Melvin and Kaylee’s Remarkable New Friend

It was late in the evening when the law enforcement agents arrived at the Las Vegas Bay Marina with their prisoners in tow. Cockburn and Keene spoke with Curtis Dudley as they walked across the broad gravel parking area. As usual, Inspector Cockburn did most of the talking. The night was clear and cold, and the senior SOE agent wore gloves and a wool watch cap. Cockburn’s relentless attention to minutiae and Keene wished he’d brought along his own hat and gloves because the chill from the gusty north wind was wicked.  

“Are you driving back to L.A. tonight?” said Cockburn to Dudley. 

“First thing in the morning.” He blew into his ungloved hands and then rubbed them together. “It’s been a long day; we’ll get some rest first.”  

“You’ll hold the Hungarians in the hotel overnight?”  

“Too much red tape to book them into the county jail, and quite frankly, I don’t trust the local police. We’ll be back in L.A. by tomorrow.” 

They came upon the Brits’ Chevy van and Cockburn climbed behind the wheel. “Good luck to you, Agent Dudley. Get in touch if you require further assistance.”  

“Turn up the bloody heat,” said Keene as he took the passenger side shivering. “It’s bizarre how it can be so warm out here in the daytime and then turn so frigid at night.”  

The arrests of Mariska and her assistant were the culmination of a long and often frustrating intelligence mission. More than likely they’d be on their way back to London soon, once Ellsworth received word of the positive outcome. It was for the most part a successful mission though there was indeed a lack of physical evidence.  

Dudley had left Lightfoot at the casino to search Mariska’s quarters as well as the fueling station and suite where Dobos had been staying, but Cockburn thought it unlikely they’d turn much up. There was also the garage in the Moapa Valley where they kept Mariska’s Indian and the Ford coupe. Keene had jimmied a window one night to sneak in and look around, but he hadn’t found anything incriminating.  

The microfilm cannister that Kaylee Royce had found was intriguing. An uncharacteristic mistake that Mariska swiftly rectified is what it sounded like to Cockburn. By the time of their arrests, the information had likely already been conveyed to Nazi intelligence, and she’d probably destroyed her copy of the film.  

Cockburn thought the criminal case was inherently weak though in time of war a judge might be more apt to admit circumstantial evidence and hearsay. At the least, the pair would be deported, but he wondered how much damage they’d already done. If the classified information they’d stolen was already helping the Nazi war machine… 

The American G-men departed the marina in a convoy of unmarked sedans. Wearing handcuffs, Mariska sat in the backseat of a four door 1941 Hudson club car, two-tone, with a dark brown body and the upper part of the doors and roof in a lighter bronze. Agent Steinbaum was behind the wheel and Dudley sat silently in the passenger seat wearing a smug grin.   

Lightfoot had reserved the entire first floor of a modest hotel on the outskirts of town. The G-men brought their prisoners through the lobby, draping coats over their shoulders to conceal the handcuffs and then they walked them down a long hallway. They put Mariska in one room and Dobos in another. Guards were posted both inside and outside of the separate rooms.  

Dudley entered his own room and tossed his fedora and suit jacket on the bed. He sat down at the compact desk and opened a fifth of blackberry flavored Canadian whiskey. He half-filled a highball and after taking a drink, he unlatched his briefcase. Inside it was the photo of Mariska that Cockburn had given him the day they first met—the Hungarian dominatrix in her diamond stud earrings, mink coat, and tall boots. The photo had been taken by an SOE operative on the street in Budapest.  

One hot tomato now in custody, thought Dudley as he ogled her photograph. And didn’t she look surprised when we busted into her fancy penthouse suite. Dudley had personally frisked her for weapons and snapped on the handcuffs. He wondered if Lightfoot had noticed his hard-on when he was through. It certainly was an exciting moment.  

He took another slug of whiskey and remembered how warm and smooth her body had felt as he searched her for weapons, the brief caress of her petite breasts, and how she had reflexively pulled away and tried to resist his subtle molestation. He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, dreaming of what she might look like unclothed.  

The ringing of the telephone snapped him out of his lewd fantasizing. He picked up the handset. “Hello.” 

“This is the front desk. I have a call from Special Agent Lester Lightfoot.”  

“Yes, put him through.”  

“Curtis? This is Lester.”  

“Where are you?”  

“We’re still at Javernick’s casino.” 

“Did you turn anything up?”  

“We found a notebook in her underwear drawer.”   

“In her underwear drawer?” Dudley brightened up.  

“Uh, huh. It’s full of what looks like some type of code. On dated pages.” 

“Did you find an Enigma machine too?”  

“What’s an Enigma machine?” 

“It’s what the Nazis use to encrypt communications.” 

“How big is it?”  

“How big is what?”  

“An Enigma machine.”  

“About the size of a typewriter.”  

“We’ll keep looking, boss, but I think we’ve covered all the bases.”  

“Even her underwear drawer, the first place you looked.”  

“Well, you told me to search the place.”  

“No, that’s fine, Lester. I would have checked her underwear too.” Dudley took another drink from the whiskey glass and noticed he was starting to feel drunk. “Anything else, Lester? Beyond the crypto code in her undies?” 

“Nothing worth mentioning, but get this, Marlowe observed Carmello Viscuso and a crew of his Chicago wise guys on the docks.”  

“Coming or going?”  

“Going. And he said Viscuso looked pissed.”  

“Pissed about what?”  

“Unknown. But Marlowe said he definitely looked unhappy.” 

“Carmello Viscuso. That certainly is noteworthy.” Dudley hit the whiskey again, then belched. “Anything else from Javernick?”  

“No. We didn’t go in the casino. Should we go down there and look around?” 

“Hold off on that. We successfully executed the arrest warrants so there’s no probable cause for further investigation beyond searching the suspects’ immediate residences…But with that said, I may send a team of undercover operatives out there later.” 

“Hokey-doke, boss. I’ll make sure there’s no Enigma machine in here before we leave.”  

Dudley had an overwhelming desire to visit Mariska in her room. His commonsense told him it was a bad move, but with his natural inhibition lowered due to the alcohol, his libido gained the upper hand. He returned his .38 snub nose revolver to the shoulder holster he wore over his starchy white dress shirt and pulled on his sharkskin suit jacket. He dabbed a splash of mossy woods cologne behind both ears, and before leaving the room, took another drink of the booze and then gargled with mouthwash.  

He found Agent Cook posted outside Mariska’s room. “Good evening, Cook. Who’s inside with the prisoner?”  

“Owen Hartshorn.”   

Dudley knocked on the door. “Open up, Hartshorn.”  

“Who’s there?” came the reply from behind the door.  

“Your superior officer, Senior Special Agent Curtis Dudley.”  

There was no response at first, and then, “How do I know it’s really you?” 

“C’mon Hartshorn. You’re in a hotel full of FBI agents. Who else could it be? Don’t you recognize my voice?” 

“Norton told me not to open the door until I was relieved.”  

“I’m relieving you. Open the damn door.” 

Finally, he cracked the door a wee bit and peered through the void. Recognizing Dudley, he swung it the rest of the way open.  

“Okay, Hartshorn. I’m taking over here. You’re free to go.” When the guard was gone, Dudley pushed the door closed. He turned to find Mariska sitting in an armchair by the window. “Good evening, Miss Sarkozy.”  

Mariska was quick to notice that Dudley was intoxicated and knew right away it was to her advantage. She was disgusted by the man’s actions in the penthouse. How he’d fondled her breasts when he searched her. But anger was not an appropriate reaction to the situation at hand. She needed to remain calm and cool and wait for an opening. “If you’re here to question me, I’d like to request the presence of an attorney.” 

“I’m not here to question you, I just want to talk.” He walked over to the bed and sat down, much closer to her now, reeking of alcohol.  

Mariska remained silent, but her mind was moving fast. The man was not only drunk but obviously interested in her sexually. That’s why he’d come to her room and excused the other cop. He was making a pass at her. 

“The SOE provided me with quite a bit of background information on you, Miss Sarkozy. I know that you worked as a professional dominatrix in Budapest and Colonel Von Ingersleben was a frequent customer.” Dudley paused for a moment and acquired an expression of cheeky insolence. “So, tell me, do you ever go the other way with the Marquis de Sade routine? Do you ever let the johns dominate you?”  

What a vulgar man. She thought about how to respond for a moment and then came up with a clever comeback. “Well, Agent Dudley, it appears you’re in the dominant role in our current situation. An armed law enforcement officer holding a beautiful woman against her will.” 

“Yes, it looks that way, doesn’t it.” He was leering at her now. Looking over her body with his drunken face flushed red. 

“Perhaps if I disrobed, you might enjoy your dominant position even more?”  

Dudley was staggered by the invitation. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard before replying, “I think that’s a distinct possibility.”  

“Why don’t you turn your back for a few moments and allow me to change my appearance to one of complete submission, ready to serve you in whatever sort of sexual pleasure you may desire.”  

“I think that can be arranged.” Dudley stood up with a goofy grin on his face, unsteady from the alcohol, and foolishly turned his back on a professionally trained enemy espionage agent.  

Mariska was on her feet in an instant. She hit Dudley in the back of the head with a swift karate chop. The martial arts training in Berlin had paid off. Dudley fell on the bed unconscious. She checked his pulse. He was still alive but knocked cold. She pulled his .38 out of its holster and slipped it under her belt in the small of her back. Then she grabbed his wallet and put it in her pocket.  

She went to the window. The parking lot was well lit but there didn’t appear to be any G-men posted outside. It was late at night and the lion’s share of the cops were likely fast asleep in their rooms. 

Mariska pulled on her jacket. She gently slid the window open, climbed through, and walked away. Slowly at first, but when she reached the edge of the property, she took off running down a series of alleyways.  

She’d rented a covert safe house, but it was on the other side of town. A small apartment that even Dobos didn’t know about. The problem at hand was how to get there. It was at least a couple of miles, and she’d need to move fast. She examined Dudley’s wallet. There was a handful of cash but calling a cab would be too risky. Should she try to hot wire a car? The Germans had taught her auto theft techniques in Berlin.  

Mariska kept walking and found a packed parking lot behind a bar. As she looked the cars over, she found a maroon 1940 Nash Ambassador Coupe with what at first looked like a man fast asleep behind the wheel. He was stretched out in the driver’s seat with his head back and eyes closed. She crept up beside the car and holding Dudley’s pistol in one hand, knocked on the window with the other. 

As the surprised young man turned towards her, she realized he hadn’t been sleeping at all. Not quite, he was receiving oral sex.   

She grabbed the door handle with her free hand. It was unlocked and she pulled it open. “Get out, both of you.”  

“What are you a cop or something?” He fearfully surveyed the pistol that Mariska held a few inches from his face.  

“I need your car. Get out and no one gets hurt.”  

“Take it.” As embarrassed as he was afraid, the man hurriedly pulled up his trousers as he climbed out. A half-naked young woman slid out the passenger side, grabbing her clothes from the front seat.  

Mariska hopped in the driver’s seat and took off. She drove carefully across town, keeping her speed down and watching the rear-view mirror. She ditched the stolen Nash in a grocery store parking lot a few blocks from the safe house and walked the rest of the way there.  

It was a small apartment on the second floor of an older building near downtown.  She went in the bedroom and opened a suitcase that held fraudulent identification documents and the means to change her appearance—a blonde wig and tinted contact lenses. She went to the mirror in the bathroom and carefully changed her eye shade from brown to blue with the tinted contacts. Then she pulled on the long blonde wig, concealing her short brown hair beneath it. She smiled when she checked her appearance in the mirror because she looked like an entirely different woman.  

There was plenty of food stashed in the kitchen, and a German Enigma machine hidden in the pantry closet. It wouldn’t take long for the FBI to put the train and bus stations under surveillance so it would be best to stay put. Hide out in the apartment for at least a few days.  

She’d contact Von Ingersleben by sending a telegram to Hans Siffert, the cheese merchant in Zürich. A coded communication concealed within a faux order for more Gruyère. There was a Western Union office nearby.  

 

*** 

 

Dry Tom Sweeney and Bridgit Murphy were back at Cantina de Forajidos, meeting with Fabio Guerrero. The colossal Salvadoran, Pequeñito, stood by the café doors, blocking the entry. The rest of Guerrero’s gamberros were hogging the tables on the other side of the doorway. They were playing card games and making sure no unapproved diners came close. The gangsters were a rowdy bunch, and the volume was turned up on a melodramatic corrido playing on a scratchy sounding jukebox.  

Another Mexican, Marcelo De Leon, sat next to Guerrero in the backroom, across the table from Dry Tom and Bridgit. Like Guerrero, De Leon wore cowboy attire, but not as flashy—well-worn jeans, boots, and an aged leather vest. His face looked weather-beaten, like he spent a lot of time outdoors. A wide-brimmed straw sombrero sat on the table before him. 

Bridgit thought De Leon could use a bath. Guerrero smelled better, like expensive cologne, but his amigo had a definite odor about him. Musty, like sweat mixed with the scent of the desert, creosote bushes, and a lack of running water.  

“How many men do you have in your crew?” said Tom.   

“Depends on the size of the job,” said De Leon, smoothing his thick, chevron-shaped mustache as he spoke. The rest of his face was covered with overgrown stubble, it had been a few days since his last shave.  

“If it’s a big one, how many can you bring?”  

“Five, ten, maybe more. But you know, all my men must be paid, so maybe I don’t bring more than I need.” De Leon poured himself a shot from a bottle of Tapatío Tequila, tossed it back, and then slammed the shot glass down on the table. He chased it with draft beer, leaving a residue of the foamy brew on his long mustache.  

“You have plenty of experience?” said Tom. 

Sí, we’ve knocked off banks and trains all over Mexico, from Chiapas to the Baja.” 

Bridgit smiled. “You’ve robbed trains?”  

He returned her smile. “We robbed El Chepe twice. Third time, she didn’t turn out so good.”  

“What’s El Chepe?” 

“The Chihuahua-Pacific Railway, it goes from Sinaloa on the coast to Chihuahua in the mountains. It’s a long climb through the Sierra Madre, and there’s a place where they need to slow down to a crawl before the train climbs the switchbacks. We hid in the brush until the train came, then rode up on horseback and climbed aboard. First two times turned out good, but the third time the train was loaded with Federales, with a machine gun on the roof…We rode out of there quick, but not before they killed two of my men.”  

“Do all of your men speak English as well as you?” said Bridgit. 

“Some yes, others no.”  

“I need men I can communicate with, in case things don’t go according to plan.” 

De Leon shrugged his shoulders. “Then I only bring men who speak English.” He paused to spit chewing tobacco into a tableside trash can and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s the job?”  

“Casinos,” replied Dry Tom. He took another sip from his draft Dos Equis. “The money in Vegas is in the casinos…You interested?”  

“What’s is in it for me?”  

“Fifty-fifty split. My crew takes half, and you take the rest.” Dry Tom lifted his chin and gazed into the Mexican’s almond-colored eyes. “You want in?”  

Sí, Tomás.” He grinned, displaying crummy yellow teeth.   

“We drink to it then,” said Guerreo. “Hector, bring us more cerveza.” 

“And menus,” said Bridgit. “We want to eat this time.” 

 

*** 

 

Carmelo Viscuso and his faction of the Chicago Outfit were the first mobsters to arrive in Vegas following the passage of Assembly Bill 98, the law that legalized gambling in Nevada in 1931. That was why the capo thought Chicago had the right to claim the Strip as their sovereign territory, regardless of any complaints from their Kansas City competition, because they were the originals.  

Nick Lococo was a newcomer, trying to make hay in the booming development market that Chicago had pioneered, that was how Viscuso looked at the situation. Lococo was an opportunist, trying to move in on Chicago’s turf when he already had plenty of work in L.A. Lou Civella was a big wheel because he had the juice with New York, there was no doubt about that, but Viscuso wasn’t going to get pushed around by Kansas City.  

The Windy City West Casino and Hotel was one of the first large-sized gambling venues built on the Strip. Located at the corner of Charleston and Las Vegas Boulevard, it was on the edge of town when it opened in 1935, but in the ensuing years, it was surrounded by rapidly expanding development. By 1941, the focus had moved further south, and the center of casino development was around Sahara Avenue and Flamingo Road.  

Viscuso had built the property with backing from Chicago investors, but once it opened, he bought them all out and operated the venue as a cash cow to finance further ventures. He came up with the name when he discovered how windy it could be in Vegas in the springtime—that facet of living in the Mohave reminded him of his Illinois home. The wind never let up in March and April, and it was colder than a button man’s smile, just like back home in Chicago.  

Viscuso called Adriano and Sorbello into his backroom office at the Bocce Club. “How’s your personal loan business faring, Carl?”  

“Not bad. I don’t have the contacts I had in Chicago, so I’m still working on it, but—” 

Viscuso cut him off: “You don’t have the contacts and you’re still working on it, so what you’re trying to tell me is business stinks.”  

“Well, it could be better, but I’m optimistic I’ll see improvement in the future.” 

“But in the meantime, you can keep working for me?”  

“Yeah, sure thing, boss.” 

“That’s good, because I have a new assignment for you and Adriano.” 

“What’s up?”  

“I had to terminate a key house detective at the casino because I discovered he was on the take. So, I want you boys to go over there and snoop around for a while. Work independently and report back to me on what you see. I found one rotten apple in the barrel so there could be more. Keep an eye out for countdown artists and other cheats, but I also want you to observe operations. Make sure I don’t have a nest of cockroaches in my employee pool.” 

“We can handle that, no problem.” Sorbello looked to Adriano, and he silently nodded in agreement. “That ex-cop, Burton. He’s still head of security?”  

“That’s correct, but you won’t be working for him, you’ll be working for me.”  

“We don’t need to check in with him?”  

“No, just walk in and act like casino guests. I’ll give you some cash to spend. More than likely you’ll be recognized, but you don’t need to make friends with nobody. Show up in the early evening and stay until midnight.”  

“For how long?”  

“A week or so…And Carl? Before you go over there, I want you to take a look in the mirror.”  

“A look in the mirror?”  

“Yeah, take a close look, because you dress like a slob. What? Is that tomato gravy on your shirt?” Viscuso pointed at a large red stain on his striped dress shirt. Sorbello looked down at it and raised his eyebrows but remained silent. “You should take some grooming tips from Adriano. Look at how sharply dressed your compagno is. Nice, freshly dry-cleaned suit. Neatly folded handkerchief in his breast pocket. Spit-shined shoes. He smells good too, and as a result, the dames can’t keep their hands off him…I’m right, aren’t I, Adriano?”  

“Well, yeah, I’m not doing too bad, Mr. Viscuso.”  

“Not doing too bad. Only been in town a couple of weeks, but I’ll bet he already has two or three girlfriends. Adriano takes his pick of beautiful bombshells, while Easy Money Sorbello here strikes out left and right, because he looks and smells like he just climbed out of a garbage can.” 

Adriano and Sorbello went back to their post by the entry. They stood on the sidewalk watching the busy street. Scores of cars and trucks rolled past with an occasional blaring horn. A few pedestrians ambled by too, some checking their watches as they hurried towards appointments. The pace was hectic, and if anyone wanted to go in the club, they’d need to be approved first by Adriano and Sorbello.  

The Bocce Club was a private venue, and membership was limited to Italians with Sicilian ancestry. A member could bring a non-Sicilian guest, but the newcomer would feel far from welcome when he walked inside and sat down at the bar. 

“How do you do it?” said Sorbello, lighting a smoke.  

“How do I do what, Carl?”  

“Look so good. Like the boss said, you always look sharp and score with the dames. Open your mouth and you got ’em eating out of the palm of your hand in no time.” 

“Women like a man who takes care of himself.” 

“Is that a tailored suit you’re wearing?”  

“Yeah, this one is, but most of them are off the rack.”  

“Would you help me with it, Adriano? Help me pick out a new suit?” 

“Sure, Carl. We’ll go down to the men’s shop this afternoon. Before we head over to the casino.”  

“I could use some new duds, and how do you stay in such good shape?” 

“Eat a balanced diet and get plenty of exercise.”  

“A balanced diet. What? You mean like cut down on the rigatoni and jelly doughnuts?” 

“Well, yeah…And I wouldn’t let Carmello bother you, Carl.”  

“Nah. Carmello don’t bother me a bit. He talks trash to everyone. The more he gets to know you, the more shit he comes up with. Wait a while, you’ll see.” 

Adriano lit his own cigarette and watched a flashy new Chrysler Saratoga drive by. “So, what do you think happened to that house detective? The one that Carmello caught cheating?”  

“What do I think happened?” Sorbello passed his index finger across his neck. “On the bottom of Lake Mead wearin’ a brand-new pair of cement shoes.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”  

“Fuck with Carmello and you ain’t livin’ long, Adriano…Because he don’t take shit off nobody.” 

Later that evening they went over to the casino to check things out. Viscuso was right, they were recognized quickly by house security, and they could tell the word was passed along to the dealers and croupiers. They spent time at a poker table and hung around the slot machines for a while, but they didn’t see much of anything worth reporting to the boss.  

 

*** 

 

It was late on a Saturday afternoon, and Melvin and Kaylee took the boat out to watch the sunset from their spot above Saint Thomas. It had been a warm day for mid-winter but cooled off quickly when the sun hit the horizon. Melvin killed the motor and pulled on his winter coat. Kaylee snuggled up close.  

“One of these days it’ll happen,” said Kaylee.  

“What’ll happen?”  

“You’ll knock me up, that’s what, Tiger.” 

Melvin laughed. “I’m looking forward to it, Kaylee.”  

“Yeah, me too, I can’t wait to have kids.” 

Melvin opened a bottle of beer and handed it to Kaylee and then opened one for himself. She took a sip. “You think the police will find Mariska?”   

“Not sure about that one.” 

“I can understand why Claude feels so bad about it.”  

“Me too. She worked for him for a while, and they got along great.” 

“Maybe we should have kept the microfilm instead of putting it back on the shelf. It might have helped the police if we’d given it to them.”  

“No telling what Mariska might have done though, Kaylee. If she’d come back to look for it and it was gone, with you and me staying in the guest house and everything. I think we did the right thing.” 

“I suppose.” She took another sip of beer. “I knew it was something super important when I saw all the diagrams and the rest of it.”  

Melvin finished his beer and resisted the urge to belch. He may have been a Jack Mormon, but he had a decent upbringing and was always polite around the womenfolk, especially when he was with the love of his life, Kaylee. “You want another one?”  

“I’m only halfway through the first one. Dang, you put that down fast.”  

He cracked open another bottle and took a long swig.  

“Suppose to be another warm day tomorrow,” said Kaylee. “Any plans?”  

“Nothing that needs doing right away. I was thinking we could take the sub out again.”  

“That sounds like fun, Melvin. But you don’t want to go back to Saint Thomas again, do you?”  

“Nah, I was thinking we could go upstream along the Colorado riverbed. See how far we can go before we run out of lake.” 

“Now that sounds like an adventure.” 

“Let’s do it.” 

The next morning, Kaylee made a big country breakfast before they set out for the casino. Pancakes with sausage and the eggs over easy the way Melvin liked them. After they were through eating, Melvin made four of his famous club sandwiches and Kaylee packed them in the old-fashioned wicker picnic basket that Bonnie Knox had given her for a wedding present. She brought a six-pack of Canada Dry Ginger Ale along too because there was a mini fridge in the sub.  

They made it to the casino by nine. Business was slow, and the boat slips along the docks were mostly vacant. Javernick’s moored Bellanca Aircruiser was the only aircraft in view. Jace was manning the security post at the front desk, and Melvin let him know what they were up to. He didn’t think it was worth bothering Javernick so early on a Sunday morning.  

They climbed aboard the submarine and Melvin pulled it out of the slip. Once they cleared the docks, he pulled back on the dive stick and they headed for the bottom of the lake. He turned on the headlights and they set out for the reservoir’s upper end, following the submerged riverbed upstream.   

The lake bottom remained wide for the first ten miles or so as they sailed towards the southeast. Then it became awfully narrow through a tight canyon and curved around towards the northeast. Finally, the walls of the gorge opened up again, and the depth gauge said the water was less than a hundred feet deep. They continued cruising, past South Cove towards the point where the river entered the lake.  

When the depth gauge went under fifty feet, Melvin turned the headlights off, and they began seeing schools of fish, mostly smallmouth bass, crappies, and bluegills. They could see more color in the rocks too as the depth gauge went under thirty feet.   

“What was that?” said Kaylee with a tone of surprise as she looked off towards the south from her co-pilot’s seat.  

“What was what?”  

“There’s something moving out there, staying even with us.”  

“A fish?” 

“No, look, there it is again.”  

Melvin gazed off to their starboard side, where Kaylee was pointing, and was startled to see what looked like a man, swimming along with them, at the same speed as the sub, and then he moved in closer.  

“What is that thing, Melvin?” She put her hand on his forearm and shivered just a bit. 

“Not sure, Kaylee.”  

He was shaped like a human but had rubbery looking skin that was shaded crocodile green. He propelled himself through the water with oversized webbed feet, and his hands had king-sized webbed fingers. The creature had a human appearing head, but it was covered with that strange looking rubbery skin, and he had what looked like gills on his neck. He came closer, within a few feet, swimming along with them at an identical speed. Then he looked towards them, with human-like eyes, and smiled and waved.  

“I think he wants to make friends,” said Melvin. “Let’s go to the surface and see what happens.”  

Melvin guided the sub to the surface and pulled back on the throttle, bringing the craft to a stop. He grabbed a spear gun from a rack on the wall and went to the rear hatch.  

“Be careful, Melvin.” said Kaylee as he pulled the hatch open.  

He went through the airlock chamber and pushed the exterior hatch open. He cautiously walked out on to the cargo bay and saw the creature treading water next to the sub.  

“Hello, my friend,” said the strange looking being. “I’m Kapono.”  

Melvin was astonished. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but what in the world are you anyway?”  

Kaylee appeared, half hiding behind the hatch, eyes as wide as saucers, craning her neck to get a look at the unusual being.  

“I’m an amphibie, a race of amphibious humans.”  

“Where did you come from?” said Kaylee, stepping out from behind the hatch.  

“From the Gambier Islands in French Polynesia.”  

“How did you end up in Lake Mead?” said Melvin.  

“I was kidnapped by the Corsican Mafia. They were transporting me to a private zoo in Marseille and I escaped. From a French cargo ship in Long Beach…Do you mind if I come aboard?”  

“No, not at all,” said Melvin. “We want to find out more.”  

Kapono pulled himself up the ladder and climbed on to the sizable cargo bay, taking a seat on a gunwale. His legs and arms were extremely muscular. He had a big barrel shaped chest too, and though his hairless head was covered with the strange rubbery skin, his face had the attributes of a Polynesian.  

“You’re an amphibious human?” said Kaylee. “I took biology in high school and never heard of anything like that.”  

“Yes, an amphibie, French for amphibian. My people lived undiscovered for thousands of years. We inhabit the Gambier Islands and were largely unknown until French missionaries contacted one of our tribes in 1859. Because of our extraordinary origin, the French authorities thought it best to keep our existence confidential.”  

“What do you mean by extraordinary origin?” said Melvin.  

“Extraordinary because it’s apparent we come from a mutated version of humanity, perhaps because the islands are so remote. That somehow, we evolved differently than the bulk of humanity.” 

“Your English is very good,” said Kaylee. “And you speak with a French accent.”  

Oui, the French missionaries teach us how to speak both English and French. We also have a language of our own but it’s very simplistic.” 

“If you escaped captivity in Long Beach, how did you end up in Lake Mead?”  

“I followed the Colorado River Aqueduct upstream, mostly swimming, but also hiking around the dams and locks at night.”  

“How long have you been here?” 

“Since 1939.”  

“But don’t you want to go home?” said Kaylee. “Back to your people in the Gambier Islands?” 

“Easier said than done. Swimming that far in the ocean would be difficult, mostly because it would be so hard to find my way. And with my unusual appearance it would be impossible to book passage on a ship…And I have no money.” 

“We should introduce him to Claude,” said Melvin to Kaylee.  

“Who’s Claude?”  

“Claude Javernick, the owner of the Rioville Underwater Casino and Hotel. I’m the general manager, Melvin Royce, and this is my wife, Kaylee.” 

“I’ve seen you working around the casino in the submarine.”  

“You’ve seen us working underwater? How deep can you swim?”  

“As deep as the bottom of the lake.”  

“If you’re interested in taking a job, I’m positive Claude would hire you.”  

“Where do you live?” said Kaylee.  

“In a cave with an underwater entrance. I have excellent night vision.”  

“What do you eat?”  

“Mostly fish. The striped bass are delicious.” 

“Melvin and I were about to eat lunch. We have extra sandwiches if you’d like to join us.”  

Merci. I would feel honored.” 

Kaylee grabbed the basket from inside and gave Kopono one of the club sandwiches and a bottle of ginger ale. The threesome continued talking as they ate their picnic lunch.  

“So, you think you’d be interested in working for us?” said Melvin. “I have an ongoing problem with the batteries running down on our electric marine life and could use some help. The casino glass needs cleaning too.”  

“Certainly, Melvin.”  

“Claude pays top wages. You could work for a while and save some money and then maybe we could help you find a way home.” 

Meeting Kopono was enough to break Javernick out of the malaise he’d been experiencing in the days since Mariska’s arrest. As Melvin had predicted, he offered him a job on the spot. Javernick said he would give him a place to stay too, in one of the above water employee suites, but Kopono turned him down. He said he’d be happier if he could return to his underwater cave every night.  

Maximino was leery of working with him at first but got over his apprehension quickly. Before long, he was piloting the sub while Kopono rode along and then swam outside to do his chores. Having the amphibie man change the batteries and clean the underwater glass was one less thing for Melvin to worry about.  

Eunice and Rose suggested a pair of swimming trunks, and Kopono agreed to wear them. He was close enough to a normal human that leaving his genitalia uncovered might be viewed as offensive.  

Kopono became an overnight sensation. Watching the strange amphibie man work was great entertainment for the tourists and high rollers alike. A reporter with the L.A. Times wrote a feature article about the new attraction and it helped Javernick immensely. Within a few days, business was picking back up as people flocked to the casino to watch Kopono work. 

 

 

 

 

 

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