Christopher Moore - Island of the Sequined Love Nun

Abo, who was drunk and for once not angry, laughed and said, “She is nobody’s wife, you fuckin’ mook. She’s the Sky Priestess.”

Tuck froze. A plane crash and a talking bat rose like demons, ruining his oncoming buzz.

Malink looked apologetic. “He is young and drunk and stupid. You not fuckin’ mook.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Tuck asked. “Where’d you hear ‘fuckin’ mook’?”

“Vincent say that. We all say that.”

“Vincent? What’s Vincent look like?”

The young men looked to Favo and Malink. Favo spoke. “He is American. Have dark hair like us, but his nose point. Young. Maybe as old as you.”

“And he’s a pilot? What’s he wear?”

“He wear gray suit, sometimes a jacket with fur here.” Favo mimed a collar and lapels.

“A bomber jacket.”

Malink smiled. “Yes, Sky Priestess is bomber.”

Tuck snatched the cup from one of the Johns and drained it, then handed it back. “Sorry. Emergency.” He looked at Malink. “And this Vincent said I was coming?”

Malink nodded. “He tell me in a dream. Then Sarapul find you and your friend on the reef.”

“My friend? Is he around?”

“We no see him now. He go to live with Sarapul on other side of island.”

“Take me to him.”

“We drink tuba now. Go in morning?”

“I have to be back before morning. And you can’t tell anyone that I was here.”

“One more,” Malink said. “The tuba is good tonight.”

“Okay, one more,” Tuck said.

The Sky Priestess rolled over in bed and slapped the beeping intercom as

if it was a mouthy stepchild. “I’m sleeping here,” she said.

“Get in character, Beth. We have an order, due in Japan in six hours.”

“Why don’t these fuckers ever call at a civilized hour?”

“We guarantee freshness. We have to deliver.”

“Don’t grow a sense of humor on me at this point, Sebastian. The shock might kill me. Who’s the chosen?”

“Sepie, female, nineteen, a hundred and ten pounds.”

“I know her,” the Sky Priestess said. “What about our pilot?”

“I’m putting two of the staff on him to make sure he stays in his bungalow.”

“He’s still going to hear it. Are you sure you don’t want to sedate him?”

“Use your head, Beth. He has to fly. We’ll do it with smaller explosions. Maybe he’ll sleep through it.”

She was wide awake now and starting to feel the excitement and anxiety of a performance. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. Have the ninjas start my music.”

Tuck had Favo in a headlock and was administering affectionate noogies to the old man’s scalp. “I love this fuckin’ guy. This fuckin’ guy is the best. I love all you fuckin’ guys.”

Malink had never seen noogies and wondered why this bizarre ritual had never showed up in the party scenes in People . He prided himself on understanding white people’s habits, but this was a new one. Favo didn’t seem to be enjoying the ritual nearly as much as Tuck was. The tuba had all been drunk. Maybe it was time to rescue his friend.

“Now we go find the girl-man,” Malink said.

Tuck looked up, still holding Favo, whose eyes were starting to bug out a little. “’Kay,” the pilot said.

Malink led them into the village, his bowlegged gait more wobbly than normal. A dozen Shark men and Tucker crashed and staggered behind him. As they passed by the bachelors’ house and onto the trail that led to Sarapul’s side of the island, the music started: big band sounds with easy liquid rhythms echoed through the jungle. The Shark men stopped in their tracks and when the music paused, just for a second, they shouted, “Pennsylvania 6-5000!” and the music began again.

“What’s that?” Tucker asked.

Women and children were stirring from their sleep, creeping off into the bushes to pee, rubbing sleepy eyes and stretching creaky backs. Malink said, “The Sky Priestess is coming.”

“Who?” Tuck finally released Favo, who he had been dragging by his head. The old man gasped, then grinned and sat splayed-legged on the trail.

“We have to go,” Malink said. “You should go back now.”

The music paused and Malink, along with the rest of the Shark People, shouted, “Pennsylvania 6-5000!”

“Go now,” Malink ordered, once again the chief. “The Sky Priestess comes. We must get ready.” He turned and strode back into the village. The other Shark men scattered, leaving Tucker standing on the trail by himself.

Tuck heard the sound of large prop planes mixing with the big band music. The Shark People were draining out of the village onto the trails that led to the runway. Within seconds, the village was deserted. Tuck staggered back to the beach where he’d left his fins and mask. As he stepped over the logs of the drinking circle, there was an explosion and he thought for a moment that he’d found another land mine until he realized that the sound had come from the direction of the runway.

Not trusting himself to find the path through the village, Tucker decided to follow the beach back to the compound. After he’d gone a hundred yards or so, he saw something white lying on the beach

and bent to pick it up. A long spiral notebook. The moon was high in the sky and he could see a name printed on the cover in bold permanent marker: JEFFERSON PARDEE.

Beth Curtis, dressed in surgical greens, waved the guards away from Tuck’s door and knocked. She waited a few seconds and knocked again, then walked in. She could just make out a sleeping figure through the mosquito net.

“Case, get up. We’ve got to fly.”

The body did not stir. “Case?” She pulled aside the netting and poked the sleeping figure. A green coconut rolled out of the bed and thumped at her feet. “You sleep with a coconut? You pathetic bastard.”

She jumped back and a groggy Tucker Case groaned. “What?”

“Wake up. We fly in half an hour.”

Tuck rolled over and blinked through the hangover fog. The sun was coming up and the roosters were going off all over the island. The room was only half-lit.

“What time is it?”

“It’s time to go. Get the plane ready.” Beth Curtis walked out.

Tuck rolled out of bed, crawled to the bathroom, and emptied his stomach into the bowl with a trumpeting heave.

Tuck spooled up the jets as he watched the guards scramble around the Lear. Each time one walked past the nose, Tuck flipped on the radar and chuckled. The microwave energy wasn’t enough to boil the guards in their skins, which was Tuck’s fantasy, but he could be reasonably certain that they would never have any children and he might have planted the seeds of a few choice tumors. Once in Houston a maintenance man made the mistake of walking in front of Mary Jean’s jet with an armload of fluorescent bulbs meant for the hangar, and Jake Skye had shown Tucker a little trick.

“Watch this, Jake had said.” He flipped on the radar and the bulbs, bombarded by the microwaves from the radar, lit up in the maintenance man’s arms. The poor guy threw the bulbs in the air and ran off the field, leaving a pile of glass shards and white powder behind. It was the second-coolest thing Tucker had ever seen, the first being the time they had used the Gulfstream’s jets to sandblast the paint off a Porsche whose owner in-sisted on parking on the tarmac. Tuck was waiting for one of the guards to walk behind the jets when Beth Curtis came on board.

She wore her business suit and carried the briefcase and the cooler, but this time she sat in one of the passenger seats in the back and fell asleep before they took off. Tuck took the opportunity to suck some oxygen from the emergency supply to help cut through his hangover.