Night Swimming by Laura Moore Page A

replied bitterly. “I can’t believe it, either. Karen’s the center’s charity case. Her photos are okay, I guess, but from the way everyone raves about them, you’d think the Cousteau Society was pounding on her door. They have to justify putting her on the payroll somehow.”
    “Should’ve guessed. Is the director of the Marine Center a woman, too?”
    “Oh, yeah.” John’s lip curled in disdain. “The place is a hotbed for bleeding heart liberals. Simone Devaux’s what they like best, an affirmative action two-fer. She’s black.” He paused, and then added, “Get it, black? Woman? Two-for-one?”
    Ferrucci shook his head, his expression one of total sympathy. “Man, what you are up against. So Banyon has a lot of influence with the director?”
    “Gets whatever she wants on a gold platter. The rest of us are treated like peons.” She treated him like a peon, that was enough.
    “Well, she’s going to find out things work a little differently here in Florida, John.” Ferrucci’s expression hardened. “I think it’s time for someone else on her team to get a share of the glory.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’ve made a lot of friends in this state, John. There’s a real concern about what might happen to this area if the advisory panel recommends a ton of restrictions on the reef and the coastal area. Now, I can tell you’re not one of those doom and gloom environmentalists, and what I say won’t offend you. Conservationists and their asinine committees are destroying Florida. That’s the unvarnished truth. I’m damned tired of environmentalists caring more about some stinking manatee than a guy’s right to take his powerboat out where he wants, fish where he wants . . . do what he damn well pleases ’cause he’s paying whopping taxes for that very privilege.”
    “Well.” John cleared his throat.
    Ferrucci raised his hand and smiled. “Don’t get me wrong, John. I know some places should be protected. I’m not arguing with that. But Coral Beach? Who do they think they’re fooling? There’s not even that much to see down there.”
    “Atlantic reefs are different—”
    Ferrucci raised a hand, cutting Granger off. The last thing he wanted was a lecture from this jerk. “Know what, John? Sitting here, talking to you, getting to know and really like you, I’ve been doing a slow burn.” He reached for the bottle and topped off Granger’s glass. “ ’Cause I can predict exactly what’s gonna happen: Banyon’s sharp. She’ll pick that brain of yours, work you like a dog, then take all the credit when she presents the research team’s findings.”
    “Well, yeah. But she is the head—”
    “The bottom line, John, is that we’ll both get screwed. You’re not going to get the recognition you deserve. And Banyon’s going to do the same as the rest of these conservation freaks are doing around Florida. Turn the reef into a protected zone, with restrictions up the wazoo. But then I got this idea.” Ferrucci paused to lean forward, then continued eagerly, “What if I got you together with a few of my friends? You could listen to what they have to say. Who knows, maybe we could work something out that might help you career-wise. These people, they’ve got connections all over. And I really want to help you, John.”
    “Weren’t they the most beautiful babies?” Anne McDermott said. Her fingers traced the edges of the old photographs that crammed the pages of the bulging family album.
    “Yes, indeed,” May Ellen agreed with a wistful sigh. She was seated beside Anne on the sofa with the photo album resting over both their laps. “Oh, look at this one, Anne! Lily’s got that pink polka-dotted sun hat on, the one we picked up on our cruise. Remember how it always slipped forward when she walked? She’s fallen into the hole Sean dug.”
    “She was wearing that same expression when I joined the three of you. I suppose she and Sean were butting heads. . . .”
    “A couple of