The Naked Bull
Eight

The logistics of getting the van and dive gear to Seattle was a simple case of money, and time. Money seemed to be no issue to the rather eccentric Mister Sumner. It was the only bargaining chip he had: Although the prospect of getting back to the States and seeing his family brought a warm glow to the homesick Elliott, Vashon was quite content with the self-imposed exile of his expatriate life. Their mission, should they accept, would take them through Seattle, which was (Elliott so conveniently reminded his companion) within a few hours’ drive of Vashon’s once home where his father (as far as anyone was aware) still resided. This remark was, however, just as conveniently ignored.

Vashon was not without reason, though. He needed a traveling companion for a multitude of reasons, both practical and abstract. There were holes in his heart, holes in his head; he did not pretend ignorance of these. Elliott was a good man, loyal to a fault and, above all, a true friend. The two had shared some serious life together, and (though one would be hard put to drag it out of him), he truly loved the man. And if he did not allow the sound, the aroma, the embrace of home, and soon, he would surely lose his stomach for the odyssey and jump ship.

Thus the new opportunity promised to kill several of Vashon’s loathed seagulls with one intrepid stone: Enough money to keep them off the chain gang for the foreseeable future; some much-needed homeport for the crew; and, for Vashon the captain, a worthy response to the helmsman’s incessant query “where to now St. Peter?”

The conditions of the work agreement were pounded out in detail by a dubious Vashon before he ever agreed to consider what to him was the epitome of folly. During their walk to find the old man Elliott had filled him in on meager few details of the gig. Although they both agreed beforehand that it was, at best, a chimera hunt; they should not expose the fact that they were not, in fact, mermaid hunters by trade, that this had been an exotic-sounding retort to questions that had no easy answers (i.e. what do you do, what do you do out there, what did you do out there in the dark, et al), and they should, for the time being, play along with the charade and see where the conversation lead.

Hence, once it appeared that they might actually consider the job, he was quite insistent on a proviso to the terms: Should they not succeed in their goal of procuring said mermaid (sic), through no fault of their own, there would remain a predesignated monetary award for their time and effort. Also, there would need to be traveling funds made available beforehand for, but not limited to, ship transportation for the van and diving equipment to the port of Seattle, from Barcelona, and plane fare for the two. To which, much to their astonishment, the old man agreed to with not so much as a twitch.

The table, set well by the Sumner’s seemingly bottomless purse, became an eye in the storm that was the Fiesta. Vashon weighed every word, every nuance that escaped his lips. He was searching for cracks in the story, anything he could use to defuse the entire endeavor. Elliott was not blind to this overt attempt and thus kept a wary eye on his partner for any signs to deliberately derail the talks. Had Vashon shared the misadventures of the previous night and morning (which he did not), Elliott might have understood his reticence.

However, there were instances where both were confused by the apparent gibberish from the eccentric little man.

“Our benefactor is quite eager to witness the implementation of this new underwater equipment of yours.”

The two travelers shared a glance.

“New?” said a confused Vashon “Scuba has been around forever” and then leaned toward the man “Are you saying your “hunters” don’t go underwater?” Elliott kneed him under the table. Easy friend. Sumner tried his best to explain.

“Forgive me, my good man. Allow me to explain,” Vashon sat back and waited. This should be good.

“The land of Mukilteo, although not so far off the beaten track as the crow flies, is rather, how should I say, remote. We don’t get out much; few, if any, get in.”

This raised the hair of Vashon’s neck, having just recently experienced forced incarceration in the form of a near-death experience.

“Why the isolation, Sumner? You some kind of religious fanatics?” said Vashon.

Sumner thought well on this before replying adding fuel to Vashon’s doubt.

“I personally have no use for religion,” he paused, obviously choosing his next words, “a mere crutch for the weak, would you not agree?” and eyed Vashon, who wanted to agree but made it a policy never to shake hands with an anxious man. Sumner saw this and, intrigued by the man’s candor, continued.

“Perhaps I have given you the wrong impression. Consider Mukilteo, a sanctuary of sorts. The people there are quite secretive and require anonymity. We only ask that, once inside, you do not leave until our business has concluded and that you keep our small haven, and its secrets, to yourselves. And for this small favor, you will be paid most handsomely.”

Oh, but those pesky details.

“Then, you must have a dive shop there where we can fill our tanks with air and replace worn gear, yes?”

Sumner was confused by the mention of this, having no idea of the requirements of the, to him, new invention.

“Fill your…tanks? With what exactly must they be filled?”

“Air.”

“Air?” he said, perplexed, “There is air in abundance in Mukilteo.”

“Compressed air?” Vashon leaned forward, purging all doubt with a look. Sumner seemed again at a loss

“I was not aware that such existed. This is an inevitable necessity?” he asked.

“Inevitable, yes” Vashon repeated deadpan.

There was a long moment of silence. Vashon sipped at his drink and took the respite to contemplate the previous twenty-four hours. He had seen the strange in his day; had encountered the bizarre with nothing more than an ironic smile. But he was having serious difficulty wrapping his head around this.

Sumner arrived at his conclusion.

“A thorn in my shoe, nothing more,” he said, “If that is what you require, then that is what you shall have. How far will you need to travel for this marvel?”

“If your Mukilteo is on Puget Sound, and is as you say not far from civilization, then you probably tripped over several dive shops to get here.”

“This may very well be, but you must excuse me. In the case of our Lady’s demands, I am rarely distracted. Do we have a deal?” he asked and produced a forboding hand. Elliott shot out his and shook it greedily. Then, after some difficulty disengaging the man, he offered it to Vashon, who would not look at it, looking hard into the man’s crafty eyes. Dollars buy the trust of an idiot, but there was more.

Sumner sat back and looked around, allowing Vashon his measure of time. He seemed fascinated, amused by the multitudes, the parade of giants that was passing. Vashon watched him. If he was any kind of lip reader, the man named each with an ironic smile and an ever so slight shake of the head as if perhaps he had known them all. Vashon eased for a moment.

“You make a habit of Sanfermines?”

Sumner answered without turning.

“When it pleases.”

Vashon felt his breath stop.

“Exactly who is this lady you keep mentioning, this benefactor?” ask Vashon. Elliott had been wondering the same, though in his current glow had let it pass.

Sumner was brought back to the table, bothered.

“A collector. Nothing more. I shouldn’t imagine she would have reason to meet you in person. She prefers to remain distant, allowing me the task of the details,” he said. Vashon pushed on.

“Collector of what exactly?”

“Rarities.”

Vashon recognized these ambiguous responses for the dodge they were. He could also see that any further prying would produce more of the same and so left it to unveil itself another day.

“One more thing, Sumner. Who told you about us?” Elliott squirmed in his seat but held his tongue. Vashon had on more than one occasion saved their asses by the skin of an aptly timed question. Sumner, though obviously tiring of the inquisition, maintained his candor and then, unwittingly or not, sealed their fates with a simple name.

“Oh, but I do forget myself. I believe you may know the gentleman. Goes by the name of…Whidbey?”

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