Molokai Reef
Page 15
An arm lifted the pirate motif sheet and a bare breast bumped his arm as someone slid into the berth alongside him.
“Can I sleep here?” Said a voice, a voice that wasn’t Andrea’s.
Something about gift horses drifted through his mind mildly interfering with his tumescent reaction. “Uh, sure.”
“Thanks. I am pretty strong you know. All of us girls that work with Andrea are. But, tonight after Les, I could use a good snuggle. ’k?”
Amber, he recognized. Gybe put his arm around her and held the young woman close. Soon, he heard the soft breaths of the sleeping woman; her head nestled on his shoulder. So much for sex and/or sleep. Oh great, he thought, I’m already a father figure.
Gybe awoke to the smell of coffee. Damn, it happened again. He must be getting old or deaf. Now, he was worried about the father figure metaphor. How did these women leave his bunk without his awareness?
He stepped in the head, relieved himself, brushed his teeth, and pulled on a pair of shorts.
“Morning Amber.”
She turned, stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, and then poured him a mug of coffee. “Morning yourself.” She wore one of his T-shirts.
Like his coffee mugs, this shirt had a story as well. A story that he would not share with Amber. The shirt was from Hale‘iwa Joes, a restaurant on the north shore of O‘ahu.
Gybe asked Amber about her background. They exchanged histories as two people might do in a coffee shop meeting arranged through newspaper personal ads.
The coffee, company, and conversation were excellent. Ferrity sat motionless, anchored deep in the windless harbor. Gybe thought to himself, ’tis the good life. Somewhere else, in a place called civilization, millions of drones raged through gridlock following the scent of lucre towards a mind-deadening job. Drones powered by a chemically sweetened, fat-laced, caffeinated, frothy quaff from a faux-friendly barista. Why? Malls, car dealers, ex-spouses, electronic stores. He shuddered.
As if reading his anti-automobile thoughts, the first car of the morning wound down the dirt road to the harbor then drove out onto the jetty. Years ago when barges visited the harbor, a landing strip had covered the top of the jetty. Since the closing of the airstrip, rains and ocean surf had eroded the edges of the runway. Kiawe trees grew on the centerline. Gybe recognized the couple who stepped away from their car.
Almost every day they drove to the jetty to inspect the sculptures that they had built from rocks, driftwood, flotsam, and jetsam during previous visits. The couple had been here a month ago when he last visited Lono harbor.
Across on Lagoonabago, Andrea, her guests, and her girls were having breakfast.
Finishing her coffee, Amber stood to leave. “I better get back over there. They’ll need da Dink to take Thomas and Melissa ashore.” She stood and started to peel off the borrowed T-shirt.
“Take the shirt. You can give it back later.”
“Thanks Gybe. See ya.” She hugged him in a full-body embrace, enfolding him in sensuous girl parts.
Gybe and parts thereof were left standing as she stepped aboard da Dink and cast off the painter.
Moments later, a large SUV, maybe a Lincoln Navigator, plowed down the grade surrounded by dust. The wheels weren’t turning but the vessel was still moving when Les popped out the driver’s side and strode to the water’s edge.
Gybe signaled Andrea that he would row ashore to handle Les.
Les, cigar smoking like a farm tractor pulling out a stump, stood above Gybe as he shipped the oars and tied the dink to the face of the wharf.
Due to the low tide, the top of the wharf was nearly seven feet from the floor of the dink. To reach the wharf Gybe would have to climb the somewhat rotten horizontal planks bolted to the face of the structure.
With one leg up on the wharf, the other foot still on a plank, Gybe saw Les’s foot en route towards him. The boot connected with the back of his head as Gybe spun and kicked off into the water.
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Andrea and the girls later told Gybe that it looked like he bounced from the water back onto the wharf. That wasn’t possible of course, but faster than a rat leaving New Orleans, Gybe scaled the wharf to a surprised, unprepared, laughing Les.
By the time Andrea reached shore, Les lay curled up in a fetal position next to the front wheel of the SUV. Blood streamed through the fingers of a hand held mid-face. “Enough,” she told Gybe. She tossed Les’s clothes, wallet, and shoes from the previous night to the ground next to the Navigator.
“Don’t even mention Lagoonabago again. Don’t try to visit. If you see the girls or me on the street, turn around and walk away. Understand?”
Les nodded and grunted.
After Gybe and Andrea turned towards the harbor, Les emitted a shrill scream. When they turned, Les had released his nose and was now shielding his crotch. Still wearing Gybe’s T-shirt, Amber stood at the rear of the SUV and shrugged her shoulders to the unasked question.
After lunch aboard Lagoonabago, Gybe bid farewell to Andrea and the girls before rowing back to Ferrity where he readied her for the return sail to Kaunakakai.
During the morning, the trade winds had climbed to fifteen knots out of the northeast. Sailing out of the harbor, he estimated that it would take four tacks to reach Kaunakakai. That was fine. He was sailing, alone as he preferred, on a good breeze, in warm weather. The island of Lāna‘i stood off his starboard bow, Moloka‘i on his port beam, and Maui at about ten o-clock.
For perspective, he pictured the cubicle monkeys cowered afore their one-eyed electronic gods while caged in a synthetic environment of re-breathed air and artificial lighting. The Sheetrock had never been a tree, the carpet had never seen a sheep, and the plastic – well, who knew where plastic really came from? Not a single item in a modern office had originated from a life form. Hell, even the plants, if they were real, came from faraway fields. The blast of upwind whale’s breath blew the nightmare from his thoughts. Foul though it was, the whale’s discharge was sweeter than the ass end of a San Francisco commuter bus.
He spun the wheel to port and Ferrity hove to while he watched two mother-calf pairs of humpbacks. The sail, the whales, the wind scoured the vile image from his spirit.
Outside of Kaunakakai Harbor, he furled the sails then motored through the entrance. A container laden interisland barge rested alongside the pier. Forklifts, capable of hoisting forty-foot long shipping containers, removed the large metal boxes and distributed them to waiting trucks. Several vehicles sat on one end of the barge where drivers waited to drive across the ramp, completing their journey to Moloka‘i.
Ahead, Makani lay at anchor.
Kaunakakai anchorage wasn’t large. The cruising guide suggested anchoring as far inside, towards shore, as possible. It was important to remain clear of the tug that maneuvered the barge into and away from the pier. In selecting his spot, Gybe knew that the water shoaled not far beyond the boat launch ramp. On the west side of the harbor, the reef was visible at low tide.
Using the boat ramp and a light pole on the causeway as reference points, he eased Ferrity towards the place he wanted to anchor.
Approaching his invisible X, he reversed the engine under gentle throttle until the boat’s forward motion stopped. He idled the engine, left it in reverse, and walked forward. On the foredeck, he released the anchor and let the chain run out until the anchor hit bottom. The wind and the idling engine pushed Ferrity backwards. Gybe eased out more chain.
The water was about ten feet deep where Gybe released the anchor. He let out fifty feet of chain, then set the chain stopper. Back in the cockpit, he reversed the engine under two-thirds throttle to set, dig in, the anchor. While the engine backed down, he strode forward, saw that the chain was tight, that the anchor was not dragging, then returned and idled the engine. After letting the engine cool under idle for a few minutes, he pulled the kill switch returning silence to the boat.
Gybe was coiling and stowing lines when Mongoose climbed aboard and
landed in the cockpit. The ’goose had never met Andrea, so Gybe glossed over his recent experience aboard Lagoonabago. They talked about Les for a few minutes.
“I learned some things about the victims while you were away.” Mongoose offered.
“Yeah, what?”
“Drugs.”
“What do you mean drugs? Try whole sentences, will you. Buy some goddamn verbs.”
Because of a regressive gene inherited from unknown ancestors, perhaps from Romania or Kazakhstan, Mongoose was immune to insults. He recognized insults, but his adrenaline system would not nor could not respond.
He explained that while seeking pharmacological supplies for Makani he met a local man named Polunu. Polunu had heard that two haoles, a man and a woman, were trying to find a buyer for hashish.
Polunu was amazed at their stupidity. Everyone knew, including the police, that one family controlled the illegal drug trade on the island. The clan assigned the tasks of growing, cultivating, and distributing amongst its members. The Ohana as they were called had been growing pakalolo on the island for five generations.
Tacit agreement between the community and the police gave the Ohana exclusive rights to distribute illegal drugs. In exchange, the Ohana agreed to sell only pakalolo, no heroin, ice, or drug du jour. If an outsider imported one of these other drugs, the Ohana worked with the police to drive them out. With the police and the Ohana after their ass, ice dealers didn’t have a chance.
“Sounds like a thriving family business. Would they murder to keep out the competition? I want to talk with the leader of this Ohana.”
“Oh yeah Gybe, no problemo. Let me get the yellow pages. Should I look under M for marijuana, P for pakalolo, or D for drugs? While I’m looking, why don’t you call the Chief of Police and ask him to set up a meeting?”
“Wise ass. Let’s start with your new friend – Pokocabana wasn’t it?”
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“Polunu.” Mongoose corrected as the two men boarded the ’goose’s dink and motored towards shore.
Susan’s car was in the pier parking lot, but there was no sign of Kara.
“We’ll take this car.” Gybe hopped in the driver’s position.
The ’goose did a slow walk around the vehicle. “Man, what’s that smell? You dig this car out of the dump?” The ’goose circled the ’vair twice before sliding into the shotgun seat. Bill, who came along for the ride, perched on the seatback above Mongoose’s left shoulder.
Gybe pumped the gas and twisted the screwdriver. The fuel ignited in at least four of the six cylinders in the flat-six engine. A quick mental calculation revealed that not counting for valve leakage, over ninety of the theoretical one hundred forty cubic inches were available for thrust. He drove the car forward, hit the curb, and bounced back through the blue smoke. The unexpected maneuver sent Bill tumbling into the starboard foot well. Unsure of the next direction of travel, Mongoose braced himself between the dashboard and the seat back.
“Airbag, dammit, airbag!” Squawked the red macaw as he used his beak and claws to scale Mongoose’s leg and reclaim his perch on the seat.
Driving up the causeway, Gybe asked, “Where do we find your buddy Polunu?”
Mongoose directed Gybe to an area of old fishponds near Kawela, about five miles east of Kaunakakai town. As the car entered the rutted drive, Gybe pointed to a Hawaiian beach shack through some kiawe trees to the east. “That it?”
Gybe and Mongoose exited the car. The ’goose turned to Bill, still sitting on the car seat, “Perch,” he commanded.
The tropical climate of Hawai‘i permitted people to live on the beach year-round. A roof was the only real requirement. A cheap blue or silver plastic tarp, sold by the thousands at local hardware stores, would last up to a year, even under the tropical sun. As they walked towards the shelter, Gybe inventoried the surroundings.
A path led along the beach, just above the high tide line. A circle of lava rocks formed a crude fire pit. Hard-earned possessions including two faded plastic chairs, a three-legged table, a rusted out bucket, and a cushionless sofa decorated the sand under the blue tarp. Ropes tied between the corners of the tarp and nearby tree trunks held up the twenty-foot square blue plastic. A lodge pole in the center shaped the cover in an attempt to drain rainwater. Strewn around the camp were dozens of gadgets, appliances, and plastic widgets no longer recognizable on the shelves of Home Depot or Wal-Mart. Someone once told Gybe that to the homeless, every possession was valuable.
A pit bull and a rottweiler strained at their chains, anchored to the lodge pole. If police were smarter, instead of chasing drug dealers with undercover agents and snitches, they would locate the people who owned pit bulls and rottweilers. Find one, find the other. Dog traps not wiretaps.
“Aloha, anyone home.” Mongoose called. “Hello. Polunu, my friend, it’s me Mongoose.”
The dogs snarled and strained against the chains. Just then, Bill swooped down from behind and locked his zygodactylous toes (two fore, two aft) around the pit bull’s leather collar. “Yee hah. Yee hah,” chattered the scarlet macaw.
Mongoose had left Bill in the ’vair and instructed him to stay. Either Bill disobeyed or he couldn’t stand the stench in the car.
The pit bill barked, snapped, twisted, jerked, and bucked. On the other chain, the over stimulated rottweiler brain locked up and the screen-saver came on. He lay down as far away from the pit bull as his chain would allow.
“Git da fugin brd off ma dag.”
Gybe assumed the large man waddling out of the woods waving his arms was Polunu. He was about five foot ten and his bathroom scales, if he’d had a bathroom to keep them in, hadn’t registered under three hundred pounds this decade. Strapped to each foot was an old, wheelless skateboard. Ropes fastened through the boards held the slippers to his massive feet. The sandshoes kept him afloat in the soft sand.
“Eight secs. Eight secs.” Bill unclenched his toes and with three wing flutters landed on Mongoose’s shoulder. Because the bird used both feet on the dog collar, rodeo judges would refuse to qualify the ride in bull riding events.
“Wha ya wnt?”
“Polunu. This is my friend Gybe.”
The testosterone-saturated synapses of the pit bull did not register Bill’s departure. The brainsick dog twisted, circled, and wrapped the chain tighter and tighter around the lodge pole.
Mongoose acted as interpreter for the pidjin-speaking Polunu. Like ebonics speakers in Oakland, pidjin speakers were proud of their illiteracy.
Polunu repeated what he had told Mongoose earlier. Two haoles had tried to sell hashish. The two brothers who ran the Ohana pakalolo distribution had heard of the deal. Like everyone on the island, Polunu knew the brothers Makaha and Nahoa by reputation but he could not set up a meeting.
The brothers modeled their pakalolo distribution network after multi-level-marketing programs developed to sell cosmetics. Polunu was a recent recruit and worked at the bottom tier. He was trying to enlist new distributors for his district but everyone he knew was already in the pyramid.
Gybe pointed to a new black moped with oversize tires sitting under a tree behind Polunu. “Where did you get the shiny moped?”
The ’goose translated, “Says he got it for meeting his sales goals three months in a row. In the lower tier, the distributors get black. Higher sales achievers silver or gold mopeds.”
As Gybe and Mongoose walked away from the shelter, Bill flew a low pass over the panting, short-chained pit bull. The dog lunged, Bill fled, the pole fell, Polunu cursed, the rottweiler’s skull cracked.
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Nearing the Hotel Moloka‘i, Gybe downshifted to brake using the engine. When that failed, he applied the foot brake and turned left into the hotel parking area. The valet waved him on and pointed to the far parking lot.
“Detroit gets no respect,” mumbled the ’goose. “Remember the Chevy Vega? Could the Japanese or the Koreans have designed, built, and sold a car made entirely of plastic and rust?”
“Keali‘i, how are you? You know Mongoose?”
“Everyone knows the ’goose, Gybe.”
She lowered a basket of the holiday green chips, a bowl of salsa, and took their drink orders.
When she returned with the two Kona ales, Gybe again complimented her on the chips.
“We’re about out, so enjoy.”
“Order some more. Everyone loves them.”
“Can’t. We got these from Dr. Jean. She brought them by two days before her murder. Jean said they were experimental. A new breed of corn they had created.”
“You mean one of the bio-engineered varieties from GeNesRus?” Gybe asked.
“Yeah, I guess. She didn’t say. We were slow after lunch today, so the manager asked me to call GeNesRus and order some more. Everyone wants the chips, but when I called, no one knew what I was talking about. Odd, huh?”
Gybe told Keali‘i how he and Kara had been unsuccessful in getting information from the seed companies. It was the nature of their business to keep the research secret.
Keali‘i left Mongoose and Gybe to enjoy the beers. Gybe suggested they should talk with the two brothers – Makaha and Nahoa – as soon as possible.
The next Roach Hill Downs was scheduled for 11:00 p.m. tonight. “They were at the last race.” Mongoose had known who they were before their visit to Polunu. If drugs were involved, the ’goose knew.
Kara insisted on going to the races with Gybe. Mongoose had predicted large crowds, so they left the ’vair parked on the pier. The races were held under the canoe hale, or canoe house, just to the west of where the causeway joined the island. The hale lay makai of the home site of Kamehameha V, last of the Kamehameha dynasty. Well into adulthood, he had a fondness for his sister, which withstood the ire of the kahunas. He left no heirs.