Robert Walker - Darkest Instinct

“ Using the actual fish skin means we get the most authentic reproduction of size and shape,” added Stu, a thin, angular man with dark skin and an eagerness to please.

“ It costs more the right way,” explained Buck, “so most times we’re asked to create a reasonable facsimile. Hate to do it, but if you’re gonna use plastic-”

Stu, hearing this so often, finished for Buck, adding, “-at least get a trained skinner who can provide exact specifications!”

“ When we get a fish in, it’s first measured and weighed,” continued Buck. “Then we pose it-you know, in a lifelike position, say leaping or lunging.”

“ Next, plaster of paris is poured over it, to create the spit mold,” contributed Stu. “And after the material sets, it’s removed and the skinning process follows.”

“ We use as delicate surgical instruments as you, Dr. Coran,” Buck assured her. “It has to be done that way, if it’s to be done right.”

“ You use a scalpel, then?”

“ To assure no damage to the specimen, yes.”

“ Were any scalpels stolen from your place along with the chemicals the other night?”

“ Some instruments were taken, yes.”

Stu wanted to get back to the subject at hand, so he deftly stepped between them and continued, saying, “This point’s where I come in.” Stu was obviously proud of his handiwork. “The skin is next given several chemical baths, you know, to remove excess oils, organic matter, microbes.”

“ High-tech insect repellent,” muttered Buck as if to disparage Stu’s expertise.

Stu pretended no offense. “Once cured, the skin is fitted inside the mold, to return it to its original shape, you see.” He demonstrated with a blue marlin.

“ That’s when several layers of paper, glue and papier- mache are applied through an opening. Here. I’ll show you.” Buck lifted one of the molds at this crucial stage to show her the hole on the side that would be against the wall, not showing. “This forms the core, replaces the innards so that there’s no collapse after time. At this stage,” he added, “we say the fish is truly mounted. We don’t use the term stuffed. Stupid to refer to trophy mounting as stuffing, like you’d stuff a bear or a circus animal. As you see, we don’t stuff the damn things.”

“ The mount is then ready for the dehydration process, which can take up to three months, depending on size, of course,” Stu explained. “We’ll pass by the curing and drying room next.”

Jessica saw that the marine taxidermists kept a large inventory of molds on hand to provide a base for, as Buck explained it, “fish received only in the skin. It’s a great deal less expensive to forward a previously gutted fish on ice than one of full dead weight.”

Stu piped in, “But Buck won’t never guarantee perfection unless we can begin with the whole fish when it comes through the door.”

Having been in the business all his life, Buck had amassed so many molds that he could reproduce any fish size or species within a fraction of an inch of its life dimension.

They peeked into what Stu had called the curing and drying room, where bright heat lamps were turned on and focused toward the ceiling. Every available inch of ceiling space was occupied by the enormous trophy fish, many of which were swordfish, their proud swords spiked downward now from their carcasses, lifeless and hard and eyeless, their eyes having been removed at some earlier stage in the process.

The men working in the back of the factory, in white aprons pulled over sleeveless T-shirts and jeans, walked about in rubber boots or sneakers completely covered in globs of papier-mache like so much pizza flour and dough. They worked with great intensity and concentration and smiled at Jessica as she toured the place.

“ We boast a record of forms fitted to within a thirty- second of an inch of the original fish,” said Stu with pride. They moved on to another room. Here Jessica saw the finished work, she thought; but Buck cautioned her otherwise. “This is our primping room. Here’s where I come into play-not doing any of the heavy stuff no more.”

“ They look alive,” she said, staring. Here the fish had remarkably lifelike eyes that stared out at her.

“ I check for any final flaws here. Call it quality control. I correct any skin flaws and reinforce the fins. With the one exception of the glass eyes, everything you see here is from the original fish, ‘cept the mold over which his skin is stretched, of course… but the skin is the animals and basically that’s what we preserve here, the skin.”

“ Except for the billfish,” cautioned Stu.

Frowning, Buck explained, “A bill’s dorsal fin has to be prefabricated. No amount of processing can preserve some of the more delicate membranes.”

“ Any rate, now the science part is over,” said Stu. “In here it’s time for the art. To restore these babies to their original hues and lifelike appearance, it takes a master like Buck here. It takes talent-”

“ Bullshit, talent,” interrupted the spike-bearded Buckner. “Talent’s a dangerous word. More like skill born of experience and know-how. That’s more like it.”

“ Whatever you wanna call it. Buck here’s got more natural talent or skill born of experience and know-how than anybody on the damned planet.”

Buckner was blushing red below his gray beard, but he pretended nonchalance and went on with his explanation. “First we spray them with a white base coat; then we layer on several color shadings, some done by hand to gain the exact texture required for authenticity.”

“ A decent photo of the catch at the time it’s brought aboard a boat, or at least the moment it’s brought ashore, becomes invaluable here,” interjected Stu.

“ Tropical fish begin to lose their color the moment they’re snagged,” added Buck. “Anyway, a final clear coat is splashed on for protection and the wet look.”

“ How does what you do differ from the work done by other taxidermists?” asked Jessica.

Buck laughed a horse laugh, slapping Stu on the shoulder before replying, “A guy like me, specializing in marine work, is a whole ‘nuther animal from some bozo who stuffs birds and reptiles and bears and bobcats and squirrels, believe you me. We don’t have hide, fur or feathers to cover our mistakes.”

“ There’s no room here for error,” added Stu. “All we got to work with is a thin layer of skin which stubbornly resists preservatives.” Jessica smiled and replied, “You mean, it’s no job for amateurs?’’

“ That’s why Scrapheap didn’t care for that punk hanging around down in Key West. Said he always wanted to take shortcuts… was careless. Hell, you can see that from the yellowfin he brought in with him.”

Jessica gave Buckner a stunned look while Stu continued to fill her ear, saying, “Most of our customers are individuals, but Buck’s done work for corporations and museums, haven’t you, Buck?”

Buck nodded with grace, a faint, prideful smile parting his lips. “I’ve done work for Mickey Mantle, Hank Aaron, Charlton Heston… you name it.”

“ King Hussein and former Presidents Jimmy Carter and George Bush.” Stu beamed with pride, too.

“ Pardon me, Buck, but did you say this Patric Allain brought something in with him and left it here?”

“ Yeah, a yellowfin… kinda like a calling card. He’d already skinned it, so he wanted us to do the mounting, but after I looked at it and found a hole large enough to drive a golf ball through, I told him we couldn’t guarantee anything approximating perfection.”

“ Did anyone other than you handle the skin? Would you know, if anyone else had done work on it?” she asked.

“ Oh, sure.”