Island of the Sequined Love Nun by Christopher Moore Page B

waving beer bottles and kicking at the fighters. Earless leaped to his feet and backed off to get a running attack at Bush Knife, who was rising to his feet. Earless hit him with a flying tackle as Bush Knife hacked at his ribs. A pickup truck full of policemen pulled into the parking lot and the crowd scattered into the dark and back into the bar, leaving the fighters rolling in the dirt. Six policemen stood over the fighters, slamming them with riot batons until they both lay still. The police threw the fighters into the bed of their truck, climbed in after them, and drove off.
    Tuck stood stunned. He'd never seen violence that sudden and raw in his life. Ten more seconds and he would have been in the middle of it instead of backpedaling across the parking lot.
    "Should be okay to go in now," said the voice from the dark.
    Tuck looked up, but he couldn't even see the cigarette glowing now. "Thanks," he said. "You sure it's okay?"
    "Watch your ass, kid," said the voice, and this time it seemed to come from above him. Tucker spun around, nearly wrenching his neck, but he couldn't see anyone. He shook off the confusion and headed into the bar.
    The skeletal dog crawled from under a truck, seized the severed ear from the dust, and slunk into the shadows. "Good dog," said the voice out of the dark. The dog growled, ready to protect its prize. A young man, perhaps twenty-four, dark and sharp-featured, dressed in a gray flight suit, stepped out of the shadows and bent to the 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