“Is forensics here?” I said as I climbed the ladder of the ship.
“They’re inside,” Shelby called out from above, our feet gently clanging on the ladder’s rungs.
There was something forever teetering on the edge of claustrophobic when it came to the inside of a submarine. It was like wandering through an ancient wine cellar in the French countryside that had been claimed entirely by robotics and knowing that you knew nothing about what was around you. Dials on dials on dials. Endless levers. Ducking down before passing through every door and/or hatch into every new room.
I would — of course — learn more about this later, but if my years had taught me anything, it was this: humility was a detective’s friend. Truth had teeth; when one chewed, it was best to chew carefully. It wasn’t quite the Poor Richard’s Samurai Almanack aphorism it pretended to be, but it was useful enough for me.
I passed through yet another door and came upon two men in what appeared to be the galley — matching suits, matching heights, matching looks. If we were back in the 1970’s, you would have called them G-Men and no one would have given the thought a second look.
“Why couldn’t they design a submarine so that it was like the TARDIS?” I said to the two of them as I straightened out, willingly trying to burn away the last traces of alcohol out of my system, annoyed that I was having to try and burn away the last traces of alcohol out of my system. “Bigger on the inside than the outside. I’d like that. Wouldn’t you?”
The one who was slightly taller nodded. “Sir.”
I shook my hands as if I had just come in out of the rain. My father was a tailor, much to Eric Burden’s incredulity; I always saw him do this when it came to straightening out the cuffs of his sleeves. I could never tell if it worked. I nodded once in their direction. “You forensics?”
This time it was the shorter one’s turn to talk. “ATF.”
I turned out my hands. “Where’re my forensics, then?”
“Can we talk to you for a minute, Detective?” Taller said.
“No one’s going to tell me where my forensics are?” I looked back at Shelby, who was continuing to smile. Idiot. “You didn’t give my forensics twenty dollars and tell them to go get milk from the store, did you?”
Silence continued. Two men in front of me. One behind. Gunfire on one submarine that killed someone else on another submarine. Radars of caution began to pinwheel.
I turned back to the G-Men.
“I was already briefed, gentleman. I’m not sure what formalities you think we’re resting on.”
Taller stepped forward with a key. Shorter stepped forward with handcuffs.
“Could I see your hands, please, Detective?”
I turned behind me to look at Shelby, who was continuing to smile.
“Another classic Rocco Jones.”
The sign that you may be a prisoner of your own self regard should not come when you’re being sent to the bottom of the sea trapped in a submarine. Let’s call this, ‘Friendly Advice.’
“Three against one is only just a fair fight for you lot,” I said, fruitlessly, as they closed the door to the galley — closing a door on a submarine was called, ‘Dogging the door’ — and I heard the three of them walking away. After a moment, I heard that strange ‘Awooga’ noise submarines always made to indicate that they were diving. A moment after that and the galley began to lean.