drug-smuggling doctor with a Walther in his belt and a coke whore wife, but these two could have just flown in from an upscale church social. Still, he knew they were lying to him. They had referred to the Japanese as their “staff,” but he’d seen one of them carrying an Uzi out behind the hangar. He was going to ask, he really was, but as he turned to face the doctor, he heard a soft bark at the end of the lanai and looked up to see a large fruit bat hanging from the edge of the tin roof. Roberto.
The doctor said, “Tucker, about the drinking.”
Tuck pulled his gaze away from the bat. The doctor had seen him. “What drinking?”
“You know that we saw the reports on your—how should I put it?”
“Crash.”
“Yes, on your crash. I’m afraid, as I told you, we can’t have you drinking while you’re working here. We may need you to fly on very short notice and we can’t risk that you might not be ready.”
“That was an isolated incident,” Tuck lied. “I really don’t drink much.”
“Just a momentary lapse of judgment, I understand. And it may seem a bit draconian, but as long as you don’t drink or go out of the compound, everything will be fine.”
“Sure, no problem.” Tuck was watching the bat over the doctor’s shoulder. Roberto had unfurled his wings and was turning in the sea breeze like an inverted weather vane. Tuck tried to wave him off behind the doctor’s back.
“I know this may all seem very limiting, but I’ve worked with the Shark People for a long time, and they’re very sensitive to contact with outsiders.”
“The Shark People? You said you’d explain that.”
“They hunt sharks. Most of the natives in Micronesia won’t eat shark. In fact, it’s taboo. But the reef fish here often have a high concentration of neurotoxin, so the natives developed shark as a food source. You would think that the sharks, being higher on the food chain, would have a higher concentration of the toxin, wouldn’t you?”
“You’d think,” Tuck said, having no idea whatsoever what the doctor was talking about.
“They don’t, though. It’s as if something in their system neutralizes the toxin. I’ve done a little research in my spare time.”
“I’ve seen a lot of shark shows on the Discovery Channel. They go on and on about how harmless sharks are. It’s bullshit. Half of these stitches you put in me are because of a shark attack.”
“Maybe they don’t have cable,” the doctor said.
Tuck turned to him, amazed. “A joke, Doc?”
The doctor looked a little embarrassed. “I’m going to go see how dinner is coming along. I’ll be right back.” He turned and went into the house.
Tucker bolted to the end of the lanai where Roberto was hanging. “Shoo. Go away.”
Roberto made a trilling noise and tried to catch Tuck’s drink with his wing claw.
“Okay, you can have the mango, but then you have to get out of here.” Tucker held out the piece of cut mango and the fruit bat took it in his wing claw and slurped it down.
“Now get out of here,” Tucker said. “Go find Kimi. Shoo, shoo.”
Roberto tilted his head and said, “Back off on these people, Tuck. You push them too hard, they’ll pull your plug. Just keep your eyes open.”
Tuck moved away from the bat with stiff jerking steps out of the line dance of the undead. The bat had said something. It was a tiny voice, high but raspy, the voice of a chain-smoking Topo Gigio, but it was clear. “You didn’t talk,” Tucker said.
“Okay,” said Roberto. “Thanks for the mango.”
Roberto took off, the beat of his wings like the shuffle of a deck of leather cards. Tuck backed though the french doors into a wicker emperor’s chair and sat down.
“Come sit,” Beth Curtis said as she carried a tray to the table. “Dinner’s ready.”
“What kind of drugs have you been giving me, Doc?”
“Broad-spectrum antibiotics and some Tylenol. Why?”
“Any chance they could cause hallucinations?”
“Not unless you were allergic, and we’d know that by now. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
Beth Curtis came to him and patted his shoulder. Her nails, he noticed, were perfect. “You had a fever when they brought you in. Sometimes that can give a person bad dreams. I think you’ll feel a lot better after a good meal.”
She helped him up and led him to the table, which was set with a white tablecloth and black linen napkins around a centerpiece of
orchid sprigs arranged in a crystal bowl. A whole grouper stared up between fanned slices of plantain on a serving tray, his eye a little dry but clear and accusing.
Tuck said, “If that thing starts talking, I want to be sedated—and right now.”
“Oh, Mr. Case.” Beth Curtis rolled her eyes and laughed as they sat down to dinner.
Tuck could almost feel his body absorbing the nourishment. He told them the story of his journey to the island, exaggerating the danger aspect and glossing over his injuries, Kimi, and his craving for alcohol. He didn’t mention Roberto at all. By the time Tucker was in the typhoon, the Curtises were well into their second bottle of white wine. Beth’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm for Tuck’s every word.
Tuck really intended to ask about Kimi, their cryptic messages, the guards, the rules for his employment, and of course, where the hell all the money came from, but instead he found himself playing to Beth Curtis like a comedian on a roll and he left the bungalow at midnight quite taken with both himself and the doctor’s wife.
The Curtises stood arm in arm at the door as the guards escorted Tucker back to his quarters. Halfway across the compound, he did a giddy turn and waved to them, feeling as if he had been the one to consume two bottles of wine.
“What do you think?” the Sorcerer asked his wife.
“Not a problem,” she said, keeping a parade smile pointed Tuck’s way.
“I really expected him to be a little more resistant to our conditions.”
“As if he’s in a position to bargain. The man has nothing, is nothing. He shatters this little illusion we’ve given him and he has to face himself.”
“He looks at you like you’re some sort of beatific vestal virgin. I don’t like it.”
“I can handle that. You just get flyboy ready to do his job.”
“He’ll be able to fly within a week. He brought up his navigator again while we were outside.”
“If he’s here, you’d better find him.”
“I’ll speak to Malink tonight. The Micro Spirit is due in day after tomor-row. If we find the navigator, we can send him back on the ship.”
“Depending on what he’s seen,” she said.
“Yes, depending on what he knows.”
Tucker Case entered his bungalow feeling satisfied and full of himself. Someone had turned on the lights in his absence and turned down the bed. “What, no mint on the pillow?”
He changed into a pair of the doctor’s pajama bottoms and grabbed a paperback spy novel from a stack someone had left on the coffee table.
They had a TV. There had been a TV in the Curtises’ bungalow. He’d have to ask them to get him one. No, dammit, demand a television. What did Mary Jean always say? “You can sell all day, but if you don’t ask for the money, you haven’t made a sale.” Good food, good money, and a great aircraft to fly—he’d stumbled into the best gig on the planet. I am the Phoenix, rising from the ashes. I am the comeback kid. I am the entire 1980 gold-medal-winning U.S. Olympic hockey team. I am the fucking walrus, coo-coo ka-choo.
He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, caught his reflection in the mirror. His mood went terminal. I am never going to get laid again as long as I live. I should have pressed them about Kimi. I didn’t even ask about what in the hell kind of cargo I’m going to be flying. I am a spineless worm. I’m scum. I’m the Hindenburg, I’m Michael Milken, Richard Nixon. I’m seeing ghosts and bats that talk and I’m stuck on an island where the only woman makes Mother Theresa look like a lap dancer in a leper colony. I am the man who put the F in failure, the P in pathetic, the G in gullible. I am the ringworm poster boy of Gangrene City. I’m an insane, unemployed bus driver for the death camp cartel.