Christopher Moore: Island of the Sequined Love Nun

was gone, replaced by a rugged male face and perfect smile.

“Tuck, you’re famous. You made the Enquirer .” The voice of Jake Skye, Tuck’s only male friend and premier jet mechanic for Mary Jean. “You crashed just in time to make the latest edition.”

“My dick?” Tuck said, struggling to sit up. There was what appeared to be a plaster ostrich egg sitting on his lap. A tube ran out the middle of it.

Jake Skye, tall, dark, and unkempt—half Apache, half truck stop waitress—said, “That’s going to smart. But the doc says you’ll play the violin again.” Jake sat in a chair next to Tuck’s bed and opened the tabloid.

“Look at this. Oprah’s skinny again. Carrots, grapefruit, and amphetamines.”

“Tucker Case moaned. “What about the girl? What was her name?”

“Meadow Malackovitch,” Jake said, looking at the paper. “Wow, Oprah’s fucking Elvis. You got to give that woman credit. She stays busy. By the way, they’re going to move you to Houston. Mary Jean wants you where she can keep an eye on you.”

“The girl, Jake?”

Jake looked up from the paper. “You don’t want to know.”

“They said she was going to be okay. Is she dead?”

“Worse. Pissed off. And speaking of pissed off, there’s some FAA guys outside who are waiting to talk to you, but the doctor wouldn’t let them in. And I’m supposed to call Mary Jean as soon as you’re coherent. I’d ad-vise against that—becoming coherent, I mean. And then there’s a whole bunch of reporters. The nurses are keeping them all out.”

“How’d you get in?”

“I’m your only living relative.”

“My mother will be pleased to hear that.”

“Brother, your mother doesn’t even want to claim you. You totally fucked the dog on this one.”

“I’m fired, then?”

“Count on it. In fact, I’d say you’d be lucky to get a license to operate a riding lawnmower.”

“I don’t know how to do anything but fly. One bad landing?”

“No, Tuck, a bad landing is when the overheads pop open and dump people’s gym bags. You crashed. If it makes you feel any better, with the Gulfstream gone I’m not going to have any work for at least six months. They may not even get another jet.”

“Is the FAA filing charges?”

Jake Skye looked at his paper to avoid Tuck’s eyes. “Look, man, do you want me to lie to you? I came up here because I thought you’d rather hear it from me. You were drinking. You wrecked a million dollars’ worth of SeaTac’s equipment in addition to the plane. You’re lucky you’re not dead.”

“Jake, look at me.”

Jake dropped the paper to his lap and sighed. “What?”

“Am I going to jail?”

“I’ve got to go, man.” Jake stood. “You heal up.” He turned to leave the room.

“Jake!”

Jake Skye stopped and looked over his shoulder. Tucker could see the disappointment in his friend’s eyes.

“What were you thinking?” Jake said.

“She talked me into it. I knew it wasn’t a good idea, but she was persistent.”

Jake came to the side of the bed and leaned in close. “Tucker, what’s it take for you to get it? Listen close now, buddy, because this is your last lesson, okay? I’m out of a job because of you. You’ve got to make your own decisions. You can’t let someone else always tell you what to do. You have to take some responsibility.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you. You’re the one who got me into this business.”

“Exactly. You’re thirty years old, man. You have to start thinking for yourself. And with your head, not your dick.”

Tucker looked at the bandages in his lap. “I’m sorry. It all got out of hand. It was like flying on autopilot. I didn’t mean to…”

“Time to take the controls, buddy.”

“Jake, something weird happened during the crash. I’m not sure if it was a hallucination or what. There was someone else in the cockpit.”

“You mean besides the whore?”

“Yeah, just for a second, there was a guy in the copilot seat. He talked to me. Then he disappeared.”

Jake sighed. “There’s no insanity plea for crashing a plane, Tuck. You lost a lot of blood.”

“This was before I got hurt. While the plane was still skidding.”

“Here.” Jake tucked a silver flask under Tuck’s pillow and punched him in the shoulder. “I’ll call you, man.” He turned and walked away.

Tuck called after him, “What if it was an angel or something?”

“Then you’re in the Enquirer next week too,” Jake said from the door. “Get some sleep.”

A low buzz of anticipation ran through the halls of the hospital. Reporters checked the batteries in their microrecorders and cell phones. Orderlies and nurses lingered in the hallways in hope of getting a glimpse of the celebrity. The FAA men straightened their ties and shot their cuffs. One receptionist in administration, who was only two distributorships away from earning her own pink Oldsmobile, ducked into an examining room and sucked lungfuls of oxygen to chase the dizziness that comes from meeting one’s Messiah. Mary Jean was coming.

Mary Jean Dobbins did not travel with an entourage, bodyguards, or any other of the decorative leeches commonly attached to the power-wielding rich.

“God is my bodyguard,” Mary Jean would say.

She carried a .38-caliber gold-plated Lady Smith automatic in her bag: the Clara Barton Commemorative Model, presented to her by the Daughters of the Confederacy at their annual “Let’s Lynch Leroy” pecan pie bake-off, held every Martin Luther King Jr. Day. (She didn’t agree with their politics, but the belles could sure sell some makeup. If the South did not rise again, it wouldn’t be for lack of foundation.)

Today, as Mary Jean came through the doors of the main lobby, she was flanked by a tall predatory woman in a black business suit—a severe con-trast to Mary Jean’s soft pastel blue ensemble with matching bag and pumps. “Strength and femininity are not exclusive, ladies.” She was sixty-five; matronly but elegant. Her makeup was perfect, but not overdone. She wore a sapphire-and-diamond pin whose value approximated the gross national product of Zaire.

She greeted every orderly and nurse with a smile, asked after their families, thanked them for their compassionate work, flirted when appropriate, and tossed compliments over her shoulder as she passed, without ever missing a step. She left a wake of acutely charmed fans, even among the cynical and stubborn.

Outside Tucker’s room the predatory woman—a lawyer—broke formation and confronted the maggotry of reporters, allowing Mary Jean to slip past.

She poked her head inside. “You awake, slugger?”

Tuck was startled by her voice, yanked out of his redundant reverie of unemployment, imprisonment, and impotence. He wanted to pull the sheets over his head and quietly die.

“Mary Jean.”

The makeup magnate moved to his bedside and took his hand, all compassion and caring. “How are you feeling?”

Tucker looked away from her. “I’m okay.”

“Do you need anything? I’ll have it here in a Texas jiffy.”

“I’m fine,” Tucker said. She always made him feel like he’d just struck out in his first Little League game and she was consoling him with milk and cookies. The fact that he’d once tried to seduce her doubled the humi-liation. “Jake told me that you’re having me moved to Houston. Thank you.”

“I have to keep an eye on you, don’t I?” She patted his hand. “You sure you’re feeling well enough for a talk?”

Tucker nodded. He wasn’t buying the outpouring of warm fuzzies she was selling. He’d seen her doing business on the plane.