Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

dropped by to console the sexy widow.
    “Right,” he said. “Supper.”
    The front door and then the verandah door closed behind Flynn. Hard.
    Hands on hips, Hannah turned on Archer. “Why were you so rude?”
    “Any manager worth his pay would have had a report on your desk within twenty-four hours of that cyclone.”
    “But—” A knock at the verandah door cut off her protest. She spun around, expecting to see Flynn again. “Oh, Tom. Come in.”
    Archer watched as Tom Nakamori opened the verandah door and then the front door. He was wearing the uniform of the day: shorts, tank top, sandals. In his case, all of them were a faded navy blue. His hair was thin and white. His eyebrows were a startling midnight black. A thin scar went from his collarbone to his chin. His knuckles were enlarged, but the hands themselves were still flexible. Like most of the workers, he showed the nicks, cuts, and bruises of trying to save Pearl Cove from the cyclone.
    Nakamori paused to make certain that the screens closed gently. He moved with the care of a man who had spent too many years dangling from a dive rope being towed over shell beds. If the physical labor itself didn’t get you, nitrogen bubbles in the blood would. Sooner or later, the bends crippled most divers. A special few, it killed.
    “Forgive the upset,” Nakamori said, half bowing. “The Perfect Pearl repairs better. With permission, I take divers and search lost shell early tomorrow.”
    “Of course,” she said quickly. “But check with Christian first. He’s preparing a report for me, so he might want you to start in a particular area.”
    Nakamori nodded and tilted slightly forward again.
    Archer had two distinct impressions. One was that English wasn’t Nakamori’s preferred language. The second was that the wiry, barrel-chested Japanese didn’t care much for Christian Flynn.
    “Is there room for another diver?” Archer asked Nakamori.
    He hesitated, then nodded. “Hai. Okay.”
    “When do you leave?”
    “After dawn. One hour.”
    “Is there extra dive gear?”
    Nakamori looked at Archer from head to heels. “Mr. McGarry gear fit chest. But bottom . . . ” The Japanese shrugged. “Sorry. No fit.”
    “If I get too cold, I’ll sit up top until I’m warm again. Make sure there’s room for Hannah, too.” Archer looked at her. “I assume you dive.”
    She smiled, thinking of the hauntingly beautiful ocean beneath the surface, where colors flowed into a thousand shades of blue and all was grace. “I haven’t really been diving since the storm. Christian said there wasn’t room, and I didn’t want to get in the way of salvage work. Then the engine started having problems. It’s fixed now?” she asked, turning to Nakamori again.
    “Not now,” he corrected. “Tomorrow.”
    “Right,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
    “If calm,” he added.
    She looked out at the sky. No huge clouds loomed or gathered in a solid western wall. “It will be fine.”
    Nakamori went through the front door, paused on the verandah, and looked back. “Mrs. McGarry?”
    “Yes?”
    “My divers must feed families. They ask if need find more work.”
    “Everyone who works for Pearl Cove will be paid,” Archer said, understanding the question Nakamori was too circumspect to ask outright. “Tell your men.”
    Nakamori’s black eyes scanned Archer with shrewd intelligence. “Flynn say Pearl Cove—ffft—no good. Banks not build again.”
    “If you work, you get paid,” Archer repeated.
    “How?” Nakamori’s voice was polite but insistent.
    “By a check drawn on a Hong Kong bank.”
    “Mr. Donovan,” Hannah said quickly, “is a partner in Pearl Cove. He is underwriting what needs to be done.”
    Surprise flicked like a whip over Nakamori’s face, followed by no expression at all. “Pearl Cove okay?”
    “Pearl Cove is a mess,” Archer said, “but you’ll be paid for every hour you work.”
    “Okay. I tell.” Nakamori bowed slightly and went out into the yellow violence of the sun.
    “I don’t want to leave you alone while I dive,” Archer said. “Are you comfortable diving?”
    “Is an ama?” she asked, smiling slightly, thinking of the famous female pearl divers of Japan.
    A smile split the darkness of Archer’s beard. “An ama? Do you wear what the amas wear, too?”
    “White blouse and trousers? No.”
    “They only wear that for the shows put on by the big Japanese pearl growers for tourists and government officials,” he