as Gladys except that she was blonde. She also had a penchant for tight blouses and black stockings. Micko had trouble not staring at her cleavage while talking to her. He was careful to only sneak a peek when he thought she couldn’t see him doing it.
Sharon had a professional air about her, but she was still a striking woman all the same. Long blonde hair hung slightly over her shoulders and rested on a black V-neck cashmere sweater. A small dainty emerald necklace encircled her swan-like neck, and she wore a thin yellow belt around a wasp-like waist that kept her black skirt from sliding down her sexy stockings. On her left hand, she wore an emerald ring that matched her necklace, and a beautiful emerald bracelet graced her right wrist. Her nails were perfectly manicured and shone with a rich coat of red polish.
While Gladys was a sexy, flirtatious temptress, this woman was a classy businesswoman. Micko liked her—and not just for the shallow, superficial reasons why men love gorgeous, busty women. Sharon dealt in direct terms and turned out to be as honest as the day was long, something most people in business found difficult to be.
She made Micko comfortable in an oversized brown leather reclining chair and offered him coffee, and he surprised himself by saying, “Yes, please.”
“I have a trip of a lifetime for you at a price you will not believe,” she stated. “I have a business acquaintance that just came back from scuba diving at Bikini Atoll. Have you ever heard of it?”
“I have, but only regarding the A bomb,” Micko answered. “Where is Bikini?”
“It’s part of the Marshall Islands in the Pacific Ocean, not far from Guam.”
“Guam! Who am I? John Freaking Wayne? What the heck will I do in Guam?”
“Easy, Michael. Let me explain. This is why Bikini is the diving secret of the scuba community. Oh, and that John Wayne movie was in Iwo Freaking Jima.” She flashed a smile that rivaled her sister’s in beauty. “After World War II, the U.S. placed a large number of captured ships in Bikini Atoll and used a nuclear bomb to sink them. More than fifty years later, the Bikinians moved back and built up the islands with hotels and dive resorts that offer some of the best shipwreck diving on the planet. Since the resorts are new and word isn’t out yet, I can get you a great deal.”
Micko’s brow furrowed. “You know, I kind of remember reading something about that. The radiation is gone and the U.S. had to help pay to rebuild the islands and jumpstart the Bikini economy.”
“Yes, and there has been diving in the Bikini Lagoon since 1996. National Geographic, the Discovery Channel, Scuba Diving magazine, and many other noted dive publications rave about it in their reviews,” Sharon said. “There is a grand opening of a new hotel and dive resort scheduled for next week on Shark Alley Island. It’s just a couple of miles from the Bikini Resort, and it has the largest and fastest dive boats. They do all the same dives as the Bikini dive resort, but this place is luxurious. I could either book you at the Bikini dive resort where you live on the water in a thatched hut with few amenities, or into a five-star hotel with a swimming pool, casino, golf course, three bars, a world class restaurant, and more. Your choice, but I can get you a great deal on the grand opening of the Majuro Majestic on Shark Alley Island.”
Micko was stunned as he listened, and of course, he preferred the luxurious resort. He finally stopped staring at Sharon’s bust as she explained the package details. It was a great deal. He had a thousand questions, and Sharon crossed her shapely legs and sat in her splendid beauty as she patiently answered each one. Her silky voice was as enthralling as her honesty. When she didn’t have an answer, she made notes and promised to get an answer ASAP. She didn’t try to pull any BS and gave Micko her undivided attention for two straight hours without interruption.
Finally, she said, “I will get you the brochures, and you let me know which hotel you wish to stay in. Then I’ll book everything immediately. Go to your doctor and get the proper shots, and then pack your bags.”
Micko gestured with his arms open. “How can I ever thank you?”
Sharon replied, “Just get better and have fun.”
***
Micko had trouble concentrating on his driving on the way home as his mind wandered to the South Pacific. Sixteen hundred bucks! I’ve spent more money on a one-week dive package to the Caribbean, he thought to himself. Wait until I tell Gus.
Once he returned home, he called Gus and another former partner, Jim Carley, known as JC to his friends. JC was the kind of guy who would have stayed on the force until he was forced out by old age. Unfortunately, a triple bypass heart operation cut his extended career short. He’d had more than twenty-five years in before he had the heart attack.
Micko and JC had worked together as uniformed patrol officers, undercover in an active anti-crime unit, and also in the robbery squad. JC was a former MP with the U.S. Army. He had been a straight arrow for as long as Micko had known him. He didn’t bend the rules at all, and he was an expert at doing all kinds of research. Recently, he had developed a love affair with snacks and rich foods, causing dangerous weight fluctuation, that made his heart doctor berate and swear at him, “Jimmy, your corpulence will be the death of both of us!”
Micko had gone scuba diving with both ex-partners on numerous occasions, so he valued their input. The three detectives belonged to the New York’s Finest Divers Club. This organization had originally been formed for cops who loved to scuba dive, and created terrific dive packages around the globe for its members. Two years after its inception, it boasted more than one hundred members. Some cops brought in friends who were not cops, and they brought in friends, and so on. The great benefit of having a huge membership was the clout the club had when it came to booking large trips. Most travel agencies worked with large organizations for repeat business. They also threw in free trips for every sixth or seventh diver. If the club booked a trip to Key Largo for fourteen divers, two went gratis.
Jim Carley did all the research on the club’s dive locations, so Micko asked him to turn on his computer and do some research on Bikini. They would meet for breakfast the next morning.
Then Gus and Micko spoke at great length about the new homicide Gus was working. Since Micko was injured, Gus was bouncing from partner to partner, and was sometimes loaned out to other commands that were shorthanded. Such was the current case. Another detective squad was investigating a double homicide, and Gus was assigned to assist them.
Gus enjoyed giving his partner the juicy details while watching him salivate for more. He was a great storyteller, quite animated as his arms waved and his voice rose an octave or two at times. He also loved to pause for effect during the critical parts of the yarn, and Micko enjoyed listening to his partner recount the investigation.
The two could have gone on discussing the case all night until Micko said, “Gus, I gotta get this scuba gear put away. It’s lying all over my room. I’ll pick you up at your house at oh-nine-hundred hours, and then I’ll drop my gear off to be serviced. Then we’ll drive upstate to Mahopac and get JC.”
Tuesday morning was dark and damp with a threat of rain. Micko picked up Gus and then drove to Captain Mike’s Dive Center on City Island to drop off his gear. Mike Carew ran the place. He was also the instructor who had taught the detectives how to dive many years earlier. Carew promised to service the gear ASAP.
JC was ready when they arrived at his house. He opened his jacket to reveal a scuba diving shirt from the Galapagos Islands. Micko and Gus both laughed as they recalled the great time they’d had visiting the place where Darwin originated his theory of evolution.
The three former partners drove to a small, family-run breakfast nook called Pancakes R Us. From outside the place looked like a small log cabin, but inside it took on the look and feel of a full-sized restaurant. The log cabin design was warm and hospitable, and there were neat, black and white pictures of early settlers and hunters adorning the walls. The booths were clean and of a suitable size to comfortably sit three Bronx detectiv
es.
Mabel, the waitress, was a tall brunette with lumpy shoulders and a weathered face much like Dorothy’s nemesis, the Wicked Witch of the West. She was beyond sixty years old, but as tough as they came.
“C’mon, c’mon, I ain’t got all day,” she bellowed
“Is your name really Mabel?” Micko inquired. He suddenly felt mischievous.
“Keep that up and you’ll get cold coffee and runny eggs,” she blared.
“Talk about a name fitting the job,” Micko continued brazenly.
“I’ll be right back with three cold coffees for the three comedians,” she responded.
“Are you satisfied, Micko?” Gus complained.
“Well, we could always walk down the yellow brick road and find the coffee house with the good witch,” Micko cracked. He started to laugh at his own joke.
“Or maybe we could click our heels and go to Kansas,” JC quipped.
“Hey, Gus, don’t you own a pair of red shoes?”
Micko and JC were beside themselves with laughter.
Eavesdropping, Mabel was actually enjoying this juvenile banter. True to her word, she brought three cold cups of coffee, but she put a fresh pot on that the three couldn’t see.
“Okay, my three little Einsteins, what will you have?”
Micko ordered, “Two eggs over easy with bacon, crisp, and rye toast with butter.”
JC ordered, “Scrambled eggs with sausage and whole wheat toast.”
Gus was nervous about getting runny eggs, so he ordered a cop special. “What kind of donuts do you have?”
“For you, Mr. Wizard, we have a box of munchkins,” she joked.
With that, the entire table and nearby diners roared with laughter. Apparently, quite a few people were listening in. It appeared that Mabel had as much fun as the detectives during these breakfast encounters.
JC was excited as he pulled out some pages he had downloaded and printed off his computer. He did a great job of researching the Marshall Islands, the Bikini Atoll in particular. “Micko, this place is better than Truk Lagoon.”
“What’s Truk Lagoon?” Gus asked.
Micko answered, “It’s where the U.S. sank the Jap fleet near the end of World War II. There are dozens of warships sunk there, and they offer some great shipwreck dives.”
“Yeah, but in Truk most of the good ships are in very deep water,” JC said. “You need to either dive on mixed gas, limit yourself to shallow wrecks, or do fewer dives per day. In Bikini, the atoll is shallower, hence the dives are shallower.”
“But is it dangerous to dive on a radioactive island?” Micko wondered. Despite Sharon’s assurances, this was what had been bothering him most.
“Not according to the U.S. radioactivity reports,” JC answered. “The U.S. would not have built a dive resort for the Bikinians if it wasn’t safe. Here are some of the pages that I downloaded regarding the safety issues.” He handed Micko some computer printouts that resembled survey reports.
The three detectives talked incessantly while gorging themselves on a hearty breakfast. Micko had a number of reports from JC to read and brochures on the way from Sharon. He would be busy for the next few days preparing for his trip. He silently wondered if this trip would cure the horrendous nightmares he had been having lately. He had doubted his nerve and self-confidence since the shooting nearly left him dead in the hallway of a rundown South Bronx tenement building. Maybe some exciting diving will bring back my confidence, he thought.
***
The next day, Micko picked up his equipment from Captain Mike’s and started packing his serviced scuba diving gear. He took out his Sea & Sea Motormarine underwater camera, greased the O-rings, and bought new batteries for the strobe light. He did the same for his high-powered underwater flashlight.
After he finished rechecking everything, he visited his regular general practitioner and got all the necessary shots for the Marshall Islands. Later in the day, he got a call from Sharon.
“I hope you’re packed and ready to go because I have your reservations, tickets, and itinerary on the way via FedEx. You leave Friday morning on the six a.m. flight out of JFK. I made the decision, and you’re going to stay at the Majuro Majestic Dive Resort and Casino.”
“Whoa! That’s in two days!” Micko complained.
“In my experience, you book the trip quick and don’t give people a chance to back out. So pack up, bucko, and get on that flight. FedEx promised to drop off the material to you no later than four this afternoon. Look it over and get your ride to the airport arranged.”
“Okay, thanks for everything. You and your sister have been great. I never would have been able to get motivated to do this all by myself.”
“We know,” she said with a laugh. “I want to see pictures and hear some great stories when you return.”
Just as Micko hung up with Sharon, his doorbell rang, and as promised the FedEx guy dropped off all the information and tickets for his trip. After reading all the material, Micko immediately called Gus to ask for a ride to the airport.
“Six in the morning!” Gus complained. “That means I have to pick you up at three to get you there at least two hours before the flight.
“No, you can get me at four. I don’t expect a huge crowd at that hour. I fly straight to L.A., and then to Honolulu. I spend two nights in Hawaii, and then I catch a ride on Continental Micronesia’s Island Hopper to Majuro. I spend a night there and then jump on the weekly Air Marshall Islands flight to Eneu. Then I take a short boat ride to Shark Alley Island.”
“Where the hell is Majuro?” Gus inquired.
“The brochure said it’s the capital of the Marshall Islands. It’s probably a one-horse town, but I’ll just be there overnight.”
“All right, I’ll drive you to the airport, but you have to buy me breakfast.”
***
Gus was right on time on the day of the flight, and he helped Micko lug his suitcase and dive gear to the car. The ride to the airport was uneventful with little or no traffic. Gus drove up the ramp that read American Airlines departures and briefly parked in front of one of the curbside check-in counters.
“You will owe me a breakfast later, O’Shaughnessy. I’m too tired to eat now. Besides, I don’t want to pay for parking.”
“C’mon, Gus. Park the car and meet me inside. I’ll take care of the parking bill.”
“No, I’m more tired than hungry,” Gus growled.
“Will wonders never cease? My Rican friend is too tired to eat!” Micko clowned.
Micko went inside and waited on line to validate his ticket and be assigned a seat. When he handed the attendant his E-ticket, she politely asked him for identification. Micko handed her his driver’s license, and she suddenly perked up. “Oh, good morning, Detective,” she said.
A bit confused, Micko asked her, “How did you know?”
“Oh, we’re expecting you. Sharon told us all about you.”
“Good old Sharon,” he cracked sarcastically. Cops had a history of not wanting civilians to know who they were, especially when traveling.
“I have good news, Detective. There are several empty seats in first class, so I can place you there if you’d like,” she said with a smile.
“I’d love a first class window seat, if you don’t mind,” Micko responded with surprise.
Armed with his first class seating papers, a jubilant Micko headed straight for the nearest breakfast nook. Unfortunately, it was still too early in the morning for any of them to be open, so he settled for a newspaper, a lousy cup of coffee, and a prepackaged bagel that tasted like cardboard. His only worry in the world was that Joe would remember to feed Mr. McGillicuddy and empty his little box.
3
Dr. Timothy Collins was in a panic as he searched his room. “Where is my research? Where is it?” he yelled to his assistant James Donaghy.
James was carefully brushing his teeth when he heard the uproar from the next room. “Calm down, Doctor. Which research do you mean?�
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“Which one do I mean? Which one do I mean? Are you an imbecile, man?”
James looked up to the ceiling for help. “Doctor, I haven’t unpacked all of your bags yet. Just calm down.”
He knew he would have his hands full on this trip. A graduate student from New York University, he was working as an assistant to Dr. Collins while completing his doctorate. Dr. Collins was a renowned scientist working for the Florida Museum of Natural History Ichthyology Department, and the world’s leading authority on the behavior of gray reef sharks. He was also renowned among his coworkers as an overly enthusiastic neurotic.
“My research, James! My research! I’m losing my patience!”
James went back into the adjoining room. He carried in an old weather-beaten briefcase and placed it on the bed. “Here you go, Professor,” he said. “Knock yourself out.”
James went back to brushing his teeth as Dr. Collins tore through the briefcase. Looking in the mirror at his reflection, he thought, Not too bad. He was a tall muscular lad of twenty-five, and his clean-shaven face was finally pimple-free. His good looks and athleticism on the football field had made him popular with the girls at Fordham University in New York. Now his brain was going to make the world stand up and take notice. As annoying as Dr. Collins was, he was brilliant, and James planned to be his heir apparent someday.
“Here they are! Here they are, you idiot!” Dr. Collins exclaimed.
“Calm down, Dr. Two-Times. You’re doing it again.”
Dr. Collins stopped in his tracks and stood upright. “Am I?”
“Yes, every time you get excited, you say things twice.”
“I’m sorry, James. It’s just that we have an extraordinary opportunity here.”
“I know, Doctor. You will become more famous and I will complete my thesis.”
James finished his morning regimen and sat on the couch, watching Dr. Collins admiringly. The professor was a short, round man with a head of shocking white hair and an unkempt white goatee. He preferred the granny style reading glasses that made him look like a character out of a Charles Dickens novel. Dr. Collins was now deep in thought as he perused his research papers and made notations in his ragged journal. James looked about the elegant furnishings in their twin rooms and silently recalled the events that led up to this chapter of his life.