Before Heath can answer, I lift my head. “Who?”
“Chris somethin’.” He frowns. “Cooper. Works for theDaily.”
I stare hard at the sweating Coke, tightening my grip on my fork at the mention of his name.Chris bloody Cooper.Of course he’s already here, poking his pale fingers around my hometown.
“You know him, Min?”
“No. TheDaily’s based out of Sydney. And anyway”—I brush my sweating glass with a thumb—“I doubt I’ll be rubbing shoulders with anyone in that industry again.”
“Good,” Terry says. “And trust me, he won’t be ’round here again, anyway.”
Heath raises an eyebrow. “Whadya do to him?”
“Tohim?” He grins. “Nothin’.” He licks his bottom lip, excited to deliver the dirty punch line. “ ’Fraid his car won’t be the same, though.”
Heath smiles, raising his beer in a mock toast. Egged on, Terry continues, “And in unrelated news—if anyone’s needin’ four new hubcaps, just sing out.”
Muffled laughter fills the room, and I’m not surprised. When itcomes to hard questions, the town has a way of clamming up. Or retaliating by defacing cars.
And worse.
I grip my fork tighter, remembering.
Two locals in the corner shuffle over, beers clutched tight in their hands. The second man is considerably drunker, stumbling into a corner table, swearing as his beer sloshes on the carpet.
“Didn’t catch any fish today,” the first man says darkly. I look up and he explains, “The bloody great whites. They’re scarin’ the fish off.”
“Or eating ’em all up,” the drunk man half yells. “The school sharks, all the baitfish, even.” He frowns into his beer before looking up. “You catch much on theDeep Seatoday, mate?”
“Didn’t really get a chance to be honest,” Heath admits, poking at the chicken parma with his fork. He still hasn’t touched his food.
“What ’bout Luke?”
“Not sure…There was—” Heath breaks off, shifts in his seat. “There was an attack tonight.”
I flinch when the drunk man slams a palm on the table. “What?”
“Yeah, I heard,” Terry mutters. “Near the beach-three pier?”
The drunk man lurches forward, eyes glazed and feverish. “Great white?”
“That’s what I heard,” Terry answers for us, and I’m grateful he’s stepped in. “Big one, too.”
“How much do ya reckon you’d get for a great white?”
“Absolutely nothing, since you can’t eat them,” Heath tells the drunk man. “They’re full of mercury.”
“Plus they’re protected,” Terry adds. “The money’s in the mako sharks, boys.”
“Yellowfin’s sellin’ for sixty dollars a kilo at the mo,” Heath says. “Highest it’s been in a decade.”
The drunk man drops his head, contemplates his beer. “Hope the big bastards haven’t eaten ’em all.”
“It’s spawning season,” Heath explains. “The great whites won’t stay around forever. Give it a few months and they’ll move on. They always do.”
“I hate those bastards,” the drunk slurs, nearly toppling over.
Heath stands up, grasps his elbow to steady him. “Might be time to lay off the drink, mate.”
