Murder Pro Bono

by Don Porter

  I grabbed the door handle to hold myself in. “What do you suppose Knuckles meant by ‘dirty money’?”

  “Oh, probably nothing. You've heard the expression, ‘filthy lucre’. He just doesn't want to touch it because he doesn't know where it's been.”

  We peeled off onto the 78 Bypass over Aiea, merged with the H-1 again past Pearl City and Waipahu, and made the right turn onto the H-2. If we had been a little later, that route would be an impassible war zone, but we were ahead of rush hour. The H-2 Freeway ends in Wahiawa. We made the jog into town and ducked into the Foodland parking lot. George parked next to the ATM. I'd already figured out that this jaunt was going to cost me $300, and I finally had an idea of where we were going.

  Shalmy runs a pawnshop out front to cater to the servicemen at Schofield, but his business is in back. George nodded toward the connecting door, and Shalmy led us to the inner sanctum. The front room smelled like leather, oil, and dust, so I was glad to leave it, but the back room smelled like ink and burned plastic and chicken soup, so I tried not to breathe at all back there.

  You just naturally feel sorry for Shalmy. He's a little old man, graying and balding, with the weight of the world on his shoulders. His granny glasses have one broken earpiece, repaired with a paperclip, and they slide down to emphasize his colossal nose. He wears a blue apron with white threads showing through, and a corner of the pocket is starting to tear. All that sympathy is probably good for business.

  Most people don't know that he has a Datsun 380-Z parked in the ramshackle garage out back, or that each evening he races it to his twelve-million-dollar mansion at the top of Tantalus Drive. I've been up to his place a few times, usually when someone has stolen something that Shalmy has stolen from someone else. Each time I went up, I was met by a Playboy centerfold who was panting for Shalmy to get home.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I serve you?” His counter had various contraptions on it, but he swiped a clean spot and went behind to face us.

  George took the pictures out of his pocket and set the two full-face shots on the counter. “We have a little paperwork problem, no big deal, but it would be convenient if you could help us out. What we need are a couple of new driver's licenses, and we'd like to have these pictures on them.”

  Shalmy studied the pictures and nodded. “I can do that, two hundred apiece?” He phrased it as a question, but it wasn't. If you try to dicker with Shalmy, the price will only go up. We each peeled off two hundred from the new bankrolls we had picked up at Foodland.

  Shalmy scooped up the bills before they touched the counter. “You'll be needing new names to go with the pictures. I suggest Stanley Pederson and Benjamin Adams.”

  “That will be fine. You did say Pederson with a d?” George asked. Shalmy nodded. George was putting the pictures back into his pocket; they had served their purpose. The licenses in question had already been made and given to the bodyguards, what we got for our money was the new names they were traveling under.

  “How about some passports to go with the licenses?”

  “Well, that's a problem.” Shalmy was shaking his head sadly, and the sadness was genuine. “You see, one doesn't just print up a passport. Someone needs to lose or misplace a passport to work with. Changing the pictures and names are a snap, but the rest is just too complicated. In fact, I had a couple of guys in yesterday wanting passports and I had to turn them down because I only have one ready to go. They're on a waiting list. For a hundred bucks apiece, I'll put you guys on the list too, and give you a call when I can deliver.”

  We each forked over our last hundred bucks. Shalmy didn't write anything down; he knew our phone number. We nodded our thanks and left. That's not the sort of place you want to hang around because you don't want to be seen there, and besides, I was getting anxious to breathe again.

  George spun the convertible around and headed back toward the freeway.

  “Did we really need to be on the passport list?” I asked.

  “That was the best part. We know that Pederson and Adams can't head for any foreign destinations without passports. If they do stick around and go back for passports, Shalmy might call us in time to grab them right there.”

  “After he's collected the $10,000 each for the passports, of course.”

  “Of course.” George made the turn onto the freeway too fast, and stomped the gas while he was still turning. He does love to hear the rubber howl; I guess that's his bid for eternal youth. We had a relatively free ride into town, even though rush hour had started. It was the hundred thousand people trying to get out of town who had the problem.

  When we walked into the office, Maggie was holding the phone and was shaking her head, wearing a quizzical expression. George took the phone from her and listened, apparently to silence. He returned the quizzical look to Maggie. “The phone just rang, and when I answered it, all I heard were gunshots.”

  “Shalmy!” We both shouted at once. I turned around to run out the door, George was tossing the phone back to Maggie. “Call 911. Tell them there has just been a murder at the pawn shop on Wilikina Avenue, next to the McNair Gate in Wahiawa.”

  I was holding the elevator door for him and punched parking-two. The elevator zipped down to thirty-five and stopped. Several secretary and business types piled in and pushed various buttons, ground floor and below. We dropped to thirty-four and repeated the process. By the time we passed thirty I could no longer see the door or the enunciator, but I don't think we missed any floors. I was jammed between a matronly type with a backpack sort of purse that was punching into my stomach, and a tall skinny guy who had eaten garlic for lunch. After ten floors, no more were squeezing on, and those of us inside had stopped breathing, but the car continued stopping at every floor.

  I didn't see George again until after we passed parking-one. We were down to just over the car's capacity by that time, and starting to breathe again. We ran past the crowd, jumped into the convertible and sped up the ramp, but we stopped there. Hundreds of people on parking-one were trying unsuccessfully to get out. Twenty minutes later we saw why. Bishop Street was the usual rush hour parking lot, and cars waiting for the light at Merchant Street were backed up past our exit.

  You get the idea. The only thing that changed during the next hour, while we inched toward Wahiawa, was that we were occasionally wedged between different cars. The pawnshop was surrounded by flashing lights; cruisers, ambulances, and a van that I think held a SWAT team. We pinned our badges onto our shirts. Officially, they cut no ice whatever, but there were enough people milling in and out, and enough general confusion, that we slipped in without being challenged.

  Shalmy was stretched out across his counter with so many holes in him that I recognized him only by the apron. The phone that he kept under the counter was off the hook and beeping. He was clutching some torn papers in his left hand and we got close enough to get a look at them. They were the first few pages out of a passport. The cover and the picture page were gone, but page two, the signature page, was clasped firmly in Shalmy's hand. We slipped out and walked between the blinking lights, back to the convertible.

  “I hope that he got his $10,000 before they whacked him.” George climbed in and started the car.

  “Don't you suppose that's what the argument was about?” I asked.

  “I hope so. I'd hate to think that they blasted him because they caught him dialing our number.”

  “Aw, he wouldn't have minded that. He got his $200 for making the call.”

  We entered the freeway in a sane sensible manner for a change. The moon was coming up behind us, and our side of the freeway was clear. The other side was still stopped, cars sitting in a bumper-to-bumper line while optimistic souls ahead of them tried to exit the freeway.

  “You planning to spend the night with your computer?” I asked.

  “With one week left to live, I believe that's indicated. Maybe it won't take all night. I'm thinking that without passports, there are only a couple of place
s they can go without meeting their friends. I'll bust into the airline computers and check for Stanley Pederson and Benjamin Adams on flights to Guam and Alaska. Do you need a passport to go to Australia?”

  “Darned if I know, but probably, it's about as foreign as destinations get.”

  “I'll check it out. You can bring me a pizza and a Michelob if you get to feeling useless.”

  “Certainly, anything to keep the wheels of commerce turning and lubricated. Since we only have a week to live, maybe I'll take Maude out to dinner tonight. Only fair—you spent last night with Monica.”

  Chapter 22

  Maude is my eighty-year-old neighbor. We've lived next door to each other for ten years, and she tends to forget that she isn't my mother. She forgets quite a few things, actually, but she's a sweetheart. Truth is that sometimes I forget that she isn't my mother, too. When Betty's on the island, Betty lives with Maude, and they become the best of mother/daughter teams. I hope that doesn't make Betty and me incestuous. Anyhow, with Betty off island, Maude and I are both at loose ends, and misery does love company. I set George's pizza and beer on his desk. He was turned to the computer table and oblivious. I dialed Maude's number. She picked up on the first ring, so she'd been sitting by the phone. She does a lot of that.

  “Hi, Maude? Dick here. I was wondering if I could take my favorite girl out to dinner tonight?”

  “Dick? Is Betty back?”

  “No, not Betty, you, silly.”

  “Do you really think we should two-time Betty?”

  “Come on, take a chance; you're only young once. I won't tell if you don't.”

  “Can we go to Bubba Gump's?”

  “Maudie, your slightest wish is my command. Pick you up in half an hour?”

  “Of course not, make it an hour. I've got to put on my face.”

  “Hurry. You now have fifty-nine minutes and forty-five seconds.”

  I watched over George's shoulder for a while. He had hacked his way into the Air Micronesia database and was scanning for Pederson and/or Adams. The names aren't alphabetized; they're arranged by seat number, so he was going to have to read them all. He didn't know I was there. His pizza was getting cold and his beer was getting warm, but when George is on the computer, he becomes deaf and blind to everything else.

  I drove home, grabbed a quick shower, shaved, and changed clothes. If Maude was putting on her face, then we were going formal, so a little cleanup was the least I could do. It had been forty-five minutes. I went next door and tapped on the screen.

  “Come in, Dick. I've been waiting forever.” She was seated at the table, hands folded, wearing a blue jacket and a matching blue hat. The hat was woven straw, and had a veil with little blue gnats on it. Her eyes were the deepest blue that it has ever been my pleasure to drown in, and eighty years of determination and laughter are etched into a sweet little round Irish face. I bowed and extended an arm. She stood, curtsied, and allowed me to lead her out. She was wearing heels, so this was a very special occasion.

  We marched down the six flights of stairs from our third-floor apartments, arm in arm, like the king and queen entering the ballroom. I held the car door for her and we arranged her skirt together before I closed the door. I know, that's passé now, but I miss it. I open doors for Betty when I get the chance, but it's pretty clear that she can open her own doors. Maude could likely open a door, too, but she would never dream of doing it if there's a man around.

  When I walked around behind the Jag, I noticed a black sedan with the motor running parked at the curb across the street. I couldn't really see the driver's features, but there was enough light to show me that he wasn't Sal or Vinney. I decided that I didn't mind an escort. I figured that this guy was with our new client, just keeping an eye on us for the Don. We had six and a half days left to live. George was busily doing what had to be done, so I opted to show our escort that we weren't worried. Anyhow, I wasn't going to pull any shenanigans with Maude in the car.

  I parked at ground level in the Ala Moana Shopping Center. I had a momentary flash of conscience about George, slaving away, so I stuck my cell phone in my pocket. We took escalators up, and up, and up. Under the lights, the black sedan turned into a Buick and the driver hit the first escalator just as we took the second. He was from the same general mold as Sal and Vinney, but definitely a different guy. I wondered about sending the Mafia the video of Godfather III. In that one, the hit men wore slacks and sport shirts and would have been comfortable and inconspicuous in Hawaii. The specimens I'd seen so far were still dressed Godfather I, and those suits must be murder in Hawaii (so to speak).

  A chic young lady wearing shorts, aloha shirt, and a headset, ushered us out onto the lanai. From the top of the mall, we were looking over the trees in Ala Moana Park, watching the moon set over the ocean, and getting a fresh seventy-eight-degree breeze.

  Our escort from the black sedan was seated next to the railing that separates the restaurant from the concourse. He loosened his tie and consulted the menu. Our waiter came, bustling with energy and aloha. I ordered a margarita on the rocks because they do that very well and serve you a glass of ice and your own decanter. Maude ordered Long Island Iced Tea. I wondered if she knew what she was asking for. I'm sure that you know, but just in case, Long Island Iced Tea consists of every beverage normally found in a bar, except tea.

  Our waiter was back in a flash and explained to me for the twentieth time how to pour from the decanter without losing the lid and dumping the whole decanter on the table. They always explain that, but most nights someone forgets and gets a bath. Maude took a big sip of her drink, wrinkled her nose, then slurped it down at an alarming rate. It struck me that I've been calling her “my eighty-year-old neighbor” for about ten years, so maybe she isn't eighty any more, but then, I haven't noticed her aging any.

  Without glancing at the menu, Maude ordered coconut shrimp, and I chose Shrimp New Orleans, not so much for the shrimp as for the sauce that takes you straight to Cajun country and haunts you for the next three days. I glanced over at our escort and he was carefully decanting a margarita.

  While we waited for our food, the waiter stopped by for the ritual quiz. “What was the name of Forest Gump's boat?” I knew that one, it was the … the …

  “Jenny” Maude chirped. “He said that was the most beautiful name in the world.”

  “Right. Name two sports that Forest participated in.” I was remembering the roll-down sign on the football field that said, “Stop Forest”.

  “Ping pong and football.” Maude finished her drink and handed the empty glass to the waiter. He took the hint, but couldn't leave yet. “Which three presidents did he visit?” I remembered that he got involved with Watergate …

  “Nixon, Johnson, and Kennedy. Be a good lad and bring me another glass of that delicious tea.” The waiter looked at my half-full decanter. I nodded and chug-a-lugged. When you only have a week to live, there's not much point in worrying about your liver.

  Dinner was as good as you are imagining, and Maude slugged down four glasses of tea with no apparent ill effects. I stopped after the second margarita and got drunk on the Cajun sauce instead. We stuffed ourselves far beyond comfort. Maude had one giant shrimp, deep fried in a golden batter and dripping with shredded coconut, left on her plate. She asked the waiter to wrap that, and he took my credit card. We kicked back, Maude finishing her drink, me making sure that I had drained every drop of tequila from the ice cubes, when my cell phone rang. I took it out of my pocket, but Maude was scandalized.

  “Dick, don't answer that thing in here, that's terribly bad manners.” I punched Answer, but stuck the phone back in my pocket. Thirty seconds later, my beeper was going off. The return number was George at the office, but what could I do? Our escort put down his “Forest Stop” sign, and when a waiter paused, the escort stuffed bills into his hand. He was standing by the escalator when we came out and preceded us down to the cars.

  I got Maude settled, and just in case our es
cort could read lips, got in the car myself before I called George back. Maude was snoring gently.

  “Dick, what the hell took you so long?”

  “Sorry, I'm out with a lady and had to mind my manners. What's so urgent?”

  “Pederson and Adams were just assigned seats on a Consolidated flight to Guam. I didn't see it coming because they didn't make reservations.”

  “When does the flight leave?”

  “In twenty minutes. Our reservations are on Air Micronesia at 6:00 in the morning. Meet at the airport. I've got to eat a cold pizza and drink a warm beer now, or die of hunger.”

  “Don't die of hunger. We have a date with the hangman in six days and change. See you at the airport at 4:30.”

  “Make it 3:30. Guam is considered an international flight, even though it's a U.S. Territory. Damn good thing it is, by the way, because they still assign seats.” George hung up. I drove us home gently, to match Maude's snores. When I opened the car door, it didn't disturb her. I picked her up and carried her, and it was a little sad to find how light she was. I was having disturbing thoughts about shucking off mortal husks.

  I carried her into her bedroom, removed her jacket, hat, and shoes, and loosened her belt, but stopped there. Maude has very strict ideas about what is proper, and I was already pushing the limits. I dug the doggie-bagged shrimp out of her purse and stuck it in the refrigerator.

  In my apartment, I turned on all of the lights except the bathroom light, went into the bathroom and cracked the jalousies. The Buick was parked across the street. I packed a bag. Guam is practically on the equator, about 13 degrees north, so tropical clothes are fine, but I stuck in a rain poncho in case it's monsoon season. I know that's half the year, but I can never remember which half. I debated long and hard about packing the Beretta. I decided against it. If it were discovered in my luggage, I might be in jail and miss my execution date.

  I waited until 10:30 to shut off my kitchen light, then tried to watch Seinfeld for a while. Those guys are funny, and I'm secretly in love with Elaine, but I couldn't get in the mood. I turned on the bathroom light for twenty minutes, then shut it off and checked the window again. The Buick was still there.