by Don Porter
I nodded and went around the desk to collect my Beretta from the desk drawer. It's the 3032 Tomcat model. It's a serious weapon, can put all seven .32-caliber slugs in the end of a Coke can at fifty feet, but it's only five inches long and three inches high, so it fits in my back pocket. Dallas stood and I led her out.
“Have a nice day,” Maggie chirped.
I parked the Jag in front of the shelter, but motioned Dallas to stay put. I got out and checked the street. No black Cadillacs. I got the gun in my hand anyhow, and waved Dallas to go. She scooted. I stood there waiting to see where the shots would come from and wondering if I'd get a chance to shoot back. The four fugitives came running out, hunched over to avoid bullets. They piled into the car, I took one more look around before I ducked in. Still no black Cadillacs.
The Jag is the Vander Plus, four-door sedan, touted as a five passenger, but they used midgets to measure. The guy in the front seat beside me said, “Hi, Dick, I'm Willie.” We let it go at that. Willie hadn't seen a barber lately either, but he'd been hacking off hair, probably with scissors, so he wouldn't have stood out in a crowd of 1960s hippies.
The Thunderbird Motel had plenty of rooms available, and the gnome behind the desk seemed surprised when I rented two rooms for two whole nights, and paid in advance with a company Visa card. I think he expected cash, probably to rent rooms two hours at a time.
I slipped a business card to Willie. “If anything goes wrong, or you see any Cadillacs around, call my pager.” He patted his pockets and shrugged, so I handed him a quarter and a dime—the price of a Honolulu pay phone.
When I got back to the office, Maggie had her feet up on her desk, coffee in left hand, book in right, dreamy expression. She put her feet down, but kept her nose in the book. “Just a minute, I think he's going to take off her blouse.”
I went on into our office. I didn't want to intrude on a sacred moment. George was gone, as I had inferred from Maggie's careless posture. I had time to check the fax and the e-mail before Maggie came in. No clients, but the e-mail had specials on Viagra and tax shelters, and absolutely free sites that I could visit to see the youngest and hottest girls in the business. The trick is to hold down the control key, select all the messages, and delete them all at once.
Maggie came into the office just as I hit delete. I had to ask. “Well, did he take off her blouse?”
“No, but he ran his hands all over it, and molded it against her body.” Maggie shivered and wriggled her shoulders. “George said that you would know where he went, and you should relieve him at six. Before he left, he checked the load in his Glock and shoved it in his belt under his aloha shirt. Cochran called, and wants you to call back. He didn't sound quite so mad.”
I nodded and picked up the phone. Maggie went back to the book to find out what else the hero was going to run his hands over.
“Cochran, Payne. What can I do to assist Honolulu's finest?”
“You can start by telling me what you've done with O'Malley.”
“Cochran, I swear to you by my most sacred symbol, a full bottle of Captain Morgan's spiced rum, that I have no idea where O'Malley is. In fact, I was thinking of filing a missing persons report.”
“Never mind, we'll pick him up. I'm sure we'll have one of you in jail by morning.”
“Well, Payne and Clark will rush to share any pertinent information. As a little tit for tat, I'm sure that you are going to tell me who the murder victim was?”
“Don't know yet. He had an airline itinerary in his pocket that said he had arrived from Chicago at seven o'clock last night.”
“No name?”
“Oh yeah, his name is John Smith, and he had an Illinois driver's license to prove it. You don't suppose there really is anyone named John Smith?”
“Well, I met a guy named John Doe one time, but no John Smith yet. Fingerprints?”
“Checking. We'll have a fax from the FBI in the morning.”
“Good, and I shall spend the night trying to find O'Malley, just for you.”
Cochran hung up on me, but that was normal. There are two amenities not in his vocabulary. One is “thank you,” the other is “goodbye.”
Chapter 4
At six that evening, I drove up behind George's BMW. He pulled out, and I took his parking spot. I had a good view of the Salvation Army shelter. I also had the number six combo from Wendy's, that's the Big Bacon Burger, medium Coke, and a little envelope of fries. I set the Beretta on the seat beside me for comfort, and dug my copy of Atlas Shrugged out of the glove compartment. Streetlights were going to give enough light to read by, but it was going to be a long six hours before George came back at midnight—unless the Cadillac showed up and I was shot before then.
Six hours on a stakeout is better than six hours in a dentist's chair, but not much. You can read, but you don't dare get absorbed in anything. If you have to do it, Hawaii is the best place. You're not going to freeze like Minnesota, and you're not going to cook like Arizona. Sometimes, you even have an interesting or pleasant place to sit.
In this case, there was a block-square parking lot for K-Mart on my right, and watching some people park was interesting. Across the street on my left was the shelter, and some of the characters who went in there were downright fascinating, but so far none of them had looked like henchmen. A block ahead of me, traffic on Nimitz Highway was alternately rushing or stopped, and that was going to go on all night. If the assassins showed up, they'd probably come from that direction, unless they came from the other way and shot me in the back. I found my place and sneaked a peek in the book.
George gave a little toot that woke me up at midnight. I managed to get the Jag out of the parking spot and he squeezed the BMW in. Notice that he had arranged the shifts so that he could spend the evening with Monica. All I could do between midnight and six in the morning was try to get some more sleep.
I was Johnny-on-the-spot at six and got to watch the sun come up. No Cadillacs, no O'Malley. When George took over at noon, I drove out to the Thunderbird.
I had rented rooms twenty-one and twenty-two. No one answered my knock at twenty-one, and when I tried twenty-two I thought for a moment that it was the wrong room. On second look, it was Dallas who peeked out the door, then opened it. Bruno—it had to be him, because I recognized Willie seated at the desk—was standing behind the door. Bruno was almost as tall as the door, and was holding a chair over his head, ready to brain me. He put the chair down.
I was disoriented because they were clean. They must have spent the whole night in the showers, and the guys were shaved and shorn. Rose had dumped the blue bathrobe and was wearing only one housedress. She struck me as the same age as Dallas, whatever that was.
“Any problems?” I asked.
Apparently Willie was the spokesman. “None. Did you find O'Malley?”
“Not yet, we're still looking. Are you guys up for some lunch?” They were. We all climbed into the Jag, and this time I didn't have to roll down the window. I took them to Bob's Drive-In under the airport viaducts, but it occurred to me that I didn't have to worry about them being recognized. We loaded up on burgers and fries and ribs and chicken sandwiches, and took the goodies out back to the tables under the shed roof. We didn't talk, we all had our mouths full at all times, but when we finished, we went back to the window and picked up four more meals to go. I had figured out that I had cut off their food supply—fish from the stream, or who knows what from the dumpsters.
When I called in, Maggie had a message from Cochran. Our John Smith was also named Alonzo Titalia, suspected mafia enforcer from Chicago. “Cochran says that now you owe him one, and you should produce O'Malley immediately.”
“If he calls back, tell him we're beating the stones and leaving no bush unturned.”
I drove back to the shelter and parked two spaces behind George. He was holding up a newspaper, as a disguise, I guess. The BMW is a baby-blue convertible, and he had the top down. Very inconspicuous. I climbed in beside him.
“That Cadillac seems to be taking a long time to go around the block,” I said.
“Yeah,” George agreed, “and that probably means that they found O'Malley and dumped him in the stream, too.”
“Well, we can check the stream, but if O'Malley went out the back, and the Cadillac headed across the bridge, I'll bet my half of the fee on O'Malley. Only, how did the guys in the Cadillac know to question the family, and how did they know O'Malley's name?”
“ To take your idiotic questions in reverse order, Pendergast was expecting to hear about a murder. When O'Malley came in screaming that he didn't commit one, someone in the police department tipped off Pendergast. Also, I'll bet my half of the fee that O'Malley saw something he shouldn't have, and the perps were already looking for a homeless man. If they got a look at O'Malley, he'd be hard to forget.”
“Okay, I'll buy that rather vague and convoluted answer to the second question. How did they know to question the family?”
“I figure they broke the third rule from Detective School 101: ‘Whichever way your car is pointed, your quarry will go the other way’.” In case you don't remember, the first rule in Detective School 101 is: There is no such thing as a coincidence, and the second is, always carry a gallon jug so that your bladder doesn't burst on stakeout.
A black Cadillac turned off Nimitz and drove slowly past the shelter. George followed it with the Glock, but the driver was a little old lady who was so height challenged that she was looking out through the steering wheel. She used both hands to turn the wheel in short jerks, pulling into K-Mart. George slid the Glock back under his newspaper.
“Now, as I was saying, the perps were staking out the area of the bridge because they knew that O'Malley disappeared somewhere around there. They saw O'Malley come out leading the pack, but they had to go around the block to get here, and by that time, O'Malley had gone inside.”
“Okay, that's one of about a thousand possible scenarios. Aren't you getting a little tired of guarding an empty nest, or locking the barn door after the horse, or whatever?”
“What do you suggest? Languishing in the office waiting for O'Malley to call?”
“You have any better ideas?”
“No.” George started the car; I went back to the Jag and followed him.
We had just pulled onto Nimitz when Maggie paged me. I grabbed the cell phone out of the glove compartment. “Hi, Maggie, what's up?”
“O'Malley is on the other line, asking about his family.”
“Tell him the family is safe, and ask him where he is. I'll hold.”
I tapped the horn a couple of times. George slammed the BMW
into the first parking spot and ran back to climb into the Jag. Maggie came back on the line.
“He's calling from a pay phone across the street from Aala Park. He won't tell me where he is, but I heard one of those talking buses announce Iwilei Road.”
I spun us around across four lanes of traffic, ignoring the blaring horns and screeching brakes, and headed back the way we'd come. “Tell him to stay there. If he moves, I'll shoot him on sight.” We were already crossing the bridge on Nimitz. I wheeled us onto Iwilei Road and raced for the park.
“Anybody following us?” I asked.
“We're clear, go for it.”
“George, I want you to notice that it was my idea that flushed him out.” I whipped around the corner onto King Street, across from the park, and jammed the Jag into a space in front of a Chinese grocery store.
“There he goes.” George was pointing. O'Malley's back was disappearing down King Street ahead of us. I ripped back into traffic, ignoring a bus and its angry horn. O'Malley veered off onto Hotel Street and I couldn't follow; that's buses and foot traffic only. George jumped out at the corner.
“Meet you on Bethel Street,” I shouted. “Remember he's a boxer.” George was gone, the bus was honking again, and gave me a final blast for good measure when I screeched onto Bethel Street. George and O'Malley were waiting for me on the corner of Hotel Street. They looked like a couple of buddies, but O'Malley's arm was bent behind his back and almost up between his shoulder blades.
George opened the back door and they both climbed in. George released O'Malley's arm and shoved him into the corner, but he was studying the gleam in O'Malley's eye and apparently not liking it much. George does move fast when he wants to. He routinely catches mosquitoes, sometimes even houseflies, on the wing, and the hand really is quicker than the eye. George was sitting with his hands in his lap. A nanosecond later, he had grabbed O'Malley's upper arm and his thumb had disappeared into O'Malley's bicep.
George spoke softly, not even using his famous growl. He was just imparting information that O'Malley needed in order to make an informed judgment.
“I understand that you're a boxer, capable of creating a fuss. I want you to know that if you so much as clench a fist, I'll break your arms. You may sit there quietly and healthy, or you will sit there quietly with broken arms. It's entirely up to you.”
O'Malley had gone pale from the pain, but he was trying not to react. When George released his grip, O'Malley's color slowly returned, and the gleam was gone from his eye. That made it my turn to tackle him. For the first time in recorded history, I found a parking spot on Bethel Street. I jammed the car into it before it had a chance to evaporate, and turned around in my seat to face O'Malley.
Chapter 5
“Hi, O'Malley. Having a nice day?” I asked.
“Did you guys tip off those killers where to find me?”
“No. Did you lie to us about the killing?”
“Where's my family?”
“We're going there now. Use this precious time to tell us the truth about what happened.”
“Show me the family first.”
“Fair enough, but if we're going to help you, you'd damn well better start leveling with us.”
It was a pointedly silent ride until I parked at the Thunderbird. “Try room twenty-two” I suggested. O'Malley went to the door and knocked, George and I hovered, one on either side, in case he bolted again. It was Rose who opened the door. She pulled O'Malley in, then swung the door wide for us to follow. Bruno was behind the door again, ready to brain intruders. He put down his chair cum cudgel and retreated to sit on the edge of the bed. There wasn't any gushing joyous reunion. O'Malley was back, and that was good, but they accepted it with the same stoicism they would have displayed at his demise.
The room had twin beds, a chest of drawers, a desk with one wooden chair, and that was it. The family sat on the edges of the beds, George and I stood by the door. It was an awkward silence. I broke it.
“Okay, guys, it's truth or consequences time. The part of the truth that we know is that we've stumbled into something very big and very bad. That lawyer who bailed out O'Malley cost someone five hundred dollars per hour. They did not bail him out as a public service. They bailed him out precisely so that they could kill him, and I don't understand how they missed. O'Malley, when Pendergast drove away and left you standing alone on a deserted street, your assassin should have been there waiting for you.”
“Luck of the Irish.” O'Malley was nodding his mop. “I was afraid the cops might arrest me again, so I didn't go down the street. I ducked back into the vestibule, down the stairway, cut through the underground parking garage, and came out on Beretania Street.”
“Okay, you lucked out. We also lucked out. The only reason that we weren't being followed today is that we haven't been back to the office. We spent yesterday staking out that Salvation Army shelter, hoping the bad guys would come back there for you, but they didn't. They probably spent the day staking out our office.
“One thing we know now is that there is a spy in the police department. That's how Pendergast knew to bail you out, and that spy will also know that I showed up a few minutes later, so they know there's a connection.” George had wandered over to perch on the edge of the desk, so I leaned against the dresser. The family was sitting bolt u
pright and silent, so I turned to O'Malley and continued.
“I don't know the significance of your hair. Maybe you're making a statement, maybe it's a sacred part of your persona, but right now that hair is a major factor that may get us all killed.”
O'Malley looked sort of deflated, but he nodded. Dallas grabbed the chair from behind the door, set it in the middle of the room, and ran to the bathroom. She was back in ten seconds with a towel and a wastebasket. O'Malley sat in the chair, Dallas draped the towel around his shoulders, pulled a tiny pair of manicure scissors out of her pocket, and attacked.
“Okay, O'Malley, your turn. How about starting at the beginning, and telling us why we're all about to be killed?”
He couldn't nod. Dallas had pulled a fistful of hair out straight and was busily hacking it off.
“I'd been waiting by that dumpster behind Sam Choy's restaurant, planning to bring home some lobster and crab for dinner. It was getting a little late, but the busboy kept tossing out platters of crab legs, quite a few with shells that hadn't even been broken, and I was collecting a nice sack full, so I stayed until after dark.”
Dallas dumped what looked like a full-grown mink into the wastebasket, and started hacking off another. O'Malley was starting to look lopsided, but he continued his tale.
“I was on the wrong side of the highway when I got to the bridge. A big car was coming, real slow. We don't like for people to see us going under the bridge, so I hunkered down next to the railing to let the car pass. The car pulled right onto the bridge and stopped, and I could see a terrible ruckus going on inside it. When the ruckus died down, two guys got out, dragging something. They had just tossed it over the railing when a fishing boat fired up in the harbor and turned on his spotlight. There we were, all of us caught in the glare. I was staring at them because I saw that it was a body they were dropping, and they were staring at me, standing there plastered against the railing.