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taken control. “Take it off ” became the universal, audience-widechant, though it was unclear who was to disrobe—Neylan in her coins, Crunch in his sequins, or Sam in her cabbage outfit.
Charlie had disappeared from the spotlight and was nowhere to be seen. Odd. It was not like him to step aside. But he had created another masterpiece, and I suspected he was about to unveil his coup de grâce. It would be just like Charlie to emerge from the shadows wearing the robes of an oil sheikh. The image made me smile.
For no particular reason I noticed Great Bangs. Her eyes shone wide with anguish, her face a mix of horror and bewilderment. I looked over at the dancers, thinking their performance had generated the distress. The three wiggled their butts and bellies, hardly the cause of such anxiety. I returned to Great Bangs, and it became clear. She was not staring at the dancers. She was staring at the Giant Ocean Tank.
And she screamed.
CHAPTER THREE
Great Bangs’s panicked shrieks snapped my head back to the Giant Ocean Tank, and I saw the most curious thing. Charlie. Fat, waddling Charlie, framed against the Horse-eye Jack, the Sergeant Major, and the other toothy sea monsters searching for adventure in their monotonous confines. They inspected him and darted away. Their agitated motions reflected light throughout the tank and made me forget the flashes from Neylan’s dazzling coins. The living coral reef, home to sea barracudas and moray eels, loomed large and bizarre just behind him.
Only, Charlie wasn’t standing outside the tank. He thrashed deep inside it, underwater and engulfed by the briny liquid. He flailed. He struggled. As he gasped for oxygen, air belched from his mouth and bubbled toward the tank’s surface. Charlie beat his arms futilely, desperate to break free from the synthetic sea’s drowning clutches.
Stunned, I tried to yell, “Get out,” but my vocal cords failed. What was he doing? Five minutes earlier, I thought Charlie had disappeared to change. He was not wearing the robes of an oil sheikh, though. Nor had he donned a swimsuit. He was still wearing his tux. The jacket and fez had disappeared. The starchy stiffness of his shirt had given way to the water’s wavy motion.
A rope, knotted at Charlie’s right ankle, stretched from an industrialstainless-steel trolley. It looked like a caterer’s serving table. Only now, the trolley served as a makeshift anchor. It pulled Charlie down, down, down, dragging him inexorably toward the sandy floor of the Giant Ocean Tank. This spectacle was no stunt. Something had gone bad. Way bad.
Though I had lost my voice, Great Bangs never lost hers. “Do something!” she bellowed. Her screech cut through all the din of the great room: over the band, over the crowd, and over the penguins. Great Bangs pointed toward Charlie with one hand. She covered her mouth with the other. The screams burst through her fingers. She screamed and screamed and screamed.
The revelry stopped. Charlie’s drunken guests turned away from Neylan and Crunch and searched for the source of Great Bangs’s distress. Her outsized blasts had given birth to a stadium wave. It took only seconds for the crowd to focus on the Giant Ocean Tank.
The band stopped playing. Neylan stopped jiggling. Crunch stopped clowning. And Sam froze. We were five hundred strong. We were five hundred united in horror, watching without believing. Even the penguins stopped yammering. Perhaps they sensed the anguish of their alpha male. He reigned supreme no more.
Charlie sank deeper and deeper, his breath running out. The stainless-steel cart grazed a Sand Tiger, which sent the shark surging through the water, its tail whipping furiously left and right. Through the water and glass, Charlie’s face looked pudgy and bloated. His expression howled for help.
I scanned the crowd for a member of
Charlie had disappeared from the spotlight and was nowhere to be seen. Odd. It was not like him to step aside. But he had created another masterpiece, and I suspected he was about to unveil his coup de grâce. It would be just like Charlie to emerge from the shadows wearing the robes of an oil sheikh. The image made me smile.
For no particular reason I noticed Great Bangs. Her eyes shone wide with anguish, her face a mix of horror and bewilderment. I looked over at the dancers, thinking their performance had generated the distress. The three wiggled their butts and bellies, hardly the cause of such anxiety. I returned to Great Bangs, and it became clear. She was not staring at the dancers. She was staring at the Giant Ocean Tank.
And she screamed.
CHAPTER THREE
Great Bangs’s panicked shrieks snapped my head back to the Giant Ocean Tank, and I saw the most curious thing. Charlie. Fat, waddling Charlie, framed against the Horse-eye Jack, the Sergeant Major, and the other toothy sea monsters searching for adventure in their monotonous confines. They inspected him and darted away. Their agitated motions reflected light throughout the tank and made me forget the flashes from Neylan’s dazzling coins. The living coral reef, home to sea barracudas and moray eels, loomed large and bizarre just behind him.
Only, Charlie wasn’t standing outside the tank. He thrashed deep inside it, underwater and engulfed by the briny liquid. He flailed. He struggled. As he gasped for oxygen, air belched from his mouth and bubbled toward the tank’s surface. Charlie beat his arms futilely, desperate to break free from the synthetic sea’s drowning clutches.
Stunned, I tried to yell, “Get out,” but my vocal cords failed. What was he doing? Five minutes earlier, I thought Charlie had disappeared to change. He was not wearing the robes of an oil sheikh, though. Nor had he donned a swimsuit. He was still wearing his tux. The jacket and fez had disappeared. The starchy stiffness of his shirt had given way to the water’s wavy motion.
A rope, knotted at Charlie’s right ankle, stretched from an industrialstainless-steel trolley. It looked like a caterer’s serving table. Only now, the trolley served as a makeshift anchor. It pulled Charlie down, down, down, dragging him inexorably toward the sandy floor of the Giant Ocean Tank. This spectacle was no stunt. Something had gone bad. Way bad.
Though I had lost my voice, Great Bangs never lost hers. “Do something!” she bellowed. Her screech cut through all the din of the great room: over the band, over the crowd, and over the penguins. Great Bangs pointed toward Charlie with one hand. She covered her mouth with the other. The screams burst through her fingers. She screamed and screamed and screamed.
The revelry stopped. Charlie’s drunken guests turned away from Neylan and Crunch and searched for the source of Great Bangs’s distress. Her outsized blasts had given birth to a stadium wave. It took only seconds for the crowd to focus on the Giant Ocean Tank.
The band stopped playing. Neylan stopped jiggling. Crunch stopped clowning. And Sam froze. We were five hundred strong. We were five hundred united in horror, watching without believing. Even the penguins stopped yammering. Perhaps they sensed the anguish of their alpha male. He reigned supreme no more.
Charlie sank deeper and deeper, his breath running out. The stainless-steel cart grazed a Sand Tiger, which sent the shark surging through the water, its tail whipping furiously left and right. Through the water and glass, Charlie’s face looked pudgy and bloated. His expression howled for help.
I scanned the crowd for a member of
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