Read Online Island of the Sequined Love Nun by Christopher Moore - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christopher Moore
Tags: Humor
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moments ago been a pleasant drunk from four airline martinis turned instantly to a headache. "Maybe it was another ship that left."
The driver smiled. His teeth were black, his lips bright red. "Ship gone. You want to go to town?"
"How much?" Tuck asked, as if he had a choice.
"Fourteen dollar."
"Fourteen dollars? It's only fifty cents on Truk!"
"Okay, fifty cents," the driver said.
"That's your counteroffer?" Tuck asked. He was thinking about what Pardee had said about these islanders absorbing the worst of American culture. This was his chance to help, if only in a small way. "That's the most helpless bargaining I've ever heard. How do you ever expect your country to get out of the Third World with that weak shit?"
"Sorry," the driver said. "One dollar."
"Seventy-five cents," Tuck said.
"You find another taxi," the driver said, digging in his fiscal heels.
"That's better," said Tuck. "A dollar it is. And there's another one in it for you if you don't run over any chickens."
The driver put the car in gear and started off. They passed though several miles of jungle before breaking into a brightly lit, surprisingly modern-looking town with concrete streets. Occasionally, they passed a tin house with stone wheels leaning against the walls. The stones ranged from the size of a small tire to seven feet in diameter and were covered with varying degrees of green moss. "What are those millstone-looking things?" Tuck asked the driver.
"Fei," the driver said. "Stone money. Very valuable."
"No shit, money?" Tuck looked at a piece of fei standing in a yard as they passed. It was five feet tall and nearly two feet thick. "What do your pay phones look like?" Tuck asked with a grin.
The driver didn't find it funny. He let Tucker out at the dock, which was suspiciously shipless.
Tuck saw a bearded, red-faced white man sitting in the shade of a forklift, smoking a cigarette.
"G'day," the man said. He was about thirty. In good shape. "Impela my tribe?"
"Huh?" Tuck said.
"American, then?"
Tuck nodded. "You Australian?"
"Royal Navy," the man said. He pulled a hat from behind him and tapped on it. "Join me?" He motioned for Tuck to sit next to him on the concrete.
Tuck dragged his pack into the shade, dropped it, and extended his hand to the Australian. "Tucker Case."
The Australian took his hand and nearly crushed it. "Commander Brion Frick. Have a seat, mate. Looks like you been on the piss for a fortnight, if you don't mind my saying."
He handed Tucker a business card. It bore the seal of the Royal Australian Navy, Frick's name and rank, and the designation NAVAL INTELLIGENCE. Tuck looked again at the scruffy Australian, then back at the card.
"Naval Intelligence, huh? What do you do?"
"I'm a spy, mate. You know, secret stuff. Very hush-hush."
Tuck wondered just how secret a spy could be who had his status printed on a business card.
"Espionage, huh?"
"Well, right now we're watching the Yapese Navy don't make a move."
"Yap has a navy?"
"Only one patrol boat, and she's broken right now. Yapese put gas in the diesel engine. But you can't be too careful, lest the little buggers get it in their mind to launch a surprise attack. That's her over there." He nodded down the wharf. Tuck spotted a rusted boat designed like a Chinese junk with the word YAP stenciled on the side in flaking orange Rust-O-leum. A half-dozen Yapese, thin brown men with high cheekbones and potbellies, were lounging on the deck in loincloths, drinking beer.
Tuck said, "I guess an attack would be a surprise."
"Ain't as easy a job as it looks. Yapese can lull you into a false sense of security. They might sit there without moving for two, three weeks, then just when you start to relax, wham, they make their move."
"Right," Tucker said. The only damage the patrol boat looked capable of inflicting was a case of tetanus for the crew.
A mile past the Yapese Navy waves crashed on the reef, just a line of white against the turquoise sea. Cottony
The driver smiled. His teeth were black, his lips bright red. "Ship gone. You want to go to town?"
"How much?" Tuck asked, as if he had a choice.
"Fourteen dollar."
"Fourteen dollars? It's only fifty cents on Truk!"
"Okay, fifty cents," the driver said.
"That's your counteroffer?" Tuck asked. He was thinking about what Pardee had said about these islanders absorbing the worst of American culture. This was his chance to help, if only in a small way. "That's the most helpless bargaining I've ever heard. How do you ever expect your country to get out of the Third World with that weak shit?"
"Sorry," the driver said. "One dollar."
"Seventy-five cents," Tuck said.
"You find another taxi," the driver said, digging in his fiscal heels.
"That's better," said Tuck. "A dollar it is. And there's another one in it for you if you don't run over any chickens."
The driver put the car in gear and started off. They passed though several miles of jungle before breaking into a brightly lit, surprisingly modern-looking town with concrete streets. Occasionally, they passed a tin house with stone wheels leaning against the walls. The stones ranged from the size of a small tire to seven feet in diameter and were covered with varying degrees of green moss. "What are those millstone-looking things?" Tuck asked the driver.
"Fei," the driver said. "Stone money. Very valuable."
"No shit, money?" Tuck looked at a piece of fei standing in a yard as they passed. It was five feet tall and nearly two feet thick. "What do your pay phones look like?" Tuck asked with a grin.
The driver didn't find it funny. He let Tucker out at the dock, which was suspiciously shipless.
Tuck saw a bearded, red-faced white man sitting in the shade of a forklift, smoking a cigarette.
"G'day," the man said. He was about thirty. In good shape. "Impela my tribe?"
"Huh?" Tuck said.
"American, then?"
Tuck nodded. "You Australian?"
"Royal Navy," the man said. He pulled a hat from behind him and tapped on it. "Join me?" He motioned for Tuck to sit next to him on the concrete.
Tuck dragged his pack into the shade, dropped it, and extended his hand to the Australian. "Tucker Case."
The Australian took his hand and nearly crushed it. "Commander Brion Frick. Have a seat, mate. Looks like you been on the piss for a fortnight, if you don't mind my saying."
He handed Tucker a business card. It bore the seal of the Royal Australian Navy, Frick's name and rank, and the designation NAVAL INTELLIGENCE. Tuck looked again at the scruffy Australian, then back at the card.
"Naval Intelligence, huh? What do you do?"
"I'm a spy, mate. You know, secret stuff. Very hush-hush."
Tuck wondered just how secret a spy could be who had his status printed on a business card.
"Espionage, huh?"
"Well, right now we're watching the Yapese Navy don't make a move."
"Yap has a navy?"
"Only one patrol boat, and she's broken right now. Yapese put gas in the diesel engine. But you can't be too careful, lest the little buggers get it in their mind to launch a surprise attack. That's her over there." He nodded down the wharf. Tuck spotted a rusted boat designed like a Chinese junk with the word YAP stenciled on the side in flaking orange Rust-O-leum. A half-dozen Yapese, thin brown men with high cheekbones and potbellies, were lounging on the deck in loincloths, drinking beer.
Tuck said, "I guess an attack would be a surprise."
"Ain't as easy a job as it looks. Yapese can lull you into a false sense of security. They might sit there without moving for two, three weeks, then just when you start to relax, wham, they make their move."
"Right," Tucker said. The only damage the patrol boat looked capable of inflicting was a case of tetanus for the crew.
A mile past the Yapese Navy waves crashed on the reef, just a line of white against the turquoise sea. Cottony
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