Two

SURE ENOUGH, even in the ultra-laid-back Bahamas it took less than a New York minute for a large and curious throng to gather around the fishing boat, the buzz swelling as a forklift carried the humongous tuna toward the marina's official scale. Christ, was that scale even big enough?

Captain Preston beamed, giving a hearty slap to the back of the groom-to-be and announcing that he'd never met a finer bunch of anglers in all his life. "You guys are the best," he said. "And you proved it today."

"Rather be good than lucky!" one guy shouted back.

Of course, the truth would stay strictly between him and Jeff. These big-city misfits had no clue what they were doing. They couldn't catch a cold, let alone a fish.

Yet here they all were, basking in the relentless click, click, click of digital cameras–the crowd, the excitement, the anticipation of the weigh-in growing bigger by the second.

"Tie her up good!" urged Captain Steve as the tail of the tuna was wrapped with double-braided rope, the strongest on hand.

On the count of three, she was hoisted high into the air. The crowd oohed and ahed appreciatively. This was some fish.

Six hundred...seven hundred...eight hundred pounds!

The arm of the scale shot up like a rocket. When it finally settled at a record-busting 912 pounds, the entire marina let out a tremendous roar, the bachelor-party guys loudest of all.

And that's when it happened.

Plunk!

Something very strange fell out of the tuna's mouth.

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Copyright © 2008 by James Patterson