Fluke: Or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings

lab. I had some film I want to see right away."
    "I knew he wouldn't stand us up on his first day."
    "Clay, I need to talk to you. Amy, could you excuse us a minute, please?"
    "Sure," Amy said. "I'll go see if anything's missing from my cabin." She left.
    Clay said, "You going to look up? Or should I get down on the floor so I can see your face?"
    "Could you grab the first-aid kit while we talk?"
    "Screws embedded in your forehead?"
    "Feels like four, maybe five."
    "They're small, though, those little drive-mount screws."
    "Clay, you're always trying to cheer me up."
    "It's who I am," Clay said.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Whale Men of Maui
    Who Clay was, was a guy who liked things – liked people, liked animals, liked cars, liked boats – who had an almost supernatural ability to spot the likability in almost anyone or anything. When he walked down the streets of Lahaina, he would nod and say hello to sunburned tourist couples in matching aloha wear (people generally considered to be a waste of humanity by most locals), but by the same token he would trade a backhanded hang-loose shaka (thumb and fingers extended, three middle fingers tucked, always backhand if you're a local) with a crash of native bruddahs in the parking lot of the ABC Store and get no scowls or pidgin curses, as would most haoles. People could sense that Clay liked them, as could animals, which was probably why Clay was still alive. Twenty-five years in the water with hunters and giants, and the worst he'd come out of it was to get a close tail-wash from a southern right whale that tumbled him like a cartoon into the idling prop of a Zodiac. (Oh, there were the two times he was drowned and the hypothermia, but that stuff wasn't caused by the animals; that was the sea, and she'll kill you whether you liked her or not, which Clay did.) Doing what he wanted to do and his boundless affinity for everything made Clay Demodocus a happy guy, but he was also shrewd enough not to be too open about his happiness. Animals might put up with that smiley shit, but people will eventually kill you for it.
    "How's the new kid?" Clay said, trying to distract from the iodine he was applying to Nate's forehead while simultaneously calculating the time to ship his new monitor over to Maui from the discount house in Seattle. Clay liked gadgets.
    "He's a criminal," Nate said.
    "He'll come around. He's a water guy." For Clay this said it all. You were a water guy or you weren't. If you weren't… well, you were pretty much useless, weren't you?
    "He was an hour late, and he showed up in the wrong place."
    "He's a native. He'll help us deal with the whale cops."
    "He's not a native, he's blond, Clay. He's more of a haole than you are, for Christ's sake."
    "He'll come around. I was right about Amy, wasn't I?" Clay said. He liked the new kid, Kona, despite the employment interview, which had gone like this:
    Clay sat with the forty-two-inch monitor at his back, his world-famous photographs of whales and pinnipeds playing in a slide show behind him. Since he was conducting a job interview, he had put on his very best $5.99 ABC Store flip-flops. Kona stood in the middle of the office wearing sunglasses, his baggies, and, since he was applying for a job, a red-dirt-dyed shirt.
    "Your application says that your name is Pelke – ah, Pelekekona Ke -" Clay threw his hands up in surrender.
    "I be called Pelekekona Keohokalole – da warrior kine – Lion of Zion, brah."
    "Can I call you Pele?"
    "Kona," Kona said.
    "It says on your driver's license that your name is Preston Applebaum and you're from New Jersey."
    "I be one hundred percent Hawaiian. Kona the best boat hand in the Island, yeah. I figga I be number-one good man for to keep track haole science boss's isms and skisms while he out oppressing the native bruddahs and stealing our land and the best wahines. Sovereignty now, but after a bruddah make his rent, don't you know?"
    Clay grinned at the blond kid. "You're just a mess, aren't you?"
    Kona lost his Rastafarian, laid-backness. "Look, I was born here when my parents were on vacation. I really am Hawaiian, kinda, and I really need this job. I'm going to lose my place to live if I don't make some money this week. I can't live on the beach in Paia again. All my shit got stolen last time."
    "It says here that you last worked as a forensic calligrapher. What's that, handwriting analysis?"
    "Uh, no, actually, it was a business I started where I would write people's suicide notes for