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of cars to an old Honda Civic with a cellophane back window and bailing
wire holding the passenger door shut. Tuck follow him, stepping quickly
between the cars, each one lurching forward as if to hit him as he passed.
He looked for the driver s expressions, but the windshields were all blacked
out with plastic film.
The kid threw Tuck s pack in the hatchback, then unwired the door and
held it open. Tucker climbed in, feeling, once again, com
36 / Christopher Moore
pletely at the mercy of Lady Luck. Now I get to see the place where they
rob and kill the white guys, he thought.
As they drove, Tuck looked out on the lagoon. Even through the tinted
window the blue of the lagoon shone as if illuminated from below. Island
women in scuba masks waded shoulder deep; their floral dresses flowing
around them made them look like multicolored jellyfish. Each carried a
short steel spear slung from a piece of surgical tubing. Large plastic buckets
floated on the surface in which the women were depositing their catch.
What are they hunting? Tuck asked the driver.
Octopus, urchin, small fish. Mostly octopus. Hey, where you from in
United States?
I grew up in California.
The kid lit up. California! You have Crips there, right?
Yeah, there s gangs.
I m a Crip, the kid said, pointing to his blue bandanna with pride. Me
and my homies find any Bloods here, we gonna pop a nine on em.
Tucker was amazed. On the side of the road a beautiful little girl in a
flowered dress was drinking from a green coconut. Here in the car there
was a gang war going on. He said, Where are the Bloods?
Rindi shook his head sadly. Nobody want to be Bloods. Only Crips on
Truk. But if we see one, we gonna bust a cap on em. He pulled back a
towel on the seat to reveal a beat-up Daisy air pistol.
Tuck made a mental note not to wear a red bandanna and accidentally
fill the Blood shortage. He had no desire to be killed or wounded over a
glorified game of cowboys and Indians.
How far to the hotel?
This it, Rindi said, wrenching the Honda across the road into a dusty
parking lot.
The Paradise Inn was a two-story, crumbling stucco building with a
crown of rusting rebar beckoning skyward for a third floor that would
never be built. Tuck let the boy, Rindi, carry his pack to an upstairs room:
mint green cinder block over brown linoleum, a beat-up metal desk, smoke-
stained floral curtains, a twin bed with a torn 1950s bedspread, the smell
of mildew and insecticide. Rindi put the pack in the doorless closet and
cranked the little window air conditioner to high.
Too late for shower. Water come on again four to six.
Tuck glanced into the bathroom. Mistake. An exotic-looking or
Island of the Sequined Love Nun / 37
ange thing was growing on the shower curtain. He said, Where can I get
a beer?
Rindi grinned. We have lounge. Budweiser, king of beers. MTV on
satellite. He cocked his wrists and performed a gangsta rap move that
looked as if he d contracted a rhythmic cerebral palsy. Yo, G, we chill with
the phattest jams? Snoop, Ice, Public Enemy.
Oh, good, Tuck said. We can do a drive-by later. How do I get to the
lounge?
Down steps, outside, go right. He paused, looking concerned. We
have to shoot out driver s side. Other window not go down.
We ll manage. Tuck flipped the kid a dollar and left the room, proud
to be an American.
An unconscious island man marked the entrance to the lounge. Tuck
stepped over him and pushed his way through the black glass door into a
cool, dark, smoke-hazed room lit by a silent television tuned to nothing
and a flickering neon BUDWEISER sign. A shadow stood behind the bar; two
more sat in front of it. Tuck could see eyes in the dark maybe people sitting
at tables, maybe nocturnal vermin.
A voice: A fellow American here to buy a beer for his countryman.
The voice had come from one of the shadows at the bar. Tuck squinted
into the dark and saw a large white man, about fifty, in a sweat-stained
dress shirt. He was smiling, a jowly yellow smile under drink-dulled eyes.
Tuck smiled back. Anyone that didn t speak broken English was, at this
point, his friend.
What are you drinkin , pardner? Tuck always went Texan when he
was being friendly.
What you drink here. He held up two fingers to the bartender, then
held his hand out to shake. Jefferson Pardee, editor in chief of the Truk
Star.
Tucker Case. Tuck sat down on the stool next to the big man. The
bartender placed two sweating Budweiser cans in front of them and waited.
Run a tab, Pardee said. Then to Tuck: I assume you re a diver?
Why would you assume that?
It s the only reason Americans come here, other than Peace Corps or
Navy CAT team members. And if you don t mind my saying, you don t
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