Free Gargantua by K. Robert Andreassi Page B

weeks searching for him, putting HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG ? signs all over the neighborhood, but they never found him.
    Years later, the thing Brandon remembered most about Casey was that he ate like a pig. He ate constantly, and he always ambled up to Brandon with his big blue eyes all soulful and an expectant look on his face.
    The little guy had that look on its face right now. On the spot, Brandon decided to name it Casey, too.
    So why the hell isn’t Casey going for the food? “C’mon,” he said, “they’re mollusks and mud crabs. Invertebrates. That’s what salamanders eat.”
    Apparently, nobody bothered to tell Casey this, because it was very obviously still hungry, and just as obviously uninterested in the fish.
    Great. What do I do now? I suppose I could ask Dad, he thought, then dismissed it. He didn’t want to talk to Dad yet.
    So he’d just have to find out for himself.
    “I’ll be back, okay?” he said.
    Casey actually made a noise at that—it almost sounded like a whine. Do salamanders whine?
    No, he thought, but salamanders walk on four legs and eat invertebrates. So fat lot of good that does me.
    He left the fish behind in case Casey changed its mind, grabbed the bucket, and ran back toward the beach and the hotel room. Maybe if he surfed the net and checked through Dad’s books, he could find something.
    Ba-da-doom, da-doom. Ba-da-doom, da-doom.
    This was the moment Nat lived for. The beach, the surf, the two gorgeous women dancing, the bonfire, the sunset—all of it faded. There was just Nat, the stool he sat on, and the bongo drums anchored between his legs.
    Ba-da-doom, da-doom. Ba-da-doom, da-doom.
    It was just the pounding rhythm. The feel of the skins against his calloused hands. The beat matching time with the pounding of blood through his heart.
    Ba-da-doom, da-doom. Ba-da-doom, da-doom.
    The spell was inevitably broken—this time by Don next to him crying out, “Whoooooooooo!” as the beat intensified. Nat sighed, but kept pounding away on the two linked drums wedged between his knees.
    Ba-da-doom, da-doom. Ba-da-doom, da-doom.
    Those all-too-brief moments of percussional satori were what Nat lived for. Don’s scream brought Nat back to other concerns besides the pureness of the beat: to Don and Keith next to him on the conga and doumbek, respectively; to Mira and Jan dancing in the sand in front of them, Mira rattling a tambourine to add a little spice to the beat; to the group of Australian teenagers sitting around a bonfire; to the woman and the little girl playing catch with a red and white beach ball; and to Dak.
    Ba-da-doom, da-doom. Ba-da-doom, da-doom.
    Dak was the real reason they were here. True, jam sessions among Malau’s percussionists weren’t exactly uncommon, but this one had a purpose—it was Dak’s memorial. Sure, there was a funeral at St. Theresa’s, but as far as Nat, Don, and Keith were concerned, that was for the civilians. Tonight, Dak’s fellow musicians would celebrate his life and commiserate over his death in proper fashion: with an all-night jam session. That’s what he would have wanted.
    Ba-da-doom, da-doom. Ba-da-doom, da-doom.
    Still no sign of Kulani. Nat hadn’t entirely expected Kulani to show up, since it involved coming to the ocean. Nat had a feeling that Lani wouldn’t be getting too close to the water for a while yet. But not having Dak’s fiancée here took something away from the proceedings.
    Ba-da-doom, da-doom. Ba-da-doom, da-doom.
    Nat took a quick glance out onto the ocean. It seemed to be more turbulent than usual tonight—the waves were a bit choppier, even though there was little wind. Maybe it’s ’cause of all those damn quakes, Nat thought, and turned back to keep an eye on Don and Keith.
    Ba-da-doom, da-doom. Ba-da-doom, da-doom.
    The beat started to modulate as Don decided to try something fancier on the conga. Nat grinned and followed along.
    Ba-da-doom, da-doom. Ba-da-doom, da-doom.
    At one point in her dance,