Christopher Moore - Island of the Sequined Love Nun

ISLAND OF THE SEQUINED LOVE NUN

by Christopher Moore

1997; Avon Books

PART ONE

The Phoenix

I

The Cannibal Tree

Tucker Case awoke to find himself hanging from a breadfruit tree by a

coconut fiber rope. He was suspended facedown about six feet above the sand in

some sort of harness, his hands and feet tied together in front of him. He

lifted his head and strained to look around. He could see a white sand beach

fringed with coconut palms, a coconut husk fire, a palm frond hut, a path of

white coral gravel that led into a jungle. Completing the panorama was the

grinning brown face of an ancient native.

The native reached up with a clawlike hand and pinched Tucker's cheek.

Tucker screamed.

"Yum," the native said.

"Who are you?" Tucker asked. "Where am I? Where's the navigator?"

The native just grinned. His eyes were yellow, his hair a wild tangle of

curl and bird feathers, and his teeth were black and had been filed to points.

He looked like a potbellied skeleton upholstered in distressed leather.

Puckered pink scars decorated his skin; a series of small scars on his chest

described the shape of a shark. His only clothing was a loincloth woven from

some sort of plant fiber. Tucked in the waist cord was a vicious-looking bush

knife. The native patted Tucker's cheek with an ashy callused palm, then

turned and walked away, leaving him hanging.

"Wait!" Tucker shouted. "Let me down. I have money. I can pay you."

The native ambled down the path without looking back. Tucker struggled

against the harness, but only managed to put himself into a slow spin. As he

turned, he caught sight of the navigator, hanging unconscious a few feet away.

"Hey, you alive?"

The navigator didn't stir, but Tucker could see that he was breathing.

"Hey, Kimi, wake up!" Still no reaction.

He strained against the rope around his wrists, but the bonds only seemed

to tighten. After a few minutes, he gave up, exhausted. He rested and looked

around for something to give this bizarre scene some meaning. Why had the

native hung them in a tree?

He caught movement in his peripheral vision and turned to see a large

brown crab struggling at the end of a stung tied to a nearby branch. There was

his answer: They were hung in the tree, like the crab, to keep them fresh

until they were ready to be eaten.

Tucker shuddered, imagining the native's black teeth closing on his shin.

He tried to focus on a way to escape before the native returned, but his mind

kept diving into a sea of regrets and second guesses, looking for the exact

place where the world had turned on him and put him in the cannibal tree.

Like most of the big missteps he had taken in his life, it had started in

a bar.

The Seattle Airport Holiday Inn lounge was all hunter green, brass rails,

and oak veneer. Remove the bar and it looked like Macy's men's department. It

was one in the morning and the bartender, a stout, middle-aged Hispanic woman,

was polishing glasses and waiting for her last three customers to leave so she

could go home. At the end of a bar a young woman in a short skirt and too much

makeup sat alone. Tucker Case sat next to a businessman several stools down.

"Lemmings," the businessman said.

"Lemmings?" asked Tucker.

They were drunk. The businessman was heavy, in his late fifties, and wore

a charcoal gray suit. Broken veins glowed on his nose and cheeks.

"Most people are lemmings," the businessman continued. "That's why they

fail. They behave like suicidal rodents."

"But you're a higher level of rodent?" Tucker Case said with a smart-ass

grin. He was thirty, just under six foot, with neatly trimmed blond hair and

blue eyes. He wore navy slacks, sneakers, and a white shirt with blue-and-gold

epaulets. His captain's hat sat on the bar next to a gin and tonic. He was

more interested in the girl at the end of the bar than in the businessman's

conversation, but he didn't know how to move without being obvious.

"No, but I've kept my lemming behavior limited to my personal

relationships. Three wives." The businessman waved a swizzle stick under

Tucker's nose. "Success in America doesn't require any special talent or any

kind of extra effort. You just have to be consistent and not fuck up. That's

how most people fail. They can't stand the pressure of getting what they want,

so when they see that they are getting close, they engineer some sort of

fuckup to undermine their success."

The lemming litany was making Tucker uncomfortable. He'd been on a roll

for the last four years, going from bartending to flying corporate jets. He

said, "Maybe some people just don't know what they want. Maybe they only look

like lemmings."

"Everyone knows what they want. You know what you want, don't you?"

"Sure, I know," Tucker said. What he wanted right now was to get out of

this conversation and get to know the girl at the end of the bar before

closing time. She'd been staring at him for five minutes.

"What?" The businessman wanted an answer. He waited.

"I just want to keep doing what I'm doing. I'm happy."

The businessman shook his head. "I'm sorry, son, but I don't buy it.

You're going over the cliff with the rest or the lemmings."

"You should be a motivational speaker," Tuck said, his attention drawn by

the girl, who was getting up, putting money on the bar, picking up her

cigarettes, and putting them into her purse.

She said, "I know what I want."

The businessman fumed and gave his best avuncular horndog smile. "And

what's that, sweetheart?"

She walked up to Tucker and pressed her breasts against his shoulder. She

had brown hair that fell in curls to her shoulders, blue eyes, and a nose that

was a tad crooked, but not horribly so. Up close she didn't even look old

enough to drink. Heavy makeup had aged her at a distance. Looking the

businessman in the eye, as if she didn't notice Tucker at all, she said, "I

want to join the mile-high club, and I want to join it tonight. Can you help

me?"

The businessman looked at Tucker's captain's hat on the bar, then back at

the girl. Slowly, defeated, he shook his head.

She pressed harder against Tucker's shoulder. "How about you?"

Tucker grinned at the businessman and shrugged by way of apology. "I just

want to keep doing what I'm doing."

The girl put on his captain's hat and pulled him off of the barstool. He

dug into his pocket for money as she dragged him toward the exit.

The businessman raised a hand. "No, I've got the drinks, son. You just

remember what I said."

"Thanks," Tuck said.

Outside in the lobby the girl said, "My name's Meadow." She kept her eyes

forward as she walked, taking curt marching steps as if she was leading him on

an antiterrorist mission instead of seducing him.

"Pretty name," Tucker said. "I'm Tucker Case. People call me Tuck."

She still didn't look up. "Do you have a plane, Tuck?"

"I've got access to one." He smiled. This was great. Great!

"Good. You get me into the mile-high club tonight and I won't charge you.

I've always wanted to do it in a plane."

Tucker stopped. "You're a... l mean, you do this for..."

She stopped and turned to look him in the eye for the first time. "You're

kind of a geek, aren't you?"

"Thank you. I find you incredibly attractive too." Actually, he did.

"No, you're attractive. I mean, you look fine. But I thought a pilot

would have a little more on the ball."

"Is this part of that mistress-humiliation-handcuff stuff?"

"No, that's extra. I'm just making conversation."

"Oh, I see." He was beginning to have second thoughts. He had to fly to

Houston in the morning, and he really should get some sleep. Still, this would

make a great story to tell the guys back at the hangar--if he left out the

part about him being a suicidal rodent and her being a prostitute. But he

could tell the story without really doing it, couldn't he?

He said, "I probably shouldn't fly. I'm a little drunk."

"Then you won't mind if I go back to the bar and grab your friend? I

might as well make some money."

"It could be dangerous."

"That's the point, isn't it?" She smiled.

"No, I mean really dangerous."

"I have condoms."

Tucker shrugged. "I'll get a cab."

Ten minutes later they were heading across the wet tarmac toward a group

of corporate jets.

"It's pink!"

"Yeah, so?"

"You fly a pink jet?"

As Tuck opened the hatch and lowered the steps, he had the sinking

feeling that maybe the businessman at the bar had been right.

2

I Thought This Was A Nonsmoking Flight

Most jets (especially those unburdened by the weight of passengers or

fuel) have a glide rate that is quite acceptable for landing without power.

But Tucker has made an error in judgment caused by seven gin and tonics and

the distraction of Meadow straddling him in the pilot seat. He thinks,

perhaps, that he should have said something when the fuel light first went on,

but Meadow had already climbed into the saddle and he didn't want to seem

inattentive. Now the glide path is too steep, the runway a little too far. He

uses a little body English in pulling back on the steering yoke, which Meadow

takes for enthusiasm.

Tucker brings the pink Gulfstream jet into SeaTac a little low, tearing

off the rear landing gear on a radar antenna a second before impact with the

runway, which sends Meadow over the steering yoke to bounce off the windscreen

and land unconscious across the instrument panel. The jet's wings flap once--a

dying flamingo trying to free itself from a tar pit--and rip off in a shriek

of sparks, flame, and black smoke, then spin back into the air before beating

themselves to pieces on the runway.

Tucker, strapped into the pilot's seat, lets loose a prolonged scream

that pushes the sound of tearing metal out of his head.

The wingless Gulfstream slides down the runway like hell's own bobsled,

leaving a wake of greasy smoke and aluminum confetti. Firemen and paramedics

scramble into their vehicles and pull out onto the runway in pursuit of it. In

a moment of analytical detachment, one of the firemen turns to a companion and

says, "There's not enough fire. He must have been flying on fumes."

Tucker sees the end of the runway coming up, an array of antennae, some

spiffy blue lights, a chain-link fence, and a grassy open field where what's

left of the Gulfstream will fragment into pink shrapnel. He realizes that he's

looking at his own death and screams the words "Oh, fuck!", meeting the FAA's

official requirement for last words to be retrieved from the charred black

box.

Suddenly, as if someone has hit a cosmic pause button, the cockpit goes

quiet. Movement stops. A man's voice says, "Is this how you want to go?"

Tucker turns toward the voice. A dark man in a gray flight suit sits in

the copilot's seat, waiting for an answer. Tuck can't seem to see his face,

even though they are facing each other. "Well?"

"No," Tucker answers.

"It'll cost you," the pilot says. Then he's gone. The copilot's seat is

empty and the roar of tortured metal fills the cabin.

Before Tucker can form the words "What the hell?" in his mind, the

wingless jet crashes through the antenna, the spiffy blue lights, the

chain-link fence, and into the field, soggy from thirty consecutive days of

Seattle rain. The mud caresses the fuselage, dampens the sparks and flames,

clings and cloys and slows the jet to a steaming stop. Tuck hears metal

crackle as it settles, sirens, the friendly chime of the FASTEN SEAT BELTS

sign turning off.

Welcome to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. The focal time is 2:00

A.M., the outside temperature is 63 degrees, there is a semiconscious hooker

gurgling at your feet.

The cabin fills with black smoke from fried wires and vaporized hydraulic

fluid. One breath burns down his windpipe like drain cleaner, telling Tucker

that a second breath may kill him. He unfastens the harness and reaches into

the dark for Meadow, connecting with her lace camisole, which comes away in

shreds in his hands. He stands, bends over, wraps an arm around her waist, and

picks her up. She's light, maybe a hundred pounds, but Tucker has forgotten to

pull up his pants and Jockey shorts, which cuff his ankles. He teeters and

falls backward onto the control console between the pilot seats. Jutting from

the console is the flap actuator lever, a foot-long strip of steel topped by a

plastic arrowhead-like tip. The tip catches Tuck in the rear of the scrotum.

His and Meadow's combined weight drive him down on the lever, which tears

through his scrotum, runs up inside the length of his penis, and emerges in a

spray of blood.

There are no words for the pain. No breath, no thought. Just deafening

white and red noise. Tucker feels himself passing out and welcomes it. He

drops Meadow, but she is conscious enough to hold on to his neck, and as she

falls she pulls him off the lever, which reams its way back through him again.

Without realizing it, he is standing, breathing. His lungs are on fire.

He has to get out. He throws an arm around Meadow and drags her three feet to

the hatch. He releases the hatch and it swings down, half open. It's designed

to function as a stairway to the ground, designed for a plane that is standing

on landing gear. Gloved hands reach into the opening and start pulling at it.

"We're going to get you out of there," a fireman says.

The hatch comes open with a shriek. Tuck sees blue and red flashing

lights illuminating raindrops against a black sky, making it appear as if it

is raining fire. He takes a single breath of fresh air, says, "I've torn off

my dick," and falls forward.

3

And You Lost Your Frequent Flyer Miles

As with most things in his life, Tucker Case was wrong about the extent

of his injuries. As they wheeled him through the emergency room, he continued

to chant, "I've torn off my dick! I've torn off my dick!" into his oxygen mask

until a masked physician appeared at his side.

"Mr. Case, you have not torn off your penis. You've damaged some major

blood vessels and some of the erectal tissue. And you've also severed the

tendon that runs from the tip of the penis to the base of the brain." The

doctor, a woman, pulled down her mask long enough to show Tucker a grin. "You

should be fine. We're taking you into surgery now."

"What about the girl?"

"She's got a mild concussion and some bruises, but she'll be okay. She'll

probably go home in a few hours."

"That's good. Doc, will I be able to? I mean, will I ever...?"

"Be still, Mr. Case. I want you to count backward from one hundred."

"Is there a reason for that--for the counting?"

"You can say the Pledge of Allegiance if you want."

"But I can't stand up."

"Just count, smart-ass."

When Tucker came to, through the fog of anesthesia he saw a picture of

himself superimposed over a burning pink jet. Looking down on the scene was

the horrified face of the matriarch of pyramid makeup sales, Mary Jean

Dobbins--Mary Jean to the world. Then the picture was gone, replaced by a

rugged male face and perfect smile.

"Tuck, you're famous. You made the Enquirer." The voice of Jake Skye,

Tuck's only male friend and premier jet mechanic for Mary Jean. "You crashed

just in time to make the latest edition."

"My dick?" Tuck said, struggling to sit up. There was what appeared to be

a plaster ostrich egg sitting on his lap. A tube ran out the middle of it.

Jake Skye, tall, dark, and unkempt--half Apache, half truck stop

waitress--said, "That's going to smart. But the doc says you'll play the

violin again." Jake sat in a chair next to Tuck's bed and opened the tabloid.

"Look at this. Oprah's skinny again. Carrots, grapefruit, and

amphetamines."

Tucker Case moaned. "What about the aid? What was her name?"

"Meadow Malackovitch," Jake said, looking at the paper. "Wow, Oprah's

fucking Elvis. You got to give that woman credit. She stays busy. By the way,

they're going to move you to Houston. Mary Jean wants you where she can keep

an eye on you."

"The girl, Jake?"

Jake looked up from the paper. "You don't want to know."

"They said she was going to be okay. Is she dead?"

"Worse. Pissed off. And speaking of pissed off, there's some FAA guys

outside who are waiting to talk to you, but the doctor wouldn't let them in.

And I'm supposed to call Mary Jean as soon as you're coherent. I'd advise

against that--becoming coherent, I mean. And then there's a whole bunch of

reporters. The nurses are keeping them all out."

"How'd you get in?"

"I'm your only living relative."

"My mother will be pleased to hear that."

"Brother, your mother doesn't even want to claim you. You totally fucked

the dog on this one."

"I'm fired, then?"

"Count on it. In fact, I'd say you'd be lucky to get a license to operate

a riding lawnmower."

"I don't know how to do anything but fly. One bad landing?"

"No, Tuck, a bad landing is when the overheads pop open and dump people's

gym bags. You crashed. If it makes you feel any better, with the Gulfstream

gone I'm not going to have any work for at least six months. They may not even

get another jet."

"Is the FAA filing charges?"

Jake Skye looked at his paper to avoid Tuck's eyes. "Look, man, do you

want me to lie to you? I came up here because I thought you'd rather hear it

from me. You were drinking. You wrecked a million dollars' worth of SeaTac's

equipment in addition to the plane. You're lucky you're not dead."

"Jake, look at me."

Jake dropped the paper to his lap and sighed. "What?"

"Am I going to jail?"

"I've got to go, man." Jake stood. "You heal up." He turned to leave the

room.

"Jake!"

Jake Skye stopped and looked over his shoulder. Tucker could see the

disappointment in his friend's eyes.

"What were you thinking?" Jake said.

"She talked me into it. I knew it wasn't a good idea, but she was

persistent."

Jake came to the side of the bed and leaned in close. "Tucker, what's it

take for you to get it? Listen close now, buddy, because this is your last

lesson, okay? I'm out of a job because of you. You've got to make your own

decisions. You can't let someone else always tell you what to do. You have to

take some responsibility."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this from you. You're the one who got me

into this business."

"Exactly. You're thirty years old, man. You have to start thinking for

yourself. And with your head, not your dick."

Tucker looked at the bandages in his lap. "I'm sorry. It all got out of

hand. It was like flying on autopilot. I didn't mean to..."

"Time to take the controls, buddy."

"Jake, something weird happened during the crash. I'm not sure if it was

a hallucination or what. There was someone else in the cockpit."

"You mean besides the whore?"

"Yeah, just for a second, there was a guy in the copilot seat. He talked

to me. Then he disappeared."

Jake sighed. "There's no insanity plea for crashing a plane, Tuck. You

lost a lot of blood."

"This was before I got hurt. While the plane was still skidding.

"Here." Jake tucked a silver flask under Tuck's pillow and punched him in

the shoulder. "I'll call you, man." He turned and walked away.

Tuck called after him, "What if it was an angel or something?"

"Then you're in the Enquirer next week too," Jake said from the door.

"Get some sleep."

4

Pinnacle of the Pink Pyramid

A low buzz of anticipation ran through the halls of the hospital.

Reporters checked the batteries in their microrecorders and cell phones.

Orderlies and nurses lingered in the hallways in hope of getting a glimpse of

the celebrity. The FAA men straightened their ties and shot their cuffs. One

receptionist in administration, who was only two distributorships away from

earning her own pink Oldsmobile ducked into an examining room and sucked

lungfuls of oxygen to chase the dizziness that comes from meeting one's

Messiah. Mary Jean was coming.

Mary Jean Dobbins did not travel with an entourage, bodyguards, or any

other of the decorative leeches commonly attached to the power-wielding rich.

"God is my bodyguard," Mary Jean would say.

She carried a .38-caliber gold-plated Lady Smith automatic in her bag:

the Clara Barton Commemorative Model, presented to her by the Daughters of the

Confederacy at their annual "Let's Lynch Leroy" pecan pie bakeoff, held every

Martin Luther King Jr. Day. (She didn't agree with their politics, but the

belles could sure sell some makeup. If the South did not rise again, it

wouldn't be for lack of foundation.)

Today, as Mary Jean came through the doors of the main lobby, she was

flanked by a tall predatory woman in a black business suit--a severe contrast

to Mary Jean's soft pastel blue ensemble with matching bag and pumps.

"Strength and femininity are not exclusive, ladies." She was sixty-five;

matronly but elegant. Her makeup was perfect, but not overdone. She wore a

sapphire-and-diamond pin whose value approximated the gross national product

of Zaire.

She greeted every orderly and nurse with a smile, asked after their

families, thanked them for their compassionate work, flirted when appropriate,

and tossed compliments over her shoulder as she passed, without ever missing a

step. She left a wake of acutely charmed fans, even among the cynical and

stubborn.

Outside Tucker's room the predatory woman--a lawyer--broke formation and

confronted the maggotry of reporters, allowing Mary Jean to slip past.

She poked her head inside. "You awake, slugger?"

Tuck was startled by her voice, yanked out of his redundant reverie of

unemployment, imprisonment, and impotence. He wanted to pull the sheets over

his head and quietly die.

"Mary Jean."

The makeup magnate moved to his bedside and took his hand, all compassion

and caring. "How are you feeling?"

Tucker looked away from her. "I'm okay."

"Do you need anything? I'll have it here in a Texas jiffy."

"I'm fine," Tucker said. She always made him feel like he'd just struck

out in his first Little League game and she was consoling him with milk and

cookies. The fact that he'd once tried to seduce her doubled the humiliation.

"Jake told me that you're having me moved to Houston. Thank you."

"I have to keep an eye on you, don't I?" She patted his hand. "You sure

you're feeling well enough for a talk?"

Tucker nodded. He wasn't buying the outpouring of warm fuzzies she was

selling. He'd seen her doing business on the plane.

"That's good, honey," Mary Jean said, rising and looking around the room

for the first time. "I'll have some flowers sent up. A touch of color will

brighten things up, won't it? Something fragrant too. The constant smell of

disinfectant must be disturbing."

"A little," Tuck said.

She wheeled on her heel and looked at him. Her smile went hard. Tuck saw

wrinkles around her mouth for the first time. "Probably reminds you of what a

total fuckup you are, doesn't it?"

Tucker gulped. She'd faked him out of his shoes. "I'm sorry, Mary Jean.

I'm..."

She raised a hand and he shut up. "You know I don't like to use profanity

or firearms, so please don't push me, Tucker. A lady controls her anger."

"Firearms?"

Mary Jean pulled the Lady Smith automatic out of her purse and leveled it

at Tucker's bandaged crotch. Strangely, he noticed that Mary Jean had chipped

a nail drawing the gun and for that, he realized, she really might kill him.

"You didn't listen to me when I told you to stop drinking. You didn't

listen when I told you to stay away from my representatives. You didn't listen

when I told you that if you were going to amount to anything, you had to give

your life to God. You'd better damn well listen now." She racked the slide on

the automatic. "Are you listening?"

Tuck nodded. He didn't breathe, but he nodded.

"Good. I have run this company for forty years without a hint of scandal

until now. I woke up yesterday to see my face next to yours on all the morning

news shows. Today it's on the cover of every newspaper and tabloid in the

country. A bad picture, Tucker. My suit was out of season. And every article

uses the words 'penis' and 'prostitute' over and over. T can't have that. I've

worked too hard for that."

She reached out and tugged on his catheter. Pain shot through his body

and he reached for the ringer for the nurse.

"Don't even think about it, pretty boy. I just wanted to make sure I had

your attention."

"The gun pretty much did it, Mary Jean," Tucker groaned. Fuck it, he was

a dead man anyway.

"Don't you speak to me. Just listen. This is going to disappear. You are

going to disappear. You're getting out of here tomorrow and then you're going

to a cabin I have up in the Rockies. You won't go home, you won't speak to any

reporters, you won't say doodly squat. My lawyers will handle the legal

aspects and keep you out of jail, but you will never surface again. When this

blows over, you can go on with your pathetic life. But with a new name. And if

you ever set foot in the state of Texas or come within a hundred yards of

anyone involved in my company, I will personally shoot you dead. Do you

understand?"

"Can I still fly?"

Mary Jean laughed and lowered the gun. "Sweetie, to a Texas way a

thinkin' the only way you coulda screwed up worse is if you'd thronged a kid

down a well after fessing up to being on the grassy knoll stompin' yellow

roses in between shootin' the President. You ain't gonna fly, drive, walk,

crawl, or spit if I have anything to say about it." She put the gun in her

purse and went into the tiny bathroom to check her makeup. A quick primping

and she headed for the door. "I'll send up some flowers. Y'all heal up now,

honey."

She wasn't going to kill him after all. Maybe he could win her back.

"Mary Jean, I think I had a spiritual experience."

"I don't want to hear about any of your degenerate activities."

"No, a real spiritual experience. Like a--what do you call it?--an

epiphany?"

"Son, you don't know it, but you're as close to seeing the Lord as you've

ever been in your life. Now you hush before I send you to perdition."

She put on her best beatific smile and left the room radiating the power

of positive thinking.

Tucker pulled the covers over his head and reached for the flask Jake had

left. Perdition, huh? She made it sound bad. Must be in Oklahoma.

5

Our Lady of the Fishnet Stockings

The High Priestess of the Shark People ate Chee-tos and watched afternoon

talk shows over the satellite feed. She sat in a wicker emperor's chair. A red

patent leather pump dangled from one toe. Red lipstick, red nails, a big red

bow in her hair. But for a pair of silk seamed stockings, she was naked.

On the screen: Meadow Malackovitch, in a neck brace, sobbed on her

lawyer's shoulder--a snapshot of the pilot who had traumatized her was inset

in the upper-right-hand corner. The host, a failed weatherman who now made

seven figures mining trailer parks for atrocities, was reading the dubious

resume of Tucker Case. Shots of the pink jet, before and after. Stock footage

of Mary Jean on an airfield tarmac, followed by Case in a leather jacket.

The High Priestess touched herself lightly, leaving a faint orange stripe

of Chee-to spoor on her pubes (she was a natural blonde), then keyed the

intercom that connected her to the Sorcerer.

"What?" came the man's voice, weary but awake. It was 2:00 A.M. The

Sorcerer had been working all night.

"I think we've found our pilot," she said.

6

Who's Flying This Life?

At the last minute Mary Jean changed her mind about sending Tucker Case

to her cabin in the mountains. "Put him in a motel room outside of town and

don't let him out until I say so."

In two weeks Tucker had seen only the nurse who came in to change his

bandages and the guard. Actually, the guard was a tackle, second-string

defense from SMU, six-foot-six, two hundred and seventy pounds of earnest

Christian naivete named Dusty Lemon.

Tucker was lying on the bed watching television. Dusty sat hunched over

the wood-grain Formica table reading Scripture.

Tucker said, "Dusty, why don't you go get us a six-pack and a pizza?"

Dusty didn't look up. Tuck could see the shine of his scalp through his

crew cut. A thick Texas drawl: "No, sir. I don't drink and Mrs. Jean said that

you wasn't to have no alcohol."

"It's not Mrs. Jean, you doofus. It's Mrs. Dobbins." After two weeks,

Dusty was beginning to get on Tuck's nerves.

"Just the same," Dusty said. "I can call for a pizza for you, but no

beer."

Tuck detected a blush through the crew cut. "Dusty?"

"Yes sir." The tackle looked up from his Bible, waited.

"Get a real name."

"Yes, sir," Dusty said, a giant grin bisecting his moon face, "Tuck."

Tucker wanted to leap off the bed and cuff Dusty with his Bible, but he

was a long way from being able to leap anywhere. Instead, he looked at the

ceiling for a second (it was highway safety orange, like the walls, the doors,

the tile in the bathroom), then propped himself up on one elbow and considered

Dusty's Bible. "The red type. That the hot parts?"

"The words of Jesus," Dusty said, not looking up.

"Really?"

Dusty nodded, looked up. "Would you like me to read to you? When my

grandma was in the hospital, she liked me to read Scriptures to her."

Tucker fell back with an exasperated sigh. He didn't understand religion.

It was like heroin or golf: He knew a lot of people did it, but he didn't

understand why. His father watched sports every Sunday, and his mother had

worked in real estate. He grew up thinking that church was something that

simply interfered with games and weekend open houses. His first exposure to

religion, other than the skin mag layouts of the women who had brought down

television evangelists, had been his job with Mary Jean. For her it just

seemed like good business. Sometimes he would stand in the back of the

auditorium and listen to her talk to a thousand women about having God on

their sales team, and they would cheer and "Hallelujah!" and he would feel as

if he'd been left out of something--something beyond the apparent goofiness of

it all. Maybe Dusty had something on him besides a hundred pounds.

"Dusty, why don't you go out tonight? You haven't been out in two weeks.

I have to be here, but you--you must have a whole line of babes crying to get

you back, huh? Big football player like you, huh?"

Dusty blushed again, going deep red from the collar of his practice

jersey to the top of his head. He folded his hands and looked at them in his

lap. "Well, I'm sorta waitin' for the right girl to come along. A lot of the

girls that go after us football players, you know, they're kinda loose."

Tuck raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Dusty squirmed, his chair creaked under the strain. "Well, you know, it's

kinda..."

And suddenly, amid the stammering, Tucker got it. The kid was a virgin.

He raised his hand to quiet the boy. "Never mind, Dusty." The big tackle

slumped in his chair, exhausted and embarrassed.

Tuck considered it. He, who understood so much the importance of a

healthy sex life, who knew what women needed and how to give it to them, might

never be able to do it again, and Dusty Lemon, who probably could produce a

woody that women could chin themselves on, wasn't using it at all. He pondered

it. He worked it over from several angles and came very close to having a

religious experience, for who but a vicious and vengeful God would allow such

injustice in the world? He thought about it. Poor Tucker. Poor Dusty. Poor,

poor Tucker.

He felt a lump forming in his throat. He wanted to say something that

would make the kid feel better. "How old are you, Dusty?"

"I'll be twenty-two next March, sir?"

"Well, that's not so bad. I mean, you might be a late bloomer, you know.

Or gay maybe," Tuck said cheerfully.

Dusty started to contract into the fetal position. "Sir, I'd rather not

talk about it, if you don't mind," he whimpered. There was a knock on the door

and he uncurled, alert and ready to move. He looked to Tucker for

instructions.

"Well, answer it."

Dusty lumbered to the door and pulled it open a crack. "Yes?"

"I'm here to see Tucker Case. It's okay, I work for Mary Jean." Tuck

recognized Jake Skye's voice.

"Just a second." Dusty turned and looked to Tucker, confused.

"Who knows we're here, Dusty?"

"Just us and Mrs. Jean."

"Then why don't you let him in?"

"Yes, sir." He opened the door and Jake Skye strode through carrying a

grocery bag and a pizza box.

"Greetings." He threw the pizza on the bed. "Pepperoni and mushroom." He

glanced at Dusty and paused, taking a moment to look the tackle up and down.

"How'd you get this job? Eat your family?"

"No, sir," Dusty said.

Jake patted the tackle's mammoth shoulder. "Good to be careful, I guess.

Momma always said, 'Beware of geeks bearing gifts.' Who are you?"

"Jake Skye," Tuck said, "meet Dusty Lemon. Dusty, Jake Skye, Mary Jean's

jet mechanic. Be nice to Dusty, Jake, He's a virgin."

Dusty shot a vicious glare at Tuck and extended a boxing glove size mitt.

Jake shook his hand. "Virgin, huh?"

Jake dropped his hand. "Not including farm animals, though, right?"

Dusty winced and moved to close the door. "You-all can't stay long. Mr.

Case isn't supposed to see no one."

Jake put the grocery bag down on the table, pulled out a four-inch-thick

bundle of mail, and tossed it on the bed next to Tucker. "Your fan mail."

Tucker picked it up. "It's all been opened."

"I was bored," Jake said, opening the pizza box and extracting a slice.

"A lot of death threats, a few marriage proposals, a couple really interesting

ones had both. Oh, and an airline ticket to someplace I've never heard of with

a check for expenses."

"From Mary Jean?"

"Nope. Some missionary doctor in the Pacific. He wants you to fly for

him. Medical supplies or something. Came FedEx yesterday. Almost took the job

myself, seeing as I still have my pilot's license and you don't, but then, I

can get a job here."

Tucker shuffled through the stack of mail until he found the check and

the airline ticket. He unfolded the attached letter.

Jake held the pizza box out to the bodyguard. "Dopey, you want some

pizza?"

"Dusty," Dusty corrected.

"Whatever." To Tuck: "He wants you to leave ASAP."

"He can't go anywhere," said Dusty.

Jake retracted the box. "I can see that, Dingy. He's still wired for

sound." Jake gestured toward the catheter that snaked out of Tucker's pajama

Christopher Moore - Island of the Sequined Love Nun

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: