Death Island

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Handley Duvall stepped outside from the Barbarossa Hotel on the South Pacific island of Hiva Faui and squinted up at the tropical sun as he mopped his brow with his handkerchief. This certainly wasn't Boston. It was at least a hundred degrees in the shade, with a humidity that nearly matched.

The electricity had gone out again in the downtown section of the capital city, something that happened at least twice a week, so even in the hotel barroom there had been little or no relief.

Duvall had been promoted last month to mid-shift foreman, which gave him the privilege of hotfooting it into town once a week for the "booze and treat" run. Booze for his shift for the week, and the treat was a visit to Madame Leone's, next door to the hotel.

This afternoon he wondered, however, if either was worth a damn. The booze was watered down and overpriced, and without air conditioning the girls at Madame Leone's would be somewhat less than appealing.

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