Swimming to Catalina

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The night was warm and lovely. To Stone Barrington’s right, the bloom of smog over greater Los Angeles was lit from within like a dirty lampshade; to his left, the lights of Santa Catalina Island twinkled like the eyes of a merry whore. Only a couple of hundred yards from where he stood, the anchor lights of dozens of small craft winked as the wake from the sports fisherman on which Stone rode caught them and made them rock. Stone took a deep breath, which was difficult, since one nostril was clogged by an allergy to L.A. air, and his mouth was sealed shut with duct tape.

“Christ, Vinnie,” the other one, whose name was Manny, said. “They’re right there in the tool box.”

“I’m looking, Manny,” Vinnie replied.

“Any kind of pliers will do-short-nosed, long-nosed-anything.”

“I said, I’m looking.” There was the noise of metal against metal as Vinnie rummaged through the tool chest.

“Jesus,” Manny said. “I’d like to get at a steak before the night is over.”

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