The Preserve

by Steve Anderson

  And then there was Frankie. Frankie from her wild young days before the war. Like her and Miss Mae, Frankie had been working his own angle with the Americans, strong-arming folks mostly, and he was paid well for it. He had his reasons. Playing the goon and sometimes even the slick guy let him find out about this or that good thing. It was he, stoned on rum and probably pakalolo, who first told her about a rumor of gold and treasures. But he could never find it on Oahu. He wondered if it was on another island. And so did she. On her own. She kept prying, spying. Frankie would ask her about it. But she always told him she’d given up on pipe dreams, pots of gold at ends of rainbows. It was scary. Frankie was gaining power all the time and had started a little ring. He kept bugging her to tell him. They would make a deal, share in it. She would only laugh at him and bide her time. Until Miss Mae confided in her. Mae had told her about The Preserve—that it might be key. Frankie meanwhile had been keeping his evil prying stink eye on Miss Mae. At least Frankie hadn’t made it up here. He’d come looking for Mae at her little place on the Big Island and found no one, thanks to Wendell’s help. It did worry her that he knew about her place at all, but what could she do? With any luck, Frankie was back in Honolulu and figuring a different angle.

  Hopefully, Mae would show up after all. Kanani hadn’t told a soul that Mae had gotten a telegram to her before she disappeared, telling her that she would find Kanani at The Preserve if she could, most likely arriving via a ship putting into Hilo on the other side of the island.

  Meanwhile, Kanani knew she had to bide her time even more. She could easily imagine what her new duty was. All they had to do was come and confirm it. Another boogie house wasn’t exactly the posting she wanted, but it was the end goal that counted. She would just have to make this joint work for her. And they had left her the jade cigarette holder, so why not use that, too?

  She leaned back on the chaise with its gold legs, wondering now if they might be real gold, as well. She sat up and tried to budge the chaise with her hips and it didn’t move, not one inch. She chuckled at that, wondering if they even knew it was gold. She took a drag of her Camel and blew it toward the ceiling fan and her mind drifted back to Wendell. She hoped Wendell wasn’t wrong in the head for good, like a big fight was too much for him. That army guy had that stare. He was seeing spirits of the dead. And he’d killed folks. That was why his stare went on so much longer, not to mention his leg wanting to hop around like a fish out of water. Still, if she had to, she was ready to chance him anyway.

  She shook off that daunting thought with a yawn and a stretch, gazing around at the late afternoon sun doing its wonders on the room through the sheer lace curtains, twinkling this and that. She liked how her bungalow was secluded inside a grove, camouflaged. The grove sat on a rise. From the little lanai, she could see through to the Main House and just make out the sea, far on the horizon.

  She wasn’t dumb. She knew. They were buttering up a pig before the big luau roast. But who was the pig, and who was the roaster exactly? The notion made her hungry . . .

  The doorbell rang. DeSoto? It was about time for that handsome driver to bring her another tray of food. She was calling him DeSoto. He did most whatever she requested. She should ask him to rub her feet. She would teach the likes of him. There had to be thousands of his kine on the mainland. All she had to do was throw some act or talk story real sweet. She chuckled at that, then checked her casual coolness. She had to remember to be on her strong toes.

  “It’s open,” she shouted across the room and sat up, smoothing out the skirt of her floral aloha dress. It was a cute number but a little loud, the type haole officers brought back to the mainland for their wives and girlfriends, yet it was the least frilly and skimpy of all the dresses they had put in her closet.

  “DeSoto? What did I say, eh? You come right in.”

  Only it wasn’t DeSoto. Striding in was that high makamaka himself, Charlie Selfer.

  She sprung off the chaise, slipped her feet into Oriental house slippers, and planted herself in the middle of the room.

  Selfer had her food tray, silver dome and all. He wore civilian clothes—a tawny linen suit, open collar white shirt, white sandals. Not many haoles could pull off that look, but he carried it like a bouquet of plumerias.

  “Please, no need to get up,” he said. “I’ll put it down right here.”

  She stepped back as he set the tray on the little table beside the chaise, crowding out her Camel smoldering in the ashtray. She couldn’t help noticing that he added the slightest bow.

  “Where’s that DeSoto boy?” she said.

  Selfer laughed. “Even buck privates get time off now and then.”

  She felt for the chaise behind her and sat on the edge, eyeing the silver dome.

  “It’s Spam with poi,” Selfer said.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Only kidding,” he said through another laugh. “Mahi-mahi, sticky rice, coconut pudding.” He nodded at the room. “Nice digs.”

  “Snazzy. Only thing missing is the opium pipe.”

  “I’ll take that as a confirmation,” Selfer said, losing the smile. He lowered himself into the armchair at his heels without so much as a glance at it. “Are you going to eat?” he added.

  “You planning on watching me?” she said.

  “The food can wait, then. I won’t take up too much of your time.”

  She picked up the jade cigarette holder and got the Camel glowing again.

  Selfer, eyeing her, said, “So, your father is native Hawaiian. Joey ‘The Pug’ Alana.”

  “Was.”

  “Indeed. I’m sorry.”

  “Is this supposed to be the small talk story?” Kanani blew smoke toward the ceiling. “I’m not fooled by this, you know.”

  “Oh? Go on.”

  “All this splendor you show me. Throwing da act. Sailor guys in Honolulu Chinatown get the same treatment but it’s plenty liquor, flower behind an ear, one skimpy silky bodice.”

  “And then?”

  “Next thing they know they’re out on their popos in a Hotel Street gutter.”

  “Undoubtedly. But you, my dear, are not a sailor.”

  It was how you received the act they were throwing, Kanani reminded herself. First came the luxury. Then came the sweet talk. “Well, I’m no admiral either, bruddah,” she said.

  Selfer sat up, rested his elbows on the chair arms, and produced a Chesterfield he didn’t light. “I apologize for being short with you before. With Wendell Lett. I needed to talk to him.”

  “You treated me like the help.” Kanani shrugged. “That’s nothing new.”

  Selfer held a hand to his heart. “May I never do it again, dear.”

  Oh, Selfer was good. He was plenty smoother than the white men in their starched collars. A smoothie like him makes you figure you’re in it together and for keeps. Sure, she saw right through Selfer. For keeps lasted only until you lost. All the same, she started thinking there might be a way to make this rapport they had work for her. First she had to find out who he worked for exactly, and what they had in store for her.

  “You know about me, about my past, during the war, yeah?” she said. He nodded. “So where are the guys I used to work for in Honolulu?” She hadn’t yet seen one face from the old days.

  “The CIC? Most have relocated or are relocating. There was also the OSS around these parts, I believe. It doesn’t matter. You’re with us now.”

  “And who are you exactly, mister?”

  “We’re so fresh and new we don’t have a name.”

  “Maybe you could try one out for size.”

  “Some call us The Directorate. But that’s a placeholder.”

  “So, who’s your big kahuna?”

  “Why, that’s a droll way of putting it.”

  “I don’t mean it that way. To us the word means priest and wizard and chief and so on. You might be a type of kahuna here, who knows. But I’m asking about the kahuna of you.”

  “My big chief
? I can’t tell you. This is S.O.P., I’m afraid.”

  “Standard Operating Procedure. Then what’s your S.O.P. gonna mean for me exactly?”

  “Your food is getting cold,” Selfer said.

  “Maybe I like it cold. Go ahead—chance ’em.”

  Selfer nodded. “Very well. We would like you to comfort certain important persons who might stay here or pass through. Right here, in this exact quarters.”

  Bingo. Just as she suspected.

  Many men would’ve looked away presenting such a notion, but Selfer kept his eyes right on hers. “Not necessarily you personally. At a future point, if things work out, we might bring in other women who are capable of operating in such a capacity.”

  Kanani shot him a sideways glance, then she stood up and paced the room, though there suddenly wasn’t much of this bungalow to go around. There was only that one bedroom, the bathroom, and a combination kitchenette and dressing room along the back end that was cordoned off with an exquisite Chinese folding screen, also of great value. It had to be.

  Despite the game at hand, she was on the right track—and how. Her plan was the only way for a woman to become her own person, to be free from the leash of the man and the haole land grabber. Independent means. That was what Miss Mae had. What her mother never had.

  “These are our terms,” Selfer said. “Besides, you were the one who wanted in here.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” was all she said.

  “Oh, and, no visitors just yet,” Selfer added. “Only the ones we say.”

  She was pacing the whole room. He watched her. She passed through behind the partition and glanced out a window, where she saw nothing but sun and green and that fine DeSoto convertible, which, she realized, must be Selfer’s personal car. For her, it was just a loaner.

  “I got one question,” she said. “This house isn’t big enough for me, not if it’s going to be the boogie kine, too. Not if other girls coming, going.”

  Selfer nodded, so she came around and stood before him.

  “No, it’s probably not,” he said.

  “Seems like that Main House over there has more room,” she said, batting eyelashes.

  “First, you prove yourself. And then? Well, we shall see, won’t we?”

  “See what?”

  “Easy, easy. You just got here. For now, you assume more of a forward operating position. Along the way, there might be a special assignment or two.”

  “Ah. There it is. Let me guess: you like me playing the gal who’s such a good listener.”

  “As I say—droll. You don’t wish such special treatment?”

  Kanani lowered her cigarette holder. “There’s only one problem. Maybe I’ve seen this picture show already.”

  “Not quite like this you haven’t. Any other girls—women—might be capable of comfort, but not of listening correctly. You can. It’s a proven fact.”

  “Ho, careful there. ‘Comfort women,’ that’s what the nasty Imperial Japanese Army used to call them.”

  “How soon we forget,” Selfer said.

  Kanani glared at him. “What are you paying me, eh? Let’s talk about that.”

  Selfer chuckled. “You know how this works. You can move up, out of the bordello.”

  “Boogie house, we call ’em.”

  “As you like. And, you control all tips.”

  “Hallelujah,” she said.

  “Is there not a Hawaiian word for that?”

  “Oh, sure. But you wouldn’t like the sound of it.”

  “I think I like your style, Miss Ogawa.”

  Kanani gave a little bow. “Try call me Miss Alana,” she said with a thicker accent. She blew out more smoke. If she gave it any more of an angle it would be blowing right up his behind. Still, she figured she had to feel things out a little. She shrugged and added, “Anything’s better than Honolulu. Things were worse enough during the war. The haole policeman, they tolerated boogie houses but only in the way they liked. Police Chief, he set all the rules—‘Ten Commandments,’ we called them. You like me to recite them for you?”

  “It’s okay, I already heard—”

  “We couldn’t even use our own beaches, on our own island, and all because we made your sailors and soldiers feel good before going off to die.” And she was one of the lucky ones working for a good mama-san. Kanani made sure not to mention Miss Mae by name. Still, she wondered if he’d ever heard of her. She might have to find out eventually.

  She added a little grunt.

  Selfer’s expression had not changed as she spoke. He crossed his legs. “By the by, don’t you have another question for me?”

  “What kine?”

  “About Wendell Lett. About how he is.”

  She didn’t want to seem too close to anyone. When push came to shove, they could use anyone as weight against her and vice versa. Besides, how could she ever tell Wendell about this? A good man like that was only going to be disappointed in her—he and her faddah would have gotten along well that way. She made herself shrug. “I’m sure he’s all right,” she said.

  “Wendell hit a snag, truth be told. Didn’t exactly pass his first test here. But, the treatment’s already helping, I’m sure.”

  “Swell,” was all she said, “that’s just swell.” She took a long, worried drag of her Camel, but it was already out.

  7.

  When Lett woke, he was lying on a bunk. It had a thin, clean mattress on crisscrossed metal slats. The room was narrow, with gray concrete walls and caged light bulbs and no windows. Ventilation came down from a square grate in the low ceiling. The steel door to his room was left open. He could go out and walk down the short corridor, which had no windows, either. Three other steel doors had been left open, too, showing rooms like his but vacant. One end of the corridor had a connecting door, more like a submarine hatch with bolts and a wheel handle. That was shut. He had tried the wheel, but it did not budge. The other end of the corridor was just more gray concrete wall.

  He was wearing a US Army medical corps robe of blue corduroy. Someone must’ve put that on him. His unadorned summer uniform had been hung on the one hook on the wall, his brown GI shoes shined and set on the floor, and the meager contents of his pockets stacked on a metal chair. He wasn’t hungry. He felt rested. His face had no beard stubble that he could feel, but there was no mirror to check. He sat up a few times, then lay back again and closed his eyes. Something made him flinch, like a person does right before sleep. He thought he’d heard a man screaming, far away, muffled. He told himself that the scream was only in his head.

  Later, he heard a squeak of the wheel on the hatch down the corridor. Then came footsteps, measured but not marching. Lett had left his door open. He stood, brushed his bed cover taut, planted his feet in the middle of the floor.

  Two men approached, athletic types with angular faces, their expressions relaxed. They wore Army coveralls like mechanics or tankers, but their khaki was spotless, with creases even. They looked inside the room.

  “Afternoon,” one said.

  “Gentlemen,” Lett said.

  The two stayed out in the corridor. A third man approached the door, his head down, still reading from a clipboard. He wore a white coat, like a doctor. It looked Government Issue, but it lacked insignia. His thick, dark hair had a perfect part. As he turned into the doorway and stepped inside, he looked up. His gray eyes showed a metallic sharpness.

  “Time to get cracking,” he said, “or a man’s not really hacking.”

  Lett didn’t know if it was supposed to be a saying or a proverb or what. He just smiled and nodded.

  The man strode in and smiled back and seemed to gain inches in height doing so. “No saluting here,” he said as if reading Lett’s mind.

  “Good to know, sir, as I hadn’t received any instruction—”

  “No sirs, either, son. We’re all in this together.”

  Though he’d called Lett “son,” he couldn’t have been more than forty. He nodded around the
room, and his long, practically rectangular face and thin mustache loomed over Lett.

  “And welcome, I should add,” he said in a more patient voice that reminded Lett of a small-town grocer. Of Ohio. He hadn’t thought about Ohio in such a long time.

  The man stepped even closer, the clipboard held behind his back. “I’m Lansdale. Edward Lansdale.” He was holding out his other hand.

  Lett shook it. “A doctor?”

  Lansdale tugged at his white coat. “Oh, this? Of sorts. Though as I said, we don’t bother with titles here, rank and degrees and so forth. It’s more about what a man can achieve.”

  Lett tensed up.

  “Relax, take it easy,” Lansdale said. “Questions? Fire away.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Not long. A few hours. It’s night now.”

  “Where are we? Underground?”

  “Good. That’s good.” Lansdale pivoted on a heel, looked around again. “It’s a tunnel system, right under camp. Just yards from where you blacked out.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Why, sure. It’s from the war. Was supposed to be a top-secret hole-up should the Japs invade—Japanese I mean—but now we get to inherit it. Pretty ideal.”

  “How far does it go?”

  “Oh, not far. Far enough. Links up with some of these lava caves they have here if you head inland, but I can assure you that’s not in our plan for you. Don’t worry.” He added a flash of a grin that was more like a sneer. “This is just for your own safety, and that of others, until you get up to speed.”

  “Who was that man I attacked? Or he attacked me. I . . . I’m not sure.”

  Lansdale flashed the sneer-grin again. “It was both. It was really something, you two going at it like that, like two stray cats. He’s a Marine, that one. Also having the treatment. More on that later.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Of course. He’s been through worse.”

  “Are you here for the cure?”

  “The cure? Ah. Yes. But it’s for you, you see, not me.”

  “Is this part of the VA?” Lett asked. “Is this a VA program?”

  “A what?”