Part 15 (1/2)

”Agreed,” I said, ”Part of the charm of the quim is that it's on the inside, not the outside.”

”And,” added Neal with authority, ”just because there's something big on the outside doesn't always mean a bird's got a clown's pocket on the inside. Perhaps the contrary. And it's a slippery slope, too. One day you're fine with having a camel toe, and the next day you're out behind the chip shop with your knickers yo-yoing up and down, servicing strangers for the price of a pack of f.a.gs. Not helping society much that way, are you?”

Elspeth rebelled. ”Will you two stop blabbing on about camel toes! I would like to enjoy my chicken piccata in peace.”

So much for the consolation of philosophy.

I looked over at a pile of apparently blank CDs on a seat beside me. ”Neal, for f.u.c.k's sake, who the h.e.l.l uses CDs these days?”

”Oh, them. They're bootleg Harry Potter movies I promised someone in LA I'd take to his friend in Kiribati.” Neal threw a Sharpie my way. ”Do me a favour, Ray, and write 'Harry Potter' on them so they don't end up in the rubbish.”

”Will do, mate.”

Sharpie was the first permanent ink pen-style marker, launched in 1964 by the Sanford Ink Company. In 1992, Sharpie was acquired by Newell Rubbermaid. The Sharpie created an entirely new category: a rigid felt-tip with minor give to allow for characterfullness. There's something fun about Sharpies that's really hard to articulate. They are to handwriting what Play-Doh is to sculpting.

Bonriki International Airport is the only international airport in Kiribati and serves as the main gateway to the country. It is located in the capital, South Tarawa, a group of islets in the atoll of Tarawa in the Gilbert Islands.

AWK to TRW = 8 h, 30 m

27.

Stuart Greene.

What a total f.u.c.king d.i.c.k.

But let me back up a bit.

We finally landed in Kiribati in the fiery coral dawn. Christ, could these people have found a place on earth more remote? Excuse me, but were the Kerguelen Islands all booked up? Was Pitcairn Island shut down for an extended religious holiday? Try Google-Mapping this place; it's a dogfart.

On a practical level, since cartwheeling over the atomic blast, I'd been down to a borrowed pair of sailor pants. Before we landed, Neal gave me one of Arnaud du Puis's linen outfits.

”Ooh,” cooed Elspeth after I changed, ”you're dressed just like Ewan McGregor.” She brushed some dust off the lapel.

Neal added, ”And your lobster-like sunburn from our afternoon beerfest gives you a previously missing outdoorsy air. We should go drunk-driving around Wake Island a lot more.”

Wake Island had left me a bit tender red on the scalp and face. Still, standing on the Bonriki tarmac, I was feeling pretty darn good about myself, and felt even better when I spotted Sarah, with a clipboard, overseeing some staffers while something was being unloaded from an aging prop plane. She smiled and waved at me, and my heart swooned. And then a pickup truck approached and came to a stop. Stuart got out of the pa.s.senger seat. He looked at me and said, ”Oh, great. It's you.”

”h.e.l.lo, Stuart.”

”Jesus, you look like Rock Hudson with late-stage AIDS. What the f.u.c.k happened to you since Hawaii?”

”Well-”

”Like I could care. Which one of you is Neal?”

”That's me.” Neal raised a hand.

”You've got some Harry Potter CDs for me.”

”Brilliant! So you're Stu Greene.” Neal reached into his jacket pocket and removed the CDs I'd labelled. He handed them to Stuart, who looked at them and froze.

”Everything okay?” asked Neal.

”Neal, who labelled these CDs?”

”Um, Raymond here. What's up?”

”It's just that Raymond spelled 'Harry' with an 'e' instead of an 'a'.” He held it up for Neal to check out.

Neal looked and said, ”H-E-R-R-Y. Huh. Don't see that every day now, do you?”

Harry is a male given name, the Middle English form of Henry. It is also sometimes used as a diminutive form of Harold or Henry. It is never, ever, ever spelled with an 'e'.

Now, I like to think of myself as an educated bloke. I wasn't head boy or Stephen f.u.c.king Hawking or anything, but Stuart-what a d.i.c.k.

”Jesus, Gunt, how the f.u.c.k could anyone be stupid enough to spell Harry with an 'e'?”

”It's not as bad as you're making it out to be.”

”Not as bad? How did a useless imbecile end up on my payroll?”

”That's deeply unfair, Stuart. I was a bit drunk at the time.”

”Drunk? Gunt, even if my brain had been raped by a gallon of tequila, I'd still have the f.u.c.king wits to spell 'Harry' properly.”

At that moment, a rusty, windowless van used for hauling medium-sized groups about the airport was approaching. On its sun-rotted leather seats lounged a spent-looking array of executives, plus a handful of stocky types who could only be cameramen-hod carriers in any other period in history-torsos lopsided from decades of tramping across deserts and mountains and battlefields and swamps with a Sony always over the right shoulder, their livelihood also betrayed by their nylon cargo pants, capable of conveying a nineteenth-century hunt's worth of c.r.a.p from airport to airport to airport, fully washable and dryable in any hotel room on earth in under three hours.

Stuart whistled for the driver to stop, then bellowed, ”You! Bus people! Come over here!”