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An old poster of Bloody Mary hung by the door derived from Leeteg's black velvet painting of a bare-breasted Tahitian maiden, though this Mary was decorously be-lei'd. The bar was long but probably not long enough late on a Thursday night, and wood shavings and peanut shells sprayed across the floor. The Eagles came over the sound system "Tequila Sunrise," I'm almost sure of it. If this were paradise, I might need another drink. The bar was populated by most of the United Nations of distilled beverages, and a fair sub-committee of its drunkards. We chose our entrees (from tuna, mahi-mahi, or parrotfish) and were escorted across the sawdust-strewn floor to a table beneath a potted palm. "The Eagles Greatest Hits" played too loudly on the sound system, "Desperado" followed by "Take It Easy" and "Lying Eyes" in agonizing succession. Keanu was nowhere to be seen. Marlon Brando, however, might have been in the neighborhood, back in those days. Certainly he owned an island a few day's sail east; possibly he rented a villa near the airport. You can have your Tahitian Black Pearls, your James Michener, your Bounty: some of us came for Brando. Over coconut calamari and cocktails, we discussed our plans to visit Tetiaroa, Brando's private island, after we left Bora Bora.
She looked at me without expression. Americans love the Eagles, she told me. Everybody does. They sell drinks. And the more drinks you have, she didn't have to say, the better they sound. "Bring me another mai-tai," I said.
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