Fluke: Or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings

to see your permit," said the heavier cop.
    Nate had pulled a plastic envelope out from under the console as they approached. They went through this several times a year. He handed it over to the cop, who took out the document and unfolded it.
    "I'll need both of your IDs."
    "Come on," Nate said, handing over his driver's license. "You guys know me. Look, we've sheared a pin and there's a diver emergency on our other boat."
    "You want us to call the Coast Guard?"
    "No, I want you to take us over there."
    "That's not what we do, Dr. Quinn," said the thin cop, looking up from the permit. "The Coast Guard is equipped for emergencies. We are not."
    "Dis haole, lolo pela, him," said Kona. (Meaning, he's just a dumb white guy.)
    "Don't talk that shit to me," said the heavier cop. "You want to speak Hawaiian, I'll talk to you in Hawaiian, but don't talk that pidgin shit to me. Now, where's your ID?"
    "Back at my cabin."
    "Dr. Quinn, your people need to have ID at all times on a research vessel, you know that."
    "He's new."
    "What's your name, kid?"
    "Pelekekona Keohokalole," said Kona.
    The cop took off his sunglasses – for the first time ever, Nate thought. He looked at Kona.
    "You're not on the permit."
    "Try Preston Applebaum," said Kona.
    "Are you trying to fuck with me?"
    "He is," said Nate. "Just take him in, and on the way take me to our other boat."
    "I think we'll tow both of you in and deal with the permit issues when we get into harbor."
    Suddenly, amid the static of the marine radio on in the background, Clair's voice: "Nate, are you there? I lost Amy's bubbles. I can't see her bubbles. I need help here! Nate! Anyone!"
    Nate looked at the whale cop, who looked at his partner, who looked away.
    Kona jumped up on the gunwale of the police boat and leaned into the wiry cop's face. "Can we do the territorial macho power trip after we get our divers out of the water, or do you have to kill two people to show us how big your fucking dicks are?"
    * * *
    Clair ran around the boat searching for Amy's bubble trail, hoping she was just missing it, had lost it in the waves – hoping that it was still there. She looked at the hang tank sitting in the floor of the boat, still unattached to the regulator, then ran back to the radios, keying both the marine radio and the cell-phone radio and trying not to scream.
    "SOS here. Please, I'm a couple of miles off the dump, I have divers down, in trouble."
    The harbormaster at Lahaina came back, said he'd send someone, and then a dive boat who was out at the lava cathedrals at Lanai said they had to get their divers out of the water but could be there in thirty minutes. Then Nathan Quinn came back.
    "Clair, this is Nate. I'm on the way. How long ago did the bubbles stop?"
    "Clair checked her watch. Four, five minutes ago."
    "Can you see them?"
    "No, nothing. Amy went deep, Nate. I watched her go down until she disappeared."
    "Do you have hang tanks in the water?"
    "No, I can't get the damn regulators on. Clay always did it."
    "Just tie off the tanks and tie the regulators to the tanks and get them over the side. Amy and Clay can hook them up if they get to them."
    "How deep? I have three tanks."
    "Ninety, sixty, and thirty. Just get them in the water, Clair. We'll worry about exact depth when I get there. Just hang them so they can find them. Tie glow sticks on them if you have any. Should be there in five minutes. We can see you."
    Clair started tying the plastic line around the necks of the heavy scuba tanks. Every few seconds she scanned the waves for signs of Amy's bubbles, but there weren't any. Nate had said " If they get to them." She blinked away tears and concentrated on her knots. If? Well if Clay made it back – when he made it back – he could damn sure get himself a safer job. Her man wasn't going to drown hundreds of feet under the ocean, because from now on he was going to be taking pictures of weddings or bar mitzvahs or kids at JC Penney's or some goddamn thing on dry land.
    * * *
    Across the channel, near the shore of Kahoolawe, the target island, Libby Quinn had been following the exchange between Clair and Nate over the marine radio. Without being asked, her partner, Margaret, said, "We don't have any diving equipment on board. That deep, there's not much we could do."
    "Clay's immortal anyway," said Libby, trying to sound more blasй than she felt. "He'll come up yammering about what great footage he got."
    "Call them, offer our help," the older woman