Island of the Sequined Love Nun

position. "Sir, I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind," he whimpered. There was a knock on the door and he uncurled, alert and ready to move. He looked to Tucker for instructions.
    "Well, answer it."
    Dusty lumbered to the door and pulled it open a crack. "Yes?"
    "I'm here to see Tucker Case. It's okay, I work for Mary Jean." Tuck recognized Jake Skye's voice.
    "Just a second." Dusty turned and looked to Tucker, confused.
    "Who knows we're here, Dusty?"
    "Just us and Mrs. Jean."
    "Then why don't you let him in?"
    "Yes, sir." He opened the door and Jake Skye strode through carrying a grocery bag and a pizza box.
    "Greetings." He threw the pizza on the bed. "Pepperoni and mushroom." He glanced at Dusty and paused, taking a moment to look the tackle up and down. "How'd you get this job? Eat your family?"
    "No, sir," Dusty said.
    Jake patted the tackle's mammoth shoulder. "Good to be careful, I guess. Momma always said, 'Beware of geeks bearing gifts.' Who are you?"
    "Jake Skye," Tuck said, "meet Dusty Lemon. Dusty, Jake Skye, Mary Jean's jet mechanic. Be nice to Dusty, Jake, He's a virgin."
    Dusty shot a vicious glare at Tuck and extended a boxing glove size mitt. Jake shook his hand. "Virgin, huh?"
    Jake dropped his hand. "Not including farm animals, though, right?"
    Dusty winced and moved to close the door. "You-all can't stay long. Mr. Case isn't supposed to see no one."
    Jake put the grocery bag down on the table, pulled out a four-inch-thick bundle of mail, and tossed it on the bed next to Tucker. "Your fan mail."
    Tucker picked it up. "It's all been opened."
    "I was bored," Jake said, opening the pizza box and extracting a slice. "A lot of death threats, a few marriage proposals, a couple really interesting ones had both. Oh, and an airline ticket to someplace I've never heard of with a check for expenses."
    "From Mary Jean?"
    "Nope. Some missionary doctor in the Pacific. He wants you to fly for him. Medical supplies or something. Came FedEx yesterday. Almost took the job myself, seeing as I still have my pilot's license and you don't, but then, I can get a job here."
    Tucker shuffled through the stack of mail until he found the check and the airline ticket. He unfolded the attached letter.
    Jake held the pizza box out to the bodyguard. "Dopey, you want some pizza?"
    "Dusty," Dusty corrected.
    "Whatever." To Tuck: "He wants you to leave ASAP."
    "He can't go anywhere," said Dusty.
    Jake retracted the box. "I can see that, Dingy. He's still wired for sound." Jake gestured toward the catheter that snaked out of Tucker's pajama bottoms. "How long before you can travel?"
    Tucker was studying the letter. It certainly seemed legitimate. The doctor was on a remote island north of New Guinea, and he needed someone to fly jet loads of medical supplies to the natives. He specifically mentioned that "he was not concerned" about Tucker's lack of a pilot's license. The "need was dire" and the need was for an experienced jet pilot who could fly a Lear 45.
    "Well," Jake said, "when can you roll?"
    "Doctor says not for a week or so," Tucker said. "I don't get it. This guy is offering more money than I make for Mary Jean. Why me?"
    Jake pulled a Lone Star from the grocery bag and twisted off the cap. Tuck zeroed in on the beer. Dusty snatched it out of Jake's hand.
    "The question is," Jake said, glaring at Dusty, "what the fuck is a missionary doctor in Bongo Bongo land doing with a Lear 45?"
    "God's work?" Dusty said innocently.
    Jake snatched back his beer. "Oh blow me, Huey."
    "Dusty," Dusty corrected.
    Tucker said, "I'm not sure this is a good idea. Maybe I should stay here and see how things pan out with the FAA. This guy wants me right away. I need more time."
    "Like more time will make a difference. Damn, Tucker, you don't have to sink eyeball deep in shit to know it's a good idea to pull yourself out. Sometimes you have to make a decision."
    Tucker looked at the letter again. "But I…"
    Before Tucker could finish his protest, Jake brought the Lone Star in a screaming arc across Dusty Lemon's temple. The bodyguard fell like a dead tree and did a dead-cat bounce on the orange carpet.
    "Jesus!" Tucker said. "What the fuck was that?"
    "A decision," Jake said. He looked up from the fallen tackle and took a pull on the foaming Lone Star. "Sometimes this high-tech world calls for low-tech solutions. Let's go."

7 – Travel Tips
    "I can't believe you hit him," Tucker said. He was in the passenger seat of Jake Skye's