Island of the Sequined Love Nun

Maybe the man drown or something."
    "Find him, Malink. I meant it about the guards. I want this man in an hour."

    "He is gone," Sarapul said. "You can come out."
    Kimi dropped out of the rafters of Sarapul's little house. "What is he talking about-guards?"
    "Ha!" Sarapul said. "He knows nothing. He didn't even know I had this." Sarapul reached down and pulled out a headless chicken he had been sitting on. "He is no sorcerer."
    "He said there were guards," Kimi said.
    Sarapul laid his chicken on the ground. "If you are afraid, you should go."
    "I have to find Roberto."
    "Then let them send the guards," Sarapul said, brandishing his machete. "They can die just like this chicken."
    Kimi stepped back from the old cannibal, who was on the verge of foaming at the mouth. "We friends, right?"
    "Build a fire," Sarapul said. "I want to eat my chicken."

34 – Water Hazard
    Jefferson Pardee was trying desperately not to look like a sea turtle. He'd managed to find the surface, catch his breath, and put his mask on. Blood from his nose was now swishing around inside it like brandy in a snifter. After locating the floating garbage bag that contained his clothes and propping it under his chest as a life preserver, his main focus was not to look like a turtle. To a shark living in the warm Pacific waters off Alualu, sea turtles were food. Not that there was any real danger of a shark making that particular mistake. Even a mentally challenged shark would figure out that sea turtles did not wear boxer shorts printed in flying piggies, and no turtle would be yattering streams of obscenities between chain-smoker gasps of breath. Still, a couple of harmless white-tipped reef sharks smelled blood in the water and cruised by to check out the source, only to retreat, regretting that in one hundred and twenty million years on the planet they had never evolved the equipment to laugh.
    The surf was calm and the tide low, and considering Pardee's buoyancy, the swim should have been easy. But when Pardee saw the two black shadows cruise by below him, his heart started playing a sternum-rattling drum solo that kept up until he barked his knees on the reef. An antler of coral caught the plastic bag, stopping Pardee's progress long enough for him to notice that here on the reef the water was only two feet deep. He flipped over on his back, then sat on the coral, not really caring that it was cutting into his bottom. Waves lapped around him as he fought to catch his breath. He lifted his mask and let the blood run down his face and over his chest to expand into a rusty stain in the water. Tiny blue and yellow reef fish rose around him looking for food and nipping at his skin, tickling him like teasing children.
    He looked toward the beach, perhaps two hundred yards away. Inside the reef the danger of sharks was minimal-minimal enough that he would sit here and rest for a while. He watched the waves breaking softly around him, lapping against his back, and realized, with horror, that he was going to have to do this again in a few hours, against the waves and probably the tide. He'd have to find someone with a boat; that was all there was to it.
    Ten minutes passed before his heart slowed down and he was able to steel his courage enough to swim the final leg. He picked out a stand of coconut palms above a small beach and slid across the reef toward the island. He kicked slowly, scanning the water around him for any sign of sharks. Except for a moment of temporary terror when a manta ray with a seven-foot wingspan flew out of the blue and passed below him, the swim to the beach was safe and easy. If manta rays are going to be harmless, they should look more harmless, Pardee thought. Fuckers look like aquatic Draculas.
    He sat in the wash at the water's edge and was tearing the tape that held the fins on his feet when he heard a sharp mechanical click behind him. He fumed to see two men in black pointing Uzis at his head. Pardee grinned. "Konichi-wa," he said. "You guys have a dry cigarette? I seem to have torn my garbage bag."

    A seven iron, Tuck, thought. After all these years I need a seven iron.
    Tucker Case did not play golf. He'd tried it once, and although he'd enjoyed the drinking and driving the little electric car into the lake, he just didn't get the appeal. It seemed-and he'd examined the game closely because his father had loved it-an awful lot like a bunch of rich white guys in goofy clothing walking around on an absurdly large lawn