Island of the Sequined Love Nun by Christopher Moore Page A
Authors: Christopher Moore
Tags: Humor
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scheduled to sail at noon, so it will be necessary for you to take a taxi to the dock as soon as you clear customs.
I apologize for the inconvenience and would ask that you refrain from discussing the purpose of your visit with the crew of the Micro Trader-or with anyone else, for that matter. It would be unfortunate if this research reached the FAA before it had been thoroughly investigated. Rumors travel quickly in these islands.
I look forward to discussing the intricacies of the particular strain of staphylococci with you.
Sincerely, Sebastian Curtis, M.D.
Staphylococci? Germs? He wants to discuss germs? Tuck couldn't have been more confused if the message had been in Eskimo. He folded it and looked again at the fingerprints. That was it. He knew that other people would be reading the note. The germ thing was just a red herring to confuse nosy natives. The bit about the FAA obviously referred to Tuck's revoked pilot's license. In a way, it was a threat. Maybe he ought to find out a little more about this doctor before he went running out to this remote island. Maybe the reporter, Pardee, knew something.
Tuck dressed quickly and went down to the desk, where Rindi was listening to a transistor radio with a speaker that sounded like it had been fashioned from wax paper. Someone was singing a Garth Brooks song in nasal Trukese accompanied by an accordion.
"It sounds like someone's hurting animals." Tuck grinned.
Rindi did not smile. "You going out?" Rindi was eager to get into Tuck's room and go through his luggage.
"I need to find that reporter, Jefferson Pardee."
Rindi looked as if he was going to spit. He said, "He at Yumi Bar all the time. That way." He pointed up the road toward town. "You need ride?"
"How far is it?"
"Maybe a mile. How long you be gone?" Rindi wanted to take his time, make sure he didn't miss any of Tuck's valuables.
"I'm not sure. Do you lock the door at midnight or something?"
"No, I come get you if you drunk."
"I'll be fine. I'll be checking out in the morning. Can I get an eight o'clock wake-up call?"
"No. No phone in room."
"How about a wake-up knock?"
"No problem."
"Thanks." Tucker went out the front door and was nearly thrown back by the thickness of the air. The temperature had dropped to the mid-80s, but it felt as if it had gotten more humid. Everything dripped. The air carried the scent of rotting flowers.
Tuck set off down the road and was soaked with sweat by the time he reached a rusted metal Quonset hut with a hand-painted sign that read YUMI BAR. The dirt parking lot was filled with Japanese beaters parked freestyle. A skeletal dog with open running sores, a crossbreed of dingo and sewer rat, cowered in the half-light coming through the door and looked at him as if pleading to be run over. Tuck's stomach lurched. He made a wide path around the dog, who looked down and resumed concentration on its suffering.
"Hey, kid, you're not going in there, are you?"
Tuck looked up. There was a cigarette glowing in the dark at the corner of the building. Tuck could just make out the form of a man standing there. He wore some kind of uniform-Tuck could see the silhouette of a captain's hat. Anywhere else Tuck might have ignored a voice in the dark, but the accent was American, and out here he was drawn to the familiarity of it. He'd heard it before.
He said, "I thought I'd get a beer. I'm looking for an American named Pardee."
The guy in the dark blew out a long stream of cigarette smoke. "He's in there. But you don't want to go in there right now. Wait a few minutes."
Tuck was about to ask why when two men came crashing through the door and landed in the dirt at his feet. They were islanders, both screaming incomprehensibly as they punched and gouged at one another. The one on the top held a bush knife, a short machete, which he drew back and slammed into the other man's head, severing an ear. Blood sprayed on the dust.
A stream of shouting natives spilled out of the bar,
I apologize for the inconvenience and would ask that you refrain from discussing the purpose of your visit with the crew of the Micro Trader-or with anyone else, for that matter. It would be unfortunate if this research reached the FAA before it had been thoroughly investigated. Rumors travel quickly in these islands.
I look forward to discussing the intricacies of the particular strain of staphylococci with you.
Sincerely, Sebastian Curtis, M.D.
Staphylococci? Germs? He wants to discuss germs? Tuck couldn't have been more confused if the message had been in Eskimo. He folded it and looked again at the fingerprints. That was it. He knew that other people would be reading the note. The germ thing was just a red herring to confuse nosy natives. The bit about the FAA obviously referred to Tuck's revoked pilot's license. In a way, it was a threat. Maybe he ought to find out a little more about this doctor before he went running out to this remote island. Maybe the reporter, Pardee, knew something.
Tuck dressed quickly and went down to the desk, where Rindi was listening to a transistor radio with a speaker that sounded like it had been fashioned from wax paper. Someone was singing a Garth Brooks song in nasal Trukese accompanied by an accordion.
"It sounds like someone's hurting animals." Tuck grinned.
Rindi did not smile. "You going out?" Rindi was eager to get into Tuck's room and go through his luggage.
"I need to find that reporter, Jefferson Pardee."
Rindi looked as if he was going to spit. He said, "He at Yumi Bar all the time. That way." He pointed up the road toward town. "You need ride?"
"How far is it?"
"Maybe a mile. How long you be gone?" Rindi wanted to take his time, make sure he didn't miss any of Tuck's valuables.
"I'm not sure. Do you lock the door at midnight or something?"
"No, I come get you if you drunk."
"I'll be fine. I'll be checking out in the morning. Can I get an eight o'clock wake-up call?"
"No. No phone in room."
"How about a wake-up knock?"
"No problem."
"Thanks." Tucker went out the front door and was nearly thrown back by the thickness of the air. The temperature had dropped to the mid-80s, but it felt as if it had gotten more humid. Everything dripped. The air carried the scent of rotting flowers.
Tuck set off down the road and was soaked with sweat by the time he reached a rusted metal Quonset hut with a hand-painted sign that read YUMI BAR. The dirt parking lot was filled with Japanese beaters parked freestyle. A skeletal dog with open running sores, a crossbreed of dingo and sewer rat, cowered in the half-light coming through the door and looked at him as if pleading to be run over. Tuck's stomach lurched. He made a wide path around the dog, who looked down and resumed concentration on its suffering.
"Hey, kid, you're not going in there, are you?"
Tuck looked up. There was a cigarette glowing in the dark at the corner of the building. Tuck could just make out the form of a man standing there. He wore some kind of uniform-Tuck could see the silhouette of a captain's hat. Anywhere else Tuck might have ignored a voice in the dark, but the accent was American, and out here he was drawn to the familiarity of it. He'd heard it before.
He said, "I thought I'd get a beer. I'm looking for an American named Pardee."
The guy in the dark blew out a long stream of cigarette smoke. "He's in there. But you don't want to go in there right now. Wait a few minutes."
Tuck was about to ask why when two men came crashing through the door and landed in the dirt at his feet. They were islanders, both screaming incomprehensibly as they punched and gouged at one another. The one on the top held a bush knife, a short machete, which he drew back and slammed into the other man's head, severing an ear. Blood sprayed on the dust.
A stream of shouting natives spilled out of the bar,
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