by Don Porter
“What are you talking about?” O'Malley asked. “I told you, you were fired, and said thank you, what the hell more do you expect from homeless people?”
“How about a little honor?”
“Nuts, honor is among thieves, and you jerks don't qualify. If you want to collect from me, see my lawyer.” O'Malley got up; Bruno picked up the chair and was waiting for O'Malley's nod to brain me. Willie had picked up a broomstick, and I wondered if Dallas was going for her pipe. Rose's hand dived into her bodice. There was a lot of flopping around, and when the hand came out it was holding a snub-nosed .32. I backed toward the door.
“Don't leave town,” I said. “Remember, there are two guys out there looking to kill you, and we are your only defense.”
“Right,” O'Malley said. “Don't call us, we'll call you.”
I made it back to the office in one piece, feeling a little fortunate even to do that.
When I walked into the reception area I almost turned around to check the sign in case I was in the wrong office. On second glance, it was Maggie at the desk, but she had her nose buried in volume one of the private investigator syllabus.
“Hi, Dick. Did you know that the second rule of stakeouts is to always have a gallon jug in the car? I wonder what women are supposed to do?”
That was a rhetorical question, at least as far as I was concerned. I went on through to the inner office.
George had his feet on the desk. “You collected our bill?” he asked.
“Oh, sure, right from the time the case stopped being pro bono until O'Malley fired us. He claimed that we don't qualify for honor among thieves. How do you suppose he figured that?”
“Probably your innocent baby face, with sucker written all over it. Want to go back and collect? We could shoot them all and take our fee out of Bruno's pocket.”
“Not a bad idea, although Rose is packing iron. It's a .32, she let me look up the barrel.”
“Intimidated?”
“Certainly not, but we'd better hurry. They're probably under a bridge on some other island by now.”
“Yeah, under a bridge, but alive or dead? I don't suppose any bodyguards followed you to the hotel?”
“Not overtly, but you never know. I took a slow cruise through Waikiki, so if they were waiting for O'Malley to get out of jail, we'd have been hard to miss.”
“Don't you think we should be guarding him?” George asked.
“Why bother? He's Cochran's problem now. It's going to be pro bono again, and this time we won't even get a thank you. All this pro bono would be bad for our bottom-line, if we had a bottom-line.”
“Well, there is the old saying, ‘in for a penny, in for another thousand bucks or so’, but if you think hard, you may remember Lydia? You probably noticed her magnificent big brown eyes?”
“And?”
“And, she'll be coming back from Vegas in two weeks. Wouldn't it be nice if those two bodyguards were in jail? Anyhow, I checked our calendar, plenty of room to play tic-tac-toe.”
“Let me guess, you are seriously suggesting that I stake out the hotel?”
“Don't forget lesson two.”
The municipal parking lot is a pleasant place to spend an afternoon. The zoo is behind you, separated by a twelve-foot chain link fence disguised as a flowering hedge, so you hear occasional squawks and screams reminiscent of the Serengeti. The Waikiki Grand, and several other hotels, even grander, are directly across Kapahulu Avenue. The beach is one block to the left, so most of the pedestrians on the sidewalks, and many of your fellow parkers in the lot, are wearing bathing suits, testing the limits of the nudity laws.
Kapahulu Avenue ends at the intersection with Kalakaua Avenue, and Kalakaua fronts the beach. The intersection is a major bus stop. Half a dozen different buses drop off happy campers and pick up the sunburned and exhausted ones, so there is a bus at that corner every five minutes. I didn't bother trying to read a book; I was too busy indulging my hobby of studying anatomy.
Bruno came out of the hotel, sauntered down to the corner and climbed onto a number twenty bus. Darn, that guy is big. Five minutes later, Dallas came out, and she, too, looked heavier. Maybe hotel living agreed with her. She looked around, then headed toward the bus stop. A number eight bus drifted in and she climbed onto that.
A group of tourists speaking French fluttered by followed by a family in traditional garb that I think was from India. When I looked back at the hotel, Rose was coming down the stairs. For a second, I thought her petticoat was showing, then I realized she was wearing at least three different dresses and the hemlines were at different heights. I grabbed the cell phone and dialed the office.
“Payne and Clark, detective agency. Detective Capriccio speaking.”
“Detective? Do we need to hire a new receptionist?”
“No, I'm extremely versatile. Whatcha want?”
“I need to speak to George.”
“I don't think that's a good idea. He's on the other line talking to Monica, and making cooey noises like a lovesick pigeon. I don't think they want to be disturbed.”
“Maggie, disturb them. Tell that Casanova that there's an emergency in progress and I'm going to …” “This is George, what's so damned important?”
“The O'Malley family is doing a bunk. They're coming out of the hotel one at a time, wearing all of their clothes and getting onto buses.”
“Has O'Malley come out yet?”
“No, so far, Bruno, Dallas, and Rose.”
“No bodyguards hanging around?”
“Not unless they're disguised as bathing beauties. So far, all of the buses they've boarded make stops at the Ala Moana Shopping Center. Can you interrupt your love life long enough to get over there?”
“Yeah, I'll hit the center. You stay on O'Malley. You'll recognize him by his gorgeous blue eyes. Monica is coming over from Kauai this evening, so I'm giving you fair warning. I go off duty at six o'clock. If you're engaged in a desperate gun battle at that time, you're on your own, but I'll lend you the Glock.”
“You are too kind. I wonder which gods I offended that gave me you for a partner. Oops, here come Willie and O'Malley, dressed for a cold winter's night.”
I hung up the phone and started the Jag. Predictably, Willie and O'Malley turned toward the bus stop. I gave up my hard-won parking spot and jounced over the speed bumps toward the exit. I had to cross two lanes of traffic that were racing toward the mountains, and merge with two lanes fighting their way toward the beach. I had just survived that when a blue Chevy with dark-tinted windows blasted out of the lot behind me, cut me off, and bulled in ahead of me. I got a glimpse of Willie and O'Malley standing at the bus stop, then a number two bus lumbered around the corner from Kuhio and blocked my view.
The number two stopped at the corner, cars streamed around it on the left, but the Chevy stopped behind it and I stopped behind the Chevy. Apparently, Willie and O'Malley had boarded the bus; they were not on the sidewalk. Cars stacked up behind me while we waited for a green light. When the light changed, tourists in the intersection scattered, and we were swept around the corner. I was just turning irretrievably onto Kalakaua when I noticed Willie hiding behind a stack of beach mats at the ABC store. He waved at me. I waved back; there was nothing else I could do.
Kalakaua is a one-way street. Monsarrat Avenue, also one-way, Ys off to the left. Most of the traffic turned onto Monsarrat, and any other bus would have, but not the number two. It continued down Kalakaua past the beach parks, Chevy right behind it, and for want of a better idea, me behind the Chevy, bringing up the tail, so to speak.
To get back to the intersection where Willie was waving, I would have had to go six blocks down Monsarrat, clear past the Zoo, then left two blocks on Ala Wai Boulevard, and left again, six blocks back on Kapahulu. By the time I did that, a dozen buses would have stopped at Willie's intersection.
I dialed George's cell phone.
“George here, what did you do wrong now?”
“
Where are you when I need you?”
“I'm at the Ala Moana Center, of course. Rose just got off of a number nineteen, transfer in hand, and climbed onto a fifty-seven. That will take her clear around the island, but I got the impression that she didn't even look at the bus number, just climbed onto the next available.”
The number two stopped at the aquarium and several people got off, none of them O'Malley. The Chevy could have squeezed past the bus, but it didn't, and that was getting interesting.
“Okay,” I said, “you blew your assignment. Listen to this. Willie and O'Malley pulled a little prestidigitation back at the bus stop. Willie is still there, and O'Malley may, or may not, be on the number two bus I'm following. Meanwhile, there's a blue Chevy looking very suspicious. Do you suppose the bodyguards switched cars?”
“At this point, driving around in that Cadillac with the Mafia-Staff-Car license plates wouldn't be real bright. They haven't started shooting at you yet?”
“They're not shooting me or the bus, yet. We just stopped at the New Otani Hotel. O'Malley didn't get off, and once again the Chevy could have passed, but didn't.”
“And I suppose that you are right behind them with a big, ‘I'm following you’ sign in the window? They're probably waiting to shoot you until the road gets wider so they won't block traffic.”
We came around the buttonhook, away from the beach, where Kalakaua ends. The bus turned left on Paki Avenue, heading back toward town, the Chevy turned right on Diamond Head Boulevard. “You can forget that red hot tip and stop hoping for my demise, the Chevy is not following the bus, but I am.”
“Dick, give it up. O'Malley has cleanly and fairly given you the slip. I always figured that O'Malley was smarter than you are. This just proves it.”
“Maybe, and my old daddy once advised me never to get into a pissing contest with a skunk. Maybe this is the time.”
“Could be. Anyhow, you follow that bus for the rest of the night, and get into any contests that suit your fancy. I'll bet my half of the fee that O'Malley is not on that bus. Meanwhile, I'm headed for the airport and the loving arms of Monica. If I hear anymore about you before her plane leaves in the morning, it better be the coroner calling.”
George hung up with a pretty good click, for a cell phone. I followed the bus, clear back to downtown and halfway through the business district. The bus stopped at a major interchange at the corner of Beretania and Bishop. Twenty people got off in a bunch, half of them getting straight onto other buses. O'Malley and his entire family could have been in that crowd and I wouldn't have seen them. Besides, that turnout is buses only. I was being pushed down Beretania by a solid wall of traffic, and if I'd pulled into the bus queue I'd have been crushed. I turned left on Nuuanu Avenue and found a parking spot in front of The Indigo Restaurant. That seemed like an omen, so I parked.
I knew that George was right. O'Malley had outsmarted me, fair and square. That hurt my ego, but the pain was balanced by a growing certainty that I would never see O'Malley or his family again. Somehow I didn't feel badly about that, and I was surprised to note that I wished them well. I wasn't even guessing whether they were under some other bridge on another island, or flying first class to Atlantic City. The important thing was that they were out of my life, and my life had just improved.
The trick at The Indigo is to walk right through the restaurant to the bar in back. It's typical Hawaiian, no walls, and it's next to the little park and fountain that make the gateway to Chinatown. Bernice is a sweetheart. She poured me a rum and Coke and raised her eyebrows. I nodded, so she called my order for Chinese pupus into the kitchen. I had expected the fountain in the park to be soothing, but it seemed to be laughing at me.
Chapter 21
Maggie had the office open and was buried in detective lore. Those books from the Private Investigator Program are the size of an unabridged dictionary, so I do mean buried. She had started the coffee; I helped myself to that. I fired up the computer, cleaned the ads for Viagra, pornography, and investment opportunities out of the e-mail; there were no prospective clients. Be aware that if you do ever open one of those absolutely free pornography sites you'll never get out again without rebooting your computer, and even then it may program itself as a recurring event so that you can't delete it. Never mind how I know that.
George came stumbling in, looking haggard, but relaxed. Maggie came to lean against the doorjamb, looking perplexed. She also looked like Miss Teen America in a wardrobe from the Ross discount house, but classy. “The book says that whichever way your car is headed, your quarry will go the other way. Is that true?”
George answered. “One hundred percent certain. It never fails.”
“If you haven't been spotted, how do they know?”
George was helping himself to coffee. “It has to do with the chaos theory, random selection, quadratic equations, and the survival of the fittest.”
“Oh.” Maggie went back to her desk.
George was getting warmed up for a lecture. He still hadn't forgiven me for the pro bono, and I might have had to listen to his spiel about no good deed going unpunished, but the outer door burst open and three big guys wearing black suits barged in. Maggie jumped up and backed against the window, but these guys didn't even pause in her domain. They stomped straight into our office. The one in front, who was the one not wearing a gun in a shoulder holster, sized us up, went straight to George's desk and leaned over it, propped up by big, hairy knuckles planted on the blotter. One of the gun toters turned around to fill the office doorway. The other one hovered between our two desks with his hand inside his jacket.
“May I help you?” George asked.
“Yes, you may, and you'd damn well better,” Knuckles said.
“Certainly. Payne and Clark, detectives, at your service for two thousand dollars a day, ten thousand-dollar retainer. What can we do for you?”
“Screw the fee crap. Those schlemiels stole six million dollars, and you can have that. It's dirty money anyway so the Don doesn't want it back. That's your fee. You know these phony islands and we don't, so the Don would appreciate it very much if you find those two bodyguards who murdered our consigliore. They've got to die, painfully and soon. Here are their pictures and their dossiers. See to it, unless you'd like to substitute for them. I give you my personal guarantee that two guys will be dead shortly, either them or you, your choice.”
Knuckles turned around to look at me, just to make sure that I understood that I was included in the deal. The shocked expression on my face apparently reassured him. He turned back to George.
“It has come to our attention that you obligingly sent a very attractive hostage right to the home office in Vegas. We appreciate that. Don't worry about her. We'll keep an eye on her and see that nothing happens to her while you do the job. You have one week, capish?” Knuckles turned around and stomped out. The gunman by the door followed him, the one between our desks backed up, keeping his hand inside his jacket until he passed Maggie, then turned around, stalked out, and slammed the door. Our logo sign didn't break.
“See?” George said, “that's the way to handle clients. State your fee up front.”
“Yeah, the fee is fine, but did you happen to catch the escape clause?”
“What, the dying painfully and soon? Heck, that's standard contract wording for big business. It's just a matter of whether you'd rather be pulled apart on a rack, or brained by Bruno's chair. No one ever said that business was easy.” George looked over the pictures and tossed them to me.
Lydia had been right; they were nice, pleasant appearing guys, if you like the tall, muscle-bound, smooth Italian types. The profile shots could have been from any recent movie, the head-on shots showed them in front of a measuring stick, the same way the police do it, and both of these guys topped six feet. The difference between these shots and police shots was that Salvatore and Vincent were smiling into the camera.
Maggie came to the door and leaned against the jamb. “We have new
clients? Shall I start a file?”
“Not just yet,” George pointed out. “They have no names, no addresses, and no contact numbers. Let the file ride for a couple of days. Dick and I are going out for a conference. If any more clients show up, tell them we're all booked up.” George stuck the pictures into his jacket pocket.
Maggie went back to her desk and picked up her book, but when we walked past, I did notice that she was holding the book upside down. George punched parking garage, level two in the elevator. I supposed we were headed for Fat Fat. That's what “conference” usually means, but he surprised me. “Let's take the convertible. May as well enjoy our last few days on this lovely planet before our slow painful deaths.” He put the top down when we left the garage, and it was rather pleasant, zipping through town and climbing up onto the freeway.
“Got any cash?” he asked.
“About eighty bucks, I guess. How much do we need?”
“I figure five hundred should do it. We'll stop at that automatic teller machine in Foodland.”
There are Foodland stores all over the island, so I wasn't getting any clue about where we were headed. George seemed to assume that I would know, so I hated to ask. He apparently had a plan, and under the circumstances I was glad of that. I didn't much care what the plan was; the situation was hopeless anyhow.
“George, do you really believe there are six million dollars in a suitcase just waiting for us to find them?”
“Yeah, I believe the amount. It would take that much to tempt mafia soldiers to abscond. They must have figured what their lives were worth and decided that six million was a good trade-off.”
“Well, as I understand our new contract, our lives aren't worth much if we don't find them. If we do, you can have that Porsche.
George swerved to miss a blonde in a convertible who wandered into our lane. “Could be that the guys who have the suitcase won't be anxious to give it up.”