dubiously.
“Well, no,” Dortmunder said. “In a kind of lake. But still, you know, under. In it.”
“ Freshwater diving,” the girl said, smiling with pleasure that they were communicating after all.
“Walking,” Kelp said. Sticking his oar in, as it were.
So much for communication. Looking helplessly at Kelp, the girl said, “I beg your pardon?”
“We’re not gonna jump in it,” Kelp explained. “Not diving, walking. We’re gonna walk in it.”
“Oh,” she said, and smiled with great healthy delight, saying, “That makes no difference, not with the equipment.” Turning slightly, to include Dortmunder in her smile, she said, “I take it you gentlemen haven’t gone in for diving before.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Dortmunder told her.
“Absolutely,” she said. “Where are you taking your instruction?”
“Instruction?” Kelp said, but Dortmunder talked over him, saying, “At the lake.”
“And what equipment will you be needing?”
“Everything,” Dortmunder said.
That surprised her again. “Everything? Won’t you be able to rent anything at all from the pro?”
“No, it don’t work that way at this particular lake,” Dortmunder said. “Anyway, right now we’re just looking to see what we’ll need, what kinda equipment and all.”
“Tanks and air and all that,” Kelp added, and pointed toward a number of scuba tanks displayed on the wall behind the glass counter full of regulators and goggles and waterproof flashlights.
The girl lost her smile for good. Frowning from Dortmunder to Kelp and back, she said, “I’m not sure what you gentlemen are up to, but it isn’t diving.”
Dortmunder gave her an offended look. “Yeah, we are,” he said. “Why would we want the stuff?”
“All right,” she said crisply, either giving him the benefit of the doubt or choosing brisk explanation as the quickest way to get rid of these noncustomers. “Clearly,” she said, “you don’t know anything about the world of diving.”
“We’re just starting out,” Dortmunder reminded her. “I told you that, remember?”
“You can’t do it without an instructor,” she said, “and it’s pretty clear you don’t have an instructor.”
Dortmunder said, “Why can’t we just read up on it in a book?”
“Because,” she told him, “there are only two ways you can dive. Either with an accredited instructor right there beside you, or with your certification that you’ve taken and passed the three–day introductory course.”
Kelp said, “You know, you’re not supposed to drive a car without a license, too, but I bet some people do.”
She gave him a severe look and shook her head. From a sunny happy healthy young woman she had segued with amazing suddenness into the world’s most disapproving Sunday School teacher. “It doesn’t work quite the same way,” she said, sounding pleased about that. Pointing at the display of tanks, she said, “I’ll sell you as many of those as you want. But they’re empty. And the only place you can get them filled is an accredited dive shop. And they won’t fill them unless you show your certification or agree to have an instructor go with you.” Her look of satisfaction was pretty galling. “Diving or walking, gentlemen,” she said, “you will not want to go very far underwater, or for very long, with empty tanks. If you’ll excuse me?” And she turned on her heel and went off to sell a $350 Dacor Seachute BCD to a deeply tanned Frenchman with offensively thick and glossy hair.
Leaving, slinking away, clumping morosely down the wide stairs toward Paragon’s street level with their tails between their legs, Dortmunder said, “Okay. We gotta getta guy.”
SIXTEEN
----
It was raining. Doug Berry, owner and proprietor and sole full–time employee of South Shore Dive Shop in Islip, Long Island, sat alone in his leaky shingle shed built out on its own wooden dock over the waters of
“Well, no,” Dortmunder said. “In a kind of lake. But still, you know, under. In it.”
“ Freshwater diving,” the girl said, smiling with pleasure that they were communicating after all.
“Walking,” Kelp said. Sticking his oar in, as it were.
So much for communication. Looking helplessly at Kelp, the girl said, “I beg your pardon?”
“We’re not gonna jump in it,” Kelp explained. “Not diving, walking. We’re gonna walk in it.”
“Oh,” she said, and smiled with great healthy delight, saying, “That makes no difference, not with the equipment.” Turning slightly, to include Dortmunder in her smile, she said, “I take it you gentlemen haven’t gone in for diving before.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Dortmunder told her.
“Absolutely,” she said. “Where are you taking your instruction?”
“Instruction?” Kelp said, but Dortmunder talked over him, saying, “At the lake.”
“And what equipment will you be needing?”
“Everything,” Dortmunder said.
That surprised her again. “Everything? Won’t you be able to rent anything at all from the pro?”
“No, it don’t work that way at this particular lake,” Dortmunder said. “Anyway, right now we’re just looking to see what we’ll need, what kinda equipment and all.”
“Tanks and air and all that,” Kelp added, and pointed toward a number of scuba tanks displayed on the wall behind the glass counter full of regulators and goggles and waterproof flashlights.
The girl lost her smile for good. Frowning from Dortmunder to Kelp and back, she said, “I’m not sure what you gentlemen are up to, but it isn’t diving.”
Dortmunder gave her an offended look. “Yeah, we are,” he said. “Why would we want the stuff?”
“All right,” she said crisply, either giving him the benefit of the doubt or choosing brisk explanation as the quickest way to get rid of these noncustomers. “Clearly,” she said, “you don’t know anything about the world of diving.”
“We’re just starting out,” Dortmunder reminded her. “I told you that, remember?”
“You can’t do it without an instructor,” she said, “and it’s pretty clear you don’t have an instructor.”
Dortmunder said, “Why can’t we just read up on it in a book?”
“Because,” she told him, “there are only two ways you can dive. Either with an accredited instructor right there beside you, or with your certification that you’ve taken and passed the three–day introductory course.”
Kelp said, “You know, you’re not supposed to drive a car without a license, too, but I bet some people do.”
She gave him a severe look and shook her head. From a sunny happy healthy young woman she had segued with amazing suddenness into the world’s most disapproving Sunday School teacher. “It doesn’t work quite the same way,” she said, sounding pleased about that. Pointing at the display of tanks, she said, “I’ll sell you as many of those as you want. But they’re empty. And the only place you can get them filled is an accredited dive shop. And they won’t fill them unless you show your certification or agree to have an instructor go with you.” Her look of satisfaction was pretty galling. “Diving or walking, gentlemen,” she said, “you will not want to go very far underwater, or for very long, with empty tanks. If you’ll excuse me?” And she turned on her heel and went off to sell a $350 Dacor Seachute BCD to a deeply tanned Frenchman with offensively thick and glossy hair.
Leaving, slinking away, clumping morosely down the wide stairs toward Paragon’s street level with their tails between their legs, Dortmunder said, “Okay. We gotta getta guy.”
SIXTEEN
----
It was raining. Doug Berry, owner and proprietor and sole full–time employee of South Shore Dive Shop in Islip, Long Island, sat alone in his leaky shingle shed built out on its own wooden dock over the waters of
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