Shark Beast 2: Paranormal Sharkitivity Read online

  "Good point."

  "Exactly. I mean, seriously, me in particular! If she weren't so certifiable it'd be the perfect job." She gave her breadstick another twirl, then realizing what she was doing, placed it firmly under a slice of pizza. "So anyway, you then--what is it exactly you do when you do the thing that, you know, you do?"

  "Well, officially, I'm an assistant museum curator."

  "They send people around the world for that?"

  "They sent you, didn't they?"

  "Yes, they did," said Isabella, giving him a chewy sour look. "But I'm me, and you're you. And since you seem to have more than ten American dollars to your name, I assume there's more to it."

  He half-smiled.

  "Ha, knew you wouldn't hold up under questioning." In a sudden low whisper, wide-eyed: "So what are you, a spy or something? That would be interesting. Please be that, because I'd hate to have been hoodwinked out of an auction by a museum curator. No offense."

  "None taken," he said. "Not much, anyway. And it's assistant museum curator."

  "Sorry. Didn't mean to promote you," she said, now waving a fork at him. "So what is it, then, if you're not a spy or something equally mysterioso?"

  "It's a little boring."

  She rolled her fork: go on.

  "I'm a winetaster."

  "Isn't everybody?"

  "Not professionally, I assume."

  "Oh, you're one of those guys?" she perked. "So you can tell stuff about stuff just by tasting it? I always thought that was a scam. No offense."

  He laughed softly. "I'd hate to see what you're like when you actually want to offend someone."

  "Oh, it's a treat, trust me," she beamed. Then, abruptly, Isabella's eyes went squinty, as she took a slow suspicious bite of a gyro strip.

  "What?" Fitzgerald asked after a moment of this.

  "I still think you got something else going on," she said.

  "Like what?"

  "Don't know. The last time I tried to figure you out I knocked over a basket of complimentary breadsticks."

  She said this just as the waiter came by to set a fresh breadstick basket down. The waiter paused, then quietly took the basket away.

  "They pretend they don't speak English so good," Isabella groused conspiratorially, "and boom...no breadsticks."

  "Maybe the waiter's a spy."

  "Oh, now you're just being silly. Though, that would be pretty cool..." She paused for an intense moment, trying to determine which of two slices she had her eye on had the most toppings. She solved the dilemma by scooping toppings off one and piling them double-high on the other. With a crafty grin of triumph, she took a double-stuffed bite. "No, what I'm saying," --mumbling, mouth even more full than usual-- "is it's kind of hard to believe a wine-tasting museum curator -- assistant museum curator -- flying around the world, somehow makes enough money to make it worth triple-overpaying for weird auction pieces nobody in their right mind would want. I mean, sipping other people's private hooch, this makes scratch somehow?"

  "Well, the 'hooch' I'm involved with, yes."

  She rolled her fork: go on.

  "Well, I--and the museum I work for--deal exclusively with the rarest and most unusual wines in the world. Real off-the-charts collectibles, one-of-a-kind vintages of historical, artistic, even supernatural interest, oft-times of questionable acquire. I travel the world, tasting and analyzing in order to cultivate an awareness of the deviations of these uniquely mysterious examples of the noble rot, each of which I give a rating, and a review--which, conveniently, appear in a private high-end journal published exclusively by the museum. The only people who read the reviews are the subscribers to our journal, who also happen to be the owners of these exotic examples of--'hooch.' Needless to say, our subscriptions are very expensive. Obscene, really. Luckily, our readers are very rich, with large wine collections, and even larger egos. Conveniently for the museum, this works out for everybody." He took a big bite of pizza. "Thus endeth the lesson."

  "Wow." Isabella, eyes wide. "You sure can talk."

  "Sorry. Part of the spiel." He shrugged. "Habit."

  "Hmmm." She grinned at him.

  "Hmmm what?" He grinned back.

  Isabella nodded, leaned back, eyes closed, letting a sudden gust of Italian street wind curl and billow her hair. Then:

  "Prove it."

  "Prove what?"

  She pushed her glass of wine across the table.

  "It's not a magic trick, you know."

  "Not asking you to saw me in half, I just want to see you 'cultivate an awareness of the deviations' of my glass of noble rot." She pointed at it with a fork. "Go 'head. Tell me what I'm missing." She leaned forward, with a sly grin. "It's been a long day... dazzle me, professor."

  He squinted at her; she squinted back--in a way that made it obvious she was willing to sit there squinting until he did his thing. Smiling indulgently, Fitzgerald pushed his plate to the side.

  He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small red bottle. Hot sauce. A gentle shake, dabbing a few drops on his tongue. Swished it around in his mouth delicately, took a sip of water, swished that around, then, after a quick gargle, swallowed. He then breathed deeply, in and out, as if testing the taste in his mouth.

  Isabella watched without saying anything. (Mainly because her cheeks were full of lightly melted gorgonzola and Canadian bacon--but also because she was thoroughly if somewhat skeptically fascinated.)

  Palate sufficiently cleansed, Fitzgerald artfully lifted the wine glass, held it to the sunlight, then next to his ear, his eyes solemn with purpose. After a long moment of what appeared to be deep introspection, took a quick solitary sip--

  And placed the glass on the table in front of Isabella.

  Done.

  "Well?" she asked, in a cheese-strangled voice.

  "Relatively young," he pronounced, sounding almost bored with himself. "Barrel-aged...slight hint of vanilla indicating oak." Squinting in thought now: "5 foot high on end, 30 slats, a little splintery for my tastes. Very high-stacked, close to the rafters--too close to the light, a small leak on the 23rd slat. Slight pear scent suggests fermentation at a low temperature, suggesting a hole in the ceiling, correspondingly suggesting the vintner recently married. Distractions incurred courtesy the new wife's house design demands--an all-too-common compromise with newlywed winemakers--" Pressing his lips together, eyes calculating: "--have unfortunately, and quite tragically, resulted in the pivotal importance of a properly maintained wine cellar losing its crucial priority status. This will change when he acquires a mistress, of course--" He paused, apparently imagining said mistress for a moment, then, quickly summing up: "--so add three years to the date of this wine, and you'll be good to go."

  He blinked, shrugged, smacked his lips, smiled.

  Done.

  "You just made that up," she said dubiously.

  "Why would I?"

  "To impress me."

  "Are you impressed?"

  She gave him a sly look. "You're pretty rascally for a museum curator."

  He gave her one right back. "Assistant museum curator."

  "Hmmm." She smiled at him.

  "Hmmm what?" He smiled back.

  "Nothing. Just hmmm."

  They both enjoyed their slices of Garlic Gladiator in the warm Rome sun.

  #

  "Okay, enough yappin'. How are we going to settle this thing you hoodwinked me out of? You see the predicament I'm in."

  "I noticed you waited until dessert to get around to that."

  "Of course," she sighed, a bit of chocolate in her innocent grin. "I'm not a nincompoop."

  The dessert was Zuppa a due Colori, decadently rich, a plump double chocolate sponge cake laced with chocolate-flavoured liqueur, flaked hazelnuts, thick custard, heavy-creamed and wantonly rum-soaked. "Well, I'd like to help," he said, licking a decadent finger, "but I've got a bit of a predicament of my own."

  "Which would be...? It's only fair. I told you."

  "To be
fair, I never asked."

  Isabella pondered her fork suspiciously, trying to remember if that was true or not.

  "Look, Isabella," he said with a wave, reaching for water. "My job also takes me around the world. My boss also is crazy. Not as crazy as yours, apparently, but crazy enough. And crazy or not, I meet with certain people of a certain stature, and these meetings often require a gift. Eccentric gifts, for eccentric people."

  "Well, can't we share it somehow? Seems everybody involved in our little situation is crazy or eccentric or both--there's got to be a way. There just has to be."

  "I don't see how. It's a gift. Hard to share someone else's property, no matter how crazy they are."

  "Yes, but..." Her eyes, demented with inspiration. "It's only a gift when it's been given, and you still got it, right?"

  "Well, yes, but--"

  "Then it's settled," she said simply, clearing a space on the table. "We'll be fair. And square, just the way you like. Sporting, too--you ever see that movie with the guy who flips a coin to decide whether or not to murder people? Here, give me a coin."

  "You're going to decide if you're going to murder me?"

  "No." She giggled, then, thoughtfully: "Hmmm...no. Wait--here's a bottle cap. Call it." She squinted an eye, flipping the cap. They both watched it fly off into some nearby decorative plants. "Wow. Never mind. Don't call that one." Frowning, she looked around, then grabbed a coin off a nearby table.

  "That's someone's tip," Fitzgerald protested.

  "I'll give it back," she muttered, again squinting intently. "Call it..." She flipped it -- off into the plants again.

  "Too bad that's not what you're trying to do. Because you're really good at it."

  "Hilarious, Mr. Swindles." Perking abruptly: "Oooh, I know. Let's arm wrestle for it." She started clearing a bigger area on the table.

  "I'm not going to arm wrestle you," Fitzgerald chuckled, taking a bill out of his wallet and placing it on the table she grabbed the coin from.

  "Why not! See, you are a swindler!"

  He leaned forward, whispering with that easy grin of his: "I'm not arm wrestling your little street urchin pipe cleaner arms in front of the entire cafe. Besides, what would I get out of it if I win?"

  Whispering back: "You get to keep the thing."

  "I already get to keep the thing."

  He looked at her, she looked at him.

  "Fine," she said primly. "We'll thumb-wrestle then."

  "No. Now stop. You're making a spectacle."

  Appalled, she took a big belligerent bite of rum-dessert, chewed slowly and determinedly, until her eyes widened and her cheeks pinked.

  He sighed, offering his water. "Look, Miss Parker, I hear where you're coming from, but this is a big deal for the people I work for. All our clients are rich, but this client is a whole another level. It's not just a matter of my job, it could affect the financial support of the entire museum. I'm sorry, but I can't let you have it."

  Fitz offered his water again. She refused with a stubborn headshake, even as her face went from pink to red. She pushed her dessert away. Until the waiter came by, whereas she pulled the dessert plate back out of his grasp.

  "Look, the auction piece is spoken for, nothing to be done about it." Fitzgerald wiped his chin with a cloth napkin, gesturing for to-go boxes. "But, what I can do -- which might not seem like much, but it's something -- is this: My appointment's tomorrow morning. These things last an hour, two, at most. After I'm done, I know a couple out-of-the-way spots and hideaway shops with some rarities--go on a bit of a spree, maybe we can find something interesting for your boss, interesting enough maybe you won't lose your job."

  "I-don't-know-about-that," she choked, finally swallowing that too-big mouthful, downing some water (but still protecting her dessert plate). "Though I do like the spree part. But my crazy boss, she's very delusional about these things. Insanely delusional."

  "Still. Better than going back empty-handed, don't you think?"

  Pouting: "S'pose."

  "Who knows? You might find something with a funnier name, get yourself a raise even."

  "Well, now you're delusional." She sighed, slumping into her chair. "But I really don't have much choice, do I?" Twirling a bit of plump double chocolate sponge cake, she gave her dessert plate a hopeless zombie stare.

  "Now, these things happen for a reason," he soothed. "I know you don't like hearing it, but it's true."

  "Oh, I don't doubt it. And Isabella Parker's reasons are she gets fired, gets murdered by a crazy rich lady, and becomes an international homeless person." She sighed, wishing she had a breadstick. "Not necessarily in that order."

  Smiling, Fitzgerald said, "I've known you all of half a day, and you live the most elaborate life I've ever heard."

  "Lucky me, lucky you," she shrug-pouted.

  "Look, it is what it is. But today you're having a great meal, and tomorrow, you'll go shopping, you'll see the sights, take your mind off things -- who knows, a lot of unpredictable magical things can happen in a weekend. This city is full of nothing if not surprises." He raised his hands with a flourish. "After all, it is Rome."

  Her shrug said: sure, Rome, magic, great. She smiled half-heartedly, then took a long slow bite of Zuppa a due Colori.

  "Yeah, well, tell that to Julius Caesar."

  -- Chapter V --

  The Secret Package

  The Hotel Baroque di Roma.

  The very next morning.

  #

  Off the elevator, into the lobby.

  Majestic stone columns. Elaborate indoor fountains. Intricate statues. Lush royal carpeting. A ceiling high and bright, a noble pandemonium of geometric splendor. The first thing S.S. Fitzgerald noticed, though:

  Cute American woman sitting in one of the lush lobby chairs.

  She brightened suddenly, let loose a little chirp, beautiful eyes glowing, as she waved giddily at him, bouncing up out of the chair and greeting him near the floor-to-ceiling painting of the Colosseum. "Missed a spot," she said with a wink, pointing airily at his unshaven face. When he offered no particular reaction, she said, "You don't remember our date? I'm devastated."

  "I told you yesterday, Isabella, you can't come with me to my meeting," he said flatly.

  "Why not?"

  "Why would you?" Fitzgerald yawned, shifting the box he was holding -- containing the auction piece -- to his left side.

  They stood there, looking at each other for a moment, her hopefully, him the exact opposite.

  "Fine." She sighed. "At least let me sit in the car. There's nothing else to do."

  "Nothing else to do? You're in Rome."

  Isabella huffed loudly as she fell ragdoll style back into the lush lobby chair. "Fine," limbs all akimbo, "I'll just wait here then." She sat there, looking boneless and pitiful.

  "So. You're going to sit there like that."

  "Until somebody calls security on me, I s'pose," she stage-whispered. "Or maybe you'll get lucky and I'll be deported before you come back...you know what they say...Lontano dagli occhi, lontano dal cuore." She shrugged hopelessly.

  "Still have no idea what that means, do you?"

  "No, but I can only hope it's something very rude."

  A bellhop came by, looking at the girl in the chair. He looked very confused.

  "And the deportation proceedings begin..." Isabella whispered, melodramatically.

  Fitzgerald shook his head, letting the bellhop know everything was okay. The bellhop half-bowed, blinked awkwardly; then left, taking his still-confused expression with him.

  Then, he suddenly turned and walked back to Fitzgerald, and with much confused fidgeting, produced an envelope from his bellhop-vest, nodded puppy-like, then trundled off again.

  Isabella waited, looking pitiful while Fitzgerald opened the envelope, and read quietly from an elaborate-looking letter.

  "You can act normal, Isabella." Now it was he who sighed. "The meeting's off."

  "What, for today, or for permanent?"
she said, perking slightly, as he folded the letter back into the envelope.

  "For forever, far as I'm concerned," he grumbled, looking annoyed.

  "Really?" She perked a little more, eyeing the package.

  "I knew he was a nutcase, knew this whole trip was going to turn out to be a waste," he sighed, shaking his head.

  "Really?" She kept eyeing the package.

  "Really," he chuckled, finally noticing her not so subtle stare. He grinned wearily at the chair full of askew American girl. "Looks like you've won yourself an auction piece after all. That is, if you can get out of that chair and stop looking like an abandoned--"

  She was up and off the chair in a happy blur.

  "So that's that? It's really mine?"

  "Well, not for free, obviously. We'll have to go back to the auction house and trade title for it. Good news is your crazy boss lady will be none the wiser." He smiled. "Looks like Rome will have one less street urchin after all."

  "Oh, and I was looking so forward to urchin-ing," she grinned, giving him a cockeyed salute, with a jaunty shrug. Then she held out her hands, hinting.

  "Here you go," he laughed, handing her the auction box. "Be careful though --"

  They were both interrupted by the return of the confused bellboy, who was holding a small wrapped package. Everyone looked at everyone else, waiting for someone to speak or do something.

  Finally, as if it just occurred to him, the bellboy handed over the package to Fitzgerald, gave another confused nod, and trundled off.

  "Does he do that all day?" Isabella wondered, tilting her head.

  "Let's go trade you a title," Fitzgerald said absently, as he nudged Isabella toward the hotel front doors.

  Isabella noticed Fitzgerald casually -- and not a little sneakily -- pocketing the package.

  She decided not to mention it.

  At least not then.

  -- Chapter VI --

  The Girl On The Fountain

  Of The Old Boat

  After a bit of a wild ride not untypical for a taxi in Rome, they were dropped off at the bottom of the Spanish Steps -- when, suddenly, Fitzgerald excused himself to find a gentlemen's room.

  "Hey, you're not going to disappear, do some last minute swindle on me, are you?" she asked, quite suspiciously.