Unknown Victim

by Kay Hadashi

  “Advocates?”

  He snapped his fingers but without creating a snapping sound. “That’s right.”

  “That’s not why I’m here.” When he caught his toe on something, she steadied him. It took a little effort but she had him stop walking aimlessly. “You alright?”

  He waved a hand in the air. “Fine’n dandy.”

  “Looks like it.” Gina knew anything he had to say to an official investigator wouldn’t hold up in court, simply because he was high. He also might be high enough to let loose some information that could be useful to her. Since rules didn’t apply to her because she wasn’t an official investigator, Gina proceeded with her interview. She got out her phone and brought up the image of the dead man. “This guy look familiar to you?”

  “Danny boy.”

  “You know him? His name’s Danny?”

  “Danny boy no more here.”

  “Where is he?” When the man began to drift away, she patted his cheeks, maybe a little too hard if she’d still been a cop. “Where’d Danny boy go?”

  “Danny boy gone dead.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Maybe she was getting somewhere with the guy. She still had more questions, but he was almost gone to his alternate lonely world by then. “Where’d you get this jacket?”

  “Danny boy…”

  “Hey, I asked you a question. Where’d you get the windbreaker?”

  “Danny boy…”

  When he looked close to collapsing, Gina helped him to a picnic table and sat him down. Watching his head drift down until his chin rested on his chest, she knew her interview was done. Wondering what he was high from, she slid the sleeves of his thin nylon jacket up to his elbows. Sure enough, he had a pinprick in one forearm.

  Someone crawled out from under the tarp that was attached to the other side of the picnic table with thumbtacks. With only a glance at the woman who came out, Gina discovered how the tropics were unkind to freckled complexions. A bad perm and dye job mostly grown out sat on the top of the woman’s head, and the few pieces of clothing she wore needed discard more than laundering.

  “What’re you doin’ to Jon-Jon?”

  Gina slid the man’s sleeves down again. “Nothing. Just making sure he’s okay.”

  “He didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  “Except inject himself with heroine.”

  “You the new social worker the city sent?” the woman asked.

  “No. Just asking a few questions.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  Gina positioned the man so he wouldn’t fall over. “You guys don’t like cops here, do you?”

  “Every day, they come around and bust someone for doing nothing. Nothing, you know? Then just as soon as we get settled, they come with trucks and move us out to somewhere else, saying stuff like Honolulu gets a lot of visitors and the place has to look nice for them. What’s wrong with us? We don’t look nice?”

  “Maybe they want a place for families to come, a safe place for their kids to run around and play?”

  The redhead curled a lip. “We got kids around here. They play. Our kids can’t play in the park?”

  Gina needed to change the direction her new interview was going back to her agenda. “Know anything about Jon-Jon’s windbreaker?”

  “Why? Are you taking it away from him?”

  “No. I’m just wondering how long he’s had it and where he might’ve got it.”

  “Girlie, get your own windbreaker.”

  “I would, if I knew where to find one just like Jon-Jon’s,” Gina said.

  The redhead lit the stub of an old cigarette. “What’s so special about his?”

  “I like the colors. You know where Jon-Jon got his or not?”

  The redhead burned the stub down to the filter in one long drag. “I don’t care about that stuff.”

  Gina didn’t bother thanking the woman. Instead, she walked a few steps away and made a phone call. She positioned herself so she could keep an eye on stoned Jon-Jon while she waited for the call to be answered.

  “Detective Kona, this is Gina Santoro. Sorry to call on a weekend.”

  “Miss Santoro, good to hear your voice.”

  She chuckled. “Why?”

  “It means you made it home safe and sound last night. Please don’t tell me you’ve found another body?”

  She watched Jon-Jon on a tour in his personal netherworld. “Not yet. Tell me, what happens in Honolulu if someone is found stoned on heroine? Does anyone care?”

  “I’m not going to ask why you’re asking me that. Is there a problem?”

  “I’m at Kapalama Park and have come across someone that looks more stoned than necessary.”

  “Why are you there? When I suggested that you visit some of the tourist sites, looking for addicts wasn’t what I had in mind. There are nicer parks in Honolulu to visit.”

  “Just learning my way around the city. What should I do with this guy?”

  “Is he breathing?” Kona asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Leave him alone. How do you know he’s high on heroine?”

  “Needle mark on his forearm, slurred speech, staggering gait. I had to sit him down before he fell down.”

  “You didn’t go through his pockets, did you?”

  “I know better than that. I’m not getting stuck by a needle. The interesting thing is that he’s wearing the same type of windbreaker as the dead man I found on my porch. In fact, I think it might be the same exact one.”

  “What makes you think that?” he asked.

  “The lawn clippings here at Kapalama are similar to what was on the dead man’s shoes. This park is within easy walking distance of both Bunzo’s and Pinoy Boy’s. One of the guys I talked to earlier said the picture of him looked familiar. And Jon-Jon ID’d him as Danny boy. Does that sound familiar?”

  “Who’s Jon-Jon?”

  “The stoned guy, who just happens to be falling over.” Gina hurried to grab him before he ended up on the ground. She spread him out on the picnic table bench. “He’s not doing so good.”

  “I have a car rolling there right now. Tell me again why you’re hanging around Kapalama so early in the morning?”

  “Nothing else better to do,” she said.

  “Than hang around with homeless stoners?”

  “Do you know anyone named Danny boy or not?”

  “Miss Santoro, it’s the first day of the year. Why not start it memorably with a walk along Waikiki Beach? Get some salt water on your shins and sand between your toes.”

  “Maybe later. Thanks for taking my call.”

  A police squad car was just parking in the small lot near her Datsun. There was a difference between conducting her own little investigation into the dead man’s identity, and getting involved with whatever drama was going to play out at the picnic table between the cops, Jon-Jon, and a cranky redhead. As they searched the area for someone that was reported stoned, she watched from the corner of the restroom until they found him. They went through the usual routine she’d learned in training, of how to identify if someone is breathing, or possibly dead. When Jon-Jon didn’t come around, one of them got on his phone and made a call, Gina guessing for a paramedic. Through it all, the redhead stood and badgered the patrol officers about bothering Jon-Jon, the cops doing their best to ignore her.

  All in all, Gina had got more than what she had expected at the park. As long as she was out, and now that it was mid-morning, she wanted to make another stop in Kapalama. After going through the start sequence in the old Datsun, she got it going in the direction of Bunzo’s. There was something about the place that didn’t add up the night before. The bartenders had too many handy explanations to her questions.

  When she drove past Bunzo’s, the front door was open and a car was parked in the lot. Instead of parking, she took a few laps through the neighborhood to get a feel for morning life in Kapalama. It was quiet for being in the middle of a big city. Passing by Bunzo’s again, she parked a block away
where someone wouldn’t see the Datsun if they watched her leave. She hadn’t been on many stakeouts, but she knew enough to have a better view of the person being watched than they had of her, and that included her vehicle.

  Getting back to the bar, a man was in the corner of the parking lot collapsing cardboard shipping boxes and stuffing them into a recycling bin one by one. He was wearing cargo shorts and a long sleeved T-shirt, the kind she’d seen on surfers in the last few days. Instead of going into the bar, she went to him. He wasn’t the same guy that she’d met the night before, the one that identified as being the daytime bartender and owner of the place. She did recognize him as being one of the bartenders there the night before, mostly involved with making blender drinks.

  “Hey. Do you work here?”

  “No, I like playing with boxes.” He used a box cutter to slice the tape that held a liquor shipping box together. “Why?”

  Gina was already getting tired of everybody in Kapalama being a wise guy. She showed him the picture of the dead guy on her phone. “I’m trying to identify a guy that might’ve been a patron of your fine establishment.”

  After a quick glance at her phone, he turned away to stuff flattened boxes into the bin. “What’s so special about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Weren’t you here last night asking questions?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Why are you back so soon?”

  “I’m still looking for answers that make sense,” she said.

  “Why’re you looking for a dead guy?”

  “I’ve already found him. I just need to know his name.”

  “And you think I know the name of every patron that comes to my fine establishment?”

  What Gina didn’t understand was why he wasn’t asking if she were a cop, like everyone else she met. “I think you’re a smart guy that knows more about running a bar than busting up cardboard boxes.”

  “Maybe I do.” He stomped on a box to flatten it rather than slice it open with his box cutter. “Let me see the picture again.”

  Keeping one eye on the box cutter in his hand, Gina held out her phone at arm’s length.

  “Looks like a guy that used to hang around occasionally.”

  “His name?”

  “Might’ve been Danny.”

  “He hung around to drink?” she asked.

  “Isn’t that what fine establishments like mine are for?”

  “Usually. What’d he drink?”

  The man stomped on another box. “When he had money, he’d have a beer.”

  “What if he didn’t have money?”

  “Maybe a cup of coffee, maybe some water. He always came in during morning hours. I didn’t mind so much if he sat at the bar and behaved himself, as long as no other patrons were in my fine establishment at the time.”

  Gina knew someone was lying to her. This guy was making it sound like he was the daytime bartender, while the one she talked to the night before reported he worked there during the daytime. One of them was lying to her, and maybe both.

  “You booted him out if a customer came in?”

  “After a while, he knew to leave, that his morning wouldn’t end well if he tried sticking around where he wasn’t welcome.”

  “He made trouble for you?” Gina asked.

  “More like I made trouble for him.” Finishing his job of breaking down boxes, the man shoved his sleeves up, got the broom that was leaning against the dumpster, and began sweeping cigarette butts into a pile. “After a while, he wised up.”

  Just the act of exposing his arms brought a new world of information to Gina. On his right forearm was a long, skinny scab that was flaking off in places. Looking at his hands again, she wondered where the box cutter went.

  “I bet he did. When was the last time you saw him here?”

  “Couple weeks ago. Why’s a dead homeless drunk so interesting to the police?”

  “The police have been here asking about him?” she asked.

  “They are right now, aren’t they?”

  “Just me here right now. I don’t see anybody that looks like the police.”

  He chuckled. “I guess not.”

  “What makes you think he was homeless?” she asked.

  “Wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  The man flicked his pile of debris under the dumpster, ending his chore. “Anything else you want to know?”

  “Yeah. I want to know how your margaritas are.”

  “Best in town.”

  “Prove it.” He led Gina into the building, where she took a stool at the bar, the one Detective Kona had used the night before. She watched as he washed his hands at the bar sink, carefully avoiding the long scab on his forearm. He assembled the bottles and blender on the counter. “You know what? Make it a virgin margarita. Still a little early in the morning.”

  He nodded. When he flipped open the lid to the ice cabinet, he frowned at what he found. Grabbing a tool from a slot on his side of the counter, he began jabbing at the ice to break it apart. “If you’re not a cop, who are you?”

  “You said his name was Danny?” she asked, deflecting his question.

  “Yeah, Danny. He’d show up here about this time in the morning.”

  The bartender continued to bust up the chunk of ice into smaller bits. Once he got what he needed, he tossed down the ice pick and scooped ice into the blender. Gina didn’t care about the ice, but took a long look at the pick. It was sturdy, with a heavy handle and long, thick stem. She wasn’t sure, and maybe it was her imagination kicking into overdrive, but it looked like it had a square cross section.

  Once the blender was whirring with her drink, the bartender began to tidy up his counter, putting bottles back where they belonged. The last thing he did was rinse the ice pick in water before storing it in its slot again.

  The margarita he served her was nothing to write home about. Even the salt around the rim was scant, in her worldview of margaritas. It wasn’t the coarser rock salt she liked, but granulated stuff that would be found in a shaker.

  “Did Danny have a last name?” she asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not. What kind of beer did he drink?”

  “Whatever was cheapest that day.”

  “What’s considered a cheap beer in a fine establishment like this?” she asked. “American or foreign?”

  “Bud, Miller, Pabst.”

  “Nothing foreign?”

  “We have some junk in back nobody likes. Can’t give the stuff away. How’s the margarita?” he asked.

  “Good, for not having booze in it. Did he ever drink Tuyo beer?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s why I remember you. You’re the one that had the Tuyo last night."

  “I’m asking about Danny drinking the Tuyo, not me.”

  “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. I’m not the only bartender in this fine establishment.”

  Gina was going to press her luck one last time that morning before going home to the weed patch called an estate. She got her phone again and found the picture she’d taken of the snapshot that had been in Danny’s wallet. “You recognize this lady and kid?”

  “Can’t see nothing in that picture. Who are they?”

  “Maybe somebody Danny used to know.” Gina had run out of things to ask him about, other than the scab on his arm. She’d also run out of interest in her drink. “How much for the drink?”

  “Seven, if you’re paying cash. Ten if you’re sticking me with a credit card.”

  “Seven dollars for a virgin margarita?”

  “Would’ve been five if you’d got the tequila in it.”

  “Keep the change. You answered questions without throwing me out.” Gina left him a ten, wondering why a real drink should cost less than a fake one. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Why? You think I’m gonna die pretty soon?”

  “I hope not.”

&nbs
p; Just as she was leaving through the door, he shouted out to her. “Hughes. I get off at five, if you want to have some fun.”

  Gina went up the sidewalk to the Datsun.

  “Yeah, fun. I wonder what fun is in that guy’s world?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  One thing Gina had learned during her landscape training was how to sketch. What she did that afternoon was sketch what she saw of the estate from the porch, and then sketch what she thought it could look like in a year’s time. It ended up looking not nearly as grand as the gardens at Kapalama.

  She also had her yellow legal pad with all of her notes and timeline of what she wanted done with the various gardens. It was in the back of that pad of paper where she had her notes about her personal investigation, and the Venn diagrams she’d been drawing. That’s where she gravitated to.

  In the middle of the page she wrote Danny. She drew a new diagram with all new circles. This time they overlapped with Danny’s name. One circle represented the Tuyo bottle cap. Along with that, she wrote Bunzo’s, the one place she knew Tuyo beer could be found. In the grass clippings circle, she wrote Kapalama Park, and noted the day of the week the grass had been mown was the day before Danny showed up on her porch with clippings stuck to his shoes, and how the clippings she’d collected that day were a very similar length to what she’d collected from his shoes. That meant the same mower might’ve been used both times. Plus, as far as she could tell, they were the same types of grass, what she was discovering were common lawn grasses in Honolulu parks.

  The windbreaker played out the same way. She’d seen one being worn by a homeless man at the same park that Danny had apparently frequented. When she had searched online for Oahu Cable, the name of the company that was stenciled on the windbreaker, she found the company had gone out of business almost twenty years before. Apparently, the jacket that was being handed around the park had been the official article of clothing worn by field reps that worked for the company when installing cable systems. Other than the jackets, there had been baseball caps, and if the things were new, they were considered collectible and fetched prices close to a hundred dollars in online auctions.

  Then there was the Rolex watch. The only connection that was even remote between Danny and the wristwatch was that it had been found a few feet from where his body had been found, and not even on the same day. There was no way she could imagine how a homeless man might’ve had a Rolex. Broken pocketknife, empty wallet, and a bottle cap, yes. But not a Rolex. That circle didn’t overlap with the others on the page.