by Chris Bauer
“Everyone on Kauai knows him,” Vena sobbed, “but I know him personally. He’s from the island…”
Miakamii again.
“I… I think I need to show you something else.” Vena grabbed her phone back, started keying. “Look.”
She’d pulled up a news story. “Another murder, only days old. A research doctor dead from a home invasion.”
“What’s special about her?” Kaipo quickly scanned the post, saw no mention of missing organs.
“She was the Navy outpost CO’s fiancée. I don’t know the details, but she’s another Miakamii native. What the hell is going on?”
11
Ella pulled her bicycle out of the tool shed next to their horse barn. A 1970s Schwinn, the bike was greased and oiled in all the right places, with only a little rust on the spokes of each wheel and the frame, and one of the foot pedals missing a rung. A mechanical marvel based on age alone, and maybe the most useful tool they had on the island, quite acceptable as a transportation supplement to their horses. She climbed onto the seat.
Seven a.m. It promised to be a warm day, prompting her to load her water bottle with ice from the solar fridge before filling it with water from the depths of their well, preparing for her ride with Ben. A spin around the island took two hours. Ahead of her on the path, Ben waited in front of their house with one foot on a bicycle pedal, one foot flat on the dirt. She pedaled up the short incline to reach him at its crest, the two of them in shorts and sleeveless tees made from homespun cloth and thread, the exposed parts of their bodies bronzed from decades of soaking up the Miakamii sun.
“Did you bring water for yourself today, Ben?”
“I most certainly did, love,” he said, patting his backpack.
“Let’s go, then. We’ll tend to the honey when we get back.”
They pushed off, leaving behind their utilitarian two-story A-frame, its weather-beaten siding in a soft white, its shingled roof covered in solar panels, and two gas-powered generators hardwired to the house. They let their bicycles coast slowly down the winding path, needing to use the brakes to control their descent. They passed a tiny cornfield that surrounded their farm’s two beehives on three sides, the hives in boxes the size of steamer trunks, sitting waist-high atop stacked cinder blocks. Houses of similar minimalist construction with smaller beehives lined the road, their windows beautified with white café curtains that were hand-stitched, Ella knew, in reds and blues and yellows. Near each home was an adjacent shed or barn or both, or multiples thereof, all the properties quaint and rustic, all well-kept. Older thatched houses, or halepili, rounded out the residences they passed, dotting smaller properties in between the larger ones.
“We must remain vigilant,” Ella said to her husband, needing to raise her voice only slightly, their ride quiet, serene, idyllic, no one else on the path at this hour.
“We do, love. Our helua,” he said, meaning self-defense, “remains primary.”
“We appear so vulnerable to the mainlanders, Ben. Like children.”
“And to those on Kauai and on the other pukoo, too. And to Douglas as well.”
“All our na mea kaua need to be at the ready, dearest. I feel a storm is coming.”
“The island’s knives and spears,” he said, “our bows and darts, our swords—they’re in fine condition, Ella. Always have been, always will be.”
“Fine weapons, but no match for firearms. Someday Douglas will see the need…”
To change the ban, Ella finished in her head, and let them have guns on the island. It would not, however, have made a difference those many decades ago, the outcome of a certain memorable Japanese “siege” on the island that went the natives’ way, belying that they had only rudimentary weapons. But firearms could likely make a large difference going forward, should there be future incidents.
The path bottomed out, and they pedaled to a shuttered house, stopping at the front gate. They laid their bikes down, faced the house head-on, its roof overgrown with vegetation, its lawn a collection of short weeds. Here was Ella’s grandparents’ home, abandoned after their deaths. Her grandfather Tom Imakila, a WWII Medal for Merit winner and a Purple Heart recipient as a civilian, had been shot in three places during “The Siege,” yet he’d still managed to kill his assailant, the Japanese Zero pilot, with his bare hands, his wife Lani assisting. Heroes. Both gone for decades, their home was a shrine to them and their wartime efforts. Ella and Ben made the sign of the cross, then stood solemnly side by side as they paid their respects, Ben’s arm around Ella’s shoulder.
They rode farther along the path, reached an opening in the tree canopy. Ahead of them, a large, barren field. “Here we are,” Ella said.
In front of them a trough of barren, arid soil bunched up like it had been scraped by an earthmover. Here was the path the wounded WWII Zero had taken after it hit the ground, the warplane’s slide still noticeable eighty years later. The skeleton of the aircraft lay for years at the end of the furrow, a metallic mastodon rusted and craggy, its ribs picked clean. Nature had tried to absorb the carcass, tried to pull it under and swallow all the remaining jagged, sun-bleached metal pieces whole, had had decades to do so but failed. It finally lost out to museum experts and war historians who photographed the remains where they lay, then carted them off to reassemble them in an aviation museum on Oahu.
Their next stop would be the only other crashed aircraft site the island had ever experienced, where Chester’s helicopter had come to rest after his murder. They remained on the fringe, the NTSB people still engrossed in analyzing the copter’s wreckage. Again they prayed, this time for Chester.
They rode until they found a deep-bellied cut in the scrub overgrowth along the coastline that gave a good view of the ocean. A tourist helicopter buzzed the shore, a different sightseeing operator, not Douglas Logan’s. It followed a school of dolphin breaking through the whitecaps, jumping over each other, frolicking, enjoying life, the copter’s occupants treated to a spectacle that would make their vacation highlight reels for sure. Ben and Ella headed back inland, toward their village.
A voice crackled through their citizens band radio when they opened their front door. “Ella and Ben. Douglas Logan here. Come in, Ella. Come in, Ben…”
Ella sat at a desk in their small, wallpapered parlor, grabbed the CB radio’s microphone. “I’m here, Douglas. What do you need?” Ben stood behind her.
Douglas spoke through the static, began with, “I have news from Chief of Police Koo…”
A cigarette boat similar to the one Ella had seen, the one that made the ocean retrieval of the skydiving passenger from Chester’s helicopter, had been found at a Lihue boat rental dock not far from the airport.
“White with red stripes across the bow. Sound familiar to you?”
“Yes.”
“It was rented that morning for the day but returned within three hours of putting out into the channel. A cash transaction, with a hefty deposit that was left uncollected. The person who rented it had what proved to be a fake boating license…”
The renter wore sunglasses and a hip-hop beanie, Douglas told her. The name he gave the establishment owner wasn’t traceable anywhere. There was security camera video inside the rental office and on the dock. Two people left the dock for the charter, three came back.
“Maybe Polynesian, maybe Asian, maybe even white according to the person handling the transaction. He couldn’t be more specific because of the head coverings and sunglasses. The security video was too indistinct. And Ella?”
“Yes, Douglas?”
“Chief Koo ruled out one aspect, that it had anything to do with Chester personally. They checked him out, found nothing. Straight and narrow, that was our Chester. Simply a case of wrong place, wrong time for him.”
Ella had assigned no blame for this horrific tragedy to their childhood friend; it hadn’t even been a consideration. But this confirmation left a gaping hole in the investigation: no motive.
“But Douglas…�
� Ben’s hands rested on Ella’s shoulder as she spoke. She gave one of his hands a squeeze, and he squeezed back. “Who will the police look at next? Hello? Douglas? Can you still hear me?”
“I hear you, Ella. I think they will look at my family. Something to do with the island maybe, or its finances”—he paused—“or me.”
12
Philo and Patrick motored into another Kauai neighborhood on recon. Koloa Breeze’s ground-level sign fronted a manicured shrubbery entry. All homes were single residences, mostly single-story, some modest, some gaudy, no structures older than ten years, was Philo’s guess. They came out the other side, at an intersection busied by a pokey street sweeper washing mud from the curb, the stirred mud turning the blacktop brown. The SUV idled, Philo needing to give the bright green truck and its swirling orange brushes the right of way as it crossed in front of them.
“C’mon, hustle it up, how dirty can these streets be,” Philo said, impatient.
“Mud from flooding,” Patrick said. “It moves downhill. Be glad it’s not lava, sir. It wouldn’t be good if it was lava, Philo sir.”
“Yes, I get it, bud, lava would be worse.”
“This thing here is new, sir,” Patrick said.
“What thing? The mud?” Philo looked at Patrick, expectant. “What’s new?”
“This far out. Not the mud, the sweeper. Big as a trash truck, and big orange brushes. New, sir.” Patrick coiled his lower lip, turned around to check out the group of houses they’d just driven through. “No sweepers out here, because there were no houses. These houses all look new, too, sir.”
It was clear to Philo they were newer homes. Patrick deducing the same wasn’t a stretch, but how much was deduction, how much was from memory?
Moving again in the SUV. “If we go this way,” Patrick said, indicating a right turn, “we’ll hit downtown Koloa, sir. Restaurants, pizza parlors, dry cleaners, hotels. If we go that way”—he indicated left—“we’ll find where the old sugar plantations used to be. And behind us, that was…” He squinted, a memory materializing for him. “That was all overgrown. No one lived out here.”
“You know this because?”
“I played here, sir, in this forest, when I was little. Where these houses are now. Rode bicycles through here, played in treehouses and forts. Used ATVs, too, and three-wheelers.” Patrick blinked intermittently, recoiling like someone had flicked water at his face, into his eyes. “This… this is it, sir. I remember this. I grew up around here. I remember being a kid here, when this was all part of the jungle.”
Patrick covered his mouth with his hand, the realization kicking in, his eyes pinching out tears that rolled onto his fingers. “I’m… I’m home, sir. Here, on Kauai. It was my home…”
Philo stopped the car, gripped Patrick’s shoulder, squeezed it. “Bring it here, son.” A congratulatory shake turned into a hug, Philo speaking into Patrick’s shoulder. “So very happy for you, Patrick. Wonderful, bud. Now, the question is—”
They swiped away their tears, composed themselves. Philo finished his thought. “Do you remember your address?”
Patrick slowly shook his head, his answer no. “But I could walk to these hills, sir, when I wanted. It wasn’t far. I came from that direction.” He pointed right. “Go this way, sir. I want to see the streets. The stores. Maybe there’s something about the stores, Philo sir.”
A few intersections later, they had another winner.
“See that car, Philo sir? That black Lexus?” Patrick’s eyes were laser-focused on an older Lexus sedan, a luxury model idling out front of a dry cleaners. Philo guessed it to be anywhere from a 2005 to a 2010.
“I remember one just like that while it drove the streets, me sitting in the back seat with a Nintendo Game Boy, playing video games.”
“Great. Anything else? Any of these stores look familiar?” Philo asked.
“I thought maybe this dry cleaners store was, but no, not this one. Keep driving, sir. Up ahead maybe.”
They stopped at a traffic light. Behind them in the rearview, midway up the street, a Honda Pilot SUV slowed and then stopped, double-parked with its flashers on. In a scene right out of Philly or the Bronx or Detroit, or any other inner-city area where drugs and prostitutes and money might all cross paths on the same street, the driver got out, leaned against his door, folded his arms, and waited. His Matrix Neo sunglasses absorbed the surroundings, his meaty head swiveling slowly atop his thug body. Moments later a short, chunky guy exited a mom-and-pop grocery across the street from the Honda, in orange shorts, sandals, and a white shirt unbuttoned far enough to show a lot of chest hair, and also in sunglasses. To Philo, a player. His hanging shoulder valise gobbled up the long brown envelope he tucked into it as he waited for traffic to clear.
Patrick was focused on the intersection ahead of them; Philo didn’t call his attention to the deal going down behind them. Not so much a deal, more like a shakedown. The chest-hair guy climbed into the back seat of the Honda. The flashers went off, the car put on its turn signal to enter traffic, then did a U-turn, no muss, no fuss, and headed back down the steamy Hawaiian asphalt.
Gang activity, or maybe mob-related. Gender of the players, both male. The ethnicity Philo couldn’t be certain about because of their sunglasses. Whatever. It didn’t involve him.
“Did you see that, Philo sir?”
“Huh?”
“What happened back there, behind us. The man in the orange shorts. Did you see him, sir?”
Patrick’s peripheral observation skills were sharp, had always been. Something at odds with his traumatic head injury, but another reason Philo listened to him and his ramblings at their cleanups, crime scenes included.
“I did, Patrick. What do you make of it?”
“A protection payoff. Someone—a man—makes stops along the way, every few blocks. Store owners paying someone to keep them safe, sir, like back when I was ten maybe.”
“Sorry, Patrick, you slipped yourself in there. Like when you were ten what?”
“Ten years old, playing Nintendo. In the car. He’d toss envelopes into the back seat.”
“Who? Your dad?”
“Dunno. Yeah. Maybe. He was driving. He’d toss them onto the floor. No, into a blue pull-string laundry bag opened on the floor, behind the driver’s seat. I’d pick up the ones that missed and put them in the bag. They were filled with cash.”
Their red light turned green. They were on the move again. Philo was mesmerized.
Patrick, son of a mobster?
“How old were you again?”
“Ten. No, nine. No, younger. I dunno. A kid. Lots of different ages, sir. I went with him more than once. The bag had lots of envelopes in it. Then, um…”
Patrick squinted, was trying to squeeze out more of the memory, and it was hurting him. “Then he, um, stopped taking me on his rides, just like that. Yeah. I was around ten when he stopped.”
Patrick’s dad: in organized crime parlance, he was a bagman.
“And we moved. To a nicer house. A really nice house. With a pool. On a different island, sir.”
“Can you see your dad now in your head, Patrick, what he looked like? Your mom?”
Patrick went silent, swallowing hard while tears formed. “I… no, I can’t, Philo sir. I can’t see them.”
“It’s okay, bud, it’s okay. You’re doing great. Let’s concentrate on these stores—”
“There, sir.” After a few swipes at tears on his cheek, Patrick’s analytical side returned. “That bar on the corner. A different name now. Never been inside, but I remember it. An old woman used to sit outside the bar knitting, under a short palm tree. Not that tree, that one’s fake. A real palm tree, in a big tin wash bucket.”
Philo had a memory of his own flash past him. He knew the bar, too, KonTiki something, a different name now. He remembered the palm tree, the real one, and he knew why it was gone. Drunk patrons like himself leaving the bar at closing and soaking the shrubbery after realizing they sti
ll had to piss really bad. So sophomoric, getting hammered after the rigors of daily SEAL training, the occasional near-death experiences, “occasional” meaning nearly every single day, needing alcohol as a release at night to calm themselves.
Smart move, replacing the live tree with a plastic one, plus a new name for the bar. No old woman sitting on a chair outside; no chair. More to the point, no double-parking of a Honda Pilot after seeing it only a block away doing collection services a few moments ago. This bar had escaped the shakedown. Things had changed. The people in place had changed.
Who was in charge had also changed, and that was the answer. The organized crime family. Philo’s Philly connection to Hawaii. Wally Lanakai. Wally’s family was gone, eradicated from the islands by the Feds. But not really gone—relocated to the mainland. Someone else was here. Someone with different clients, a different network. But that didn’t change one thing that now looked more realistic with each of Patrick’s recalled experiences: his past attachment to someone in organized crime. To Wally? If that was the case, why didn’t Wally lay claim to him back in Philly? Some of these dynamics, Philo just wasn’t able to see.
“Sir? Hello? The light’s green. We can move now, Philo sir. Can we get some lunch now, sir?”
They met Evan for tacos at a restaurant called Da Crack, a local favorite. Mexican food, indoor-outdoor, with a walk-up counter next to the beach. One look at Da Crack’s cartoon logo and the name of the restaurant made more sense: a chubby sombreroed troubadour viewed from the rear, the tops of his ass cheeks visible. Plumber’s crack, Mexican-style. Yet the place was perfect for carrying food and beer to picnic tables where the patrons could watch the breakers while eating. Pet friendly, but more so because it was open-air dining. Dogs, cats, geckos, other pets all welcome, as long as they were on leashes. Not so welcome were the roaming feral chickens.
“Yes, there are animal fights occasionally,” Evan said. He was dressed in his Navy khakis, the three of them tucked into a table, their food in baskets in front of them, their beer bottles chilled. “The chickens carve out their territory, pick out their tables, and patrol them. You feed them, your funeral after you stop feeding them. They get belligerent, think they own you. Miya’s favorite Mexican restaurant on the island. We eat lunch here”—he caught himself—“ate lunch here, a lot.”