Island of the Sequined Love Nun

check your fuel availability. They'll sell you sewer water instead of jet fuel if you don't check. You ever deal with Third World airport cops?"
    Tucker shrugged. Jake knew damn well he hadn't. He'd gotten his hours flying copilot in the Mary Jean jet, and they'd never taken that outside of the continental United States except for one trip to Hawaii.
    "Well," Jake continued, "the catchword is 'bribe, bribe, and bribe.' Offer the highest amount you can at the lowest level of authority. Always have a thick roll of American dollars with you, and don't bring it to the table if you're not willing to lose it. Keep something stashed in your shoe if they tap you out."
    "You think this doctor is going to have me hauling drugs?"
    "Good chance of it, don't you think? Besides, it doesn't matter. These people are brutal. Half the time the government guys have the same last name, so if you move up the ladder, you're just talking to the uncle of the last one that hit you. He has to charge you more out of pride."
    Tucker cradled his head in his hands and stared into his gin and tonic. "I'm fucked."
    Jake patted him on the arm, then drew back at the intimacy of the act. "They're calling your flight. You'll be fine."
    They rose and Jake threw some cash on the table. At the gate Tucker turned to his friend. "Man, I don't know what to say."
    Jake extended his hand. "No sweat, man. You'd have done it for me."
    "I really hate flying in the back. Check on that kid from the motel, okay."
    "I'm on it. Look, everything you need is in the pack. Don't leave it behind."
    "Right," Tucker said. "Well…" He turned and walked down the ramp to the plane.
    Jake Skye watched him go, then turned, walked to a pay phone, dialed some numbers, and waited. "Yeah, it's Jake. He's on his way. Yeah, gone for good. When can I pick up my check?"

8 – The Humiliation of the Pilot as
    a Passenger
    Once on the plane, Tucker unfolded the letter from the mysterious doctor and read it again.
    Dear Mr. Case:
    I have become aware of your recent difficulties and I believe I have a proposition that will be of great benefit to us both. My wife and I are missionaries on Alualu, a rather remote atoll at the northwestern tip of the Micronesian crescent. Since we are out of the normal shipping lanes and we are the sole medical provider for the people of the island, we maintain our own aircraft for the transport of medical supplies. We have recently procured a Lear 45 for this purpose, but our former pilot has been called to the mainland on personal business for an indefinite time.
    In short, Mr. Case, given your experience flying small jets and our unique requirements, we feel that this would be a perfect opportunity for us both. We are not concerned with the status of your license, only that you can perform in the pilot's seat and fulfill a need that can only be described as dire.
    If you are willing to honor a long-term contract, we will provide you with room and board on the island, pay you $2,000 a week, as well as a generous bonus upon completion of the contract. As a gesture of our sincerity, I am enclosing an open airline ticket and a cashier's cheek for $3,000 for traveling expenses. Contact us by email with your arrival time in Truk and my wife will meet you there to discuss the conditions of your employment and provide transportation to Alualu. You'll find a room reserved for you at the Paradise Inn.
    Sincerely,
    Sebastian Curtis, M.D.
    [email protected]

    Why me? Tuck wondered. He'd crashed a jet, lost his job and probably his sex life, was charged with multiple crimes, then a letter and a check arrived from nowhere to bail him out, but only if he was willing to abandon everything and move to a Pacific island. It could turn out to be a good job, but if it had been his decision, he'd still be lingering over it in a motel room with Dusty Lemon. It was as if some combination of ironic luck and Jake Skye had been sent along to make the decision for him. Not so strange, he thought. The same combination had put him in the pilot's seat in the first place.
    Tuck had grown up in Elsinore, California, northeast of San Diego, the only son of the owner of the Denmark Silverware Corporation. He had an unremarkable childhood, was a mediocre athlete, and spent most of his adolescence surfing in San Diego and chasing girls, one of whom he finally caught.
    Zoophilia Gold was the daughter of his father's lawyer, a lovely girl made shy by a cruel first name. Tuck and Zoo