Island of the Sequined Love Nun

dog, who lowered its head in submission. The young man reached out as if to pet the dog, then grabbed its head and quickly snapped its neck. "Now, that's better, ain't it, ya little mook?"

    The bar was as dingy inside as it was out. Yellow bug bulbs gave off just enough light to navigate around drunken islanders and a beat-up pool table. An old Wurlitzer bounced American country western songs off the metal walls. A khaki-wrapped hulk, Jefferson Pardee, sweated over a Budweiser at the bar Tucker slid in next to him.
    Pardee looked up with red-rimmed eyes. "You just missed all the excitement."
    "No, I saw it. I was outside."
    Pardee signaled for two more beers. "I thought I told you not to go out at night."
    "I'm leaving for Yap in the morning and I need to ask you some questions."
    Pardee grinned like a child given a surprise favor. "I'm at your service, Mr. Case."
    Tuck weighed his need for information against the ignominy of telling Pardee about the crash. He pulled the crumpled fax paper from his pants pocket and set it on the bar before the reporter.
    Pardee lit a cigarette as he read. He finished reading and handed the fax back to Tucker. "It's not unusual to have changes in travel plans out here. But what's this about bacteria? I thought you were a pilot."
    Tucker took Pardee though the crash and the mysterious invitation from the doctor, including Jake's theories about drug smuggling. "I think the bacteria stuff was just to throw off anyone who got hold of the fax."
    "You're right there. But it's not drugs. There aren't any drugs produced in these islands except kava and betel nut, and nobody wants those except the islanders. Oh, they grow a little pot here and there, but it's consumed here by the gangsta wanna-bes."
    "Gangsta wanna-bes?" Tuck asked.
    "A few of the islanders have satellite TV. The people who look like them on TV are gangsta rappers. The old rundown buildings they see in the hood look like the buildings here. Except here they're new and rundown. It's a Coke and a smile and baby formula their babies can't digest. It's packaged junk food shipped here without expiration dates."
    "What in the hell are you talking about, Pardee?"
    "They buy into the advertising bullshit that Americans have become immune to. It's like the entire Micronesian crescent is one big cargo cult. They buy the worst of American culture."
    "Are you saying I'm the worst America has to offer?"
    Pardee patted his shoulder and leaned in close. Tuck could smell the sour beer sweat coming off the big man. "No, that's not what I'm saying. I don't know what's going on out on Alualu, but I'm sure it's no big deal. Evil tends to grow in proportion to the profit potential, and there's just nothing out there that's worth a shit. Go to your island, kid. And get in touch with me when you figure out what's going on. In the meantime, I'll do some checking."
    Tuck shook the reporter's hand. "I will." He threw some money on the bar and started to leave. Pardee called to him as he reached the door.
    "One more thing. I checked around. I heard that there's some armed men on Alualu. And there was another pilot that came through here a few months ago. Nobody's seen him. Be careful, Tucker."
    "And you weren't going to tell me that?"
    "I had to be sure that you weren't part of it."

13 – Out of the Frying Pan
    Tuck's first thought of the new morning was I've got to catch a plane. His second was, My dick's broke.
    It happens that way. One has a "private" irritation-hemorrhoids, menstrual cramps, swollen prostate, yeast infection, venereal disease, bladder infection-and no matter how hard the mind tries to escape the gravity of the affliction, it is inexorably pulled back into a doomed orbit of circular thought. Anything that distracts from the irritation is an irritation. Life is an irritation.
    Inside Tuck's head sounded like this: I have to catch a plane. I'm pissing fire. I need a shower. Check the stitches. No water. It looks infected. Probably leprosy. I hate this place. I'm sure it's infected. When does the water come on? It's going to turn black and fall off. Whoever heard of a place with satellite TV but no running water? I'll never fly again. I'm thirty years old and I have no job. And no dick. And who in the hell was that guy in the parking lot last night? I smell like rancid goat meat. Probably the infection. Gangrene. I can't believe there's no running water. I'm going to die. Die, die, die.
    Not a pleasant place to be: inside Tuck's