Deep Down - Chapter #1 - Free To Read

Sam Lamont powered down the throttle of the Bravado and dropped anchor off the eastern shore of Santa Rosa Island. The morning sky was overcast. Off the stern, a mosaic of blue water and brown kelp danced on the mild chop of the ocean’s surface.

“Hungover?” Sam asked, adjusting his weight belt. His co-diver Kyle tied back his sun-bleached dreads. “Nah. Just baked.” He cracked a smile. “There’s

a house party tonight in Carpinteria. You game?” “Whose house?”

“Boner’s.”

Sam shook his head. “I think I’ll sit that one out.” “You haven’t been out with us in a long time. The

women miss you, man. It’s not a party without the Slammer.”

Not wanting to rehash an old conversation, Sam let the topic drop. They’d been working together for almost five years, but Sam still hated when Kyle smoked out before a dive. Today Sam had no choice— they were on a serious deadline. “You gonna be all right today?” he asked.

“Of course. No problem, Skipper.”

With practiced efficiency, they started up the noisy compressor, double-checked their regulators, gave each other a thumbs’ up, and jumped into the cold water.

Visibility was about ten feet as they made their

descent. Long trails of kelp flowed back and forth around them.

Kyle used the anchor line to pull himself against the current. He disappeared into the murky water to harvest a spot on the other side of the boat.

Sam adjusted his rake, the long metal claw he used to pry sea urchins off rocks, and started his search. In under a minute, he found a cluster of large red sea urchin and smashed one against a rock to check its quality.

The roe was fat and golden yellow and shiny. This was the good stuff. Sushi restaurants in the U.S. and Japan paid high prices for top-grade sea urchin. Sam picked the urchin, scraping up and batting the spiky balls into his mesh bag. When his bag was full, he inflated its orange floater and kicked to the surface to start the process all over again.

At the end of the day, Sam and Kyle secured the haul as usual and started for home. But halfway across the channel, Kyle’s head drooped.

“I’m so goddamn tired today.” Kyle’s words were slurred. “I don’t know why.”

He closed his eyes and slumped over. Sam’s blood went cold.

“Shit!” He powered down the boat. “Kyle!”

Sam checked the pulse in his friend’s neck and shook him hard.

Kyle lifted his head slowly and blinked. “What happened?”

“The bends. Type two, I think,” said Sam. “Decompression sickness. A pretty bad hit from the looks of it. We have to get you to a hospital.”

Sam gunned it back to the harbor. He pushed the

Bravado, riding the old boat hard while trying to keep his friend conscious and talking. The bends meant Kyle had bubbles of nitrogen forming in his bloodstream from ascending too quickly during his dive. The consequences could be serious. Nerve damage, lung damage, even paralysis. Ten minutes out, Sam made a call to shore on his cell phone. An ambulance met them on the dock to take Kyle to the hospital.

Weak and disoriented, Kyle was in rough shape. As the paramedics lifted him onto the gurney, he turned to Sam. “But what about Madrigal?”

“Don’t worry about him right now,” said Sam. “Listen, these nice people are going to get you into a decompression chamber now, all right? You’ll be good as new.”

Kyle looked up at him once more. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Don’t sweat it, buddy.”

“But what…what about Madrigal?” asked Kyle again.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck as the crew wheeled Kyle inside the ambulance. “I’ll take care of Madrigal.”

Kyle shook his head. “If we don’t get that money to him…” A paramedic slipped an oxygen mask over his face.

“Just get better,” said Sam. “I’ll think of something.” The ambulance door slammed shut.

****

Over the years, Eve had heard lots of excuses. Women’s warm hands ruined cold fish. Women wore perfume that tainted the delicate flavor of sushi. Women were not skillful enough with a knife to prepare

the fish properly.

Eve was thinking about these excuses as she closed the door of the walk-in refrigerator and collided with her father, who stood—quite literally—in her way.

“Is the order put away?” Chef Ono asked in Japanese, not glancing up from his clipboard.

“Yes, Chef.”

He pointed down at the rubber mats beneath their feet. “Now wash the mats.”

She stood up straight and gave him a cheeky “Yes, Chef!”

He looked up at her. A chain-smoker, he was whippet-thin and naturally sinister looking. “Is this a game to you?”

She pursed her lips to hide her smile. “No, Chef.”

With a growl, he turned back to his clipboard and kept walking.

The Geisha Sushi kitchen made up one long corridor from the front of the restaurant, where it began at a U-shaped bar, to the back room, where it ended by the washing station and the back door. Eve hauled the heavy floor mats out into the alley by the Dumpster and scrubbed them with a long-handled brush. As the mats dried, Eve swept around the feet of the line cooks and swabbed a mop over the rows of red tile on the galley floor.

She used cold water and a small amount of disinfectant—her father had a nose like a bloodhound and became enraged if the smell of cleaning products undermined the smell of the food.

As she rinsed the mop once more, she glanced at the magnetic strip above the washing station. The long row of sharp knives made her fingers twitch, but her father had forbidden her to cook in his kitchen. She was lost in the memory of slicing and dicing when she collided with Ken on his way to the dishwashing sink. “Gomen!” she said, breathless. “Sorry, Ken!”

The tall, rangy prep cook was three years younger than Eve. But her father had already taken him on as a full-fledged apprentice.

“What are you daydreaming about, Eve?” Ken asked with a wink.

She was at a loss for words for a moment. “I…er…”

“That’s all right. Keep your secrets,” said Ken, holding up his hand. “I’m just passing on a message: when you finish the mopping, your dad wants you to water the plants in front of the restaurant before the dining room opens.”

She nodded sheepishly. “Got it. Okay.”

****

A well-run restaurant at the height of its dinner service hummed like an engine. The hostess, bussers, servers, and runners all worked together to seat and serve diners. The line cooks and chefs all worked together to put beautiful food on the table at exactly the right intervals. That’s how a good engine worked.

But tonight, even lowly dishwasher Eve knew the Geisha Sushi engine had a monkey wrench in it.

Behind the sushi bar, the sushi chefs in front of the diners were poker-faced and calm as yoga instructors. Not even the most observant customer would realize something was amiss.

Whenever he ducked into the kitchen, however, Chef Ono unleashed holy hellfire, directing his assholery at Ken, who was having trouble keeping up

with the steady stream of orders for rolls.

“Takahashi!” yelled her father. “You can’t even make rolls. You expect me to let you out there? Let customers see that face? Those clumsy hands?” He knocked a just-finished dragon roll out of Ken’s hands, smashing the delicate creation to the floor. “You’re not sending that piece of garbage out of my kitchen. Start again!”

Ono disappeared behind the curtain separating the kitchen from the sushi bar.

From behind her washing station, Eve noticed the determination in Ken’s face as he sliced a ripe avocado with the intent and concentration of a surgeon.

She pulled off her gloves and washed her hands quickly. “Let me help you,” she whispered. “He’s angry because you’re using too much rice.”

Gratitude flashed in Ken’s eyes. “Show me.”

She wasn’t completely familiar with all the elaborate rolls American sushi restaurants served, but she had seen her father walk Ken through this process earlier in the afternoon. With nimble fingers, she made a roll of roast eel and cucumbers, but she didn’t pack the rice as tightly as she had seen Ken do. She placed the roll on top of the fanned-out avocado he had prepared and pressed it all together. Quickly, she used a laser-sharp knife to create beautiful, delicate cylinders of rice, vegetables, and fish.

She laid the sushi out on the plate and garnished it lightly, letting the beauty of the pieces shine through. “There,” she said, handing him the plate. Ken in turn handed it to a runner who whisked the dish away.

“Let’s get you out of the weeds,” she said, looking at Ken’s endless row of orders.

In five minutes, the backup was nearly gone. Eve peeked into the dining room. Sated, happy diners were mopping sauce from their dishes and ordering more sake and beer. One diner bought a round for the sushi chefs, who toasted him with a hearty “Kanpai!” Even her father smiled—briefly.

She was feeling quite proud of both herself and Ken when Chef Ono walked without warning into the back room. She was just in the middle of plating a final order of spider rolls while Ken was wiping up the station.

“What is this?” yelled the chef, all mirth gone.