Wings in the Dark

by Michael Murphy

  “Just get me there without being followed.”

  When we arrived, concern shone on the cabbie’s face. “Want me to wait around?”

  I shook my head and paid the fare. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be. I stepped out and closed the door, trying to exude an air of confidence. Laura’s gun inside my jacket helped.

  In spite of the cabdriver’s concern, he didn’t waste any time taking off, kicking up dust and gravel. There was no turning back now.

  The air had the briny stench of saltwater and dead fish. The parking lot contained five cars, four beat-up heaps and a nicely kept late model Chevrolet seagulls had used for dive-bombing practice.

  The white stucco one-story building held up a sagging roof that looked like it might not collapse for another day or two. The sign above the faded and chipped red door was missing the R.

  My gumshoe days taught me the best way to enter a seedy bar or neighborhood was to act like I belonged, but if this was truly a Royalist hangout, the task would be a tough one.

  I opened the front door and stepped inside, where a cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air. My presence quieted everyone’s chatter.

  When my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit bar, half a dozen sets of Hawaiian eyes were watching me. I felt about as welcome as a Sox fan at Yankee Stadium.

  When it came to bars, I liked a clean place with a long mirror where I could see friendly faces, booze from distilleries I’d heard of, a freshly polished bar, and comfortable stools with classy dames that left you alone if you just wanted a drink. This place was nothing like that.

  In front of the bar a dozen stools sat mostly empty. Behind the bartender hung a Hawaiian flag and a framed painting of Hawaii’s last monarch, Queen Liliuokalani.

  The sound of cue balls cracking came from an open door at the end of the bar. I ignored the stares and glares and headed to the bar like it was my regular joint. I sat beside a short fellow whose legs only hung halfway to the floor. Holding an empty shot glass, he stared at a smoldering cigarette in an ashtray.

  Like the others, he was definitely Hawaiian: dark hair, almond-colored skin, middle-aged, with two bushy brows that resembled black caterpillars. He couldn’t have been more than four feet tall.

  The bartender wore a greasy shirt and acted like I wasn’t there.

  “What’s a guy have to do to get a drink around here?”

  The little man beside me sneered. “What are you staring at? You’re thinkin’ is he a dwarf or a midget, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe a little…no pun intended.” I intended the pun and he knew it. I held out my hand. “My name’s Donovan. Jake Donovan.”

  He ignored the offer and slid his empty shot glass toward the bartender. “Another.”

  “Last one, Shorty, unless you have cash.”

  When the bartender poured him a drink, I held up one hand. “I’ll have one of those.”

  “Okolehao coming up.” The bartender glared at me then gave me a shot glass with brown alcohol that definitely wasn’t bourbon or scotch.

  I sipped the booze and shuddered. Mickey once said there was no such thing as bad booze. He’d never tried okolehao.

  I glanced around at the broken glass and stains on the counter and floor. I couldn’t imagine one of Honolulu’s most influential businessmen meeting his brother in a dive like this, but then I recalled the location of his office building.

  I managed another sip and nodded to the man beside me. “You must have a better name than Shorty.”

  “Listen, buddy, if you insist on chattin’, you can call me Chester. Don’t call me Chet, Peewee, or Shorty. Just Chester. Got it?” He finished his drink.

  “Got it.” I pulled out a sawbuck and tossed the bill on the counter. “This is for my drink and my friend’s tab.”

  The bartender refilled Chester’s glass.

  “Thanks. I gotta use the can.” Chester hopped off the barstool and stumbled. He grabbed my wrist for support.

  I’d learned that trick in Queens from Mickey. I grabbed his arm to keep him from taking off. “I’d like my watch back.”

  With a sheepish grin, he opened his hand and set my watch in front of me. “You can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”

  Sure I could. As the short man climbed back on the stool, I gave him a hand. When he sipped his drink, I smiled. “You got the time?”

  Chester looked at his bare wrist. “Hey, you lifted my watch.”

  I set his watch beside his shot glass.

  A smile spread across Chester’s face. “You’re pretty good, Donovan. Where’d you learn that?”

  “Queens. Oh, and I have your wallet too.”

  Chester patted his pockets then laughed. “I ain’t got no wallet.”

  The bartender smiled and refilled my glass. “Last call, Donovan. This is a private club.”

  “Like the Rotary?”

  Chester laughed until he snorted.

  The bartender glared at Chester. “Shut up, clown!”

  I had to come to the defense of my new and only friend in the joint. “Hey, that’s kind of rough.”

  “He didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” Chester reached into his pocket and pulled out a red ball. He slipped it on his nose. “I am a clown.”

  “Circus? Carnival?”

  “Ain’t worked a circus in years. Now it’s mostly birthday parties for rich brats with snotty noses.” He downed the rest of his drink, let out a belch, and stuck the nose back in his pocket.

  “I suspect you’re quite entertaining.”

  “Watch this, wise guy.” He finished his drink then grabbed two more shot glasses from behind the bar.

  The bartender shot him a narrow-eyed warning. “Careful. You broke one last time.”

  Chester tossed a glass in the air. In seconds he was juggling three shot glasses. “Think I can do four, Donovan?”

  “Sure.”

  His eyes focused on the glasses, he juggled one-handed. With the glasses in the air, he reached for my drink. He swallowed in one gulp. After tossing it up, he kept the four shot glasses rotating. “Get ready for the finale.” He set one glass onto the bar then neatly stacked each one on top of the other.

  I applauded. “I bet that goes over well at birthday parties, for those kids with shot glasses.”

  Chester let out another long laugh. “What brings you to a dive like this, Donovan?”

  “I came to pay my respects to Ihe Kalua for the loss of his brother. Is he here?”

  The room fell silent. Chester nodded to a couple of empty tables by the door.

  We sat at one of the empty tables, away from the others. Chester pulled out half a cigarette from his pocket. He lit the butt and dropped the match into an ashtray in the center of the table. “This isn’t a place for American tourists.”

  “That’s what the cabbie said.”

  He took a long puff. “You on vacation?”

  “Honeymoon.”

  “You come all this way from Queens?”

  I shook my head. “We’ve lived in Hollywood the past year and a half.”

  Chester’s eyes brightened. “You an actor?”

  “My wife’s Laura Wilson. Maybe you’ve heard of her.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! She’s a babe. What the hell are you doin’ in this joint?” He crushed out the cigarette. “Word on the street is studios are fighting over the rights to The Wizard of Oz. Whoever wins out might be castin’ for a couple of dozen little people.”

  “You know any?”

  Chester burst out laughing. “You’re okay, Donovan.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about The Wizard of Oz.”

  “What about your wife? This could do wonders for my career. No more birthday parties.”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  The door opened and a flashy redhead in a tight black dress came in.

  Chester waved. “Mornin’, Ginger. How ’bout a freebie?”

  “I ain’t no charity.” She approached our table and gave me the once-over. “Who’s
your friend, Shorty?”

  “Jake Donovan. He’s on his honeymoon.”

  Ginger pulled out a chair between us, without being invited. When she sat, her boobs threatened to spill out of the top of her dress. “You don’t have to stare, honey. I’d be happy to show them to you.”

  “Sorry.”

  Chester gestured toward the bar. “Beat it, dollface. We’re talkin’ business.”

  Ginger ran red fingernails along the back of my hand. “Don’t let me stop you. I have some business I’d like to discuss with your friend when you’re through.”

  Laura wouldn’t like the look the woman was giving me. I held up my left hand and wiggled my fingers, flashing the gold on my ring finger.

  “I got it, honey.” She pulled out a cigarette and Chester lit it for her. Ginger took a long drag. “Must be some honeymoon, handsome, if you leave the missus for the Kana. Like I said, I don’t give freebies, but I give discounts to fellas on their honeymoon.”

  “Jake here’s payin’ respects to Ihe, Ginger.”

  She gave me a wink. “Well, if you change your mind, sailor, let me know.” She got up and made her way to the bar.

  Chester grinned. “That’s Ginger. Does she have a nice caboose, or what?”

  A hulk of a man, the kind I’d expected to encounter when I opened the door, came out of the pool room, flipping a quarter in the air. He was six inches shorter than me and twice as wide. An angry scar started at his nose and ended at his ear.

  He pocketed the coin then came to our table. He was the type who might’ve sliced his own face just to get some respect from his fellow thugs.

  His lip curled into a snarl. “You came to the wrong place, mister.”

  A smart guy would have excused himself and called it a day, but I was working for nothing. How smart was that?

  I doubted whether my boxing skills would have much success against the block of granite, but I wasn’t going to be intimidated. “I didn’t see a sign.”

  When Chester laughed, the man yanked him to his feet and tossed him into the corner.

  While the big man set his hands on the table and stared at me, Chester struggled to his feet. He slipped the red ball on his nose and made funny faces behind the man’s back.

  I barely managed not to laugh. “You really should pick on someone your own size.”

  The man sneered. “There is no one my size.”

  He set a large leather boot on Chester’s chair. “We don’t like Americans, so scram.”

  “I learned in school Hawaiians are American citizens.”

  He hawked a load of spit beside my chair. “We consider ourselves subjects of the illegally removed crown.”

  I might get thrown into the parking lot any second, but I kept up my bravado. What else could I do?

  The front door opened and an old man stumbled inside. In a threadbare suit, with white hair peeking from beneath a straw hat, he collapsed on a chair on the other side of the door and tugged the hat over his eyes.

  I gestured toward the old man. “What about him? He a member of your club too?”

  “I’ll give him the bum’s rush after I take care of you.”

  Chester slipped behind the big guy and got down on his hands and knees. If we were the Three Stooges, I could shove the guy and knock him over, but this man was so big, I doubted it would work.

  “Listen, mister barroom brawler, there are plenty of places I’d rather be. I’d just like to pay my respects to Ihe then get the hell out of here.”

  “Ihe ain’t here.” The big man took a quick glance toward the pool room. “He’s in mourning.”

  “You might want to check. I think he’d like to speak with me.”

  Chester climbed to his feet. He shook his head as if he’d done his best to help. He retreated to the bar and took his place on his stool.

  The big man crossed his arms across his massive chest. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn.”

  “I think we might’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Why don’t I buy you a drink?”

  “You arrogant Americans. It’s always about the dough.”

  The white-haired man in the straw hat, who I’d thought had fallen asleep, held up one hand. “I’ll take one, if you don’t mind.”

  His voice sounded familiar, definitely American, but I couldn’t place him. Maybe it was just my imagination. I pulled a fin from my pocket.

  The big man grabbed the five bucks. “You’re out of here in two minutes.”

  He carried the money to the bar and slapped it on the counter.

  A man stepped from the shadows of the pool room. “I’m Ihe Kalua.”

  Possessing hair the shade of pewter, and in need of a shave, he spoke with authority and intelligence.

  When he approached the table, I shook Ihe Kalua’s hand. “So sorry for your loss.”

  “I think you should go.”

  I lowered my voice so only he could hear. “Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

  “Carl gave you two.”

  “I’ll talk fast.”

  Ihe took a seat. “I read the paper this morning, Mr. Donovan. I know you’re not doing research for a book and you never met my brother. You want to tell me why you’re really here?”

  I decided to be straight with the guy. I glanced toward the bar, where the bartender and the big man were watching us. “I’m investigating your brother’s murder.”

  “The cops already arrested some dame, or don’t you read the papers? The article said she was my brother’s girlfriend. You know how much pain that’s going to cause my ma when she reads it?”

  “The newspaper got that part of the story right. Your brother was carrying on with Fanny Chandler.”

  He clamped his eyes shut for a moment as if visiting his past. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. Sorry.”

  Ihe drummed his fingers on the table. “You friends with this dame? ’Cause I can see in your eyes you don’t think she did it.”

  The man was perceptive. “I think someone was trying to stop Amelia Earhart’s flight so they killed your brother and tried to make it appear as if Earhart did it.”

  Carl, chatting with the bartender, had nearly finished his drink.

  “Recently, you wrote a letter to your brother trying to get him to stop the flight.”

  Ihe let out a laugh. “You think I did it?”

  I couldn’t picture him involved in killing his brother, but I’d been fooled before. “No, but someone else could have.” I thumbed toward the bar. “You trust these guys?”

  “Sure.”

  “Desperate people sometimes resort to desperate actions.”

  At the table near the door, the man in the straw hat snorted with his eyes closed.

  Ihe lowered his voice. “You’re suggesting someone here murdered my brother and I knew nothing about it. Royalists aren’t the only ones who’d like to stop Amelia’s flight.”

  The room grew as quiet as a church on Monday morning. A woman in an olive-green uniform with shimmering black hair came out of the pool room smoking a thick cigar. With gold-fringed brass epaulets and black polished boots, the uniform looked like something a person might wear to a costume party.

  But the hard look in her eyes told me she was serious. When she approached our table Ihe Kalua rose, so I did the same.

  She ignored me and glared at Ihe. “What do you think you’re doing letting this…this American in here?”

  “He’s Jake Donovan, ma’am. He’s investigating my brother’s murder. Jake, this is General Alani Mahelona.”

  “General?” Of what?

  She puffed on the cigar. “General of the Royalist Militia.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “I doubt that.” She looked at me like I was gum under her boot. Still, her face held a glint of curiosity. “Sit down, Donovan.”

  At the bar, Chester, Carl, and the bartender watched as Ihe Kalua, the general, and I sat around the table.

  The cigar smelled like the backyard of o
ur neighbor in Queens who burned wet leaves every fall. General Mahelona set her cigar in the center of the table. “I thought the cops arrested someone.”

  I shrugged. “I think they got it wrong.”

  She sneered. “Figures. Typical government officials. They’re American sympathizers, not professionals. If you barged into our headquarters, you must think one of us is responsible. What’s the angle?”

  “I think the killer is someone who wanted to stop Amelia Earhart’s flight across the Pacific.”

  “And that can only be a Royalist?” She shook her head. “You Americans will do anything to stop our movement to regain our sovereignty.”

  “I thought Hawaiians were Americans too.”

  She picked up the cigar like she wanted to crush it out on my forehead. “Then you thought wrong.”

  I needed to know how far the Royalists would go to stop Amelia’s flight. “I’d like to understand your movement. Why the uniform, the need for a militia?”

  She took a deep puff and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “We tried speeches and parades each year on January seventeenth, the anniversary of when you Americans overthrew our queen. That was forty-two years ago. The time for speeches is over.”

  I knew the next statement would likely get me thrown out of the bar. “You’re taking action instead of winning the argument through words. Action like killing Hank Kalua and framing Amelia Earhart.”

  The general jumped to her feet, sliding the chair backward. She shot Ihe a sympathetic look then marched to the bar. “Carl, get rid of this bum.”

  “Yes, sir!” Carl jumped off his stool. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The general gave me one last sneer, then entered the pool room as Carl approached my table.

  Ihe leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “The Royalists aren’t the only ones who wanted to stop Amelia’s flight.”

  “What? Who else?”

  Carl pointed a stubby finger at me. “Your two minutes were up five minutes ago, chump.”

  I had to find out who Ihe thought killed his brother. “Who?”

  “Kitsune.”

  What? Had I heard him right?

  Before I could ask who or what kitsune was, Carl grabbed my arm, pulled me away from the table, and slammed me against the wall.

  Before I could grab Laura’s gun, he pinned my arms and head-butted me.