After nine days on the ocean floor, I found a shed I could sleep
in.  It didn't quite have enough space for me to uncurl my legs all
the way, at night, but underwater a sore ankle isn't the handicap it
is on land, and anyway it was the best I could do. My tools took up
most of the right-hand wall: telescope, hygrometer, a sack of gravel 
(for ballast) and some kneepads. The hygrometer was a mistake; with 
only 10 hours' notice to prepare for the case, I had reached the 
instrument store somewhat underinformed. If I made a specialty of 
this, I thought, I would know better next time. 

There are five types of people who live on the bottom. The first
type is running away from something. The second type got betrayed
by someone dry, probably a parent, and wanted to make a point. The
third type is the entrepeneur with an idea that requires a parti-
cular type of clientele. The fourth type of person who comes down
here to the bottom is the remote-control vehicle enthusiast. The
fifth kind is being paid to find one of the first four. More of us
are here for the money than you might think. 

My particular problem was (is, really) that Griffin Mercy vanished
a day after he first sank. If my employer knew this, he had forgotten 
it while setting my retainer; my account hadn't seen any new deposits 
since Thursday. Or else the local banks weren't honoring dry transfers 
right then. I've been told you have to watch out for that. 

That ninth-day afternoon I was starting to go back through my pre-
liminary notes when I heard the sharp report of a powder-harpoon.
Kneeling at the keyhole, I could see another bar-tab dispute coming
to a lethal conclusion. It's possible Mercy got himself killed 
and floated up to the surface on Thursday. It's possible my lack 
of income is caused by a lack of employment. I still think of myself 
as a PI. If I were to stay here long enough, I might get hired to 
track someone who's left the bottom and gone back home. That would 
be novel. I've never been first at anything. 

I remembered just enough from my seminary days to go and give last
rites to Sheila's deceased deadbeat. She offered me fresh eggplant
off the grill to thank me for cleaning up, and I couldn't say no. I
think she and I have an understanding. I sank my teeth into the pur-
ple skin and forgot about Griffin Mercy for a moment. I'll be doing
that a lot, I can already tell. 

for Steph by Aaron 8/31