by Tyler Colins
“Jimmy was quite a character, but despite all that had been said about him, I liked him. You know, he'd never called me Buddy, not in the two-and-a-half years I'd been trucking for him. It was always Ms. Feuer. If he did use a first name, as in the cases of his son, personal assistant, and Coco Peterson, it would have been preceded with a form of address: Mr. Junior, Mr. Razor, and Mr. Coco.” She forked up rice and giggled like a little girl. “We all have our idiosyncrasies.”
Rey appeared riveted by Buddy's beauty. Her eyes never left the truck driver's face as she ate. “Tell us about Junior, Razor, and … Coco?”
“Coco,” she affirmed. “I'll get back to Mr. Lookeeng Goo-ood in a few.”
“Mr. Lookeeng Goo-ood?” Linda chuckled.
Buddy grinned and rolled her eyes. “Coco believed he was – is – the reincarnation of Freddie Prinze of Chico and the Man fame. At thirty-five, given the math, this is highly unlikely, but who knows how this 'rebirth' thing works. Moreover, Coco wasn't – uh – isn't even remotely Latin. He's a Hawaiian-Irish mix, courtesy of Makani Kalama and Druson Patrick Peterson, with taro-colored hair and freckled skin an odd shade of sand-beach brown.” She sipped of iced tea. “Jimmy Junior is –”
“No you don't,” Rey cut in, pointing her fork. “You can't move on to the kid until you finish with this peculiar Coco dude.”
Linda and I concurred. Coco Peterson had our curiosities piqued.
Buddy's description of Coco was quite extraordinary, but totally imaginable. Hooded bile-green eyes ogled anyone remotely female. Apparently, when you looked into those gawking, goggling eyes you could almost feel those unusually short stumpy fingers of his clutching you with libidinous zeal. And that tongue – he flicked it as if he were a gecko on amphetamines. It was all the more gross because he had a gap the width of the Suez Canal between two big front teeth. But Coco truly believed he was cute and sexy when he did that tongue thingy.
Linda, Rey, and I fell about, so intense was our laughter. And yes, accordingly to Buddy, Coco Peterson, pathetically enough, was for real. “Guys like Coco … they look and act like small-time hoods or mob-boss wannabes, wear a lot of silver and gold, and jewels of choice. They dress in snazzy suits and sport a flashy gold tooth or two – in Coco's case, crazy pimp ensembles circa 1973, worn with cheap Aloha shirts, and two gilded lower eye teeth.”
“Ooh, I'm so not liking what I'm envisioning,” Linda giggled, getting up to refresh glasses with club soda.
“Be thankful you've not had to work with him.”
“Does he really look like that?” Rey questioned skeptically.
“Coco doesn't look like a pimp, not with the schoolboy looks, the 5'5” stature and weight of 130 pounds – 132 after attacking a buffet. One of his favorites is on Maui, in fact at Poko's Eat'um Emporium, which is a nondescript diner in notorious Happy Valley. While the place does give a big bang for the buck, if you're ever on the Island, do not go there. That guy can tuck away copious amounts of Spam musubi, humungous portions of poi, and big bowls of chicken curry in one short sitting, and then gobble up a gargantuan slab of guava cake with three scoops of haupia ice-cream. …He claims he has a hyperactive thyroid.” Sparkling cornflower-blue eyes peered from one face to the next. “The guy has an overactive something and it surely has to do with glands but, I'd bet a dinner at Hoku's, it's not located in the trachea region.”
Buddy's highly descriptive tales were as animated as they were entertaining. If she decided to give up truck driving, she might consider becoming a storyteller.
“How'd he get the name Coco?” I asked, clearing plates.
“There are two popular versions of how he acquired it, one provided by the man himself, the other by Kent Winche, a work pal. Coco's story: he got the nickname in grade school, not because he'd been stout and squat like a coconut, which he'd been until he turned twelve, but because he'd gotten beaned by a school bully with one of those brown husks almost daily for three years. Kent's story: Auntie Lae'ula had dressed young Coco in a pa'u – a grass skirt – and coconut bra for Halloween and different costume events. She so loved the outfit on her nephew that she teasingly, but lovingly, called him Coconuts. Over time, the name got shortened to Coco. Per the gossip mill, which is one and the same as Kent Winche, his real name is Polunu.”
“Polunu?”
“Polunu Druson Peterson,” she affirmed.
“Tell us more,” I requested as I put on coffee.
“Being in the presence of 'Chico' is enough to give you the willies. The man oozes slime. A lot of fellow truckers have wondered how he'd managed to stay in the good graces of Jimmy Picolo for as long as he had, but I'm one of the few who knows the truth, thanks to Coco's motor mouth. He'd been best friends with Jimmy Hibiki Picolo – Jimmy Junior – in grade and high schools, and the two had maintained a solid bond through adulthood, even when Coco left the Islands for a while.” Buddy got up to stretch. “Daddy begrudged Jimmy Junior little, so when he asked Daddy to help a friend, Jimmy had seen to it that Coco received a job upon high-school graduation. The buzz was that Jimmy had also paid Coco's rent for a time when he'd left his auntie's home at sixteen.”
“He lived with his aunt?” Linda appeared confused.
“Coco lost his mother to cancer when he was young and proved a handful for his dad, who was having a difficult time dealing with depression-heavy grief. The family agreed he'd do better living with his auntie for a while, but weeks evolved into years,” Buddy explained.
“Was that Auntie Coconuts?” Linda asked with a grin.
“No, Auntie Lei-Lei. She was the oldest of six and childless, so it was decided that Coco would be best placed with her.”
“Picolo was pretty accommodating,” Rey murmured, traipsing over to help me serve cake. “What job did he get?”
“Initially, a mail room job at the plant. Later, when he returned from a Mainland sojourn, he became a driver for a couple of Jimmy's companies.”
“How did Picolo feel about him?” I asked.
“In the early years, he seemed okay with Coco. After all, he was a close friend of his son's and the two never misbehaved or anything. In the last couple of years, however, Coco – and anyone hanging around with Coco – fell out of Jimmy's good books,” she answered slowly, reflectively. “Jimmy had really grown to loath him. He said he was as wanted, and as hard to get rid of, as toe fungus.”
“Why the change of heart?”
Buddy sat back down and looked from me to Rey to Linda. “Coco's love of gambling got him into some sketchy episodes. And because of this vice, he'd also started associating with not-so-nice people.”
“Was he into illegal stuff?” Rey asked, licking icing from her fingers like a kitten did cream.
Buddy arched a shoulder. “It's possible.”
“What's the brother like?” Linda asked, shoving a teaspoon into a brick-sized piece Rey placed before her.
“Ricardo Mako Picolo – Ric – is big on health foods and had recently bought into a new company, Escape the Inedible Inc. This, and the mid-size exercise-health chain he owns, Healthy, Wealthy & Wise, have provided exceptional financial security.”
“I'm more interested in hearing about Coco.” Rey plonked three more bricks on the table and dove into hers like a grocery-deprived university student who'd just returned home for Thanksgiving dinner.
Our guest eyed the huge piece like a little girl might a strawberry sundae and dug in with gleeful zeal. “Coco always liked garlic shrimp – just like Mom made, though not necessarily his mom. The shrimp and rice would always be drowned in a sea of butter-garlic sauce, and the salad dressed with pineapple vinaigrette. Let's see. There's a leprechaun tattoo on his left arm with 'Coco' etched into a bright rainbow curving over the grinning elf.” She took another mouthful and chewed slowly as she gathered memories. “He always wears a 24-karat ring with tiny rubies and diamonds forming the letters CP and a 22” square link chain necklace with a tiny dog tag reading CP by the clasp. Sometimes he'll wear a bra
celet or two and a tiny hoop earring. I hear there's also a nipple ring, but I've never been inspired to find out,” she related with a dark smile.
I began pouring coffee. “Let's move on to the others, Razor and Junior, and anyone else close to Picolo you believe is worth mentioning.”
She dabbed icing from pretty Scarlett Johansson lips and waited until I'd placed sugar and milk on the table.
* * *
Stone-faced Razor was Jimmy Picolo's Mack-sized personal assistant-bodyguard, and a man much too serious for someone of twenty-seven years. Buddy had heard through Kent Winche – a young man who knew all and had been dubbed “The Source” – that Razor had gotten the name because of an alcoholic father who'd drank one too many rums and started using a razor on his son and daughter before his panicked, but not completely hysteria-numbed wife managed to fry-pan him into oblivion. Scars never faded, nor did memories. Maybe some of us didn't want them to, Buddy solemnly stated. I suspected there was more to that statement, but decided to pursue it at another time.
There was also Fugger, Picolo's chauffeur for the last thirty-five years. Like Razor, he didn't talk much, simply did as instructed and earned a six-figure salary, which was used to educate ten children and seventeen (at last count) grandchildren.
Although rumored to be useless at business, Jimmy Junior had a dream of owning a noodle house one day. While he'd never assume his father's entrepreneurial endeavors, Annia Picolo-Advertere, his sister, most certainly would.
“Then we can rule out Jimmy Junior killing his father to move up the ladder,” I said, refilling coffee cups. “But money is almost always a motivating factor.”
Buddy shook her head, her expression set. “He has a sizeable bank account thanks to trust funds his mother set up for him and Annia. She died when Jimmy was eight and Annia ten. They received the money on their twenty-first birthdays. He'll inherit more from his father, sure, but considering his current bank account, it's unlikely he'd be that desperate to kill the old man.”
“I get the feeling it couldn't have been easy being the son of Jimmy Silone Picolo,” Linda commented. “Never mind having to carry the 'Jimmy Junior' all these years.”
“I heard he never cared for 'Junior' or 'Mister Junior', as the old man called him,” Buddy declared, forking up the last nub of cake. “It must have annoyed Jimmy big time that his only son displayed no entrepreneurial aptitude or talent, and ended up working at a reinsurance company after college.”
“Facially refurbished” Annia Picolo-Adverterre could be tough as nails. Possessing a no-nonsense demeanor and demonstrating superlative visionary, facilitation and communication traits made for an excellent Chief Marketing Officer for the demolition-construction firm. Indulging in the stock market and flipping homes enabled the thirty-year-old to support two personal interests, trendy fashions and fast cars, and engage in an exotic swinger lifestyle that was apparently more fact than rumor.
Thirty-six-year-old Kent “The Source” Winche stood just over six feet, sported six-pack abs and rippling muscles, shoulder-length blond locks, and unusual cinnamon-brown eyes. He was exceptionally good-looking or “drop-dead, droolable gorgeous”, as Annia had once described him with a lustful smirk. According to her, he should have been gracing a runway instead of serving as General Manager at her father's fish processing plant, a role he evidently excelled at, for he'd moved up the ranks quickly.
Our guest smiled drolly. “Depending on who you talk to, Kent has also been depicted as – among other things – a cross between charming Hannibal Lector and not-much-in-touch Lieutenant Colonel William “Bill” Kilgore.
“Meaning?” Linda asked, puzzled.
“Some coworkers find him curious.”
There were six solid Picolo sources to begin the investigation with: the brother, son and daughter, chauffer, bodyguard, and GM. There were also two detectives to steer clear of: one we knew and the other we could care less about knowing, given Buddy's meticulous account of the Saturday evening they first rapped on Eda Kona's Kahala condo door…
Chapter Four
“Gee, who could that be?” Eda grimaced, pitching finely plucked eyebrows popular in the early 70s.
“It ain't the postman or pool guy.” Buddy placed a half-eaten vegan pizza slice back in the carton and brought it to the kitchen while Eda ambled over to greet the uninvited guests.
Dressed in similar black pants, one sported a Club Room long-sleeved polo shirt, the other a beige Ross Dress for Less special. In their mid-forties, they were old enough to have seen it all, young enough to not be tainted. Just short of brusque, they presented IDs and stated their business.
Eda led them into a long rectangular living room that ran off the kitchen and lanai, introduced Buddy, and went to prepare coffee when they accepted her offer. The one who had introduced himself as Detective Gerald Ives passed a card. His hand was strong and scarred, and looked as if it had indulged in a skirmish or two. Attractive in a wrangler or ranch-hand sort of way, the man possessed an athletic build with a broad chest and brawny shoulders, and muscular thighs hugged by slim-fit pants. He had intriguing blue eyes and they appeared to survey everything and everyone with great intensity. (Buddy would have bet ten kalua pork platters that those orbs unsettled individuals questioned in the line of duty.)
The other detective, Devoy Hunt, wasn't as intimidating. He was soft where Ives was hard, fleshy but not fat. Sparse straw-blond hair was worn à la Donald Trump. If he worked out, he'd be as attractive as his partner, but sagging flesh tended to detract from a cream-colored complexion and sparkling copper-brown eyes. So did the coif.
Once everyone was seated in thickly-padded armchairs with coffees in hand, Ives got down to business. Evidently, he was the inquisitor, Hunt the keeper of records. The focus: Jimmy Picolo's murder the night the two women had dined at J&B, Picolo's favorite restaurant, at his invitation. The upscale eatery was four blocks from where his body had been found and six from the Bishop Street offices.
Questions about the evening streamed like banners blown by a zephyr. What were their relations to Picolo? What had the two women talked about with Picolo when he'd stopped by their table to chat over glasses of arrack that he'd ordered? Who else had dropped by? Why had Buddy met him in the lobby? Had the “renowned entrepreneur” (Ives had exhibited contempt when he enunciated the words) mentioned something was troubling him? Did he appear distracted, worried, or anxious? It was the usual law-enforcement show interrogation drill.
“Are you sticking around, Ms. Feuer?” Gerald Ives asked, staring hard.
She had to laugh. “Are you telling me not to leave town?”
“We may have more questions.”
“You can always contact me on Maui.” Her tone reflected indifference.
“When are you planning to go back?”
She met his concentrated stare with one of her own. “The day after tomorrow. Eda and I have theater tickets for tomorrow night.” She could read what was running through his mind: a truck driver going to the theater? Must be stand-up comedy.
He thanked them for the coffee and their time while Hunt pocketed a small spiral-wired notebook and led the way to the front door, with Buddy and Eda trailing behind. He turned abruptly, prompting Ives to walk into him. Hunt remained unflustered, but Ives was discomposed, which was evident in the rigid jaw and flushed high cheekbones. It was a prime Fuji moment.
The sparse-haired detective, speaking for the first time since the introductions, had a slight Irish accent. “Please call if you think of anything that might help with the investigation.”
“You betcha.” Buddy offered a saccharine smile and closed the door with a resounding thud…
* * *
Rey, Linda, Button and I escorted Buddy to the corner bus stop. She'd actually walked all the way over from Kahala, a trek not for the uninitiated or timid. Once our client was settled into the Route 24 drive, we started toward Ala Moana Park. At half past four, the afternoon was dark and dismal, as if a storm we
re hovering nigh. Still, it was temperate enough for a stroll.
“Should we follow up with Ald?” Rey asked, motioning.
We crossed a small road to the side on which the yacht club was situated and strolled along the sidewalk at a leisurely pace.
“We shouldn't,” Linda grinned impishly, “but JJ definitely should.”
“Ald's not likely to share information with me.” I watched Button light up upon sighting a Bean Butterfly.
“But you two get along so well.”
“We got along so well – all four of us did, to a point, anyway,” I advised Linda.
“He seemed to favor you,” Rey grinned.
“We haven't talked since we saw him at the station the time we took Gail out for lunch.” That had been a month ago. Gail Murdock, who served as HPD Administrative Specialist, was no longer merely a professional acquaintance, but a personal friend.
“Didn't he go visit his brother in Florida?”
“For a week.”
Rey frowned. “Men. Just when you think you may have figured them out.”
“To be honest, I'd have liked us to remain casual coffee or lunch colleagues, because – unlike our client – I find the detective quite affable.” I slapped her back. “But if he doesn't want to call, that's fine. We'll connect on a professional basis again, I'm sure.”
Linda concurred.
“Buddy really doesn't like him,” Rey stated.
“They get along as well as presidential candidates at a primary debate,” Linda stated.
“Did you find out anything about Picolo?” I asked Rey, realizing she'd not mentioned anything earlier.
“Maybe.”
I pinched her arm. “Since when can you keep information to yourself?”
“Since we got caught up in Buddy's fascinating tales.” She pinched in return. “I spoke with Colin, who also hails from Nancy-Anne Kikuta's talent agency, and does those credit commercials with the Olivia Octopus mascot. 'Don't let your debts wrap you up'. He'd met the man on a few occasions. It seems that the big guy was a good friend if he liked you and your worst nightmare if he didn't. Colin's going to see if he can get some names and facts.” Rey looked upward with a frown. “Did the sky just spit?”