Diamond Head

by Charles Knief

  6

  The open-air Denny’s above the ABC Store at the corner of Kalakaua and Kapahulu is without question the best location in the chain. The food’s identical to all the others but the atmosphere is definitely above the standard. Louise and I found a table in the bar, away from the distractions of the nonstop beach party below. Louise ordered a Grand Slam and I had coffee.

  “Mary MacGruder first came to work for us about two years ago. She was almost too young to serve drinks, and she had that look of, I don’t know, she was unspoiled, I guess would be the word.”

  “Unspoiled.”

  “Virginal. You know, like a guy wouldn’t want to admit to her that he drank alcohol, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “She was too young.”

  “That’s not it. She was young, Lord knows. Young, blond and sweet. There was a feeling of grace about her. That’s it! She looked like Grace Kelly used to, when she was makin’ pictures, and she acted like a princess. For a while, some of the girls called her that—Princess—until she got mad and made them stop. Her name was Mary, she said, and she insisted that people call her by her name.” Louise’s dinner arrived. “Hungry,” she said, and started eating. She was the kind of woman who could eat and talk at the same time and she wouldn’t miss a crumb or a syllable.

  “Mary could be quite strong when she wanted to be, hard even. Not at all the shy type. But she looked fragile. It fooled a lot of people. Anyway, none of us believed what happened to her. I mean, there just wasn’t any way to know.”

  “It was a bad way to die.”

  “That’s not it. You don’t know, do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “She got fired. The company had a surprise drug test and her sample came up positive for cocaine. We’re not supposed to know, but there are no real secrets around the hotel, you know.”

  “When was that?”

  “About a year ago. It shocked all of us.”

  “Did you talk to her about it?”

  “I’m not … I wasn’t her boss. We were even on different shifts then, so I didn’t see her all the time and when I did it was just a ′Hi, how are you?’ kind of thing.”

  “What else did you hear?”

  “Nothing. One day she was there and another—Bam! Out of there! When that happens, people talk in whispers about it and then they stop talking about it altogether.”

  “Did she have any family, any friends around?”

  “Didn’t see any when I worked with her.”

  “And you never saw her again?”

  “I saw her a couple of times. She came in once, about three months after they fired her. She and another girl and a big fella, not local, but real, real big. Bigger than you. Taller, broader. White teeth. Rich guy, spent money by the bushel. And Mary and this other girl were hanging all over him.

  “You know, it looked like they came in to just rub it in our faces. It was like she could come back any time she wanted and we couldn’t do anything about it. She really acted the princess that night—treated us all like we were peasants. And a couple of the girls saw it, too, the way Mary and this big guy touched the other girl like she was some kind of a plaything. Like she wasn’t real.”

  “What did the girl look like?”

  “Young. Younger than Mary. Not bright, but pretty. And either drunk or stoned.”

  “And Mary and …”

  “Somebody told me he was her boyfriend, but nobody knew his name. Don’t remember who told me. Big, big guy, like I said. Huge shoulders. Lifts weights. A freak.”

  “You said you saw her one other time.”

  “I live on the North Shore. I was on the way to my dentist in Pearl Ridge and I stopped in Haleiwa for a shave ice. Mary was alone. She looked bad. Dirty, like she hadn’t changed her clothes in a week. Dirty, matted hair, crud under her fingernails. She didn’t recognize me and I almost didn’t recognize her.”

  “When was this?”

  “Three or four months ago. About then.”

  “She was killed three months ago.”

  “It was longer than that. Look, I felt sorry for her but I got my shave ice and went to see the dentist. Looked like her boyfriend kicked her out and she didn’t know where to go. She might have been sleeping in the streets. But she wasn’t my problem and I had other things to do. I didn’t have anything against the girl. But she’d made her decisions, and she paid the price, I guess.”

  “It was a pretty steep price to pay,” I said, remembering the photographs.

  “I suppose it was, her bein’ so young and all. I tell you, Mr. Caine, I’ve never seen a body go downhill as fast as that poor child did. When I first met her she was like some kind of a dream child, like the blue fairy in The Wizard of Oz, all sweet and innocent and beautiful. And the last time I saw her she looked kind of crazed and evil. To tell you the truth I didn’t want to have anything to do with her. She scared me.”

  I nodded. What else was there to say?

  “So you’re workin’ for the family. Guess they fired the other fella.”

  “What other fella?”

  “About a month ago, when the police didn’t seem to be coming up with anything, a private detective came around, said he was working for the girl’s father. He some kind of army officer?”

  “Some kind of officer,” I said.

  “This guy, he went to Human Resources, just like the police did, and they wouldn’t tell him a thing. Not without a court order, or so I was told.”

  There wasn’t anything about her being fired for drugs in the police file I read. “Did the police know about the drug thing?”

  “How should I know what the police know? But I kind of doubt it. HR won’t hold on to something like that if the employee doesn’t sue, you know what I mean? They don’t want to get sued by anybody for anything, so they keep that in the file only as long as they think the fired employee has a chance to complain or sue the company, and then they deep-six it so it doesn’t leak and the employee can sue the company for tellin’ on him. That make any sense to you?”

  “It makes a lot of sense.” I knew something the police didn’t know. And it didn’t get me anywhere, either. “Do you know the name of the other detective?”

  “I’m good with names, sugar. Gotta be in my profession. But I don’t think anybody ever told me. He was a local boy. Looked hapa Portagee to me. I never spoke with him, and he wasn’t interested in talking with the help. But he was a local boy, just like I said. If he’s in the book, he’s bound to have a name that ends in an A.”

  7

  I parked in a dirt lot on the eastern edge of Chinatown and nodded to the attendant leaning against the stone wall of an adjacent building. Chawlie would be waiting for me, even though it wasn’t yet midnight. His intelligence network would have reported my arrival long before I walked the three short blocks to the restaurant he used as his headquarters.

  Chawlie wasn’t in his normal place and the plastic chairs in front of the restaurant were vacant. A soft young man in a dark suit and tie and a white-on-white dress shirt stood more or less at attention, watching my approach. His smile was uncertain, reminding me of a politician three weeks from election and ten points down on the polls.

  “Mr. Caine! So good to see you tonight!” He pumped my hand vigorously. “I am Mr. Choy. How are you feeling?” His English was California Standard. I guessed Stanford or Berkeley.

  “Nobody shot me.”

  “I am certain Uncle will be happy to hear that,” said Mr. Choy, his smile strained. “Please come this way. Uncle is waiting for you.”

  He led me across the bright dining area to a pair of carved mahogany doors. The doors and the frame formed the top nine tenths of a circle, finished in a dark stain that contrasted with the otherwise brightly painted and lighted restaurant.

  “Please enter, Mr. Caine,” said Choy, extending his left hand toward the portal in the fashion of the best hotelier, his head inclined in a neat little bow that could have been either cultural o
r the result of training in his profession. I entered a darkened room and stood in the doorway to allow my pupils time to adjust.

  “So. Nobody shoot you. That is good. And you are early to pay a debt. That too is good! Come and sit.” Chawlie was sitting behind a low table attended by two young women, one of whom was my visitor of the previous night. She had the same haughty look she sported aboard Duchess. The other girl kept her eyes down, demurely avoiding my gaze as I crammed my legs under the table.

  “You are an honorable man, John Caine.”

  “We had a contract,” I said, reaching into my backpack for the money. Chawlie held up his hand.

  “A mere favor,” said Chawlie. “It isn’t necessary to pay me yet.” Knowing Chawlie, I began to comprehend that this conversation would take me places I hadn’t planned on going.

  “I thought about the favor you asked of me,” he continued. “Instead of cash payment I would like a small favor from you.”

  “You know I will do anything within reason for an old friend,” I replied, understanding an offer when I heard one. Other thoughts flashed through my mind in rapid succession, one following another in an undeniable progression: Chawlie had kept a copy of the file. And he had read it. And he had found something of interest. Possibilities swarmed.

  “There is a man mentioned in the police file,” said Chawlie. “This man I would like to know about.”

  I nodded, waiting for what would follow. If Chawlie wanted me to commit myself on anything he was to be disappointed.

  “This man. His name is Thompson.”

  It clicked. Carter Allen Thompson was the name of Mary MacGruder’s former boyfriend, the owner of the last address she claimed. He had been interviewed by the police and told them he hadn’t seen her for some time, that she had lived with him, but moved out a month before, leaving him no clue to where she’d gone. It was Thompson who provided the first hint of drug abuse. He was already on my call list, and after talking to Louise I wanted to know more about him.

  “What is it you wish to know about Mr. Thompson?”

  “Thompson and I had business dealings in the past. They were not satisfactory.” Chawlie rose from the table, carefully disentangling himself from his two attendants. “Walk with me to the river.”

  Chawlie’s girls remained behind and we left the restaurant through a side door to a narrow alley. I followed him through the passageway to the broad promenade beside the Nu’uanu Stream. Chawlie stopped in the shadow of Sun Yat-sen’s statue.

  “Thompson is not to be trusted. He will tell you one thing, but do not believe him. Look for the lies. Acch! Pit!” Chawlie spat toward the river into the darkness, oblivious to the passing pedestrian traffic.

  “What do you want to know, Uncle?”

  “I have a son, a good boy. Thompson claims he owes him money. Garrick likes to gamble. He is not skilled. He likes girls, too, but not the ones I can get him. It has become a problem. He now has tastes I cannot provide.”

  I frowned. I did not need another client. Especially one for free. I had enough of those at the moment.

  “The boy would not come to me, I learn this from friends. I find this out two days ago and wonder what to do. I think of you and then you come to me with your request. I think, This John Caine, he might be the answer. So I get you police file and find the answer there.”

  “Thompson is into gambling?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Like what?”

  Chawlie hocked again and lofted another gob into the night. I’ve spent a good portion of my adult life in Asia, but I’d never accustomed myself to the habit. I’d heard somewhere that the Chinese spit to rid themselves of evil spirits. If that was the case, the mention of Carter Allen Thompson’s name brought the evil spirits with it.

  “Videos,” said Chawlie, so quietly I nearly missed it.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Thompson makes videos and sells them to Japan and Taiwan. Some to Hong Kong. Mostly Japan. Always blondes.”

  My brain finally caught up. For a moment I had pictured stacks of pirated copies of Dumbo and Dances with Wolves. Now I understood. Blondes in Asia are as valuable as the gold their hair resembles. Natural blondes are considered the crème de la crème. Japan, Hong Kong and Taiwan all had enough males in their thirties and forties with enough disposable income to indulge their fantasies in that specific kind of pornography. Thompson had taken a specialty market and refined it.

  “He is Australian. Had trouble at home and can’t go back,” continued Chawlie, his voice soft. I could hear the antagonism. “He is not here with all the proper papers. But he thinks he is big businessman.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Pacific Tower on Bishop Street. Thirtieth floor.”

  “Impressive address,” I said.

  Chawlie grunted. To a man who owned entire blocks of downtown Honolulu, a man who merely rented one floor of a high-rise was of no consequence.

  “What would you like to know about him?”

  “Find out where he gambles, where he has his games. My son will not tell me.”

  “You have no other way to find out?”

  Chawlie smiled. “Jasmine, my young woman, the one you met last night. She works for him. Receptionist at his movie production office. Most trusted employee. She will help you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Use your head, John Caine. I help you, you help me. Best to get Garrick out of Islands before it is too late. I have him locked up now, but can’t keep him there forever. I can handle this Thompson, but need to know more about him first. You do that for me.”

  “Put your son on a plane.”

  “It is worse than that.”

  I understood. Chawlie’s son had been threatened by Thompson and Chawlie was frightened for him. It must have been a shock to find his son hooked on the same vices he purveyed to others.

  “What else is Thompson into, besides gambling and pornography?”

  “Drugs, girls, guns, movies. Everything people want.” It occurred to me that Chawlie himself might be just a little afraid of the man. “He has entertainment company, construction company, fishing boats.”

  “Do the police know about this man?”

  Chawlie spat once again. “If police know anything, you think they would know where to look? Or you think they have their hands where their hands should not be?” He let that hang between us before continuing. “Besides, if police try to get into his business, he smell them right away. But you different.”

  “Me? How am I different?”

  Chawlie laughed and spat another time past the statue of Sun Yat-sen. “He smell a cop. He also smell another crook. He smell you he think, Hell, you no cop. You a crook!”

  8

  Duchess wallowed in a slight chop, a stray trade wind ruffling the calm surface of Pearl Harbor, the breeze banging the rigging against the wooden mast. I checked the lines and went below. Duchess is all wood. There’s no fiberglass, no aluminum, no plastic on her. She is not a Tupperware boat. In a deliberate contravention of the notion that lighter is better, she has the only wooden stick in the marina. She’s an anachronism, like her owner.

  Duchess contains everything I own. She has complete stores of food and full tanks of water and diesel. To leave in a hurry it would only be necessary to slip the dock lines and motor out of the channel. I’m a confirmed nomad and I like it that way.

  Like water, food and fuel, I keep all my cash on board, a fact no one is privy to. I removed the five thousand dollars from my backpack and went forward to the chain locker. Inside, at the forward peak behind a false panel in the bulkheads, is my bank. There was nearly two hundred thousand dollars in hundreds and fifties stored there in neat, banded piles. My retirement fund. It’s a big space, and the stacks of bills looked small, considering what they would buy.

  Short term, the money would purchase a lot of shiny, pretty toys, but for the long term it wouldn’t buy much. I needed at least five times that
amount before I was satisfied. I didn’t want to spend my declining years scrambling for enough change to buy dog food. And that is a vast improvement over the ideas of the future I’d previously held. There had been a time when retirement was not a consideration. The possibility of living that long never crossed my mind. From an actuarial standpoint I’d exceeded my life expectancy several times and I’d lived my life accordingly.

  I felt ragged from too little sleep, too much alcohol and caffeine and too much pointless conversation. Chawlie’s request was an unwelcome burden and took me out of focus, whether Thompson had anything to do with Mary MacGruder’s death or not. The fight with the two local boys depressed me. My shoulder hurt. I didn’t know where to go or what to do next and I was almost too tired to care.

  A warm shower relaxed me and I headed to my bunk in the forward cabin. Something about the air disturbed me, the humidity insinuating itself around every inch of flesh the way it does when a hurricane is near.

  It didn’t have to be a hurricane. What I’d learned about Mary MacGruder was making my skin crawl of its own accord. I pulled the Atlas of Asia down from the bookshelves that lined my bunk and opened it to my favorite passage. Nestled inside a cutout was my Colt .45 1911A Gold Cup automatic pistol. I checked the load and slipped it under my pillow before I crawled naked between the percale.

  I awoke the next morning full of purpose. Since everything seemed to be a dead end and I still didn’t have anything to take to the police I decided to find the private investigator who had visited the hotel, and see where that would take me.

  The yellow pages had only one private investigator whose name ended in A. Robert W. Souza had an address listed in Waikiki, beneath the western flank of Diamond Head. It wasn’t an impressive location. Behind the glitz and glitter of the thirty-story hotels along the beach, Waikiki is the home of the worst urban slums on the island. The streets are narrow, the apartments filled to overflowing. Crime is an everyday occurrence. The predators prey on the tourists and on each other. Along McCulley Avenue the iteration of the food chain is out in the open.