Paul Levine - Night vision

"The artist, silly. That one's called Fish in a Lotus Pond. Do you sense the mix of humility and grandeur?"

"Cindy, we need to get-"

"Don't you find the brushwork almost Zen-like?"

"Cindy!"

"All right, already. Over here."

In the corner of the living room, under a painting of more fishes in more ponds, sat her computer. Japanese, of course.

"I signed up as Lady Chattery," Pam Maxson said, after Cindy turned on the juice. "Your friend Mrs. Blinderman was quite helpful."

"Uh-huh."

"Despite her apparent hostility the other day, I get the distinct impression she is attracted to you."

"Uh-huh."

"Jake?"

"Huh?"

"Why do you become uncommunicative when I mention her name?"

Cindy rescued me. "Say, Dr. M, you didn't have to sign up. You could have used my handle, Barely Legal."

My mouth dropped open. "Cindy, you?"

"Sure, boss. With Mori traveling so much, a girl gets lonely. I been online a couple months now."

"Cindy, don't you know there's a freak out there?"

"Don't I ever! I been single a long time."

"Jake, perhaps Cindy is right," Pamela said. "A new name may alert the killer. Perhaps using a familiar handle will be reassuring."

I thought about it. "Okay. We start with Barely Legal, maybe switch to Lady Chattery if we come up empty."

"Have fun, kids," Cindy said. "Gotta meet Dottie the Disco Queen and catch the last shuttle to Paradise Island. Twenty-four hours in the casino, hitting the slots, fending off Romeos. Sayonara. "

Pam sat, posture perfect, at the keyboard. I stretched out on the sofa, hefting my. 38-caliber revolver, courtesy of Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson. It's the air-weight bodyguard model with the checkered walnut stock and the blue steel cylinder, an ugly little five-shot gun with a two-inch barrel. At fourteen ounces, just about anybody can fire it, whether they ought to or not. Every assistant state attorney gets one, along with a laminated badge and an autographed, smiling photo of Nick Fox. The gun shouldn't scare me. It has the requisite safety devices and fits snugly in the hand, a solid feel. It should be reassuring. But it scares me.

I hate a knife.

I hate a needle.

And I hate a gun.

A gun doesn't do you any good unless you're willing to shoot. You can't aim at somebody and not mean it. You can't pull the trigger and take it back. I put the gun down and picked up a four-foot gaff I keep on the skiff. A mean hook at the end, but the whole thing is lightweight aluminum. You could bend it over somebody's head, he'd need a couple of aspirin, but could still shoot you if he had a gun of his own. Our visitor, if any there be, wouldn't have a gun. He'd have a sport coat and cordovan loafers and a trendy car. And a closet full of goblins that screamed in the dark.

I was sleepy from too much sun, and the muscles of my shoulders were bunching into angry little knots, telling the wise guy who used them that he hadn't read the owner's manual. There it was in boldface: after forty thousand miles, use an engine to push the boat.

Pam watched me handling the. 38 and said, "We could ask the police to stop by."

"There aren't any secrets in the department. Rodriguez would find out. Besides, I can take care of you."

She regarded me skeptically.

I waggled my gaff and showed her my tough-guy face. Pam Maxson shrugged and logged in. Barely Legal was on the air.

It must have been a slow night for the electronic buzz-and-whisper set. Clark Kent said he'd like to come over and change clothes; Katz Meow asked if being Barely Legal was kosher; Camera Man allowed as how he only wanted to watch. A couple of women made connections. Phyllis Ph. D. complained about the intelligence of the men you find on your monitors these days. Bi Di asked if maybe it wasn't time for a change in direction.

But no Biggus Dickus.

I had called the station; Alex Rodriguez wasn't on duty. He should be home, opening a six-pack, watching TV, growing bored. He should be warming up the beige box, rolling those microchip dice. Come on, Biggus, we're waiting.

I was tired and hungry. I checked the refrigerator. Typical bachelor-girl fare. Six cartons of yogurt, some old enough to earn interest at the CD rate. Two cans of diet Pepsi, one opened, two sips missing. A forlorn tomato with no other veggies for company. A can of tuna, a couple eggs. A take-out carton from Joe's Stone Crab that emitted an astonishing odor. No wonder, Joe's closed for the season in April. It was nearly Labor Day. The freezer was packed. Six pints of Ben amp; Jerry's, all different flavors. I tried Chunky Monkey.

Back in the living room, Barely Legal was logging out and Lady Chattery was logging in. Muff Diver popped up and asked if the new lady omitted a letter from her name.

No, it's a pun, she responded.

A what? he asked.

Pam pushed a few more buttons and joined Compu-Mate's party line. Rita Cane was verbally abusing Senor Slave, who seemed to like it. Another code and she was in the mating room, singles meeting new talent. Charlie Horse said hello and complained about his rheumatism. In the Dungeon, Bum Swatter was looking for passive women. I hoped he didn't run into Rita Cane; there'd be hell to pay.

I left Pam there, then lay down on the sofa, picked up the Journal, and got my daily dose of Miami madness. The usual collection of crime stories. Another policeman shot another drug suspect, another three women had their car windows smashed with bricks and their purses grabbed at downtown traffic lights, and another cache of automatic weapons was seized at the airport. Standard local fare.

Something else, too. A story about how dry we are, and are going to be. The Biscayne Aquifer keeps shrinking and we keep chugging the water in great wasteful portions. We are overpopulated and over pampered. We water our lawns while thunderstorms rage. In one plush suburb overflowing with hibiscus and impatiens, each household uses an astonishing six hundred gallons of water every day. So there is a push on to replace thirsty palms and St. Augustine grass with ferns and satin leaf trees, bougainvillea, and other shrubs that thrive without irrigation.

As the water table drops, the garbage piles up. Mount Trashmore overflows. Our old landfills leak poisonous crud into the porous sand-and-limestone aquifer. Instead of recycling, we use and discard. Disposable diapers take five hundred years to decompose, many times the rate of our greatest books. Our shorelines are clogged with plastics and Styrofoam. Our fish and turtles and birds become snared in six-pack rings or strangled in illegal nets. We dump thousands of old cars and used tires in places where sludge leaks into the groundwater. One gallon of oil contaminates a million gallons of water.

This very day, a freighter slammed into a coral reef off Key Largo not far from where Charlie and I chased bonefish. It takes six thousand years to build a reef, from the Pleistocene limestone and calcareous mud to the skeletal sand and the miraculous living coral, swaying brightly in the tidal flow. It takes seconds for the steel bow of a Panamanian rustbucket to destroy it.

We are a vain, greedy, and foolish people. We squander and spoil, befoul and defile. We take for granted the beauties and bounties of nature, but in the end nature will out. We will dry up or smoke out or choke on our own waste. In the end we will pay the ultimate price.

I put the paper down and closed my eyes. Cops say surveillance is the worst. They use the wartime cliche, hours of boredom followed by moments of terror. At this moment the sofa was rocking gently, just as the skiff had done. Lulling me to sleep with the soft tap, tap, tapping of fingers on electronic keys. Through faraway clouds I called to Pam but could not see her. I heard Nick Fox's voice. What was he saying? Suddenly I was cold. And wet. I was wearing fatigues and my boots were squishing in the mud outside a village they call Dak Sut. My back was bent under the weight of my gear, my stomach knotted with dread. From somewhere I heard the echo of small weapons. I dived into the mud. I heard Nick Fox again. "Evan," he called. "Evan, where are you?"