"You've heard of tree huggers," Junior said. "Call me a coral kisser. I've snorkeled the world's best, and they're all living on borrowed time. The coral reefs are the rain forests of the oceans."
"All of which has exactly what to do with Oceania?" Steve asked.
"A couple years ago," Junior continued, "I was arguing with Dad and said something like, 'You won't be happy till you build a resort right on top of a coral reef.' And Dad took it as a challenge. He asked where there's a coral reef at least three nautical miles offshore from an English-speaking country, with a population center of at least three million people nearby."
"Why three miles?" Victoria asked.
"So it's outside territorial waters," Junior said.
"The cannon-shot rule," Bobby said, and they all looked at the smartest boy in the sixth grade. "From pirate days. Four hundred years ago, the farthest a cannon could shoot from shore was three miles. That's where the law comes from."
"Thank you, Mr. History Channel," Steve said, then turned to Junior. "If you're outside the three-mile limit, you can run a casino. That the idea?"
"Exactly. But we'd still be within the two-hundredmile EEZ."
Steve gave him a blank look.
"The Exclusive Economic Zone," Bobby translated, adding sheepishly, "I know most of the federal acronyms. Also most of the personalized license plates banned by the State of Florida."
"Don't start," Steve warned him.
"G-R-8-C-U-M," Bobby said. "I-W-N-T-S-E-X."
"Bobby. ."
"B-I-G-P-N-S."
"Cool it, kiddo!"
"Because we're in the EEZ," Junior said, "the federal government still has jurisdiction over development. So we need an environmental assessment report to get a federal permit."
"Ben Stubbs of the EPA," Victoria mused.
"Yep. Which is why Dad had to jump through all the hoops. He was cussing all the way, but he did it. And here's the result."
Junior flicked another switch, and the enormous room was bathed in a soft light. "Behold Oceania," he said.
Looming in front of them was a three-dimensional diorama, maybe thirty feet long by seven feet high. From floor to shoulder level was the ocean-or at least a blue Lucite rendition of it, complete with miniature, plasticized fish. Floating on the surface were three donut-shaped buildings, connected by covered passageways. From the bottom of each building, steel cables angled downward and were embedded in the ocean floor. At the side of the center building was a marina with perhaps two hundred miniature boats, little plastic people waving gaily from the decks. Above the hotel, suspended in the air by a wire, was a seaplane, a larger version of what they had flown to Paradise Key.
"The center building is the casino," Junior said.
"Two hundred thirty thousand square feet of slots, blackjack, craps, roulette, keno, poker rooms. The works. And unlike Atlantic City or Las Vegas, no taxes to pay. Or as Dad likes to say, 'Uncle Sam ain't no relative of mine.' "
"How would you get people out there?" Victoria asked. Ever practical, Steve thought.
"Seaplanes, private boats, hydrofoils leaving the mainland every thirty minutes."
"What about hurricanes?" Steve asked.
"We'd evacuate the hotel, of course," Junior said. "But our construction method is revolutionary. Woven steel cables fasten the buildings to the sea bottom, but they're flexible, so the buildings can rise and fall in high seas. Computer models show we can withstand a Category Four storm."
"What about Category Five?" Steve asked.
"Statistically improbable. Only two have ever hit the United States."
Bobby chimed in: "Camille in sixty-nine. Andrew in ninety-two."
The kid watched the Weather Channel, too. "You're not counting the ones before the Weather Service had a numbering system," Steve said.
"We're confident our hotel can take the worst storm that's statistically likely to hit," Junior said.
The worst storm that's statistically likely to hit.
Not bad, Steve thought, giving Junior bonus points for lawyerlike double-talk. The guy was sharper than he looked, greater than the sum of his pecs and traps.
"You haven't seen the best part," Junior said. "Take a look at Building Three. We call it The Atlantis."
They walked around to the other side of the diorama. The ocean floor sloped upward there, as it neared the largest of the donut-shaped buildings. But it wasn't just a sandy bottom. It was a coral reef in miniature, frozen in plastic, reproduced in startling detail. Staghorn coral, looking like deer antlers; green sea fans waving hello; grooved brain coral, looking like a human cerebrum. A moray eel poked its head out of a skyscraper of pillar coral. Swimming above and through the reef were giant grouper, bright blue angelfish, multihued parrotfish, huge tarpon, sea turtles, and other creatures Steve couldn't name.
"The Atlantis seems submerged." Victoria pointed beneath the building. This donut was more like a floating saucer, with a portion of the building under the surface, portholes beneath the sea.
"My idea." Junior's smile was so wide, his dimples looked like gunshot wounds. "Three hundred hotel rooms underwater. You can watch the fish swim by your window."
And in fact, there were two sharks cruising past a porthole window. Thrill the folks from Omaha without getting their feet wet.
"If you look closely at the passageways connecting the buildings, you'll see the floors are transparent. Stroll from the dining room to the casino and you're walking across the world's largest aquarium."
"Incredible," Victoria murmured. "The hotel is a giant glass-bottom boat."
Junior smiled. "I told Dad that most people will never take the snorkeling or scuba trip. So, if you're going to build a hotel above a reef, why not bring the reef into the hotel? Or damn close, anyway."
"It's really something," Victoria said. Awe in her voice, as if Junior had just shown her the Mona Lisa and said he painted it.
Big deal, Steve thought. The rich kid tells the architects to stick portholes in the hotel rooms. What's he want, the Nobel Prize?
"Here's where Dad surprised me," Junior said. "The construction costs will be astronomical, so at first he balked. A real sense of arriere-pensee."
"I hate it when that happens," Steve said. Thinking:
What the hell did he say: "derriere penises"?
"That means he had doubts," Bobby piped up. "Uncertainty. Reservations."
"But Dad's so smart," Junior continued. "He thought it over and realized that the marketing hook was the reef with underwater hotel rooms right above it. It's the sizzle of the steak. Nothing like it anywhere in the world."
Junior rattled on for a few more minutes about the state-of-the-art desalinization plant, the solar-powered generators, the recycling plant that grinds leftover prime rib into fish food. Steve wasn't giving it his full attention. Instead, he was trying to take the measure of Junior Griffin, prep-school make-out artist turned thick-chested free diver who oozed lethal levels of testosterone from every pore.
"So, what could have been an environmental disaster will be a beacon to the world for safe construction in environmentally sensitive areas," Junior said. "Construction in harmony with nature."
Jeez, he's giving a speech to the Kiwanis.
"You must be so proud," Victoria said in a gushing tone that Steve interpreted to mean, "You are the sexiest and most wonderful man in the universe, and if I can dump my boyfriend, I'd like to have your babies, starting nine months from today."
Steve kept trying to size up the guy, which was hard to do objectively because he was growing so aggravated with Victoria. But it occurred to him that maybe he'd been mistaken about Junior. The guy's save-theplanet shtick seemed sincere. Of course, not having to work for a living gives you free time for wholesome hobbies. Back in college, Steve had joined the ACLU. At the time, he had few political opinions, but he figured that left-leaning coeds were easy to bag.