The Saltport ATM

5. The Mer-Prince Needs Manners

The skyscrapers of Nalta tower overhead as I drive into the area downtown. People crowd the streets, holding shopping bags and walking between the glass and metal buildings. All seem to strut the latest fashion, rompers and fabric short shorts for the teen girls, cocktail dresses and suits for working women, plenty of businessmen in stiff shirts and pants. Teenage guys... well, they'll wear anything, right?

My car crawls along the street, and my eyes are peeled for men's clothing stores. The procession of cars stops for pedestrians, though I itch to get through the green light ahead. Come on. My fingers clench the steering wheel.

"Why aren't they moving?" Two asks.

Patience, Jessi. "They're stopping for pedestrians."

"Why?"

Because people either don't know basic traffic rules or think being run over by a car is cool.

"Well, they can't hit them." I ease my foot on the gas, making it to the traffic light just when it turns red. I rest against the car window, head in my hands.

"This is ridiculous!" Two exclaims. "In Aqualan, we never have these kinds of ridiculous holdups."

"Welcome to Florida. Or really, any city that ever existed anywhere." My eyes veer from the taunting red above to the shops on the street's corner. There, in a shop window, are three mannequins in crisp, black suits. My mood lifts instantly. At least we know where to go now.

I inch through the light and find a parking garage to my left. We park behind the store, then maneuver through the crowds to reach the store.

Overtop the door, a sign reads "Laufton Wedding Apparel." Not quite the purpose we need, but a tux will do the job. A bell rings when we enter, and a stuffy man with a gray handlebar mustache greets us.

"Good morning," he chirps. "And who's the lucky chap?"

I want to say 'definitely not me!' The last stroke of luck I had was when the ATM spit seventy-million dollars at me. And I'm beginning to think that I wasn't so lucky after all, given that it seemed to spark this whole merman mess.

"No marriages today," I say. "We just need a suit for Prince Tewen." I motion to Two.

"I see." The man gives us a knowing smile, eyes dancing between us. Irritation prickles my skin at his insinuation, but somehow, I refrain from a more forceful assertion that no one is to be wed. "Let's see what we can do." The man winks — literally winks — at Two, who just smiles in response, completely oblivious. "My name is Gregor, and I'm happy to be of assistance. Please follow me."

We meander between displays of men's suits and other apparel rich people can afford, like cummerbunds. Gregor chatters about all the suit options, the differences in fabrics and styles. I can barely keep up, figuratively speaking. Gregor moves at a snail's pace. If I had to guess, he spends ten minutes talking about each suit option Two has available, explaining all their advantages and special features. I spend the time researching restaurants where we can eat. The problem, though, is that most of the higher-end places that would give Two an experience more akin to the luncheon must be booked weeks, even months, in advance.

Finally, I find a place called "Dancing Shoes," which only has "recommended" reservations. I step out of the store for a moment and call in a reservation. Thank goodness they have a table available at noon.

The only problem now is that it's eleven in the morning, and Two hasn't tried on a single suit. I hurry to rejoin the others.

"...and this suit is extra special," Gregor drones on, "because it contains a secret pocket in the sleeve."