by Don Porter
Our apartment building has walkways around three sides, and there are two stairways. The stairs that I consider the back lead to the parking lot and Kahakai Drive, the front stairs lead down to the promenade beside the Ala Wai Canal. I waited a decent interval, shut off the bedroom light, grabbed my suitcase and made like a shadow down the front stairs to the promenade.
It's a pleasant one-block stroll along the canal to Ala Moana Boulevard. Since they built the Hawaiian Convention Center next door to our building, they paved the promenade with two-tone brick set in patterns, and spruced up the area to make it suitable for conventioneers. The chinaberry trees still drop crunchy little pellets on the walk, but the walk gets blow-dried regularly. I love the lights of Waikiki reflected in the canal. They shimmer, and remind me of old French paintings.
I caught a taxi that was idling optimistically near the bus stop and requested the airport. I was off to Guam, oh bliss, oh joy.
Chapter 23
At 3:30 in the morning, the massive check-in area had the hushed feeling of a mausoleum. A couple of busloads of people were checking in for a flight that I guessed was to Japan, but they were a hundred yards to my right, and pretty subdued. Tourists leaving Hawaii are usually subdued because they're sorry to be leaving, but also because they're exhausted. People hate to waste their vacation time sleeping, so they are zombies for the last few days.
George had the Air Micronesia counter all to himself and was chatting up the lone attendant. He seemed content, and she was a cutie. Island girls usually are. If you're a single man, you probably have your own take on why Hawaii is called Paradise. The problem comes when you try to pick just one. George waved me over, and the attendant asked to see my picture ID. That completed the transaction, so we wandered off to find security and some coffee.
At 5:30, a couple of dozen travelers gathered around the gate and were allowed to board the 757. Most of the passengers were Chamorro, natives of Guam, and I was feeling like a giant until a group of Samoans showed up and reduced me to a shrimp. It was dark outside when we boarded, and daylight was just beginning to streak the sky when we finally took off.
That was the longest sunrise I'd ever seen. We were flying west at almost six hundred miles an hour, so the sun was gaining on us slowly. If you're a stickler for details, Guam is 3800 miles west of Hawaii so the flight takes around seven hours and you cross four time zones. You also cross the International Date Line, so depending on how you look at it, Guam is either four hours behind Hawaii or twenty hours ahead. We landed at 9:00 A.M., but a day later than we left. You could say that America's day begins on Guam, but if so there's a fourteen hour gap before day gets to Puerto Rico. If that doesn't instantly make sense, join the crowd. This was my umpteenth excursion to Guam, and I still get confused.
The other thing I never get used to is the moisture in the air. Hawaii is considered humid, but compared to Guam, Hawaii is a desert. If you could grab a handful of Guamanian air, you could wring a cup of water out of it. You have to push your way through it, like fighting a hot wet blanket. Jetways haven't come to Guam yet. You climb down a roll-away platform, and by the time you reach the tarmac, you're sweating.
The waiting room was a riot in Bedlam. Of the fifty passengers who got off that plane, we were the only ones who were not met by a dozen members of an extended family. Noise level was just below the pain threshold, with happy shouts in several different languages. We worked our way through the kissing crowd, trying not to step on toddlers, and not to get hugged by the grandmothers. Luggage was going by on a carousel, but no one else was interested. We grabbed our bags and fought our way to the car rental booths.
The cute little Chamorro lady at the Budget counter was happy to rent us a Buick Skylark for $60 per day. George made her look at the pictures of Pederson and Adams. She shook her head, so he left me to deal with the particulars while he took the pictures down the line of booths. I found him outside showing the pictures to taxi drivers. When he finally admitted defeat, he joined me and we drove along the top of the cliff to the Hilton, looking down on Tumon Bay and Guam's version of Waikiki.
The Guam Hilton is a twelve-story cement cube, accessed by a lane of twelve-foot-tall hibiscus. The first floor is mostly without walls and where things must be divided it's usually done with sliding glass. George started with the doorman and worked his way in, showing the pictures. I schlepped both of our suitcases to the check in area. The Philippine mahogany kiosk was deserted except for a little bell on the desk. I dinged that a few times. A diminutive girl who looked about fourteen came up the stairs from the half-sunken restaurant, still eating a spring roll. A round face with the complexion of a china doll and silky black hair that hung to her knees identified her as Chamorro. She swiped my card, sniffed at the Hawaiian address, and rented us a twelfth-floor double on the ocean side.
I took the luggage up to the room and opened the drapes to enjoy the view for a moment. I was looking straight down into a crystal clear lagoon with a forest of stag horn coral directly below. Beyond a half acre of stag horn I could see brain corals, and unidentifiable underwater hills and valleys in the distance. Even from the twelfth floor, I could see bright red, yellow, and varicolored streaks of fish darting around.
The lagoon is enclosed by a reef on the left, where the big rollers from the open ocean kick up a constant, rhythmic spray, and by a golden-sand beach shaded by palm trees on the right. As usual, I vowed to visit on a vacation sometime. The thought of coming here with Betty instead of George gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. I turned around, half expecting to see Betty stretched out on one of the big double beds—nothing but pillows.
I found George downstairs in the restaurant, showing pictures to waitresses, and had to follow him up to the bar and wait for negative responses from all of the bartenders. I pointed out that I hadn't had breakfast and, according to my stomach, it was now two o'clock yesterday afternoon. He condescended to go back to the restaurant, and we plowed into ham-and-scrambled with toast.
I emptied my mouth long enough to ask. “Well, Sherlock, we've been on Guam for two hours and still don't have the six million. What's your next brilliant plan?” The eggs were local and they were good. The ham was actually lunchmeat chopped up, or maybe it was ham-colored cardboard.
George was chasing a little square of guava jelly around a slice of toast, trying to spread it, but it kept escaping. “The problem at the airport was that they came in at night, and we were talking to morning people.” He put the toast down on his plate, captured the glob of jelly with his fork, and managed to mash it with his knife. “I don't think they rented a car. You have to show a driver's license and a credit card to do that, and none of the rental companies had their names on a contract.”
“Supposing they used their real Italian names?”
“Wouldn't dare. The only reason to do that would be to use a credit card, and if they did, their family would instantly know where they are. The best thing we have going is that they think the names Pederson and Adams are sacrosanct.”
“Must be frustrating to have six million dollars in your luggage and no credit. So, you think they took a taxi and checked into a hotel, apparently not this one?”
“Probably. We're going to split up and check hotels.” George handed me the full-face photo of Pederson and the profile of Adams. “Remember, you don't have to show ID to check into a hotel, so show the pictures around even if they're not on the register.”
“Good, and if I find them, I'll say, ‘Pardon me, gentlemen, but I'd really like to take your suitcase with the cash, and would you mind committing suicide?’.”
“That's our next problem, but you do have a point. Maybe I can pick up some guns somewhere.”
“I gave all my money to Shalmy, and the bank machines only give you three hundred in any twenty-four-hour period.”
“Yeah, but it's tomorrow on Guam, so it's worth a try. There's a Banko machine in the lobby.” George had sampled the jelly, wrinkled his nose, and shoved the toast
into his rice. You don't get hash browns on Guam unless you specify and pay extra.
One wall of the restaurant is glass, showing tailored tropicana with hundred-ton lava rocks scattered like sculptures. The backdrop is red ginger, but you can see the spray on the reef beyond. Going out seemed a good idea, never mind the bad guys.
The Banko machine cooperated and showed tomorrow's date on the receipt. The receipt also showed a seven-hundred dollar balance in my checking account, so I could do this two more times. I tried to imagine what the receipt would look like if I deposited half of six million dollars.
George took my three hundred and the car. I walked down to the beach and strolled between bathing suits to the next hotel. You won't find Tumon Beach listed in any Condé Nast best Beach reports, but that's because the beach connoisseurs haven't found it yet. The park on my right was filled with running, shouting kids, the beach littered with bodies, some of them Chamorro, most of them Japanese, with just a sprinkling of sunburned Caucasians. Several hundred people were snorkeling and a few were riding the gentle swells on air mattresses. I noticed that some of them seemed to be asleep, and that's not a good idea.
There is a current in the lagoon. Waves come over the reef all the way along, but the water flows out again through a gap at the eastern end, up by Gun Beach. A few years ago a couple of young Japanese ladies went to sleep on their mattresses, floated out through the gap, and woke up with no land in sight. That had a happy ending because the Coast Guard helicopter that patrols the shoreline picked them up, and the rumor is that that encounter resulted in matrimony.
The beach is only two miles long, but it took me eight hours to check every hotel and club, and show the pictures to anyone who would look. I did waste a little time, looking at the gun emplacements that the Japanese left along the beach during WW II, and, to prevent total dehydration, I stopped for a Coke in Barney's Beach House. I made it super-sized because that's about how much I'd perspired. It was after seven and dark when I gave up at the Okura Hotel at the entrance to Gun Beach and grabbed a cab back to the Hilton. The cabby did not recognize the pictures.
I found George leaning back in a white plastic chair at a white plastic table for two where the disco bar spilled onto the lawn. The ocean side of the bar has no wall, so whether we were in the bar or not is problematic. Big monkey pod trees grow over the tables with purple or white orchids clinging to them here and there. I joined him and ordered dark Myers and Coke. It was unwind time, so I slipped off my shoes and rubbed the blisters. On our left, the lagoon was reflecting the scene of my defeat. Waves crashing on the reef half a mile out made booms that seemed to vibrate our table.
“Any luck?” George asked.
“Very funny. You?”
“Well, they're not in Agaña or Sinajaña. I did pick up some weapons, though.” He plunked two pistols on the table, a High Standard .22-caliber target revolver and a Wyatt-Luger .45 with a six-inch barrel, circa 1944. If you remember the Wyatt-Luger, you will recall that it was wonderfully accurate, with a muzzle velocity of 670 feet per second, and the 220-grain bullets were still whipping along at 620 feet per second at 100 yards. Your grandfather would have considered it a wonderful weapon, if he didn't mind that it was single shot.
“Take your pick.” I picked up the High Standard. It was loaded, six rounds of .22 long-rifle ammunition, and a six-inch barrel. He handed me the box of bullets. It was a dusty remnant of the bright yellow and green label of the Speer Company. Vernon Speer and his son Raymond started their factory in Lewiston, Idaho, well over a half century ago. Now they're internationally known, a favorite supplier to law enforcement, and they have yet to make their first dud. The problem was that this box had the original logo, and they changed the logo design in 1960.
“We're broke again, by the way. Want to join me at the airport canvassing nighttime taxi drivers? We can hit the Surf and Turf for some supper.”
“No, thanks. I'm going to sit right here and interrogate any taxi drivers who come into the bar. For one thing, I couldn't get my shoes back on right now, even if I wanted to.”
George finished his gin and tonic, stuck the Luger in the back of his belt and shrugged his aloha shirt over it. “Best wishes for a speedy recovery.” He cut across the empty dance floor and set out to seek his fortune.
The waitress was attentive, and when the pain in my ankles subsided, I had an order of calamari. If you live in Kansas City, you may think that calamari are tough, but on Guam, where they leap straight from the ocean into the deep fryer, you cut them with your fork. The flavor is illusive so you have to concentrate, but it's worth it.
Half a dozen orange torches were lighted on the beach and bumped and swayed out over the water. Chamorro fishermen were harvesting the little reef fishes that had fascinated the tourists all day. The breeze was soft and warm with a hint of ocean mixed with tropical flowers. The peace and beauty of Guam were seeping into my pores when the band came in. They set up horns and bass and drums in two minutes, and suddenly my table was vibrating to cha-cha. I pulled off my socks, dumped the sand out of my shoes, shoved my feet into the shoes naked, and fled.
My conscience wouldn't let me go to bed when George was still working, so I strolled out to the front entrance. A couple of Chamorro doormen were lounging on benches and smoking cigars. I could see where they got the idea. The hibiscus blossoms in the hedges had closed for the night, looking like cigars with a bit of red at the tips. The evening jet must have landed because taxis were arriving. I stationed myself in the drive so that after each had dropped his passengers, and the doormen had snuffed out their cigars and done the escort bit, I could accost the drivers with the pictures. I was still hearing the cha-cha, but it wasn't rattling my head.
A sleek new Pontiac had just dropped off a couple. The man was ancient, long white beard and cane, the woman young, gorgeous, and solicitous. When the doormen had collected the alligator bags, I approached the driver, pictures in hand.
The driver studied the pictures for a long time, alternately shaking and nodding his head. “Them two do sort of ring a bell. Let me think.” He thumbed his hat down almost over his eyes so that he could scratch the back of his head. His eyes squinted, his lips pursed, a mask of concentration. I pulled out a ten-dollar bill and held it between two fingers.
“Yeah, it's coming back to me. Those guys came in on the jet last night and I took them to my cousin's bed-and-breakfast in Dededo … yeah, I'm sure they were the ones. Lousy tippers.” The bill leapt from my hand to his. He took out a business card, scribbled an address on the back, and sped away.
The next car in line was George. He screeched up beside me and was waving a business card out the window. “Hey, I found them. Taxi driver dropped them in Dededo last night.”
“Nice going. Does that business card happen to match this one?” I held out my newly purchased card and the two were the same. I climbed in on the passenger side.
“How much did this vital information cost you?” I asked.
“Twenty bucks. Had to jog his memory a bit.” George made a U-turn and raced back toward the Marine Drive Highway. I checked the revolver in my belt to be sure it wouldn't shoot off anything vital if that fifty-year-old ammunition decided to discharge.
The main street of Tumon runs along the top of the bluff. On the right, the town fills the shelf before the mountains get serious, and it was mostly dark. Below the bluff, the street along the beach was lit like Las Vegas, and dozens of people were wandering between the bars and the shooting galleries. The bluff ended, the town tapered off. We passed the airport road and plunged into the dark, jungle-infested interior.
Guam is shaped like those Nutter Butter cookies, a fat figure eight. It's thirty miles from tip to tip, and seven miles wide at the waist. All told, it's 217 square miles, about the same as most Texas cattle ranches. We were approaching Mount Santa Rosa, the thousand-foot-tall massif that dominates the northern bulge. Beyond the mountain, the northern one-fourth of Guam is taken up by Anderson Air
Force Base.
It's easy to write Guam off as insignificant because there isn't much there, but nature has gone to a great deal of trouble to produce it. My respect for Guam went up when I learned that it is the peak of a 37,500-foot volcano. Mt. Everest is only 29,028 feet, but that's all above sea level. Guam grows out of the Marianas Trench, which is the deepest bit of ocean in the world.
The strategic value is also tremendous. Since we got kicked out of the Philippines, Anderson is our closest base to Southeast Asia. When the Enola Gay carried the first atom bomb to Japan and the world, she took off from Rota, but that's just across the bay, and the staging came from Guam.
We raced across the high plateau, four hundred feet above sea level, surrounded by ominous dark jungle that's all laced together with a cover of ivy. That area is so wild that Chamorros hunt deer in there, so there must be, or have been, a deer sometime. In five minutes, the lights of Dededo grew up ahead of us.
Most cities and towns have a reason to be where they are, a harbor, a river landing, a highway intersection, something. Dededo is just there because it's there. A few streetlights grew up along the main highway. We spotted Finegayan Street and turned left into darkness. I'd been having some dark thoughts so I voiced them.
“George, when we find these guys, are we just going to blow them away? I mean, we're usually trying to arrest people.”
“What? You're having a conscience attack? I didn't know you had a conscience. Remember, these two bozos carried an unconscious man down to the doorway and beat his brains out. You saw what they did to Shalmy.”
“Yeah, they're bad, but there might be repercussions if we just shoot them.”
“Look out!” George swerved to miss a lizard. It was at least three feet long and in no hurry. Its exaggerated hip swagger claimed the road as its own. “You've never had a problem shooting in self defense. I can assure you that anything we do will be in self defense.”