Free The Island by Peter Benchley

Birds?”
    “Not with me. I told you.”
    “I under stand that. But where . . . ?”
    A high, piercing whistle interrupted the connection. It was followed by three unhealthy-sounding snaps, and the line went dead. Even the hum was gone. Maynard hung up.
    Justin was watching a “World of Survival” show about apes. “Did you get the appointment?”
    Maynard laughed. “My application is being processed.” He picked up the phone and dialed Today’ s New York number. At seven-thirty on a Saturday night there would be only one editorial employee on duty, sitting in the telex room, keeping watch for any crises that might occasion a change in a major story. By now, next week’s issue of the magazine had been closed for several hours, and nothing short of a presidential assassination or the outbreak of a major war could interfere with the press run.
    “Campbell.”
    “Ray, this is Blair Maynard. Can I give you a message for Hiller?”
    “I’ll give you his home number.”
    “I don’t want to bother him at home. I’d save it till Monday, but I’m not sure where I’ll be.” Maynard didn’t want to speak to Hiller. Hiller might refuse to let him go: The islands were the territory of the Atlanta bureau or, on an unproven story like this one, of a Miami-based stringer, and bureau chiefs were sensitive to intrusions from New York. Furthermore, Hiller would argue, Maynard had no right to abandon his department. But if Maynard went ahead, without first checking with Hiller, the worst that could happen on his return would be that Hiller would refuse to sign Maynard’s expense-account voucher for the trip. There were countless ways to pad subsequent expense accounts to make up for out-of-pocket costs. “Just tell him I’ve got a lead on the boat story, and I’ll call him when I can.”
    “Okay.”
    “Thanks, Ray. G’night.”
    Maynard disconnected Justin from “Star Trek,” and they went downstairs. In the lobby they bought a small satchel which Maynard filled with toilet articles, underwear, and bathing suits. “We may go swimming,” he explained to Justin. “You don’t want to go to the beach in your Jockey shorts.”
    They took a taxi from the hotel, and Maynard asked the driver to cruise along Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. “No one should be allowed to die before he sees the Fontainebleu,” he told Justin. “It may have gone the way of the dinosaurs, but it represents a critical step in the evolution of man.”
    “It’s gross,” Justin said as the cab passed through the blue miasma that surrounded the Fontainebleu. And, at the end of the strip, he stated flatly, “They’re all gross.”
    “So much for culture.” Maynard leaned forward and said to the driver, “Let’s go downtown.”
    “Where downtown?”
    “I don’t care. Show us the sights.”
    “Sights.” The driver grunted. “They’re standing on every street corner. Only question is, D’you want Cuban or black or po’ white trash.”
    It was after eight. Maynard was hungry, and Justin looked sleepy. “You want some food?”
    Justin yawned. “Sure. Let’s go back to the hotel and have room service. Room service is cool.”
    The driver took a right and started back toward the airport.
    Justin suddenly sprang forward. “Hey, look!”
    Ahead, on the right, Maynard saw a flashing neon sign: Everglades Shooters’ Supermart. “What the hell is that?” he asked the driver.
    “What it says. A supermarket. They sell guns. Got a range out back. Like a bowling alley.”
    “C’mon, Dad. Let’s stop.”
    “I thought you wanted food.”
    “I just want to have a look.”
    “Okay.”
    Without being told, the driver pulled over to the curb. “How long you be?”
    “Couple of minutes. You don’t mind waiting?”
    “I should ask for security, like your watch or a double saw. But that’s okay.”
    It was, as advertised, a weapons supermarket, half a block long and a full block deep. There were four aisles, each marked with directional