Free The White Ghost by James R. Benn Page B

Kennedy from a murder charge, and on this small island with no women, he’s out on a date.
    Jack, you sonuvabitch.

Chapter Nine
    â€œNem blong mi Jacob Vouza,” a booming voice said in my dreams. “Hu nao nem blong yu?”
    I opened one eye, struggling to remember where I was. Tulagi. The assistant district administrator’s house. Asleep, under mosquito netting.
    â€œWanem nao yu duim?”
    All I could make out was a hazy silhouette in the door, sunlight filtering into the room at his back. I scrambled out from under the netting in my skivvies, still half asleep, to find an imposing figure standing square in the doorway, his arms crossed, shooting a glare at Kao, the houseboy who came with the joint. Kao was a skinny little kid. Our visitor looked like he could snap him in two.
    â€œYour name is Jacob Vouza?” Kaz asked, sitting up on the edge of his bed. I could see he was working out what the native was saying.
    â€œYa, Sergeant Jacob Vouza. Blong Solomon Islands Protectorate Armed Constabulary. Twenty-five year. Retired. Now marine.” He pronounced the English words precisely, with some island dialect mixed in.
    â€œBlong,” Kaz said, standing to face Vouza. “Belong? The name which belongs to you?”
    â€œYa,” Vouza said, speaking slowly as if to a pair of slow children, pointing to each of us with an exaggerated gesture. “Nem blong yu?”
    â€œNem blong mi Kaz. Nem blong him Billy,” Kaz said, keeping things simple. I pulled on my trousers and watched as Vouza and Kaz exchanged a few more words. Kaz was the one with the language skills, so I left the lingo to him as I took in the man before us.
    He was dressed in a lap-lap , which looked like a sarong to me, but Kao had corrected me on that point last night. Vouza was tall, broad, bare-chested, and wearing a web belt with a mean-looking machete and a .45 automatic slung off it. His hair was thick and frizzy, his skin a dark, rich brown. He had a broad, flat nose and sharp eyes which kept a watch on Kaz and me as I cinched my own web belt and pistol.
    The scars were something to behold. His chest, throat, and ribs were decorated with thick, knotted scar tissue. Not the puckered scar of a gunshot wound, or the scattered rips and tears from shrapnel. Knife or bayonet, I guessed. Kao squatted on the floor, gazing at Vouza with awe. Maybe fear.
    â€œSergeant Vouza is a retired constable,” Kaz said, turning to me. “From the neighboring island of Malaita. He says he works with the marines and the Coastwatchers organization.”
    â€œYou got all that from what he said?” I asked.
    â€œHe’s speaking Pijin, an island dialect. It is very closely related to English,” Kaz said.
    Vouza threw a glance at Kao and said, “Kopi.” Whatever that meant, Kao ran out of the room, nodding his head and smiling.
    â€œYou mean pidgin?” I asked.
    â€œNot exactly,” Kaz said. “Solomon Island Pijin is related to other Pacific dialects. Pidgin is a less precise term. Pijin is a trade language, originating with the first whalers who visited these islands in the last century. It allowed the natives and the seamen to speak a common language. A quite interesting evolution, actually.”
    â€œI’m sure,” I said, cutting Kaz off before he composed a monograph on the subject. “But why is he here?”
    â€œI gather he wants to know why we are here,” Kaz said.
    â€œDoes he know Daniel Tamana?” I asked, looking to Vouza for a reaction. His eyes widened for a split second at the mention of the victim’s name.
    â€œMi wantok blong Daniel,” Vouza said. “Angkol.”
    â€œAngkol?” Kaz repeated. “Uncle? You are Daniel’s uncle?” Vouza nodded solemnly.
    â€œWanem nao yu duim?” It was the same thing he said when he first came into the room. I was beginning to get the hang of this. Most of the words were English,