Malongo was thinking air conditioner, laser printer, a new chair. “Look, I’ll ask out at the airport. If someone’s flying a jet off of Alualu, then they have to use the radio, right?”
“I suppose,” Pardee said.
“I’ll call you.” Malongo hung up.
Pardee sighed. “And once again,” he said to himself, “we lead with the ‘Pig Thief Still at Large’ story.”
A half hour later the phone rang. The phone never rang. Pardee picked it up and could tell by the clicking that he was being connected off-island. Ignatho Malongo came on the line. He sounded like he was in a better mood. Pardee guessed that he was in a state of foreign aid arousal.
“Jeff, the Trader is in the harbor. Some of the crew was having lunch at the marina and I asked them about your Learjet.” Malongo was smoking a Benson & Hedges and chewing a big cud of betel nut. He was in a better mood now.
“And?”
“No one’s seen it, but they did see some Japanese on the island the last time they were there.”
“Japanese? Tourists?”
“They were carrying machine guns.”
“No shit.”
“Do you think this means there’s some military money coming our way?” Malongo was thinking air-conditioning, a case of Spam, a ticket to Hawaii to go shopping.
Pardee scratched his two-day growth of beard. “Probably the crew off of a tuna boat. They’ve been threatening to shoot some of the islanders off Ulithi if they keep stealing their net floats. I’ll check with the Australian Navy, see if they know about a Japanese boat
fishing those waters. Meantime, I owe you a bag of betel nut.”
Malongo laughed. “You owe me about ten bags by now. How you going to pay if you never leave that shithole of an island?”
“You’ll see me soon enough.” Pardee hung up.
11
Paging the Goddess
The Shark men had been beating drums and marching with bamboo rifles since dawn, while the Shark women prepared the feast for the appearance of the High Priestess.
In her bed chamber the High Priestess was doing her nails. The Sorcerer entered through a beaded curtain, moved up behind her, and cupped her naked breasts. Without looking up, she said, “You know, I used to get a pretty good buzz doing this in my studio apartment. Close the windows and let the fumes build up. Want a whiff?” She held the polish bottle out behind her.
He shook his head. He was in his mid-fifties, tall, thin, with short gray hair and ice blue eyes. He wore a green lab coat over Bermuda shorts. “Missionary Air just radioed. Their Beech is broken. They’re waiting for a part from the States and won’t have it fixed for a month. Our pilot’s stuck on Truk.”
The High Priestess fired a glare over her shoulder and he could feel himself going to slime, changing, melting into the lowest form of sea slug. She could do that to him. Her breasts felt like chilled river rocks in his hands. He stepped away.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve sent him a message to fly to Yap. He can catch the Micro Trader there tomorrow and he’ll be here two days later.”
She was not impressed. “Don’t you think it might be a good idea for me to meet this one before he gets here? It took long enough to find him.”
The Sorcerer had backed all the way to the beaded curtain. “You were the one that didn’t want any more military types.”
“Because it worked so well last time. It’s bad enough I have to be surrounded by ninjas. I don’t like it.”
The Sorcerer couldn’t believe anyone could walk that slowly and still express so much; it was positively symphonic. He said, “They’re not ninjas. They’re just guards. This will all be over soon and you can live in a palace in France if you want.”
He held his arms out to receive her embrace. She turned on a red spiked heel and quickstepped back to the vanity. “We’ll talk about this later. I have to go on in an hour.”
Feeling stupid, he dropped his arms and backed through the beaded curtain. In the distance the Shark People began the chant to call forth the Priestess of the Sky.
12
Friendly Advice
Tuck was sweating through a slow-motion dream rerun of the crash. The end of the runway was coming up too quickly. Meadow Malackovitch was bouncing off of various consoles in the cockpit. Someone in the copilot seat was screaming at him, calling him a “fuckin’ mook.” He turned to see who it was and was awakened by a knock on the door.
“Mr. Case. Message for you.”
“Just a second.” Tucker scrambled in the darkness until he found his khakis on the floor, shook them to evict any insect visitors, then pulled them on and stumbled to the door. Rindi, the driver-rapper, stood outside holding a slip of paper.
“This just come for you from the telecom center.” He reached past Tuck and clicked the light switch. A bare bulb went on over the desk.
Tuck took the note, dug in his pants pocket for a tip, and came up with a dollar, but Rindi had already shuffled off.
The note, on waxy fax paper, was covered with greasy fingerprints. Tuck guessed it had probably passed through a dozen hands before getting to him. He unfolded it and read.
To: Tucker Case c/o Paradise Hotel
From: Dr. Sebastian Curtis
Mr. Case,
I deeply regret that my wife will not be able to meet you on Truk as planned.
We have reserved a seat for you on tomorrow’s Air Micronesia flight to Yap,
where we have arranged transport aboard the supply ship, Micro Trader, to Alualu. Your plane will arrive at 11:00
A.M. and the Micro Trader is 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 sta-phylococci 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