Barracuda by Mike Monahan

structure with a white stucco exterior. Each second story
room’s balcony was neatly painted blue. The hotel was rudimentary,
but clean and fresh in a land of long-forgotten innocence.
    Back in his room, he put on his bathing suit and
was soon splashing about in cool waves. He heard the other bathers
talking in European tongues. These were not the same tourists who
had been on the island hopper plane and shuttle bus with him.
    After his refreshing swim, Micko decided to take
a walk and dry off. He was walking through the hotel lobby when a
young boy rushed up to him.
    “Towel, Mister?” he asked in broken English. “I
have towel!”
    “Sure, I’ll take one,” Micko said.
    The boy handed him a clean blue and white
striped towel and asked, “Room number?”
    “Twenty-four-B.”
    “Okay, I get back later.”
    Micko walked with the towel toward a small
village down the road. The village was quiet until he walked in.
Suddenly, people popped up from their unseen siestas and tried to
sell him everything from a hand-carved knife to a pygmy pig. The
villagers were friendly, but just as pushy as those Penn Station
beggars that annoy commuters.
    Micko noticed a small refreshment stand and
decided to buy a fresh-squeezed fruit drink. The girl at the stand
smiled at him with a mouth full of missing teeth, but she spoke
English quite well.
    “You American. I like American. No like others.
They mean and cheap. They come all year and disrespect us. They
almost as bad as Japanese.”
    Drinking his juice, Micko asked the girl why she
disliked the Japanese so much. He knew that the arrogance of
wealthy Europeans was legendary, but he was curious about the
dislike of the Japanese. The girl went on and on about how
historically the islanders had always hated the Japanese—and it had
become worse after World War II.
    Thanking the girl for the juice and the history
lesson, Micko walked away with the juice and tossed it as soon as
he found a proper receptacle. It was too sweet, and he worried that
he, too, would start losing his teeth. Back in his room he took a
shower, but the water pressure was so low that the water barely
trickled over his slightly sunburned body. Well, that didn’t
take long, he thought. Sun block from now on.
    Dinner was served in a colorful dining room from
a “help yourself” smorgasbord. Because Micko had a table to himself
since all the others were in groups, he had time to eat and
people-watch. A waiter named Albert served his coffee and asked if
he was alone. Micko quickly explained that he was going to scuba
dive in Bikini Atoll. Albert loved to gossip, so Micko picked his
brain and found out that the Europeans came from many different
countries to vacation all over the South Pacific. The cost was
cheap, the resorts were never crowded, and the beaches were always
in pristine condition.
    The American divers, Albert said, were from
California, and they were on a scuba shop run dive trip, also going
to Bikini. Albert said that it was the first time this particular
scuba shop had run a trip to Bikini, and he thought the divers were
all wealthy, judging from their watches and shoes. Micko smiled and
thought this guy would have made a good detective.
    The Americans and Europeans mingled at the small
lounge after dinner, but Micko felt a bit tired with a slight
sunburn adding some discomfort, so he headed for bed. He then had a
restless night, dreaming of toothless Japanese tourists who spoke
in various European accents.
    After showering and packing the next morning, he
went down for breakfast at seven o’clock. When he entered the
lounge, one of the Californians waved to him. “Come over here and
sit with us,” he offered.
    Micko noticed that there were only two people at
the table, so he walked over and sat down. “Hi, guys. I’m Mick
O’Shaughnessy.”
    “We know. You’re the New York policeman. I’m
Eddie Dolan and this is Tom Monahan.”
    Micko raised his eyes to the ceiling and asked,
“Is there