1 Murder on Moloka'i

by Chip Hughes

  At the end of dusky Fort Street, the Aloha Tower glowed in the morning sun. Around the tower, boutiques and bistros and beer gardens bustled in the marketplace. I turned onto Ala Moana Boulevard and could spot the Federal Building only a half block away.

  A flame red sports car suddenly flashed in the sunlight as it raced down Punchbowl, coming toward me fast. The car was low-slung. Italian. All too familiar. The plates said “Manny.”

  Both doors of the red Lamborghini swung up bizarrely like opening jackknifes. Manny stepped out and onto the sidewalk. His pal Bobo joined him.

  “You betray me, Kai,” Manny said. “I save your life and you spit in my face …”

  Big Bobo didn’t wait for Manny’s speech to end. I ran back down Ala Moana Boulevard toward the Aloha Tower, with Bobo steps behind. Bobo ran fast for a big man, like an angry bear. I hoped I could lose him in the marketplace.

  I sprinted across six lanes of traffic on Ala Moana, dodging cars, the Aloha Tower firmly focused ahead of me. I raced as fast as my feet would carry me, through the parking lot, past a line of yellow cabs, and by boutiques and browsing tourists.

  Bobo kept pace. Since I was lugging my duffel, the big moke was able to stay with me. I was almost at the piers now, beyond the tower, which were blocked by an iron gate. I ran up the tower steps.

  Bobo climbed after me, his huge feet pounding the spiraling stairway like thunder. I glanced back and saw that he clutched something dark in his meaty right hand.

  Pop! I felt a rush of air as a bullet ripped into the stairwell above me. Splinters flew.

  A woman screamed as Bobo pushed her aside. Pop! Another shot exploded like a mousetrap being sprung.

  The searing heat of a fire iron tore into my left shoulder. I grabbed the place where blood was already seeping through. I tried to squeeze away the pain.

  I hunched down on a landing, my aloha shirt dripping blood. With my right hand, I fumbled with the zipper of my duffel and finally made out the cold lump of my Smith & Wesson. I shook it free of the bag and lifted it to meet Bobo’s gun. He paused, pistol pointed up the stairwell, as I aimed low and squeezed off two rounds.

  The big man jolted back, clutching his stomach. He buckled over and tumbled. His gun clattered down the stairs.

  I lunged past him toward the foot of the tower, where a flock of tourists had crowded the entrance. Pushing through them, I ran for the first yellow cab in the line.

  I hopped in, slamming the door behind me. “Federal Building,” I ordered the driver

  Ten minutes later, I was knocking at the door of Agent Bill Javier.

  thirty-two

  “Feds Probe Kalaupapa Cliffs.” Friday’s Star-Bulletin detailed a wide-ranging federal investigation into Umbro Zia and the Chancellor Trust’s hui. It was alleged that the trust had conspired to bribe members of the Land Zoning Board and other public officials by offering financial interest in the proposed resort. Hui members were also being questioned in the deaths of Baron Taniguchi and Sara Ridgely-Parke, and Adrienne’s hit-and-run accident in Waikīkī.

  Several suspected hui members were named, including Zia, Dr. Goto, Rush McWhorter, and Manny Lee. Jailed Pakalōlō King Milton Yu was not mentioned. Nor were Emery Archibald, Heather Linborg, or J. Gregory Parke. Somehow this made the wealthy Parke seem all the more forlorn.

  The article explained that a federal judge had enjoined the Land Zoning Board from meeting, pending the outcome of the investigation. An accompanying editorial noted that the Chancellor Trust’s proposal to develop eighty acres of Moloka‘i conservation land–all but certain of passage yesterday–was now dead.

  I reached up and touched my shoulder. Still pain. But the wound had been superficial, and was cleaned and bandaged that same afternoon. The emergency room physician had warned me to keep it out of the water for a few days. Right. If there was one thing I needed most in the world right now, it was surfing.

  Late Friday morning, with agent Javier in tow, I visited Adrienne at the medical center. She had awakened from her long sleep and was speaking again, though faintly. To the agent, she corroborated much of what I had said about the hui’s involvement in Sara’s death.

  After Javier had spoken with Adrienne a few minutes, he left us alone. Her newly regained voice began to fade.

  “Save it.” I took her hand. She looked so much better, I couldn’t help wondering aloud if she would return to Boston immediately. Adrienne slowly shook her chestnut hair, glinting red and gold in the morning sun streaming through her hospital window. She squeezed my hand.

  On my way back to my apartment that afternoon, I took a detour in Waikīkī and found myself barefoot with my board on a sun-warmed stretch of sand. Within minutes I was paddling out to Pops. My shoulder stung a little when I stroked, and even more with the first spray of salt water. Then the frothing soup from an inside set suddenly tore off my bandage. By the time I had reached the lineup, my shoulder was numb. But I felt alive. Restored. Balanced. And ready for the next wave.

  The Making of Murder on Moloka‘i

  includes unpublished excerpts from the novel

  by Chip Hughes

  I began writing Murder on Moloka‘i in 1995. The book went though more than twenty complete drafts before it was published almost a decade later in 2004. The early drafts ran as long as 75,000 words, or close to four hundred pages. The finished product, barely 40,000 words and two hundred pages. Obviously, a lot was condensed and cut. This was done in an attempt to create a spare and compact novel. Though the bulk of the deleted material no doubt deserved to be cut, some passages that developed the character of Kai Cooke and the atmosphere of his life and his Hawai‘i were also sacrificed. Not to mention an entire subplot concerning another case Kai was working when the Moloka‘i investigation began. Some of this material appears below, along with brief explanations as to where and how it would have fit into a longer book. While most excerpts have never appeared in print before, readers familiar with Murder on Moloka‘i may recognize some passages in their earlier guises. I have resisted the temptation to edit. The following pages are presented not as finished work, but as drafts. My purpose is rather to suggest other directions the novel might have taken and the various steps in the creative process.

  I: Early Beginnings: First draft, 1995

  The first draft of Murder on Moloka‘i represents my earliest conception of the character of Kai Cooke (originally called “Keahi”). My fledgling emulation of the hard-boiled school of Hammett and Chandler can be seen in phrases like “heavy assignment,” and trailing people “who might be trouble,” and “protecting [one’s] flesh.” Kai’s Smith & Wesson begins here as a .38 snub-nose hammerless revolver, but later becomes a .357 Magnum. Note the emphasis on the gun itself. Soon I realized what set Kai apart from other fictional PIs was not his firearm, but his surfboard. In recent years more gumshoes who surf have appeared, but none to my knowledge for whom wave riding is so central to every aspect of their character. In this draft, Kai says his firm’s name–Surfing Detective–is merely a gimmick, whereas in later versions he tells us riding waves actually helps him solve cases. Finally, the lines below about his logo and his being mistaken for a celebrity did make it into book at the end of chapter one.

  one

  (1995 draft)

  I keep a .38 snub nose revolver in the trunk of my car, unloaded. It’s a hammerless Smith and Wesson, which when carried can be drawn and fired quickly. No private detective in Hawai‘i is licensed to carry a concealed weapon. Being caught with one earns two years in jail. So when I go out on a heavy assignment, when I’m tailing someone who might be trouble, I weigh the benefits against the risks. Is protecting my flesh worth doing a couple years’ time? Or, does staying out of jail merit taking a slug? It’s a delicate balance. My job is full of delicate balances.

  I’m Keahi Cooke. My business card says: “CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS–ALL ISLANDS.” Next to these words is my company logo–a lone surfer riding a wave. The same logo has appeared in the Ho
nolulu yellow pages for the past six years. The surfer has nothing to do with my present occupation. I chose it as a gimmick to help clients remember me, and to recall my feats as a long board champion. I use the word “champion” broadly. When twenty-five, nearly a decade ago, I placed third in a local contest up at Pipeline. The trophy still sits on my Maunakea Street office, a little tarnished. Nonetheless, the gimmick has worked. Potential clients often ask, “Are you the surfing detective?”

  My notoriety also has it drawbacks. Hardly a week goes by without a crank call. Celebrity seekers, bleary-eyed from reruns of Hawaii Five-0, sometimes phone my office for Jack Lord. This mystifies me. With sun-bleached hair and brown eyes I look nothing like Lord, nor from the reruns I’ve seen did he ever surf. I also get calls for Magnum P.I. When I was working late one night a breathy female voice asked if I was Tom Selleck. I forced myself to choke out, “No.”

  As I was saying, the .38 snubnose can get me out of trouble, but also get me into it. Therefore, I use the revolver sparingly.

  II: New Beginnings: People are like waves

  In 1998 the Jellinek & Murray Literary Agency of Honolulu circulated the first version of Murder on Moloka‘i offered to publishers. This version begins with Kai expounding his view of human nature (“People are like waves”) and introducing himself and his Surfing Detective agency. In subsequent drafts this three-page monologue was dismantled, revised, and moved to various other places in the book, finally coming to rest in chapter ten. In its original form the monologue shows how Kai’s character evolved from the early drafts to the finished product. Notice that he starts now with waves, rather than guns. And while his gun does appear later, it rides in the car with his surfboard, the fragrance of whose coconut-scented wax he much prefers to the gunmetal and machine oil odor of the Smith & Wesson. He also says that using the word surfing in his firm’s name is “no gimmick,” in contrast to the first draft. And there is less hard-boiled talk than before.

  one

  (1998 draft)

  People are like waves. On the surface they may appear turbulent or calm, but what really matters lies below. The most beautiful glassy tube, you see, can be the most dangerous. Under that luminous green barrel hides a jagged reef–just inches beneath the surface–that can rake the unsuspecting surfer like a cheese grater. Mushy beach break may pose less risk, but for Pure Stoke can’t match the awesome tube.

  Like waves, people present themselves in many guises. Whether surfing or working a case, I keep my eyes open. Check out da reef, brah! I scan the sea for saw-toothed coral. I survey the soup for uncharted boulders. I also scout the telltale fin of the tiger shark. Otherwise, by now I’d be a dead surfer. And a dead detective.

  When I’m working I pack a .38 snub-nose revolver by my surfboard wax in the trunk of my Impala. The gunmetal and machine oil smell of the Smith & Wesson, magnified by the Hawaiian sun, almost reeks beside the sweet, coconut-scented paraffin. The blue black .38–gunmetal stink and all–is a necessary evil of my job. Me, I prefer the tropical scent of the surfboard wax.

  I bought the hammerless .38 because I can draw and fire it quickly. My fast draw has drilled dozens of make-believe men at the Koko Head Range, and one flesh and blood man in the streets of Honolulu. The latter was an “armed and dangerous” (but not too smart) escaped con, trying to settle a score. It’s a case I’d just as soon forget, since he nearly landed me in prison, if not at the undertaker.

  Problem is, no private detective in Hawai‘i is licensed to carry a concealed weapon. Getting caught with one earns the unlucky P.I. two years in jail. So when I go out on a heavy assignment, when I’m tailing someone who might be trouble, I weigh the benefits against the risks. Is protecting my hide worth doing a couple years’ time? Or does staying out of jail merit taking a slug? It’s a delicate balance. My job is full of delicate balances.

  I’m Kai Cooke. Kai in Hawaiian means “sea.” I was named after my Uncle Kaipo, an expert waterman who sailed Polynesia in a double-hulled koa canoe. My business card says “SURFING DETECTIVE” and “Confidential Investigations–All Islands.” Above these words is my company logo–a longboard rider with toes on the nose. This “hanging ten” surfer is a thing of beauty: back gracefully arched, knees bent slightly, arms cantilevered behind for balance, gauzy ocean spray enveloping board and surfer like a white lace curtain. Radical.

  An artist friend modeled the logo after an unknown wave rider at the Banzai Pipeline. My surfer logo has appeared in the Honolulu yellow pages for the past six years. This is no bogus gimmick. I really do surf. In fact, it wouldn’t stretch the truth too much to call myself a longboard champion.

  Well, former champion. When I was twenty-five, nearly a decade ago, I placed third in a local contest at Mākaha. The infamous Mākaha “bowls” were cranking up in the final round to twelve feet. And higher. Boards were snapping like toothpicks. I got lucky. One teeth-rattling ride positioned me to win it all. Then on the wave of the day–the wave of my life–I kicked out to rescue a fellow surfer hit by his board going over the falls. Neither of us won first prize. But my third-place trophy, tarnished by the years, still sits in my Maunakea Street office and holds special meaning.

  More to the point, the surfer logo has worked. Potential clients may forget my name, but not the Surfing Detective.

  III: Chapters One though Four: The Deadbeat Dad

  Once Kai’s “People are like waves” monologue was removed from the first pages of the 1998 draft, the revised first chapter began with the discarded subplot mentioned above. This subplot involves a deadbeat dad named Leonard Souza whose wife has retained the Surfing Detective to collect delinquent child support. Souza has not only failed to support his own children, but has also taken up with barely a child himself, cohabiting with her in a rusting fishing boat at the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor in Honolulu. The confrontation that results when the PI serves papers on the deadbeat was intended as a day-in-the-life vignette. But it was thought to draw away too much attention from the main plot. The piece was later published as a short story entitled “Hijinks Aboard the Hōkūlani” in Spirit of Aloha (March/April 2008), the in-flight magazine of the now defunct Aloha Airlines, and in a double issue of Hawai‘i Review: A Special Tribute to Ian MacMillan (Vol. 28-9; No. 1-2; 2008). Note that in this early draft Kai was not merely hānaied, as in the published version, but is part-Hawaiian. And that his attorney friend is named not Tommy, but Harry.

  one

  (1998 draft, revised)

  Wednesday, October fourth. Six a.m. Ala Wai Yacht Harbor.

  I was on a stake out by Waikīkī’s famed Ilikai Hotel, atop whose aqua towers Jack Lord posed for the opening sequence of Hawaii Five-O. In my memory I could almost see the famous cascading wave that started the show and hear the drum roll and twanging guitars of The Ventures, as Lord’s character, Detective Steve McGarrett, turned steely eyes to the camera.

  My assignment this morning lacked the glamour of most of McGarrett’s. (Glamour would arrive later in the day.) I was tracking a deadbeat dad named Leonard Souza. Souza and his seventeen-year-old girlfriend, a high school truant named Lei, were shacking up in a fishing boat called the Hōkūlani. A friend of the truant girl aboard had told me she was pregnant. That’s why she didn’t return to school.

  Wackos. Where do they all come from? And slimy deadbeats. The Hōkūlani, it turned out, wasn’t even Souza’s. From what I could gather, the dilapidated boat’s absentee owner allowed him to live on board in exchange for making repairs. He and his seventeen-year-old baby-sitter got themselves a love nest, though a foul one, rent free. I could see no evidence from my stakeout position of any repairs to this rust bucket.

  In my lap lay the manila envelope I had come to put into Souza’s hands. It contained a court order–more precisely, a “Motion and Affidavit for Post-Decree Relief ”–compelling him to appear at Family Court. A year behind on his child support payments, Souza had violated the terms of his divorce decree.

  Several days of turning over rocks
led me here to the yacht harbor at this ungodly hour, hoping to catch Souza off guard and deliver the affidavit. I was being cagey because his former wife had warned me in pidgin: “Leonard like beef.” Meaning: If provoked, he could get nasty.

  Mrs. Souza, his ex, was my client. I should never have taken her on. She couldn’t afford my hourly minimum. She called me daily, sometimes twice a day. But how could I not feel sorry for her? She and her three kids were about to lose their home. So I made my habitual mistake.

  “Avoid getting emotionally involved,” all my P.I. training taught me. Trouble is, I’m a soft touch. My father’s missionary ancestry and my mother’s Hawaiian aloha compel me to lend a hand to every hard luck case that knocks at my door. Though my parents died long ago, their influence remains. Thus, I’ve helped my share of penniless clients and gotten sucked into some unprofitable, not to mention dangerous, cases.

  Serving papers on hostile deadbeats like Souza can be a dicey business. My favorite strategy is to play dumb: I don’t mention what’s in the envelope until it’s safely in the bad guy’s hands.

  Though I’d never admit to deliberately misleading anyone, sometimes my subjects get the mistaken idea that they’re about to win the lottery or receive a check from an anonymous benefactor or a reward for a good deed done long ago but not forgotten. Once the court order has been duly served, I mention this disagreeable fact on my way out. By the time any tempers flare, I’m heading for the surf.

  Aside from an occasional glitch, this strategy works. Usually.

  two

  (1998 draft, revised)

  Soon the rising sun cast its mango hue on two snapshots Mrs. Souza had given me: one of her ex-husband, the other of the baby-sitter.