“What if they grab me again?”
He grunted a laugh. “Those sweet innocent boys? Perish the thought.”
“Look, they’re Island roughnecks, slum kids, but I don’t think they’re rapists, and I don’t think you do, either, C.D. Hell, these damn police used identification methods abandoned half a century ago by any civilized police department.”
His expression turned mock curious. “When and where was it you encountered a civilized police department? I don’t remember ever having the pleasure.”
“You know what I mean. Three times, they dragged the defendants in front of Thalia, as good as telling her, ‘These are the parties we suspect, and we want you to ID ’em.’”
He was shaking his head, no. “The issue is not whether Joe Kahahawai was innocent or guilty. The real point to consider is that our clients believed Kahahawai attacked Thalia. They committed an illegal, violent act but are justified by the purity of their purpose.”
“Are you kidding?”
The gray gaze was steady. “No. I believe in taking into account cause and effect, not succumbing to hatred, fear, and revenge.”
“You mean the way Mrs. Fortescue and Tommie did?”
He twitched a frown. “I was referring to our court system.”
“Then do you want me to stop looking into the attack on Thalia?”
His eyes flared. “No! Just because our clients didn’t know the truth when they committed this act doesn’t mean we shouldn’t know the truth when we set out to defend them. If Joe Kahahawai was guilty, that is helpful to us. Our moral ground is higher, our case is stronger.”
“So I’m to keep at it.”
A slow nod. “You’re to keep at it.”
“What if I find out Kahahawai was innocent?”
One eyebrow flicked up. “Then we hope to hell the prosecution doesn’t know as much as we do…. In a few days, jury selection begins.”
“And then the fun.”
Now a little smile. “And then the fun. Speaking of which, I bear unhappy tidings from Miss Bell.”
“Yeah?”
He put on a sad mask. “It seems she has the nastiest little sunburn. Isn’t that tragic? She was wondering if you would meet her at her room at three o’clock, to rub lotion on her poor red skin.”
“I think I could manage. How is it she’s willing to associate with me again?”
His hand gesture was a flippant flip. “I explained that your job is, in part, to play devil’s advocate for me; that you are in fact helping poor dear Thalia, not hindering her.”
I laughed, once. “You know, I knew sooner or later it would come to this, C.D.”
“What’s that, son?”
I scooted my chair back in the sand, and stood. “You pleading my case.”
And I padded into the Royal Hawaiian, mind spinning with thoughts of Dr. Porter’s revelations, but other parts of me anticipating a reunion with Miss Bell.
I was no beach boy, but I knew all about applying suntan lotion to the shoulders of a beautiful woman.
12
Set back a ways from Kalakaua Avenue, the former tourist hotel turned nightclub that was the Ala Wai Inn sat perched on the rocky shore of the fetid drainage canal whose name it had taken. Spotlights nestling in palm trees called attention to the two-story white frame trimmed black and brown would-be pagoda, its occasional octagonal windows glowing yellow in the night like jack-o’-lantern eyes.
“It’s a roadhouse posing as a Jap tearoom,” I said, tooling Mrs. Fortescue’s sporty Durant down the drive.
“Looks like fun to me,” Isabel said next to me, puffing prettily on a Camel. She’d gone hatless this evening, the better to show off her new hairdo courtesy of the Royal Hawaiian beauty shop; it was shorter and curlier, a cap of platinum curls, vaguely reminiscent of Harpo Marx but one hell of a lot sexier.
I pulled the roadster into a packed parking lot and invented a place next to a grass-shack toolshed. We were nestled in pretty snug, and Isabel had to slide over and get out on my side. I helped. She was a bundle of curves draped in Chanel, and smelled much better than that swampy drainage ditch nearby.
She was in my arms, then, and we kissed, another of her smoky, deep kisses, her tongue tickling my tonsils. We’d spent much of the last couple days (except for when I was tracking down witnesses to talk to) patching up our romance. Very little discussion of our differences was involved.
Her crêpe de chine dress had sideways blue and white stripes, as if she were standing in the slanting shadows of Venetian blinds. It was slinky and would have looked vampy, but she was a little too nicely rounded for that.
Hand in hand, we walked to the brightly lighted entry-way of the Ala Wai, pausing as Isabel crushed her Camel out under her high heel on the cinders. I must have looked pretty jaunty in my Panama hat, untucked red silk shirt with the parrots, and lightweight tan trousers. Or like a complete fool.
“So this is where Thalo’s trouble began,” Isabel said.
“Guess so,” I said, but I was starting to think Thalia Massie’s troubles had begun a lot earlier than that Saturday night last September. Which was why I was here. There were, after all, nicer places in Waikiki I could have taken the lovely Miss Bell dining and dancing.
As we stepped inside the smoky, dimly lighted joint, with its phony bamboo-and-hibiscus decor, a swarthy, stocky fellow in an orange shirt with flowers on it that made my parrots pale came forward with the ready smile and appraising eye of the doorkeeper he was.
“Evening, folks,” he said over the steel-guitar-dominated music, and the giddy chatter of customers. “Little crowded. Dine tonight, or jus’ dance?”
“Just dance,” I said.
He winked. “Sol Hoopii Trio tonight. Those boys keep it hoppin’.” He gestured with his hand toward the circular dance floor. “Some booths lef’ in back.”
“Is the Olds party here?”
“Ah yes. I get a girl show you.”
He called over a Japanese cutie in a kimono affair that, unlike the geisha garb of the waitresses at the Royal Hawaiian, was cut in front to show some leg. She was pretty, and pretty sweaty, tendrils of her piled-up black hair snaking loose; she had an order pad in hand, a pencil tucked behind her ear.
“Olds party,” the doorkeeper told her.
She blew hair away from her face, and grunted, “This way,” swaying off.
The doorkeeper grinned and pointed to himself with a thumb. “Need anything, jus’ ask for Joe—Joe Freitas!”
And we followed our sullen leggy geisha along the edge of the jammed dance floor. That the dance floor opened onto the terrace meant only that the mugginess and buggy, fishy odor of the canal could wend its way in to intermingle with the tobacco smoke, greasy food smells, and perspiration odor.
Two tiers of teakwood-lattice booths circled the dance floor but stopped at the terrace wall, making a sort of horseshoe; the upper tier extended out a few feet, making the floor-level booths cozier. Dark booths they were, each lighted by a single candle, deep booths that were damn near alcoves, lending privacy to conversations and assignations.
The Sol Hoopii Trio had a tiny stage to one side of the open terrace; they wore pink shirts and matching trousers with red cummerbunds and leis—three guitars, one of them a steel played in a lap, one of the guitar players singing into a microphone. No drummer, but the dancers didn’t mind—those guitarists were laying down a jazzy beat behind the falsetto gibberish.
With the exception of the Sol Hoopii Trio and other hired help, the Ala Wai Inn was conspicuously white this evening. White faces, white linen suits on many of the men, only the dresses of the white women to splash a little color around.
The geisha showed us to the booth where Lt. Francis Olds, in white linen, sat with a cute plump green-eyed redhead in a blue dress with white polka dots.
“Good evening, Pop,” I said to the lieutenant. “Don’t get up—we’ll slide in.”
And we did, Isabel getting in first, Olds scooching around
the square table, closer to the redhead.
“This is Doris, the little woman,” Olds said, gesturing to the redhead’s generous bosom, making his description seem less than apt. “Doris, this is Nate Heller, the detective who works for Mr. Darrow I was telling you about.”
“Pleased to meetcha,” she said. She was chewing gum, but it wasn’t off-putting; it just made her seem enthusiastic, like the flirty green eyes she was flashing at me.
Olds didn’t have to introduce Doris to Isabel, because with the Olds’ baby-sitting Thalia at their home on that ammo-depot island out at Pearl, Isabel had been a frequent visitor.
“Thanks for helping me out,” I said to Olds.
“Not a problem,” Olds said. “Anything to help Thalia. She’s on the Alton tonight, by the way, playing bridge with Tommie, Mrs. Fortescue, and either Lord or Jones, Jones I think.”
Honey, we’re having the conspirators over for cards!
Brother.
I had told Olds out at Pearl Harbor yesterday that I needed to talk to a number of Tommie’s fellow officers, but that I hated to do it under Admiral Stirling’s nose. Was there somewhere more informal, where I might be able to get looser, straighter answers out of them?
He had suggested stopping by the Ala Wai on Saturday night.
“Why Saturday?” I’d asked him.
“Saturday night is Navy Night at the Ala Wai. Kanaka locals know to stay away. So do enlisted men. Strictly junior officers and their wives, out dancing and dining and drinking. They can’t afford the dining rooms at the Royal Hawaiian or Moana, you know, where the upper ranks go. But the food at the Ala Wai is passable and affordable, the music’s loud, the lights are low. What else would a Navy man ask?”
Olds had agreed to meet me and introduce me to some of his—and Tommie’s—friends. The way flasks of liquor and local moonshine were passed around freely, he assured me, I’d find my subjects well lubricated and talkative.
“Besides,” Olds had said, “if you’re going to question them about the night Thalia was raped, what better place to talk to them than the place where they spent that very evening?”
He’d had a point, but now that I was here, I wasn’t so sure it’d been a good idea. The loud music, the crowded dance floor, the smoky heat…none of it seemed all that conducive to conducting interviews, even informal ones.
The level of activity here was just this side of frantic: on the dance floor, there was continual cutting in during songs and swapping of partners at the end of them; men and women (seldom couples) were table-hopping, the laughter shrill and drunken. The smudgy shadows of couples necking could be seen in booths and corners, and there was fairly bold pawing going on, on the dance floor.
“You sailor boys sure know how to have a good time,” I said.
“A lot of us go way back.”
“You’re the oldest one here, Pop—and you ain’t thirty. How the hell far back can they go?”
Olds shrugged. “Annapolis. Every Saturday night at the Ala Wai is like a damn class reunion, Nate. You gotta understand something, about sub duty…you risk your life every day down there, crowded into those unventilated cramped metal coffins. Any second you can sink to the bottom, no warning, no hope of rescue. Hardship like that breeds loyalty among men, forges friendships deeper than family.” He shook his head. “Hard to explain to a civilian.”
“Like it’s hard to explain why Jones and Lord helped Mrs. Fortescue and Tommie snatch Joe Kahahawai?”
Olds looked at me like he wasn’t sure whose side I was on; of course, neither was I.
“Something like that,” he said.
“Is Bradford here?”
“That’s him, there.” Olds nodded toward the dance floor. “With the little blonde. That’s Red Rigby’s wife.”
Dark-haired, slender, blandly handsome, Lt. Jimmy Bradford was doing the Charleston with a good-looking blonde. He was grinning at her and she was grinning back.
“You guys ever dance with your own wives?”
Olds grinned. “Maybe on our anniversaries.”
“Is that why, that night, Tommie didn’t notice Thalia was missing till one A.M., when the party was shutting down and it was time to go home?”
A disappointed frown creased his friendly face. “That’s not fair, Nate.”
“I’m just trying to make sense out of this. Thalia and Tommie come to Navy night for the weekly party, Thalia claims she leaves at eleven-thirty, and it’s an hour and a half later before Tommie notices his lifemate is gone.”
“He noticed a lot earlier than that.”
“When did he notice, Pop?”
Olds shrugged; he didn’t look at me. “After that little fuss.”
“What little fuss?”
Doris chimed in, giggly: “When Thalia got slap-happy.”
“Zip it,” Olds snapped at her, shooting daggers.
But I pressed. “What do you mean, Doris? What are you talking about?”
Doris, wincing with hurt feelings, shook her head no and gulped at her oke-spiked glass of Coke.
“Pop,” I said quietly, “if you don’t level with me, I can’t help Tommie.”
He sighed, shrugged. “Thalia just had a little argument with somebody and went storming off. Nobody I know of remembers seeing her after that—it was maybe eleven-thirty, eleven-thirty-five at the time.”
“Argument with who?”
“Lt. Stockdale. Ray Stockdale.”
“Is he here? That’s one guy I’d really like to talk to.”
Olds shook his head, no. “I don’t think so. At least I haven’t seen him.”
I glanced at Doris and she looked away. She was chewing her gum listlessly now.
“But there’s plenty of guys who are here,” Olds said brightly, “who’ll be willing to talk to you, once I vouch for you.”
“Why don’t you take me around, then?”
“Sure. Doris, you keep Miss Bell outa trouble, okay?”
I said to Isabel, “Don’t fall in love with some sailor while I’m gone, baby.”
Her Kewpie mouth pursed in a mocking little smile. She was lighting up another Camel. “Ditch a girl in a joint like this, big boy, you take your chances.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You take your chances just stepping inside a joint like this.”
I blew her a kiss and she blew me one back, and no sooner had we departed the booth than a pair of officers in white linen mufti sauntered over, and in a flash, Olds’s wife and my date were out on the dance floor fighting for their honor.
“They don’t waste much time here,” I commented.
“It’s a friendly place,” Olds allowed.
And by way of proof, over the next hour, he introduced me to half a dozen friendly brother officers of Tommie Massie’s, all of whom spoke highly of Thalia. Smoking cigarettes and cigars, drinking bootleg hootch, arms slung around giggling women who might or might not be their wives, they slouched against the bar or sat in booths or leaned against walls, glad to cooperate with Clarence Darrow’s man. Phrases recurred, and because of the circumstances, I took no notes, and even later that night, looking back on it, I found the youthful submariners in white linen mufti blurring into one indistinguishable mass of high marks for Thalia (“nice kid,” “sweet girl,” “kinda quiet but a swell gal,” “she’s crazy about Tommie”) and scorn for the rapists (“all them niggers should be shot”).
Finally I told Olds I had all the info I needed, and sent my chaperone back to the booth. I’d told him I needed to take a leak, which was true enough. What I didn’t tell him was that I’d seen Jimmy Bradford slipping into the men’s room a moment or two before.
Soon I was sidling up to the urinal next to Bradford and we were both pissing as I said, “Don’t forget to button up, after you’re done.”
He frowned at me in confused irritation. “What?”
“That’s what got you in trouble with the cops, isn’t it? Walking around with your fly open, the night Thalia Massie was assaulted?”
“Nate Heller. I’m Clarence Darrow’s investigator. I’d offer to shake hands, but…”
He finished before I did, and I joined him at the sink, waiting for him to finish washing up so I could have my turn.
He looked at me in the streaky mirror; his features may have been bland, but the blue eyes were sharp—and he didn’t seem as drunk as his brother officers. “What do you want?”
Looking back at him in the mirror, I shrugged, smiled a little. “I want to talk to you about the case.”
He used a paper hand towel. “I had nothing to do with the killing of Kahahawai.”
“Nobody said you did. I want to talk to you about what happened to Thalia Massie last September.”
He frowned. “What does that have to do with the case Darrow’s trying?”
“Well, it does seem just the slightest little bit connected, since it’s the goddamn murder motive. But maybe you don’t want to help.”
He turned and looked at me; his eyes narrowed, like he was aiming a rifle at me. “Of course I’ll talk to you,” he said. “Anything to help Tommie and his wife.”
“Good.” I stepped up to the sink and washed my hands. “Why don’t we take some air?”
He nodded, and we exited the john and went out past the stocky doorkeeper into the warm night; the air this close to the drainage canal seemed muggy, and there was no sign of the trade-wind breeze that made the Hawaiian heat so bearable. He leaned against a Model A and fished a pack of Chesterfields from his pocket. He shook out a smoke, then held the pack toward me.
“Want one?”
“No thanks,” I said. “It’s the only bad habit I haven’t acquired.”
He lighted up with a match. “You know, all you had to do was ask. I’m willing to help. You didn’t have to crack wise.”
I shrugged, leaned against a parked Hupmobile coupe, facing him. “I left four messages for you at Pearl—two with your captain, two with your wife. You never returned my calls. I figured maybe you were ducking me, Lieutenant.”
“I’m just busy,” he said, waving out the match.
Damned in Paradise Page 17