Jonathan Kellerman - The Web

"C'mon, brudda!"

The woman flicked the remote control. More black screen, then a ten-year-old sitcom. She watched as the credits rolled, then said, "Can I help you?" Pleasant, almost childish voice. Twenty or so, with acne and short, wavy hair. No bra under the tank top. Not even close to pretty, but her smile was open and lovely.

"Something to drink, if you've got it."

"I've got Coke and Sprite and beer in the back."

"Two Cokes, two Sprites." I noticed a couple of paperback books on the rear counter. "Maybe something to read, too."

She handed me the books. A Stephen King I'd read and a compact world atlas, both with curled covers.

"Any magazines?"

"Um, maybe under here." She bent and stood. "Nope. I'll check in back. You're the doctor staying with Dr. Bill, right?"

"Alex Delaware." I held out my hand and we shook. I noticed a diamond chip ring on the third finger.

"Bettina- Betty Aguilar." She smiled shyly. "Just got married."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks… he's a great man- Dr. Bill. When I was a kid I had a bad whooping cough and he cured me. Hold on, lemme get you your drinks and see about magazines."

She went through the swinging door.

So much for rampant island hostility to Moreland.

She came back with four cans and a stack of periodicals. "This is all we've got. Pretty old. Sorry."

"Is it hard to get current stuff?"

She shrugged. "We get whatever comes over on the supply boats, usually it's a couple of issues late. People and Playboy and stuff like that goes fast- any of this interest you?"

Half-year-old issues of Ladies' Home Journal, Reader's Digest, Time, Newsweek, Fortune, and at the bottom, several copies of a large glossy quarterly entitled Island World. Gorgeous smiling black-haired girls and sun-blushed tropical vistas.

The publications' dates, three to five years old.

"Boy, those really are old," said Betty. "Found 'em under a box. They used to publish it but I don't think anymore."

I flipped through tables of contents. Mostly boosterism. Then a title caught my eye.

"I'll take them," I said.

"Really? Gee, they're so old I wouldn't know what to charge you. Here, take 'em for free."

"I'll be happy to pay."

"It's okay," she insisted. "You're my best customer today and they're just taking up space. Want some munchies to go with your drinks?"

I bought two bags of kettle-boiled Maui potato chips and some jerky. As she took my money, her eyes drifted back to the TV. Another blackout. She switched the set on automatically, as if used to it.

"Bad reception?"

"The satellite keeps going in and out, depending on the weather and stuff." She counted out change. "I'm having a baby. Dr. Bill's gonna deliver it. In seven months."

"Congratulations."

"Yeah… we're excited. My husband and me. Here you go… After the baby's born we'll probably be moving away. My husband works construction and there's no work."

"Nothing at all?"

"Not really. This here is the biggest building in town. A few years back Dr. Bill was thinking of redoing it, but no one else really cared."

"Dr. Bill owns the Trading Post?"

She seemed surprised that I didn't know. "Sure. He's real good about it, doesn't charge rent, just lets people order their own stuff and sell it outta the booths. There used to be more business here, when the Navy guys still came in. Now most of the stallkeepers don't come in unless someone calls to order. It's actually my mom's stall, but she's sick- bad heart. I've got time, waiting for my baby, so I take over for her and my husband delivers- most of our stuff's delivery."

She touched her still-flat belly.

"My husband would like a boy, but I don't care as long as it's healthy."

Laugh-track noise from the TV. She turned her head and smiled along with the electronic joy.

"Bye," I said.

She waved absently.

When I got back to the beach, Robin's snorkel was a tiny white duck bobbing near the outer edge of the reef. Our blankets were spread, and Spike was leashed to the umbrella post, barking furiously.

The object of his wrath was Skip Amalfi, stark naked, peeing a high, arcing stream into the sand, several yards away. Anders Haygood stood next to him, in knee-length baggies, watching. Skip's bleached-bone buttocks said skinny-dipping wasn't a habit. His green trunks lay next to him like a heap of wilted salad.

Spike barked louder. Skip laughed and aimed the stream closer to the dog, shaking with glee as Spike growled and spat drool. Then the arc dribbled and died. Spike shook himself off theatrically, and moved closer to the two men.

I ran. Haygood saw me and said something to Skip, who stopped and turned, offering a full frontal view. I kept coming.

Grinning, Skip looked over his shoulder at Robin's snorkel. His urine trail was drying quickly, a brown snake sinking into the sand. Spike was pawing the blanket, finally moving enough of it to reach sand and scatter it.

Skip stretched and yawned and massaged his gut.

"Is that going to be the official welcome at your resort?" I said, smiling.

His face darkened, but he forced himself to smile back. "Yeah, living naturally."

"Better watch the ultraviolet radiation. It can lead to impotence."

"Whu?"

"The sun."

"Your hard-on," said Haygood, amused. "What the man's trying to tell you is bruise it and lose it. Watch the UV on your tool or you'll be hauling limp wiener."

"Fuck you," Skip told him, but he looked at me edgily.

"It's true," I said. "Too much UV to the genitals heats up the scrotal plexus and weakens the neurotestostinal reflex."

"Boil it and spoil it," said Haygood.

"Fuck you in the ass, " said Skip. Looking for his trunks.

Haygood lunged, grabbed them up, and began running down the beach. Stocky but fast.

Skip went after him, potbelly quivering, holding his crotch.

Spike was still drooling and breathing hard. I sat down and tried to calm him. Robin had moved into shallower waters. She stood, lifted her face mask, and waved. Then she saw the two men running and came out of the water.

"What was that all about?"

I told her.

"How rude."

"He was probably hoping you'd come out and see him playing fireman."

"Shucks, I missed it." She squatted and petted Spike. "Mama's all right, sweetie. Don't worry about those turkeys. It's gorgeous down there, Alex. Come on in."

"Maybe later."

"Is something wrong?"

"Let me just stick around for a while in case they return. Though I may have traumatized old Skip."

I recounted my UV warning and she cracked up.

"You probably ruined what little sex life he's got."

"Reverse therapy. My education is now fully validated."

"Don't worry about them, Alex- dive with me. If they come back, we'll give Spike a run at them."

"Spike can be drop-kicked by a twelve-year-old."

"They don't know that. Tell them he's a neurotestostinal pit bull."

We visited every crag in the reef side by side and emerged an hour later to an undisturbed beach. Spike slept noisily, under a cloud of sand flies. The drinks had warmed, but we poured them down our throats. Then Robin stretched out on a blanket and closed her eyes, and I picked up the spring 1988 issue of Island World.

The article that had caught my eye was on page 113, after come-hither tourist pieces on Pacific Rim archaeological sites, choice dive spots, restaurants and nightclubs.

Bikini: A History of Shame

The author was a man named Micah Sanjay, formerly a civilian official of the Marshall Islands' U.S. military government, now a retired high school principal living in Chalan Kanoa, Saipan.