Kauai Temptations

by Terry Ambrose

  I scrunched up my face. “Whose father?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  A big-ass church bell began ringing in my head. The only thing I could think of was the skip tracer’s mantra; sit down, shut up, and listen. “No, that’s okay, what do you mean?”

  “Miss McKenna was about the same age as my boss.”

  Miss McKenna? How could a woman pretend to be me? The checks. First initial only, I thought. Crap.

  Violet apologized again. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so nosey.”

  The old instincts kicked in and I realized this was important. I forced a laugh. “People get us mixed up all the time. Yeah, she’s my daughter.”

  “Did you, um, have any other questions?”

  Yeah. Who spent almost three grand at Island Electronics for a stereo? Miss McKenna wanted rush shipping? Well, how about personal delivery? I caught my breath enough to say, “Can I come in tomorrow and pick it up for her?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Flight crew, prepare for landing.”

  The whine of lowering flaps and landing gear clunking into place was accompanied by the last-minute rush to collect our garbage and stow anything we’d taken out during the flight. I ignored it all and gazed out the window at the green mountains soaring out of blue ocean below. Along the shore, black and gray volcanic rock resisted the ceaseless advance of white surf. The battle, which had raged over the eons would continue until the last rock slipped beneath the ocean surface. Kauai. The Garden Isle. Formed from millions of years of volcanic eruptions and erosion, I wondered how long it would take for nature to return this rock to the sea.

  Here on the plane with the screaming babies, obnoxious kids, and drone of the jet engines, paradise seemed like it was a million years away despite the forest of aloha shirts, shorts, and flip flops. I glanced down at my white-knuckle grip on the armrests and stared out the window. It wasn’t the flight that bothered me, it was being confined. We were a flying jail, populated by crazy inmates like the out-of-control kid behind me who never listened to his mother when she told him to stop kicking the back of my seat.

  Somewhere at the airport, my cab awaited. It wasn’t actually a cab, Alexander had called one of his cousins. CJ volunteered to loan me a car, but since I hadn’t driven in over a year, my plan was to have her ferry me around during my short visit. It worked with Alexander, hopefully, here, too. The thought of me behind the wheel of an unfamiliar vehicle on roads I didn’t know was enough to give me hives.

  A calm, blue harbor, protected by a long, narrow breakwater stretching halfway across the channel, drifted behind us. Final approach to Lihue Airport. We were like a stone with wings. Turn off the power and we’d plummet to earth. It might not be a bad ending, if you wanted to go. I didn’t.

  The pilot made final adjustments, then there was red dirt below. To our left, I noticed occasional dirty smudges on the green that rose to meet the blue horizon. White dollops of cotton punctuated the sky. Alexander had said I could stay with his cousin. He’d called it crowded, but free.

  A gentle bump. The chirp of tires. Another bump and the deafening roar of reverse thrust. The flying rock had landed. Now that the plane was on the ground, I silently congratulated the pilot on a magnificent flight. As for me, I was ready for business. Alexander and I had covered all the bases. We’d even printed a map to the Island Electronics store.

  My plan was simple. March into Island Electronics, demand to speak to the person who’d taken the bogus order, then grill him like a marshmallow at sundown until he was all gooey on the inside. With me being an old pro at this whole credit game, it should take no time at all to get the information I wanted.

  The reverse-thrust roar ended. The crew thanked us. We thanked them. We were all such good little travelers, even the snotty little brat behind me who kept kicking my seatback. Unlike Honolulu International where thousands of people roamed in chaotic patterns, here we played follow the leader. We trudged forward like farm animals being herded into the slaughterhouse. I was tempted to moo a couple of times, but good judgement got the better of me. That might seem a stretch to anyone who knows me, but having my face smashed in by some pissed-off, overweight tourist who mistook my cow noises as a personal criticism stopped me cold. I kept my mouth shut while we meandered through the automatic doors to the open-air baggage claim.

  I was doing my personal version of the baggage-claim two-step when the young man who’d sat next to me on the plane approached. His hair was tied back in a ponytail, he wore baggy shorts and flip-flops. He didn’t strike me as a world traveler, but a local. Tan, laid back attitude, and a small musical instrument case. “Landings always scare me, too, man.”

  Me? Scared? I hadn’t wet my pants. I’d even bypassed the restroom in the hallway. Uncharacteristic, and in this case, none too smart. Nature was calling, and security wouldn’t let me go back. To take my mind off the sudden urge, I nodded at the case. “What instrument do you play?”

  “Uke, man.” He nodded knowingly.

  Of course, that’s what the case looked like. “You’re in a band.” Duh, could I sound any more stupid? “You play ukulele in a band.” Yup, it was possible. I sounded like a broken record.

  He nodded again. “Just cut our first CD. We’re playing at Keoki’s. Stop by some night.” He spotted his bag, a shocking pink paisley monster he hefted as though it might be filled with cotton. He flashed me a well-practiced shaka sign, his thumb and pinky pointed arrow-straight, the other fingers folded over. With that, he was off, the paisley monster heeling like a well-trained dog behind him. I suspected that my little suitcase would be less cooperative than his behemoth.

  I glanced toward the exit, longing for my own freedom and a restroom. A long line of nearly identical black bags snaked around the turnstile. Whether they had two wheels or four, sat upright or played dead with their little roller paws in the air, they all looked the same. And mine was in there. Somewhere.

  Across the turnstile, I recognized the little brat who’d spent the flight kicking the back of my seat. Why did they always come back to haunt you? This was worse than heartburn. I glared at the boy until he began tugging on his mother’s baggy shorts. He said something, which prompted her to scowl at me. This might be the Garden Island, but she looked like a linebacker from Pittsburgh. I decided to wait for my bag well out of her range.

  Children danced next to their mothers while stern dads with crossed arms scanned the line of suitcases crawling along the conveyor belt at the other end of baggage claim. I joined the controlled chaos and hoped Cousin Joy would be here to greet me. Would I get to Island Electronics today? Or get beat up by the linebacker? I was rooting for Joy to whisk me away as I watched intently for my lone piece of luggage, my eyes glued to the conveyor belt.

  The trade winds flowed through baggage claim as I waited. Calm. Peaceful. Relaxing. All I needed was my suitcase. Then I could skedaddle. Other than that, chillax.

  I almost let out a little whoopie when my bag appeared on the carousel. Now that I’d made enemies, I could only hope that my little suitcase didn’t embarrass me too much. Unlike the ukulele player’s Great Dane, mine was more akin to a terrier. It had a habit of banging into everything, including me, others, and walls. I grabbed the handle, gave a hard yank and made my escape to the outside world, thankful that the brat and Linebacker Mom were still stewing at the carousel.

  Thanks to Alexander’s description, Cousin Joy wasn’t hard to find. She drove an old, tan Buick with missing trim, dents and dings galore, and a right front tire that looked suspiciously low. Still, the transportation was free. She, Cousin Joy, not the car, was big boned with ample padding. She really only stood about five-nine, but her girth made her an imposing figure. Memo to self: don’t piss her off.

  Cousin Joy wore a blue shirt and matching shorts. A white tag with her name printed in red letters had been pinned almost perfectly straight beneath a logo on the left breast. “You McKenna?”


  She had me pegged. Now I wondered how Alexander had described me to her. The pitch of her voice took me by surprise because I’d expected a large woman to have a deeper tone. Hers was like listening to a piccolo. She didn’t wait for an answer.

  “Christine Joseph Kamanski, aloha.” She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close.

  Thank God it was a soft landing, like being shoved into a couple of oversized pillows. Next thing I knew, I felt a hand patting my ass. “Uh, Joy?”

  She pushed me away and winked. “CJ. Everyone calls me CJ. You’re a skinny little bugger. Nothing to you.”

  I couldn’t recall any Hawaiian custom that entailed feeling up new visitors in public and defended myself in typical McKenna fashion, with the first thing that popped into my head. “So how do you get Joy from Joseph?”

  She snapped, “Cause I’m so damned happy all the time.” With that, she hoisted my little bag like it was an empty wallet. “Any other questions?”

  I shook my head, not sure whether to ask Linebacker Mom for protection or call a cab. “Nuh uh.”

  “Alexander told me you were a good guy.” CJ snickered. “Gotcha, didn’t I?” The car trunk was big enough to take ten more pieces of luggage just like mine. CJ had a good 50 pounds on me, but other than those two pillows she carried around on her chest, she looked solid as a rock.

  “Yeah, you got me.” How, why, I had no idea. The next thing I knew, CJ was squeezing my shoulder.

  “Let’s go, time’s a wasting.” She hustled around to the passenger’s side.

  “Aren’t you—aren’t you driving? It’s too soon for me. I don’t know my way around the island. I don’t know the car. I—I, yikes.”

  “You arguing with me?”

  A big SUV thundered behind me. I whirled around in time to see the truck disappear around a bend in the road. I turned back to CJ. “I’m not much of a driver.”

  “Look, this place is easy. You want to find something and don’t know where it is, drive that way.” She waved her arm in the general direction of forward and her hand did a little nonchalant backflip.

  I suppose the combination of arm and hand signals were supposed to make me feel better, but this was still a good-sized island. “That way” just seemed so—generic.

  She continued, “You don’t find what you want by the time you get to the end of the road, turn around and drive back this way, then keep going to the other end.”

  “Oh. That’s easy. I can handle that.” I looked in the direction she’d indicated as “that way,” then mimicked her carefree hand gesture. “How far that way?”

  “About thirty-five miles.” She got in the car and closed the door.

  I stared “that way,” still unsure whether this was Kauai humor or if she was serious. When I recovered, Linebacker Mom, the brat, dad, and luggage were coming out of baggage claim. In a hasty attempt to look away, I made the mistake of glancing straight at the windshield. The glare of the sun practically burned through my retina. Half-blinded, I stumbled to the driver’s door and jumped in the car. “What direction is that, anyway?”

  “When?”

  “When? What do you mean, when? When you’re driving.” I made the international driving sign by extending my hands out in front of me and making little turning motions. I’d been on island for a grand total of maybe a half hour, made a fool of myself at least three times and had alienated a family of football players. Definitely not my best day.

  CJ shrugged. “Right now? I say it’s heading roughly northeast, later it will turn west. Head the other way it will be west and then eventually turn north.”

  “Okay, it’s a big circle. I remember that. Why not just drive all the way around?”

  “The last eleven miles is a bitch. No road on the Na Pali Coast.” CJ motioned for me to start the car. “McKenna, you want to be the first to try it? Be my guest. Just don’t use Buster, okay?”

  Na Pali Coast. Duh, sure. I knew that. But who the hell was Buster?

  “Here’s a map. And, you can usually call me. I deliver packages for a local outfit and know this rock inside out. I know all the locals, too, because sooner or later, everyone gets a package. One more thing. McKenna, meet Buster. Buster, McKenna.”

  My eyes widened. “This is Buster?”

  “Yeah, meet Buster the car.”

  “You named your car?”

  “I understand you named your toilet. You got a problem with me naming my car, uh huh?”

  I felt the blood rush to my face. Ten minutes ago I’d been enjoying the trades filtering through baggage claim. Now it felt like a damn sauna. Alexander had told her about Bosco? I stammered. “Uh, I guess not. Don’t expect me to talk to him.”

  “Uh, huh. I hear you do that too.” She eyed me like I was the one who was crazy.

  “Buster? Any particular, uh, reason?”

  “You’ll find out. Now drive.”

  I settled into the driver’s seat and turned the key. Buster’s engine purred to life. So far, so good. I pushed the lever to raise the driver’s window.

  “You don’t wanna do that,” said CJ. “The air don’t always work, so we’re going island style.”

  “But it’s like an oven in here.”

  “It’ll cool down once we’re moving. Let’s get going, I’m gonna be late for work.”

  “How often does this happen?” I asked.

  “Maybe when it gets hot.”

  CJ cocked her head forward and I got the sense that the conversation was over. She had me drive the opposite of “that way,” which meant we were heading in some combination of south, west, and north. No doubt about it, I needed to look at a map as soon as possible to get a handle on this island. When I dropped her off, she gave me directions to the mall where Island Electronics was located.

  The empty parking spot I found in the Longs Drug parking lot allowed me to pull through to the next space. That was a relief because my first driving experience was over and I wouldn’t have to back up to leave. I headed into Longs in hopes that their air conditioning worked better than Buster’s.

  By Honolulu standards, Kukui Grove is small, but it is the largest mall on Kauai and has enough stores to force me to go in search of a directory. I stood in front of the three-sided stand only half-focused on the map. The other part of me was letting the trade winds blow away the last of my anxiety over Buster’s air-conditioning.

  The walk to the store was short and pleasant, but by now I only wanted to be done with this. Inside, the clerk was busy with another customer, which gave me time to stroll around. Cell phones, high-end equipment and, of course, batteries filled the shelves. Finally, the other customer—okay, the only real customer—got what he wanted and left. He was interested in what cell phone would be best for his fifteen-year-old daughter. Jeez, even I knew that. The one with the biggest battery.

  With him out of the way, the clerk was free to deal with my information needs. My breath quickened because I recognized her voice. It was Violet, the girl who had called my home.

  “Uh, yeah, my name is McKenna. You called me about an order ready for pick up?”

  Violet had long black tresses braided loosely in back. Her lips were painted a dark shade of brown that reminded me of dried blood. Her jet-black eyebrows went up and her eyes got really big at the mention of my name. Sorry, Violet, but you’ll have to do some work this afternoon. If I were any judge of age, which was definitely not the case, she couldn’t be much older than the previous customer’s daughter. To her credit, Violet didn’t act out or throw a tantrum. Instead, after letting out a little huff, she seemed to accept her lot in life.

  “Oh, sure. Let me get the paperwork.” She strolled away, leaving me to ponder what important task she’d take on first. Touch up her green fingernails with a fresh coat of paint? Text a few hundred friends while I inspected electronic doodads I couldn’t afford? From the back room, I heard her voice. “Mr. McKenna is here.” She reappeared a few seconds later. “I had to call the manager becaus
e this is a big order and she needs to sign off.”

  “Sure, I get it.” As long as speaking to the person who’d taken the order was part of that sign off process, I’d be happy.

  Another customer came in, then another. Great, just what I needed, an audience. Oh boy, McKenna on stage.

  When a security guard entered, I decided enough was enough. The guard and I were about the same height, but he outweighed me by several beers. I’ve got nothing against beer or security guards, but I can’t drink beer and this addition had filled the store to my overload capacity. I wanted to ask my questions without the audience. It pissed me off, and even embarrassed me to some degree, that my identity had been stolen. Now, I’d have to talk about it in front of a crowd? Fat chance. I wasn’t here for a Victim’s Anonymous support group meeting. I said to Violet, “Look, um, I’ll come back later. It’s getting kind of busy right now.”

  Violet thrust a neon-green fingertip in my direction. “That’s him!”

  The guard moved in quickly until he was close enough for me to almost smell what he’d had for lunch. He planted a meaty hand on my arm.

  “What the hell? Violet? We talked on the phone. Everything was fine.”

  The next thing I knew, Mr. Fish Breath was whispering at me. “You don’t wanna make a scene, brah. The cops’ll be here in a minute.”

  Guards? Cops? What—uh, oh. I got it. The banking system worked faster than I remembered. Thanks for the warning, Vern.

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “I’m the real McKenna. It was the fake me who ordered all this stuff.”

  “Save it, brah. No need make me testify against you, yah?” The guard’s official-looking uniform was freshly pressed. His shoes gleamed. Even his leather belt, which was half-concealed by those extra beers, gleamed. Thank goodness he didn’t carry a gun, dying at the hands of a cop-wannabe for impersonating myself would definitely get me sent straight to Hell.

  I needed to talk fast, to find a way out of this. “I’m a friend of Alexander Kapono.”