by Chris Bauer
“The store owner,” Douglas said in a grim tone, “was one of my ranch hands before we moved our cattle operation from Miakamii to Kauai. I helped him get that store. He was a good man, Mr. Stakes. He left behind a wife and the pre-teen son you see here on the film, both of whom I lost sight of years later, the two having left Kauai. Was that pre-teen boy you? Was this your father’s murder?”
Patrick sat quiet, blinking hard, didn’t answer, seemed nearly catatonic until a tear rolled down his cheek.
“Patrick, I know that was tough to watch,” Philo said. “What do you think?” Still nothing from Patrick. Philo turned to the chief. “You have names for them? The father and the son?”
“Yes, of course. Detective, would you—”
“No!” Patrick said, his chest heaving. “He wasn’t my father. That wasn’t him. No. And that’s not me in the store.”
Philo looked to prod him more on this, thinking he hadn’t given it enough consideration. “Maybe if we have more info on the people. You know, bud, some names, the storeowner, the boy—”
“Know why I know it’s not me, Philo? You really wanna know why?”
Patrick was suddenly enraged, his tan Hawaiian face reddening, with no “sir” suffixes on the horizon. “You see that car outside the front door? The one with the flashers on? I’m in that car, in the back seat, playing Nintendo. That’s the bagman’s car. The guy I rode with while he shook down people for money—the man with the gun in the video, the shooter—he’s my father. The mob bagman was my father, damn it…”
All the air left the room. The chief, the detective, Douglas Logan, and Philo—they all retreated for a moment, assessing Patrick’s realization. Patrick leaned onto his knees and buried his tearful face in his hands.
“Detective,” Chief Koo said. “What other info do you have?”
The detective flipped through some pages. “The shooter was Denholm ʻŌpūnui. Awarded nine years. Involuntary manslaughter. Served the entire sentence because, you know, he was Ka Hui. When he was paroled he left the radar because he moved to the mainland, apparently buried his Ka Hui roots. The fight was over ʻŌpūnui’s wife. The Japanese customer had been stalking her.”
“Do you have her name, Detective?” the chief asked.
“Haneen ʻŌpūnui. It says here she’s Japanese-American. Went by Jenny.”
“Kids?”
“One. Interesting.” Detective Ujikawa paused, a sympathetic smile crossing his face. “A boy. His name was Patrick.”
Patrick stood. “Get me out of here.”
26
Patrick’s world had changed in one afternoon, his identity solved, something that had confounded him for five, six, seven years or more. An elusive success, but at what cost?
At a minimum, his dignity.
“I wanna get drunk, Philo. Sir.”
They’d left the police station with plenty of answers and one full-blown coincidence: his name was actually Patrick. But the answers left him with no direction, no compass, and no good feelings about himself. In Navy terms, completely rudderless.
“We’ll not be doing that, Patrick. Drinking solves nothing. Do your best to wrap your head around this, and realize that it changes nothing about you or your moral core. You are a kind and decent person. I wouldn’t be hanging with you if you weren’t.”
Philo drove west, heading back to their vacation cottage. An early supper would precede them heading out to see Wally Lanakai in the evening, or Philo would go it alone if Patrick couldn’t stomach it. They were waiting on the meeting location.
“We’ll have a lot more to talk about with him now, won’t we? About Ka Hui. About your parents, what happened to them…”
The rush of info on his parents bordered on overwhelming, coming from an iPhone internet search for Denholm and Haneen ʻŌpūnui as soon as they got to the car. A brutal attack in Philly took their lives one winter, during a cold snap that nearly killed their son Patrick after he’d been severely beaten and left for dead, perpetrators unknown. Until now, the crimes hadn’t been connected.
“I will need to tell Grace and Hank.”
“Of course you will. Grace and Hank love you, bud, you and all the baggage that came with you. There’s no shame here, Patrick. None. You’re a good person.”
“But my father wasn’t.”
No way to spin that cloud into a silver lining. Philo let that one sit out there with no comment.
“We’ll order in tonight, Patrick. I’m thinking Chinese.”
“You can bring him to meet with me if you want, Trout, but you need to assure me there will be no drama. It would not end well for him.”
“No drama, Wally. But should there be, I can assure you that it won’t end well for anyone in attendance. Are we on the same page?”
The “him” Wally Lanakai referred to was Evan Malcolm. Lanakai knew the risk arising from the Navy commander’s volatility, Evan having lost someone to so gruesome a circumstance, and having attributed the loss to Ka Hui.
“Seven p.m., Hiilani Spa at Kuluiula on the south shore,” Lanakai said. “I have a steam room reserved. You and your guests will be issued bathrobes and towels. Clothing not allowed. I’ll send a car to your cottage to pick up the three of you.”
Lanakai had looked for reassurances regarding Evan only. He hadn’t flinched on his FaceTime call with Philo when he mentioned Patrick attending. So be it. Let the discussion about Patrick be a surprise.
Kuluiula as a destination boasted more than three hundred days of sunshine annually, making most of its evenings comfortable as well. Arriving curbside for the wellness complex, they were ushered through meditation gardens into dressing cubicles with lava rock walls. The bathrobes came with welcome packs of tear-off oils and tonics and fresh-pressed juices in sippy pouches tucked into each robe’s kangaroo pockets. At the entrance to the steam room, Philo, Evan, and Patrick hung up their robes, and before towels replaced them, they needed to showcase their respective naked Caucasian, black, and Polynesian asses so Lanakai’s bodyguards could perform a visual body search. The mist-filled room was expansive, with natural lava rock ornamenting its rear wall, the wall’s black, pocked honeycombs shrouded by the steam.
Wally Lanakai didn’t stand to greet them. He instead left two towel-clad men to meet them inside the heavy door. The larger of the two, six-six, six-seven maybe, dark-skinned, and bulky top to bottom, gestured at a long wooden bench across from Lanakai. “Sit there.” They complied. “Are you comfortable, or should we lower the steam?” he asked.
“Fine for the moment,” Philo said. With all of them now seated, the six men faced each other.
“Good to see you, Trout,” Wally Lanakai said. “You look like you’re still in excellent condition. I’m happy to see that.”
“Still working out, still go a few rounds on occasion, in gear, not bareknuckle.”
“And still undefeated, I hear. What is it, sixty-five and oh?”
“I’m touched you remember. Look, I’m retired, but you want me, so you got me, one time only. For the price I said. With a deposit. When and where, Wally?”
“In a minute. Some introductions are needed. One of my associates wanted to meet you. Magpie”—Wally gestured at the larger and blacker of his two men—“this is Mr. Tristan Trout, Philo to his bareknuckle followers. Philo, this is Magpie Papahani.”
“The pleasure is mine, Trout.”
“Likewise,” Philo said.
“Magpie volunteered for this fight, Philo. I have the utmost faith in him, and I’m sure he’d give a great account of himself, for obvious reasons. But I wanted you as my champion, as freakishly talented as you are in this sport, considering what’s on the line.”
Philo’s attributes: large, heavy hands and wrists, leveraged punching power, a one-punch knockout artist, military conditioning, and a granite chin.
“And now that I’ve floated your name to my opponent,” Lanakai said, “he’s happier than a hard-on that you’re taking this bout as well. He’s got
some whiz-bang ex-mixed-martial arts champ in his camp. You might have heard of him. Jerry Mifumo?”
Sure had. All boxers paid attention to the mixed martial arts circuit. They didn’t much like it because it drained money from the boxing game. Pure savagery, drawing from the worst aspects of gladiator warfare coupled with a Roman coliseum atmosphere, minus the cat-o’-nine-tails and axes and other barbaric weapons from that age. A no-holds-barred spectacle where combatants could be subdued just short of their expiration. If Philo’s memory served, Jerry Mifumo was—
“A doper. Fought as a light heavyweight. A Japanese Olympian. Boxing banned him.”
“And the Ultimate Fighting Circuit banned him, too, Trout. After three strikes for testing positive for steroids with the UFC, he moved back to Japan.”
“So he’s Yakuza.”
“He’s Yabuki’s boy, so yes. I should say Yabuki’s man. He’s now a full heavyweight. From what Magpie tells me, he killed the last guy he fought. Some kind of Yakuza death match.”
Magpie nodded in agreement.
“It was bareknuckles,” Lanakai said, “until it wasn’t. The loser was beheaded. I just learned this. Beheading’s a Yakuza thing, with this crime family at least. I’ve been given assurances the bout will stay bareknuckles only.”
“Great,” Philo said. “You’ve been given assurances. Wonderful.”
“Which is why I’m doubling your purse, Trout. Consider it combat pay. And because of the nature of our… rivalry with the Yakuza, chances are the only two people who will not be carrying weapons during the match will be you and Mifumo.”
“It just gets better and better.”
“I will be forever in your debt, Trout.”
“Let’s talk about that right now. You said on the phone you have something you want to tell my friend Mr. Malcolm here.”
His name dropped, Evan’s dark, grim face stayed laser-focused on Lanakai, waiting. Philo sensed in Evan a great need to pummel someone or something, or he would explode. Whatever the crime boss had to say, it would need to be extraordinary.
Wally stood and crossed the small room. When he arrived at their bench, he took a seat next to Evan.
“Mr. Malcolm. I know you’ve suffered a great loss. It was the Yakuza who murdered your fiancée, not me or any of my associates. What they took from her person, her core organs, her very inner being, they sent to me, although I didn’t know at the time who sent them, or whose organs they were. They were being cute and mysterious, and were looking to frame me for her murder, plus other similar murders they’re committing. I can share with you one more thing. If you would like to know, I will tell you who received her organs.”
He produced an envelope. “In here are the names of three people. You will recognize them instantly. If I give you these names, you must promise to never approach any of them about this, and to keep their names a secret, even from your friends here. Deal?”
Evan nodded, then accepted the envelope. The apology, the offer of the information, the information itself, it had an impact. Evan’s seething disposition dissipated, especially when hearing that all three recipients needed the organs to reverse deadly illnesses. Philo wouldn’t have put it past Lanakai to lie about the recipients or the circumstances, but Lanakai was smooth and convincing in delivering the info, which made it easy to believe him, plus it was probably true.
A shocking, classy move, something Philo didn’t think was possible from this man. A home run. Philo nodded his appreciation, but there was more to discuss. “You got anything else to share, Wally, since you’re in so benevolent a mood?”
Lanakai returned to his seat across the room. “Yes. Of course. The location of the fight. The Yakuza want to hold it—”
“Hold that thought. We also need your help with something else.” Philo leaned out, looked past Evan to Patrick, who thrust out his chin a bit. “What can you tell us about my other associate?”
“Mr. Stakes? What about him? I don’t follow, Trout.”
“Try following a little harder. Think ten-year-old kid, helping his Ka Hui bagman father collect protection money. Think Kauai corner store shakedowns. Ring any bells?”
Lanakai’s body language showed no tell, no indications. He remained stiff, his eyesight hardening on Philo. Philo would need to forget being coy, would need to cold-cock him with a name.
“Time’s up. Denholm ʻŌpūnui. What does that name mean to you?”
Lanakai didn’t move. No facial twitch, no blink, no resettling of his fat ass on the hard bench, no nothing. The only tell came from Magpie, who turned to face the crime family patriarch. “Boss—”
His boss dropped his hand hard onto Magpie’s leg, gripped it. “No, Magpie. Just… don’t.”
Lanakai’s lips tightened their hold on each other, seemed determined not to part, determined to stifle any emotion, him willing something away, willing something distasteful into non-existence, until—
His eyes moistened; he blinked out a tear. Lanakai spoke to Philo, part question, part shame-filled declaration. “He knows?”
Patrick answered for himself. “Yes, I know.”
Patrick stood, which made everyone else stand, the drama so thick it could be cut with a machete.
The last one on his feet was Wally Lanakai. “Patrick. I made a promise to your father—”
The promise, on the occasion of Denholm quitting their criminal enterprise and leaving all his Ka Hui manpower and properties to Wally, Lanakai related, was to never recruit Patrick into the business. And the only way to keep that promise, after the tragic beating Patrick had taken during the Philly attack that claimed his parents’ lives and left him brain-damaged, was to let his amnesia stand even after Ka Hui learned where he’d ended up.
“I left you alone. So you wouldn’t know. So you wouldn’t be tempted. So we wouldn’t be tempted. I—”
“I ate from garbage cans,” Patrick said. “I hid in dumpsters behind restaurants, waiting for food. I couldn’t speak. My head. Look at my head!” He jabbed at himself, at the slight dent in his forehead that had come from the beating.
“We didn’t know,” Lanakai said. “You disappeared. When you turned up—when we learned the Blessids had found you, took you in, put you to work—your father was my best friend. He would have been so proud of you, son…”
Patrick was having none of it, snarling through his anger. “There’s so much missing up here, in my head!” He paced, his eyes down, his hands fisted, making Lanakai’s nervous bodyguards stand. “So much I don’t understand. My father, my mother… they were my family! I had no family, and now I do, but they were criminals…”
“Calm down, bud,” Philo said. “More is coming, Patrick. The ancestry info, any day now the Blessids will have it—”
“It’ll be wrong, Philo! Tell me, whose scorecard had me having a Japanese mother? Whose, damn it? I need some air!” He pulled open the heavy door, retreated outside the steam room where he began pacing again.
A side of Patrick that Philo had never seen. More coherent, and with smarts behind the sarcasm. Less childlike.
“Wally, this has been interesting, but we gotta go,” Philo said. “Telling him, not telling him… I can’t say what you did was right or wrong. All I can say is this is going to leave another mark. Tell me where to meet for this fight and when. I’ve got some work to do to get ready.”
“Give Patrick my respects again, Philo, please. Make him understand. Magpie, fill Mr. Trout in.”
“We agreed on the old Malinas Chicken Farm property, inside the Kalaheo borough,” Magpie said. “An abandoned chicken ranch. This Saturday, two p.m.”
Three days. Not much time.
But it would need to be time enough, if Philo didn’t want to die out there.
27
“I have your breakfast,” called the male voice from the portico. “Step away from the door.”
The motel door opened, creaking out of the way. A fast food bag and two jumbo cups of coffee entered her room, held as a p
eace offering by a large Japanese man. Kaipo backed up, stood at the foot of her unmade bed in loose gym pants, gym shoes, and a form-fitting workout top over a sports bra. Stark still, her arms at her sides, she watched the Yakuza thug enter, her face bright, her smile small; she was going for Hannibal Lecter intensity. The creepiness stopped her guest momentarily, then he started forward again.
“Your cornrows are beautiful,” he said. “I didn’t get a good look at them before, when, you know, we were together.”
He was the bastard behind her in the staged porn shot. “Fuck off, asshole. Leave the food and get out.”
“Sorry, but no, I need to stay and watch you eat. Oyabun’s orders.” His snide snicker made him out to be one oh-so-clever soldier. “Besides, I like to watch.” He grabbed a desk chair and pulled it closer to the other end of the long dresser where he’d left the food. He dropped his ample ass into it, crossed his legs, and reached for his takeout coffee. His sip said it was still too hot, so he returned it to the dresser.
Kaipo was hungry. She ate the egg and muffin sandwich sitting at the other end of the dresser, then a second, then the hash browns, then gulped her OJ down. Her first sip of coffee made her grimace; still too hot. After she wiped her mouth, she eyed the oaf sitting comfortably at the other end of the dresser.
“I’ve finished my breakfast. Go.”
He didn’t, instead got chatty.
“You don’t have a chance of surviving this, miss. Zero. You will end up in pieces in a trunk, delivered to your koibito.” Her slouched admirer uncrossed his legs, then resettled his dark tie to let it dangle over his crotch area, where he rubbed it. “I would think you might rather close out your last few days with your legs spread, screaming in ecstasy. I can help with that.”
“I don’t think so, sport. Long tie, short dick, right? That’s been my experience. And Wally Lanakai’s not my lover. Leave now, before you hurt yourself.”
He glowered but he was otherwise undeterred. “And usually, after I watch”—he raised his girth from the chair, removed his suit jacket, and hung it over the chair back—“I like to participate. Let’s make this happen. Take off your clothes.”