Christopher Moore - Island of the Sequined Love Nun

“So, you guys speak English?”

The guards didn’t answer. They watched him.

“Japanese, huh? I’ve never been to Japan. I hear a Big Mac goes for twelve bucks.”

He waited for some response and got none. The Japanese stood impassive, silent, small beads of sweat shining through their crew cuts.

“Sorry, guys, I’d love to hang around with you chatterboxes, but I’m due for dinner with the doc and his wife.”

Tuck limped to the guards and offered each an arm in escort. “Shall we go?”

The guards turned and led him across the compound to one of the bungalows on the beach. The guards stopped at the steps of the lanai and Tuck dug into his pants pockets. “Sorry guys, no cash. Have the concierge put a couple of yen on my bill.”

The doctor came through the french doors in a white ice cream suit, carrying a tall iced drink garnished with mango. “Mr. Case, you’re looking much better. How are you feeling?”

“Nothing wrong with me one of those won’t cure.”

Sebastian Curtis frowned. “I’m afraid not. You shouldn’t drink alcohol with the antibiotics I have you on.”

Tucker felt his guts twist. “Just one won’t hurt, will it?”

“I’m afraid so. But I’ll make you one without alcohol. Come in. Beth is making a wonderful grouper in ginger sauce.”

Tucker went though the french doors to find a bungalow decorated much like his own, only larger. There was an open kitchen nook where Beth Curtis was stirring something with a wooden spoon. She looked up and smiled. “Mr. Case, just in time. I need someone to taste this sauce.” She was wearing a cream-colored Joan Crawford number with middle line-backer shoulder pads and buff-colored high heels. The dress was straight out of the forties, but Tuck had been around Mary Jean long enough to know that Mrs. Curtis had dropped at least five hundred bucks on the shoes. Evidently, missionary work paid pretty well.

She held a hand under Tuck’s chin as she presented the spoon. The sauce was sweet citrus with a piquant bite to it. “It’s good,” he said. “Really good.”

“No fibbing, Mr. Case. You’re going to have to eat it.”

“No, I like it.”

“Well, good. Dinner will be ready in about a half hour. Now, why don’t you men take your drinks out on the lanai and let a girl do her magic.”

Sebastian handed Tuck an icy glass filled with an orange liquid and garnished with mango. “Shall we?” he said, leading Tuck back outside.

They stood at the railing, looking out at the moon reflecting in the ocean.

“Would you be more comfortable sitting, Mr. Case?” the doctor asked.

“No, I’m fine. And please call me Tuck. Anyone calls me Mr. Case more than three times, I start thinking I’m going to get audited.”

The doctor laughed, “We can’t have that. Not with the kind of money you’re going to be making. But legally, you know, it’s tax-free until you take it back into the United States.”

Tuck stared out at the ocean for a moment, wondering whether it was time to give this gift horse a dental exam. There was just too damn much money showing on this island.

The equipment, the plane, Beth Curtis’s clothes. After Jake Skye’s lecture, Tuck had imagined that he might encounter some sweaty

drug-smuggling doctor with a Walther in his belt and a coke whore wife, but these two could have just flown in from an upscale church social. Still, he knew they were lying to him. They had referred to the Japanese as their “staff,” but he’d seen one of them carrying an Uzi out behind the hangar. He was going to ask, he really was, but as he turned to face the doctor, he heard a soft bark at the end of the lanai and looked up to see a large fruit bat hanging from the edge of the tin roof. Roberto.

The doctor said, “Tucker, about the drinking.”

Tuck pulled his gaze away from the bat. The doctor had seen him. “What drinking?”

“You know that we saw the reports on your—how should I put it?”

“Crash.”

“Yes, on your crash. I’m afraid, as I told you, we can’t have you drinking while you’re working here. We may need you to fly on very short notice and we can’t risk that you might not be ready.”

“That was an isolated incident,” Tuck lied. “I really don’t drink much.”

“Just a momentary lapse of judgment, I understand. And it may seem a bit draconian, but as long as you don’t drink or go out of the compound, everything will be fine.”

“Sure, no problem.” Tuck was watching the bat over the doctor’s shoulder. Roberto had unfurled his wings and was turning in the sea breeze like an inverted weather vane. Tuck tried to wave him off behind the doctor’s back.

“I know this may all seem very limiting, but I’ve worked with the Shark People for a long time, and they’re very sensitive to contact with outsiders.”

“The Shark People? You said you’d explain that.”

“They hunt sharks. Most of the natives in Micronesia won’t eat shark. In fact, it’s taboo. But the reef fish here often have a high concentration of neurotoxin, so the natives developed shark as a food source. You would think that the sharks, being higher on the food chain, would have a higher concentration of the toxin, wouldn’t you?”

“You’d think,” Tuck said, having no idea whatsoever what the doctor was talking about.

“They don’t, though. It’s as if something in their system neutralizes the toxin. I’ve done a little research in my spare time.”

“I’ve seen a lot of shark shows on the Discovery Channel. They go on and on about how harmless sharks are. It’s bullshit. Half of these stitches you put in me are because of a shark attack.”

“Maybe they don’t have cable,” the doctor said.

Tuck turned to him, amazed. “A joke, Doc?”

The doctor looked a little embarrassed. “I’m going to go see how dinner is coming along. I’ll be right back.” He turned and went into the house.

Tucker bolted to the end of the lanai where Roberto was hanging. “Shoo. Go away.”

Roberto made a trilling noise and tried to catch Tuck’s drink with his wing claw.

“Okay, you can have the mango, but then you have to get out of here.” Tucker held out the piece of cut mango and the fruit bat took it in his wing claw and slurped it down.

“Now get out of here,” Tucker said. “Go find Kimi. Shoo, shoo.”

Roberto tilted his head and said, “Back off on these people, Tuck. You push them too hard, they’ll pull your plug. Just keep your eyes open.”

Tuck moved away from the bat with stiff jerking steps out of the line dance of the undead. The bat had said something. It was a tiny voice, high but raspy, the voice of a chain-smoking Topo Gigio, but it was clear. “You didn’t talk,” Tucker said.

“Okay,” said Roberto. “Thanks for the mango.”

Roberto took off, the beat of his wings like the shuffle of a deck of leather cards. Tuck backed though the french doors into a wicker emperor’s chair and sat down.

“Come sit,” Beth Curtis said as she carried a tray to the table. “Dinner’s ready.”

“What kind of drugs have you been giving me, Doc?”

“Broad-spectrum antibiotics and some Tylenol. Why?”

“Any chance they could cause hallucinations?”

“Not unless you were allergic, and we’d know that by now. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Beth Curtis came to him and patted his shoulder. Her nails, he noticed, were perfect. “You had a fever when they brought you in. Sometimes that can give a person bad dreams. I think you’ll feel a lot better after a good meal.”

She helped him up and led him to the table, which was set with a white tablecloth and black linen napkins around a centerpiece of