hungrily.
"Shut up. Just shut up!"
Chris finished her eggs and bacon and opened a fresh pack of cigarettes. She took one out and lit it. "Now, slavey, if you'll bring me some coffee," she paused and winked at Dizz, “I’ll tell you about Max."
Dizz put a cup of coffee in front of Chris and set the pot in the center of the table. "So tell me," she said.
"Well," Chris said, reaching for the sugar, "his name is Max Petersen. Fifteen years ago he was the world's leading marine biologist. Now he's sort of a sea-going hobo." She paused to take a sip of the coffee.
"What happened?"
"He got married," Chris went on. "Six months later his wife had a miscarriage and died. It nearly finished him. He hit the skids, started drinking. For a couple of years he just sort of leeched off his friends, people he'd worked with. Then he went on the bum. For the past ten years he's been drifting around on freighters."
Dizz looked at her blankly. "And what makes this sot such a fascination to you and Jonathan?" she asked.
"He's not just a sot, Dizz. He's a genius in his field—marine biology, that is. And his special charm is that he's been responsible for some of the best finds we've made. Remember that black pearl I went after a couple of years ago?"
"Of course," Dizz said. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"He told us where to find it. He used to belong to the museum. Now he just comes around for money." Chris paused thoughtfully. "Though sometimes I think he still cares. Anyhow, he hasn't done any diving since he took up alcohol. He lost his nerve."
"And you think he's found another pearl?"
"He's found something, at any rate," Chris said.
Dizz got up and carried the dishes to the sink. She carefully avoided looking at Chris.
"Darling, does that mean," Dizz said slowly, "that you'll be going diving again?"
"It could," Chris said. "In fact, I hope so. I don't get much of a charge out of picking up shells on the beach anymore." She pushed back her chair and stood up. "Why?"
"Ever since that barracuda tried to make lunch of your leg, I've preferred to think of you diving in a quiet indoor pool," Dizz said.
Chris did not answer immediately. She was thinking of the scar on her leg and of the year she'd spent hobbling around the house. She had not forgotten the incident for one day of her life since it happened. It had nearly ended her career. And her.
Chris knew in her heart that she was as anxious as Dizz. But for a different reason. She had to find out, sooner or later, whether or not she was done for as a diver. This could be her chance.
"Dizz," Chris said, "look at me." She put her hands on the girl's shoulders and turned her around. She gazed down at her seriously. "Once you upset a pan of hot grease. You burned both hands and both thighs, and pretty badly too. Did you stop cooking?"
Dizz was silent for a long time. Then she said, "Okay, teacher, I understand the lesson for today." She looked up and smiled. "Just don't come home to me mauled."
"That's better," Chris said. "Now, I've got to get out of here."
Chris walked into the living room and picked up the typed manuscript. "I'll probably be gone all day," she said. “I have to deliver this, see Max, and then stop at the museum."
"Call me and I'll have dinner ready when you get here."
"Right." Chris gave Dizz a quick peck on the nose and started for the door. "See you later."
She left the house and turned right on Fiftieth, then right again on First Avenue. She walked rapidly, her hands deep in her jacket pockets, the manuscript under her arm. She had not worn a coat nor did she carry a purse. Her heels were flat. She was in a hurry and stripped for action.
At Fifty-Sixth she made a quick stop at the bank. When she came out, she was carrying five hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. She folded them in a neat wad and jammed it into her inside pocket.
Then she hailed a cab.
"Forty-Sixth and Lex," she said. "Fast."
Two hours later she emerged from
"Shut up. Just shut up!"
Chris finished her eggs and bacon and opened a fresh pack of cigarettes. She took one out and lit it. "Now, slavey, if you'll bring me some coffee," she paused and winked at Dizz, “I’ll tell you about Max."
Dizz put a cup of coffee in front of Chris and set the pot in the center of the table. "So tell me," she said.
"Well," Chris said, reaching for the sugar, "his name is Max Petersen. Fifteen years ago he was the world's leading marine biologist. Now he's sort of a sea-going hobo." She paused to take a sip of the coffee.
"What happened?"
"He got married," Chris went on. "Six months later his wife had a miscarriage and died. It nearly finished him. He hit the skids, started drinking. For a couple of years he just sort of leeched off his friends, people he'd worked with. Then he went on the bum. For the past ten years he's been drifting around on freighters."
Dizz looked at her blankly. "And what makes this sot such a fascination to you and Jonathan?" she asked.
"He's not just a sot, Dizz. He's a genius in his field—marine biology, that is. And his special charm is that he's been responsible for some of the best finds we've made. Remember that black pearl I went after a couple of years ago?"
"Of course," Dizz said. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"He told us where to find it. He used to belong to the museum. Now he just comes around for money." Chris paused thoughtfully. "Though sometimes I think he still cares. Anyhow, he hasn't done any diving since he took up alcohol. He lost his nerve."
"And you think he's found another pearl?"
"He's found something, at any rate," Chris said.
Dizz got up and carried the dishes to the sink. She carefully avoided looking at Chris.
"Darling, does that mean," Dizz said slowly, "that you'll be going diving again?"
"It could," Chris said. "In fact, I hope so. I don't get much of a charge out of picking up shells on the beach anymore." She pushed back her chair and stood up. "Why?"
"Ever since that barracuda tried to make lunch of your leg, I've preferred to think of you diving in a quiet indoor pool," Dizz said.
Chris did not answer immediately. She was thinking of the scar on her leg and of the year she'd spent hobbling around the house. She had not forgotten the incident for one day of her life since it happened. It had nearly ended her career. And her.
Chris knew in her heart that she was as anxious as Dizz. But for a different reason. She had to find out, sooner or later, whether or not she was done for as a diver. This could be her chance.
"Dizz," Chris said, "look at me." She put her hands on the girl's shoulders and turned her around. She gazed down at her seriously. "Once you upset a pan of hot grease. You burned both hands and both thighs, and pretty badly too. Did you stop cooking?"
Dizz was silent for a long time. Then she said, "Okay, teacher, I understand the lesson for today." She looked up and smiled. "Just don't come home to me mauled."
"That's better," Chris said. "Now, I've got to get out of here."
Chris walked into the living room and picked up the typed manuscript. "I'll probably be gone all day," she said. “I have to deliver this, see Max, and then stop at the museum."
"Call me and I'll have dinner ready when you get here."
"Right." Chris gave Dizz a quick peck on the nose and started for the door. "See you later."
She left the house and turned right on Fiftieth, then right again on First Avenue. She walked rapidly, her hands deep in her jacket pockets, the manuscript under her arm. She had not worn a coat nor did she carry a purse. Her heels were flat. She was in a hurry and stripped for action.
At Fifty-Sixth she made a quick stop at the bank. When she came out, she was carrying five hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. She folded them in a neat wad and jammed it into her inside pocket.
Then she hailed a cab.
"Forty-Sixth and Lex," she said. "Fast."
Two hours later she emerged from
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