Down In The Valley: An Arch Patton Adventure (Arch Patton Adventures Book 1)

by James Strauss

  “You sing and dance?” Arch asked, starting to get a little bored by Matisse’s never-ending comments about the Hawaiian Islands being taken from real Hawaiians by absolutely everyone else.

  “Of course I sing and dance. I’m Kamaina!” Matisse answered, vehemently. He looked around the open patio bar as if to search out a ukulele or microphone.

  Arch signed a credit card slip for somewhere over a hundred dollars including a minimal tip. “Let’s go. Ahi’s park is better than sitting around here being watched. I wish we had the Lincoln though, as your means of transportation is a little ostentatious.”

  “It’s my car. I call her the Grappler. She always starts; always runs and I never have to change the oil. I got that synthetic stuff running in her guts.” Matisse smiled hugely as they headed for the lobby of the hotel, his love of his ridiculous automobile beyond Arch’s ability to comprehend.

  They stopped at the ABC store on Kalakau long enough for Arch to run in and pick up a couple of forty dollar phones that should have been twenty. After Matisse’s comment about never changing the oil in the Bonneville he wondered if they’d even make it over the mountains much less all the way into Sunset.

  The trip out to the Pali was only exciting because of the way Matisse drove. For some reason he never got pulled over yet never drove close to the speed limit. They raced up the road to the Pali lookout. Just before they go to the Pali tunnel through the mountains Matisse jerked the wheel toward the right and they exited onto a narrow asphalt road. Arch saw a sign with “Scenic Highway” fly by. Suddenly, the car was traveling along a corridor totally covered by great splayed out trees. A tunnel of winding green foliage guided the fast-traveling car ever upwards until they reached a sharp turn suddenly ending at the beginning of a small parking lot. Matisse finally slowed, gently easing the convertible into a handicapped slot near the top edge of the lot. A local security guard, obviously Hawaiian, waved and smiled.

  “My brah, from my sister’s side,” Matisse laughed, slamming the Bonneville’s heavy car door with some gusto.

  “Does he sing and dance too or, is that part of his day job,” Arch asked with a wiry smile behind the other man’s back. Matisse didn’t answer, as they walked past the guard and on up to a hand built series of retaining walls. Tourists singly and in groups mulled about trying to hang onto skirts, cameras and bags in the ever-increasing wind. When they arrived at the shoulder-high wall itself Arch estimated the wind coming up over the edge to be traveling at nearly forty miles an hour.

  “What are we doing here?” Arch finally asked Matisse, ducking back to be heard.

  Matisse stood with his back to the wall instead of looking out over the edge at the gorgeous view of almost the whole windward side of the island.

  “Take a look,” Matisse answered, first pointing up toward a high peak beyond and above them. Then he turned and swept his pointing finger down toward an area just below and to the left of the bottom of the great cliff the Pali rose up to become the top of.

  Arch stared whit his upturned at the imposing very high point of the peak and then let his eyes slide down toward the back of the cemetery toward where Matisse’s finger remained pointing. A small valley seemed to run back from the cemetery and up into the seemingly solid rock of the Koolau range wall

  “Haiku,” Matisse said, his voice raised but still difficult to hear against the heavy wind.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Arch breathed. “I sure hope our Haiku means something else entirely,” he said more loudly. Matisse just grinned, and then turned and walked back to the Pontiac. “You afraid of heights, Haole?” he said without turning, the wind dying as they walked away from the edge of the Pali overlook. They drove in near silence the long twisting route of windward-side Kam Highway.

  Ahi turned out to be an aging Hawaiian of huge girth. His identity and size had become apparent at the same time as the Pontiac stopped near the end of Chinaman’s Hat Park an hour later. The early afternoon sun was blazing. Ahi’s presence was even bigger than might otherwise be evident simply because he was standing on a small platform while a whole crowd of others were kneeling inside the open rolled up walls of a great outdoor tent.

  “Ahi,” Matisse stated, needlessly waiving one arm toward the tent.

  “Why’s everyone else kneeling?” Arch asked, walking toward the crowd at Matisse’s side.

  “Sunday,” Matisse said, stopping outside the tent. “Ahi’s talking chief, chief, father, preacher and my uncle on this side of the island. He’s doing the Sunday service.”

  Arch wondered who wasn’t related to Matisse on Oahu, in some weird way or other, and why the man knew almost every local but none seemed to care for him very much.

  “We wait,” Matisse stated, squatting down on the grass.

  “Great,” Arch replied, trying not to seem impatient but also glad for an opportunity to rest and bask in the sun. His hand hurt and his head felt like he was rolling around ideas and events so fast and without real purpose that he might be going crazy. They waited a full hour for Ahi to finish with his followers. The tent emptied and the people dispersed without comment, seeming not to notice the two indolent men waiting near one open wall.

  Introductions were short, with Matisse simply remarking that Arch was his friend and that both of them would be trying to get into a house at Sunset Beach to talk to a Haole woman.

  “Take some of my warriors,” Ahi said, after listening to Matisse’s introduction and what they were up to.

  “Of course,” Matisse responded, before Arch could say no.

  The last thing Arch wanted was a bunch of amateur islanders mucking about and listening in on what was a very highly classified governmental program. He bit his lip but did nothing other than nod assent to his companion’s verbal assent.

  “So you talking chief for government or something like that?” Ahi asked, clasping his hands tightly across his significant chest.

  Arch glanced at Matisse who averted his eyes. “Seems you know a bit about what I’m trying to do,” he replied, realizing that he liked the big man lot for no reason whatever, which was a bit disconcerting. There was a warmth to his eyes and depth to his facial features Arch had only seen in older Native American men years ago in New Mexico.

  “You do good for the people and we do good for you,” the aging man of wisdom stated, as if talking to a disciple, but then a smile came to his face and Arch felt like they were almost friends.

  They talked back and forth for nearly an hour, about the history of the Hawaiian people, the island of Oahu and even the strange homologated form of the mix of native and Catholic beliefs melded together to form the religion Ahi and his flock followed. Ahi was called away by some of the returning followers who needed his assistance in building an afternoon Luau. Matisse and Arch wandered down toward the point facing directly toward Medicine Hat Island. A small beach nuzzled into the lee side of the point, with a just enough room for only a very few people.

  “So you want to hike out to the island?” Arch offered, as both men took sitting positions on two big rocks just back from the sand. Three-foot swells broke on the other side of the point while the swells moving straight toward the more distant bay beach expanse seemed rough and intimidating.

  “Nah, tide’s not right,” Matisse replied, weakly, the water in front of them appearing a good deal deeper than any man or woman could stand in and still touch bottom.

  “Who are these warriors Ahi’s intent on supplying us with?” Arch asked.

  “Not real people,” Matisse replied. “That was his way of saying that we could go and do whatever we want to do to the bitch on his grounds…I mean that Haole woman,” he modified quickly.

  “Oh,” was all Arch could say, his tone one of complete relief however.

  “Ahi understand more than you think,” Matisse offered.

  “Gee, I wonder why that is?” Arch came back, neither expecting nor receiving a response.

  The afternoon went quickly, the sun be
ginning to draw down toward the ocean horizon in the way it did to give a place like Sunset Beach its name. The Luau was replete with more Hawaiian foods than Arch had seen in one place since his early years on the island. By the time the sun was close to setting Arch wished he’d not partaken of so much of it.

  “We go,” Matisse said, tapping him on one shoulder. “We have Ahi’s blessing, we need no more.”

  Arch grimaced but turned to follow his one apparent friend on all of Oahu, knowing that whatever Ahi claimed to possess in power over his lands and people both he and they were totally dominated by whatever the U.S. government chose to decide at any given time.

  The Sunset Beach house wasn’t difficult to find. A bronze and brass automatic beach gate ran the full length of its property. Beyond that a triple garage door was closed behind it. Video cameras protruded from both corners of the house. Security was high but Arch had expected that. Beach houses all shared one serious security weakness however and that was the beach itself. Whatever was put between the house and the beach decreased the value of the beach property. Some private owners along the North Shore built places of such security, walled from the very beach that was supposedly what attracted them to build there in the first place. Most builders however, particularly the ones that wanted to rent out their houses at exorbitant rates, took as much open advantage of their little stretches of beach as possible. Virginia’s house was no exception to that rule which became readily apparent, as Matisse and Arch hiked first up to Sunset Beach itself and then back down toward the house. Only a single huge berm of sand stood out from the place, with palm trees and hedges defining the limits of that berm, that were no doubt placed right on top of property lines.

  Arch crawled up to the end of one of the hedges and peered through the branches, like a spy in a cheap movie. He didn’t expect to see anything or anyone, even though the sliding double door running half way across the back of the house gaped open. The wind blew the drapes out and wafted them back and forth over the lanai like huge bat wings. Two men walked into view, each man carrying an obvious cocktail in one hand. The men were easily identifiable as Kurt and Lorrie.

  Arch reared back quickly, jamming his shoulder into Matisse’s face. Matisse let out a loud groan. Arch and Matisse looked at one another, and then turned as one and began to run for cover sticking as close as they could to any cover toward Sunset Beach.

  XI

  Arch and Matisse hiked the quarter mile back past Sunset Beach until they came to Ted’s Bakery. Ted Nakamura ran the place and he knew Matisse from way back, or so Matisse claimed. Ted wasn’t there when they arrived and the place was packed. Some tourists, but mostly local surfers and other semi-rejects hung about inside the single small room or sprawled at rusting metal tables on the outside. Ted had expanded the outdoor eating to the other side of the parking lot, but no one ever went to sit at those tables, even just to wait for their orders. Arch read a sign on the cash register that said the credit card machine was broken. Matisse informed him that the machine had been broken since the nineties.

  “You got cash?” Matisse whispered, between flirting exchanges he was making with the tired and beaten-looking women behind the counter.

  “No, all I’ve got is my card,” Arch responded, not really caring because he wasn’t hungry anyway. The encounter at the beach house had involved running down the beach before Kurt and Lorrie could figure out they were there. Just one more element of demeaning abuse he’d suffered since arriving on Oahu only days earlier.

  “No problem, brah, they got ATM,” Matisse stuck out his hand.

  Arch saw the ATM in the corner, sitting up next to a coffee machine, both looked barely functional. Cups sat next to the coffee machine, so he poured himself one before stepping in front of the ATM. “Seven dollars?” he hissed at the screen. He had no choice. The card was good for at least a hundred more dollars because bills started slipping one by one into a slot near Arch’s right knee. Arch counted the money before realizing the old food-stained robot hadn’t spit his card back out. He whacked the machine loudly with the flat palm side of his one good hand.

  “Hey,” Matisse interrupted. “This my friend,” he said, pushing Arch aside. He put both his plate-sized hands against the sides of the machine and then leaned forward. He blew into the thin dirty slot Arch had put his card into. The machine gurgled with seeming glee before noisily spitting Arch’s card out. Matisse put the card in his pocket, but Arch was right there with one hand extended when Matisse turned back to the counter to order.

  “Are these more of the friends you don’t have?” Arch asked, putting the card carefully into his wallet. “I’ll be across the tarmac in the other area,” he said, handing over two twenties to Matisse. “I’m not hungry. But get whatever you need.”

  After only a few minutes, Matisse joined him at one of the empty tables. “They come get me. You got teri-plate with double mac and white rice. Give you energy. This best loco moco on windward side.” Matisse put the remaining twenty on the table in front of Arch, sensing his dark mood.

  “What now, brah?” Matisse asked.

  “What now?” Arch questioned, looking up at the blowing palm reeds not far overhead. He looked back down. Only a few feet away, distant cars sped past on Kam Highway, while an old oriental man wearing only one rubber “go-ahead” slipper tried to work his arm down into a rusty container containing used soft drink cans. For some reason chicken wire mesh had been placed over the top of the can. This allowed the man’s arm to reach in and grab cans, but wouldn’t let him pull his arm back out with a can still in it. The old man continued to struggle without sound or comment, but couldn’t seem to extricate his arm, and wouldn’t let go of a can to help himself.

  “Christ!” Arch said, his voice an exasperated hiss. He got up and walked over to the struggling man. With one foot he struck the side of the old oil barrel with all his strength. As both the barrel and the old man fell to the ground, the top broke loose from the impact. The old man sat up and worked his arm slowly back out of the mesh, and then began collecting the cans that spewed forth. Without acknowledging Arch in any way, he placed several cans carefully into his old backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and then walked carefully away on the very edge of the road, his one thong making a smacking sound every time it hit the asphalt.

  Arch watched the bent old man re-adjust his load from time to time until he disappeared. He made his way back to Matisse’s side, but stopped just before he got there.

  “That’s it,” he said, his expression changing from wrinkled depression to smiling delight. “We kick the stupid can. We’ve been caught, beaten, tortured, abused and then caught again. But we’ve got a gun, and guns are something I’m really good at. Let’s go kick the can and see what comes rolling out.”

  One of the used up looking women from the bakery appeared, her arms laden with paper plates. Arch sat next to Matisse, trying to curb his new enthusiasm. All of a sudden the teri-plate the woman set down in front of him looked delightful, as did the plate set in front of Matisse. After unloading a small bag of condiments and plastic silverware, the woman removed her last package. It was obviously a pie box. When she put the box down she said “Chocolate Hupia Pie from Ted,” and departed.

  Arch took one bite of the macaroni salad and then proceeded to eat both scoops without stopping. The macaroni salad at Ted’s was legendary and it was obvious why. He watched Matisse go to work on his huge Loco Moco. Prime rib gravy flowed down the sides of his mouth, as he downed half the giant burger patty laying atop three fried eggs and a mound of sticky white rice the gravy flowed around. When Arch was done with his teri-plate he walked over to the bakery’s main building and used the bathroom. On his way back he thought about the pie and what the word Haupia might mean. Matisse sat contentedly back in his seat waiting for him, sipping from a can of Guava soda.

  “How’s the pie?” Arch asked leaning down to open the box.

  “Oh,” was all Matisse said, just before Arch saw that
the box was empty.

  “The whole pie?” Arch asked. “You ate the whole damned pie? Nobody can eat a whole pie in only a few seconds.”

  “Ah, maybe you were gone longer than you thought,” Matisse answered, getting up to put their used plates into a nearby trashcan.

  “You gotta have some of that Haupia pie soon, brah,” he murmured when he came back.

  They walked together back to where the Pontiac was parked. Arch thought it was appropriate that no other vehicle ever seemed to park very close to the bizarre looking car. “What’s haupia mean?” He asked Matisse, who was gingerly leaning against the Bonneville’s hood.

  “Coconut,” Matisse responded. “Coconut cream, if you mean in Ted’s pie.” He looked over at Arch. “What’s next?”

  “You don’t have to come,” Arch said. “I’m taking the gun and going right back at them through the double door. Somebody’s likely to get shot, and probably I’ll be that person. You can wait here and see what happens. I’m done being a punching bag for this outfit. They’re up to their necks in something that’s dark and deadly dangerous to a lot of people. And I’m not quitting until I know what it is.”

  “Why?” Matisse asked. They were both silent for a moment, watching tourists gather to go down into the knee-high waves below. “You retired. Why go on? You can go fishing or travel or do something else with your life.”

  “Like what?” Arch shot back, instantly. “I’ve traveled. I don’t like fishing. You and Virginia are about the only friends I’ve been able to make. I’m not doing very well with her and I’ve only known you for how many days?”

  “Okay, but going in there and shooting everyone if they don’t, won’t or can’t talk seems dumb. Ahi does have some guys. Why don’t we go back and see him. Maybe if a bunch of the people show up with us nobody has to get shot. The people were up against aren’t like that drunk getting old soda cans out of the trash.”