by Eve Gaal
“What?” Darin stood up and began unzipping his pack. “I've got an aspirin in here if you want it.”
“No, damn it.” He glanced at his Swiss Army watch. “Did you fucking forget about the shipment you were supposed to intercept today?”
* * *
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“Let's have a drink,” Heidi whined, pulling John towards the lobby lounge. It was a bamboo and rattan themed bar with ceiling fans and fake palms. Island hostesses wearing sarongs and high heels made it look like a luxurious place to relax and watch a football game. Instead of sports however, the television was set to a news station reporting in-depth coverage of a volcano sweeping wide swaths of destruction on the Big Island.
He followed the athletic beauty into the dimly lit oasis. “Sure, I've got to wait for Carl anyway. Good thing Tina called back with the room number.”
Slipping onto a bar stool, Heidi smiled and said, “I just don't understand why he's not in the room. Didn't you say he's real old?” The bartender took their orders and came back a few minutes later holding giant Mai Tai's with pineapple slices, cherries and miniature parasols floating in icy fog.
“I meant he's old compared to you and he forgets things, but he's not ancient or anything.” John took a sip and looked up at the television.
Hoping the drink would calm him down, she wanted him to focus on her, rather than on this wild goose chase involving a woman who obviously didn't want to be with him and certainly didn't want to be located. Her eyes lingered on his bandages, his hairline, his short side burns and his two-day-old stubble. “I bet you're tired, huh?” She asked, thinking of ways to get his attention away from the local news.
“I slept in the hospital and on the plane. I'm okay,” he replied, while staring at a golf-cart disaster story.
Heidi always gave her undivided attention to all her guests, aboard all her flights and she felt uncomfortable with someone who didn't show any interest in getting to know her better. “John,” she murmured, poking a finger into his ribcage.
“What?” he asked, appearing startled and having a trace of annoyance in his voice. Looking over at her, he explained, “Sorry, I've never been to Hawaii and the news is different here.” She kept on trying to tickle him, and he kept pushing her away. As the alcohol entered his bloodstream, it mixed with his pain medications, making him lightheaded. Prying himself from Heidi might prove to be difficult and she kept coming on stronger by the minute. He worried that her beguiling eyes and her rock solid rack might overpower him. The booze was putting ideas into his head and he didn't like feeling helpless. If only he could find Carl, then he could pull himself away from this…alluring form of…Eve in Eden. “Hey, cut it out,” he laughed when she touched a ticklish spot.
Wrapping her fingers around her glass, she inquired, “Do you like your drink?” He continued to stare at the television and she didn't know how to fill the empty gaps in their stilted conversation. The more time she spent with John, the less he spoke. “Take another sip, you hardly had any of it,” she yawned.
Self-control. Discipline. A beer commercial blared loudly from the flat panel set. Lifting his drink, he licked the pineapple and said, “It's good.”
* * *
Chapter Fifty-Eight
When they went to a commercial Anne Randall turned to her co-host Glenn. “I'm confused,” she said looking at her notes. “Do you believe in biorhythms?”
“What's a biorhythm? Glenn asked, looking at the rest of the crew with a wide-eyed, deer-in-the-path-of-a-semi expression on his face.
Mystifying him further, she added, “I'm not sure, but I think it has something to do with the whole universe turning upside down.” She unplugged her microphone, and started flipping through the pages of news reports on the desk.
“That overturned golf cart story? Is that what you're talking about?” he asked. Glenn worshipped Anne. He thought of her as a brilliant mentor, who made him look good even with his slim and uninspiring list of credentials. To him, she was a powerful local celebrity and a star. And he felt like an unknown piece of space junk hurling after her, trailing her designer shoe footsteps with his plodding, awestruck and clumsy style.
“No, listen,” she said, pulling out a report with a photo and waving it as she spoke. “This weird story came in about that artist we had on earlier today, remember the doctor and her husband, the ones from New Zealand?”
“Sure, I remember, they were nice older folks. Too bad they had to see the guy who rescued them end up in some kind of ravine.”
“I got a call regarding that guy too, Mac something,” she looked up from her desk, “Anyway, he had a newspaper employee with him–some girl from the mainland and anyway, they're both presumed dead.”
Attempting sympathy he said, “That smoke didn't look too promising.” Glenn tapped his pen gently on the desk. “So what were you going to say about the scientist lady and her husband the artist?”
“Yeah, okay, here's the weird part,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief and enlarging her eyes. “Some pilot from American Airlines called the station and said he recognized the girl in the painting.”
Glenn laughed, “What? Pretty funny, considering that was a painting of Pele.” Rolling his chair and tilting it back, he almost lost his balance. “Whoa, I'm following, sorry.” Straightening his chair, he stopped moving around so he could give her his undivided attention.
“Wait–there's more,” she started talking faster because she could sense his childish impatience combined with a natural desire to go home. Pointing to the paper in front of her she said, “Five minutes ago, we received a report of a trespasser on Niihau, who calls herself Pele.”
“Anne, that woman who trespassed is just whacky and the other stuff is just coincidence not bio-whatever you called it.” Glenn wondered why Anne needed to dig below the surface of her stories like a detective, instead of just enjoying her status, as Hawaii's top-rated, award-winning newscaster. “First of all, no sane person would trespass on the forbidden island. Secondly, did you ever think the person who answered our phone misunderstood the airline pilot?”
“The pilot said he left her in Princeville and needed to find out where she's staying.”
“Who, Pele? You're right it is confusing. What did we tell that idiot?” Glenn asked, smirking and tossing a crumpled piece of paper towards a far off trash can.
“Nothing, Glenn, Pele is a legendary goddess, for God's sake and the pilot does sound nutty.” She watched a cameraman pick up the paper ball Glenn had tossed next to the receptacle.
“Either that or he had a few too many in the V.I.P. airport lounge.” Lounge, he repeated the word to himself and decided it was a very nice word. If he hurried, he could still get to Happy Hour. Looking at the clock, he said, “Anne, I think it's time for you to put your mike back on. I'm heading out.” He stood up, grabbed his jacket and waved to Anne. While she fumbled with her microphone, he walked toward the exit wondering what the connection was between the chopper crash and the painting of Pele. Anne was no detective, but she was still an amazing anchor.
When the ONAIR sign came on, Anne smiled for the camera and read her report. “Some breaking news just in: A trespasser on Niihau endangered plants and stole valuable seashells from the island today. Held for questioning by local officials in Kauai, the trespasser started hallucinating, talking to herself and threatening government employees. She surprised everyone with her astonishing statement, that she is the embodiment of the goddess, Pele.”
The camera switched from Anne to the helicopter photos in the jungle near the recent eruption. Her voice continued, over the footage, “Now for an update on our earlier story: we reported a helicopter crash over Mount Kilauea where an unidentified passenger is said to have been with the pilot during the crash. The passenger's remains have not been located and she is being identified only as a graphic artist from a mainland newspaper. At this time, both the pilot and his passenger are presumed dead. We'll have more details aft
er our weather forecast. I'm Anne Randall and this is your local Hawaiian news station.”
* * *
Chapter Fifty-Nine
John couldn't believe his ears. The bump on his head, the medication and the Mai Tai, were conspiring to make him hear things he didn't want to hear. The anchor's voice twirled around in his mind like a whirlpool sucking and pulling his body through Heidi's slurping straw. 'Graphic artist from a mainland newspaper' kept reverberating under his bandage. Holy Mary, Mother of God, he thought to himself, feeling nauseous. He had to go find out, right now. His heart flipped like a trout on dry land. “Wait here,” he said, looking at Heidi. “Oh my God.” Throwing some money on the counter, he said, “I've got to go.”
Tipsy and oblivious, Heidi asked, “What?” Her sensuous lips slid up the thick white straw.
Taking both of her hands into his, he started talking. “I don't mean to leave you alone like this, but did you hear that news report? They didn't say her name, but they said a graphic artist from a mainland newspaper crashed and died. I've got to check it out. Sorry. You're very nice.” He gently put her hands back onto the counter and said, “Bye,” before slipping off the stool, and running bleary-eyed for the lobby. Outside, his plan consisted of hailing a cab for a ride to the Waikiki police station.
Dumbfounded, Heidi watched him leave, but shrugged it off while finishing her drink. After that, she finished John's drink, and then she ordered another drink. When the bar tender walked up, she said, “The good ones always get away.”
Meanwhile, newscaster Anne Randall reappeared on the television above the bar. No one listened while Anne said, “We have an update on the status of that helicopter pilot who crashed this morning in a smoke related incident. He has been rescued with minor injuries. Unconfirmed reports indicate that he was traveling alone without passengers and there are no fatalities. We'll have some film footage, after this break from a local sponsor.”
Heidi stood up and precariously tried balancing her purse, her packages and suitcase while heading to the reservation desk. Almost at the lobby, she realized she had forgotten her sunglasses. Teetering on her long, muscular legs, she somehow made it back to the lounge.
“Heidi precious is that you?” A familiar voice yelled over the music and the television in the bar. Dan had just checked in and the idea of a cool drink after a nerve-wracking day sounded like blessed holy water. Coming up to hug Heidi he placed a kiss on her cheek, inhaling the scent of pineapple infused rum.
“I taught you're flying the Pissburgh-LAX route?” She garbled, without emotion of any kind showing on her beautiful, intoxicated face.
“I'm on vacation.” Dan replied, noticing her slurred speech, “What about you?”
“Vacation too, I guess,” she said, picking up her sunglasses and putting them on.
“Awesome, do you still surf?”
“Do coconuts grow on trees? Of course I still smurf.”
“You always liked those big waves.” He took a few of her bags and set them down so he could look at her. “Still so—stunning,” he said, appraising her, twisting her around as if they were dancing and zeroing in on her firm, hibiscus-wrapped derriere.
“Job requirement,” She shrugged, thinking he looked pretty decent himself.
“You alone?” He asked, remembering all the fun he had with Heidi before Arlene came along.
“No,” she paused, removing her sunglasses to reveal her exotic almond eyes. Glancing around, she said, “I mean, yes, you caught me.”
Dan couldn't believe his good fortune and tried not to smile. “Are you checked in?”
“Nope.” She knew where this was heading, but the rum and her need for companionship eased her through any normal reservations she'd have about Dan and his bullshit. For one thing, he was an extraordinarily compulsive liar, but on the other hand, he oozed sexy, manly charm. Most time spent with Captain Dan Losegg usually resulted in carefree, adventurous fun. All their flight attendants knew about Dan's wily behavior, but after five years on the same routes, she knew it most of all. “They went boards right outside, let's go surfing,” she said, still slurring her words.
He picked up her bags, and gently kissed her cheek. “I have to change first,” he whispered into her ear, pushing the elevator button.
* * *
Chapter Sixty
Two men walked into the showroom: one a tall man with a shiny head and the other a short beefy fellow in a leather jacket. “Hey you, yeah you,” the tall bald man yelled, pointing at Ron. “I don't work here,” Ron replied, “but I can find someone who does.” Ron looked around and noticed the swarthy looking tall one coming towards him. The faded jeans looked expensive and the holes in them precisely positioned by the famous designer and tailor who constructed them. A thick rope-like gold chain hung on his carpeted neck and he appeared to be wearing a gold Rolex watch. Ron's fingers tensed around the handle of his briefcase.
He obviously didn't come to buy a car, Ron surmised watching the lean and mean-looking man approach, “Fist,” he shouted to his stocky partner, “Come here.” Thick eyebrows protruded above his thin deep-set eyes.
“Okay, but I'm like-n this one.” The man called The Fist stared at the shiny black sports car, “Have you seen all the options they've got on these babies?” He yelled back, while looking at the manufacturer's sticker, “But the price–damn.”
“Come here,” said the hairy-bald guy, impatience edging into his voice. “Why do you give a shit about the price?” He stopped in front of Ron who turned to walk away, back towards Darin's office. “Fist, this guy's not listening; can you make him stand still?” Ron looked over at Fist, who had on white tennis shoes and shorts. Large biceps stretched the sleeves of his leather jacket. When the short guy looked up at him, Ron immediately felt a cruel gaze that made him hesitate.
Pulling himself away from the window of the car on the showroom floor, Fist turned and suddenly grabbed Ron by the collar of his orange, Hawaiian shirt. “We're here for Darin, where is he?” Dropping his briefcase, Ron reached up to push the small aggressive man away. He couldn't budge, Fist held him like a vise.
“I…I don't know, where he is,” Ron stuttered, “I don't work here.” The Fist had huge hands for a short man, and very strong muscular arms. Mere inches from Ron's face; he spewed disgusting hot fumes of panting onion breath.
“Well, we just want to drop something off and pick up our money,” the other man said, smiling at The Fist, who maintained his grip on Ron like a rabid dog holding a new chew toy.
“Yeah, where's Darin's office, you yellow-bellied weasel?” The Fist grunted. Disgusting spittle flew onto Ron's cheeks, and vicious eyes scanned the corridor leading towards Tina.
“I don't know,” Ron mumbled, “but he's probably on his way back.”
“I thought you didn't work here, asshole, so how d'ya knows he's coming back?” The Fist started shaking him and holding him even tighter. Ron's eyes glanced down, noticing a flash of metal tucked into the stocky man's shorts.
Shit, Ron thought, these caricatures are seriously dangerous. Where is everyone? He wondered if he could out run a bullet. Since the fiasco with the general manager, and the volcano, the sales staff had vaporized, leaving Darin only a handful of staff. Ron knew December normally had a high volume of sales in the auto business, but most of it took place immediately after Christmas and before the New Year. This time of year people had to scrimp and save for their holiday gifts. Automobile shopping was on the back burner until after the rush of relatives, turkeys and wrapping paper were just memories in photo albums. Desperately, his eyes scanned the lot through the front windows where he saw one salesman wiping ash off a car in the front line.
Hearing the commotion, Tina wandered out into the showroom. “What's going on Ron?” She asked, looking from Fist to the tall guy and back to Ron.
“We have a delivery,” the bald one said, “but we need to talk to Darin.”
The Fist looked up at her and said, “Let me guess, he ai
n't here. Am I a mind reader or what?”
“Deliveries go to the parts department,” Tina stated in her cool matter-of-fact, authoritative voice, “and why don't you let go of him?” Crossing her arms, she started walking toward Ron who interpreted her body language and heard a small trace of concern directed solidly at him.
Yanking his gun out, The Fist screamed at Tina, “Come any closer and I'll shoot.” He stuck the revolver up against Ron's blistering, greasy face.
Tina immediately stopped, and looked from the tall guy back to The Fist. “I don't know who you guys are, but I do know that you're holding an innocent man hostage. Let him go before I call the cops.” After a whole morning of fielding strange phone messages, she realized Darin could be involved in just about anything.
The bald one spoke up, “Cops. Fist, did you hear what the lady said, 'the cops'.” Both of them began exploding with raucous laughter. The black car, which had gained The Fist's admiration, separated him from Ron and the others. Slowly, he started moving closer toward Tina and said, “We would be long gone before the first cruiser showed up, and we have a water tight alibi.”
“Shut up, they don't need to know about our alibi,” The Fist muttered loudly to his tall friend.
Noticing him move nearer to Tina, Ron took a dangerous chance and shouted, “Tina, don't move, he's coming closer.” The Fist tightened his grip, and Ron's face turned beet red.