Damned in Paradise

by Max Allan Collins

  The life in her eyes pulsed; her smile was a half-smile, but it was genuine. “Someday I do that, han’some.” Then she whispered, barely audibly: “Beard man.” And she nodded her head toward the two pimps playing gin.

  Then she slipped inside the hovel.

  The full-face beard had been enough, added to the dim, otherworldly torch lighting, to keep me from recognizing him. But as I wandered over to the barbecue pit, I could see it was him, clearly enough; the deep pockmarks even showed under the nubby beard.

  And those were the blank eyes of Daniel Lyman, all right. And the many-times-broken lump of a nose.

  I drifted over, stopping by the barbecue pit, very near where they were playing.

  I spoke to the fat one: “What’s in the pot? Tea or coffee?”

  The fat one looked up from his hand of cards with the disdain of a Michelangelo interrupted at his sculpting. “Coffee,” he grunted.

  “Is it up for grabs?” I asked pleasantly.

  Lyman, not looking up from his cards, said, “Take it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I reached for the pot, gripped it by its ebony handle.

  Casually, I said, “I hear somebody’s looking for a boat to the mainland.”

  Neither Lyman nor the fat guy said anything. They didn’t react at all.

  Some tin cups were balanced along the stones; I selected one that seemed relatively clean—no floating cigarette butts or anything.

  “I can provide that,” I said, “no questions asked. Private boat. Rich man’s yacht. Comfortable quarters, not down with the boiler room boys.”

  “Gin,” the fat man chortled.

  “Fuck you,” Lyman said, and gathered in the cards and shuffled.

  “You’re Lyman, aren’t you?” I said, slowly filling the tin cup with steaming coffee.

  Lyman looked up at me; his face had an ugly nobility, a primitive strength, like the carved stone visage of some Hawaiian god. The kind villages sacrificed maidens to, to keep him from getting pissed off.

  “No names,” he said. He kept shuffling the cards.

  I set the coffeepot on the stones that edged the pit. Tried to sip my cup, but it was too hot.

  I said, “Tell me what you can afford. Maybe we can do some business.”

  “I don’t know you,” Lyman said. His dark eyes picked up the orangish glow of the torchlight and the coals in the pit, and seemed themselves to glow, like a goddamn demon’s. “I don’t do business with stranger.”

  That’s when I threw the cup of coffee in his face.

  He howled and got clumsily to his feet, overturning the table, cards scattering, and the fat man, quicker than he had any right to be, pulled a knife from somewhere, with a blade you could carve a canoe out of a tree with, and I grabbed the coffeepot and splashed the fat bastard in his face, too.

  It wasn’t scalding, but it got their attention, or rather it averted it, the knife fumbling from the fat man’s grasp, while I drew my nine-millimeter. By the time Lyman had wiped the coffee from his face and eyes, I had the gun trained on him.

  “I’m not interested in you, Fatso,” I said. “Lyman, come with me.”

  “Fuck you, cop,” Lyman said.

  “Oh, did you want sugar with that? I’m sorry. We’ll get you some downtown.”

  He was facing a gun, an automatic, the kind of weapon that can kill you right now, and he had every reason to be afraid, and I had every reason to feel smug, only feeling smug is always dangerous when you’re facing down the likes of Daniel Lyman, who wasn’t afraid at all and came barreling at me so fast, so suddenly, I didn’t think to shoot till he was on top of me and then the shot only tore a place along his shirt, cutting through the cloth and a little of him, only, shit, it was me going backward into that barbecue pit, and I had the presence of mind to clutch him like a lover and squeeze and roll and we hit not the coals but the stones, which was good, but we hit them hard, or I did, my back did, which wasn’t good, pain sending a white lightning bolt through my brain.

  We rolled together, locked in an embrace, onto the ground and his shoulder dug into my forearm and I felt the fingers of my hand pop open and the gun jump out. Then I was pinned under him, and when I looked up into the contorted bearded orange-cast face hovering above me, the only thing I could hit it with was my forehead, and I did, hitting him in the mouth, and I heard him grunt in pain as teeth snapped, and he let go of me and I was squirming out from under him when the same massive fist that had no doubt broken Thalia Massie’s jaw slammed into mine.

  This time there was no lightning bolt, but a flash of red followed by black, and consciousness left me, just momentarily, but long enough for Lyman to get up and off of me. Groggily, touching my jaw—unbroken jaw—I got to my feet and could see him cutting down a pathway between shacks, toward the road, I thought.

  Meanwhile, the fat man was bending to pick up my nine-millimeter. He had it in his hand when I kicked him in the ass, hard enough to score a field goal, sending my gun flying again and him hurtling toward, and into, the barbecue pit, where he did a screeching scrambling dance, yow yow yow yow yow, sending orange sparks flying as he got himself out of there.

  Where was my goddamn gun?

  I didn’t see it, and hell, it couldn’t have gone far, only if

  I took the time to look for it, Lyman might get away. I had to go after him, right now, unarmed or not, and he didn’t seem to have a weapon on him, so what the hell—this was why I came to the luau, wasn’t it?

  I trotted down the path Lyman had taken, stopping at a crossroads, not seeing my quarry anywhere. Had he ducked into a shack? The way the shacks were nestled in and around thickets and trees made for a maze of pathways. Squattersville seemed suddenly a ghost town—whether at the sound of a gunshot, its inhabitants had hidden inside the shacks, or had scattered into the woods or the street, I couldn’t say.

  Not daring to move too quickly, knowing Lyman could leap at me from any shadowy doorway, I moved cautiously if not slowly, and damned if I didn’t find myself back at the central area, at the barbecue pit. No sign of Lyman here, of course. Or his fat friend, either.

  I was about to set off down another path when from the convergent paths that joined here, one by one, figures emerged. None was Lyman, but they were just as menacing: three dark men, pimps, bootleggers, the city council among this roughneck rabble perhaps, the men whose domain I had invaded.

  Each had something in his hand—one a gleaming knife, another a blackjack, yet another a billy club. No unseemly repetition—variety…

  A fourth man stepped into sight and it was Lyman. He had yet another weapon, a gun—not mine, his own, a revolver.

  So he hadn’t made a break for it—he’d got reinforcements, got himself armed.

  And come back for me.

  Lyman had an awful grin; it would have been awful even without the holes I’d put in it with my forehead.

  “You make mistake, cop,” Lyman said, “comin’ alone.”

  The crack that split the air sounded like a gunshot, and the agonized cry that followed it might have been a bullet-wounded man’s; but it was something else entirely.

  It was a blacksnake whip in the deft hands of a little old Chinaman in a white suit. His knife-scarred face looked ghostly and ghastly in the hell-fire glow, his lips pulled back over his teeth in a grimacing smile as he moved nimbly among them, sending the leather tongue stingingly after each man, tearing clothing and flesh, moving in a circular fashion like a lion tamer in a cage full of beasts, with speed, with grace, and red slashes of blood appeared on the front of this one, on the back of that one, even down the face of another of these much-larger-than-he men he was flaying, their shrieks as long and jagged as their wounds and just as terrible.

  Lyman had got his taste of lash across his shirt, shearing it angularly, and his revolver had flown from his hand reflexively. But unlike the other men, who had fallen to their knees in pain and tears, Lyman again took off down a path.

  I took off aft
er him.

  This time he was headed for the road, for Ala Moana Boulevard where now only a few cars were parked, Chang’s among them; none of them must’ve been Lyman’s, because he headed straight across the road, into the thicket, and I was right behind him, as we both went into and through the undergrowth, snapping branches, shearing leaves, crunching twigs, and then we both burst through the brush, onto the beach, no white sand here, just a short rocky slope to an ocean that stretched in an endless ice blue shimmer, the tiny moon slice throwing silver highlights.

  He probably figured he could follow the beach to nearby Kewalo Basin, where the sampans were docked, where he could find some kind of boat and elude capture once more.

  Not tonight.

  I tackled him and we both sailed toward the water, then plunged into its warm embrace, separating as we hit. We both got our footing on the sandy, rocky floor beneath us, water to our waists, but he was still in pain from that bloody gash on his chest and I slammed my fist into his bearded face with everything I had, hoping to hell I would break his jaw.

  The blow sent him reeling back, and he fell backward into and under the water with a hell of a splash. I jumped after him, found him under there, breathing hard as I held the bastard under. When I felt him go limp, I hauled him by the arm and back of his shirt, up onto the shore, making no effort at all to protect him from the rocks I was dragging him over.

  When I walked him through the thicket, he was like a man sleepwalking, guided largely by my steering him with my hand clutching a wad of the hair on the back of his head. We emerged, Lyman barely conscious as I guided him along, and I escorted him across the street, toward the handful of parked cars.

  From the other side of them, where he’d been crouching, the fat man popped up like an unfriendly jack-in-the-box—with my gun in his hand….

  “Haole pi’lau,” the fat man snarled, raising the automatic toward me.

  The crack of the blacksnake was followed by the howl of the fat man, who would have one hell of a scar down his back for the rest of his life. My gun went sailing out of his hand and I caught it perfectly, with one hand, as if it were an act we’d both long rehearsed.

  I tossed Lyman against the running board of the nearest parked car. He collapsed there, breathing hard, head hanging, shoulders hunched.

  The fat man was running down the road, toward Honolulu, and Chang was out in the street, cracking the whip after him, not landing a blow but lending the runner further motivation.

  I was soaking wet, exhausted, breathing hard, throbbing with pain, and exhilarated as hell.

  Chang was smiling as he approached me; with an agile flip of his wrist, he caused the long tail of the whip to curl up in a circle, which he grasped.

  “Shall we take suspect in?” he asked pleasantly.

  “I don’t think that’s the way Charlie Chan would do it,” I said, nodding to the coiled-up whip.

  “Hell with Charlie Chan,” he said.

  And, blacksnake tucked under his arm, he snapped the cuffs on the groggy Lyman.

  20

  The following afternoon, Prosecutor John Kelley joined Clarence Darrow, George Leisure, and me in the outer sitting room of the Darrow suite. Kelley, in the same white linen suit he’d worn so frequently in court, was pacing. His ruddy face was redder than usual, his blue eyes darting.

  “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like it the least damn little bit.”

  “John, please sit,” Darrow said gently, magnanimously gesturing to a place on the tropical-pattern sofa next to Leisure and me. Darrow, in shirtsleeves and suspenders, was sprawled in his easy chair, feet up on the settee, as casual and relaxed as Kelley was tightly coiled.

  With a massive sigh, Kelley lowered himself to the sofa cushion, but didn’t sink back in like Leisure and me, rather sitting forward, hands clasped tightly between his open legs. “These people killed a man, an innocent man, we now know, and you expect me to go along with some slap on the damn wrist?”

  Wind was whispering through the open windows, rustling the filmy curtains, as if speaking secrets we could almost hear, nearly make out.

  “There comes a time when every reasonable man has to cut his losses,” Darrow said. “I prefer not to argue the point again, but my misguided clients truly believed they were dealing with one of the guilty parties. What pleasing choice do any of us have in this matter? Knowing what you now know, you can’t in good conscience retry the Ala Moana defendants. But you can’t exonerate them either, not without delivering a devastating blow to an already crippled police department and the local and territorial government it represents.”

  “Mr. Kelley,” I said, “I’m as frustrated as you are. I risked my…life bringing Lyman in. But you’ve spoken to Inspector McIntosh, and the chief of police. You know the reality of this as well we do.”

  The reality was that even under all-night, back-room station house questioning, Lyman and Kaikapu had denied any involvement in the Thalia Massie abduction/attack. Further, prison records indicated they were present and accounted for on September 12 of last year; the prison officials and guards who could expose that lie would be setting themselves up for a stay on the wrong side of the bars in their own facility.

  And even if these obstacles could be overcome, prosecuting two new defendants for the Thalia Massie abduction/attack—defendants who had walked out of Oahu Prison twice to commit rape and other crimes—would almost certainly result in a storm of embarrassment and ridicule that the beleaguered local government could scarcely afford.

  “Of course,” Darrow said, “both these individuals are serving life sentences…so, in a sense, justice has already been served.”

  Kelley’s mouth was moving, as if he were muttering, but nothing was coming out.

  “The only way you’ll get them to talk,” I said, “is to offer them immunity and a deal for shorter time.”

  “Promise them parole,” Kelley said bitterly, shaking his head, “for confessing to the most notorious crime in the history of the Territory? It’s scandalous.”

  “No,” Darrow said, lifting a gently lecturing forefinger. “Going forward with a full investigation and a prosecution would be scandalous. No one would emerge a victor. My clients would be disgraced, Thalia Massie might as well sew a scarlet letter on her breast, and you would just about guarantee Hawaii losing self-government and see the reins handed over to the racist likes of Admiral Stirling.”

  Kelley had his head in his hands. “Christ Almighty.” He looked up; now his face was very pale. “You’re meeting with the governor tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he know?”

  Darrow raised his eyebrows, set them back down. “To my knowledge, nothing about Lyman and Kaikapu. That’s up to your office and the police department, should you think this is information Governor Judd need be privy to.” He shrugged elaborately. “Though, you know…I would assume the governor has enough on his mind, at present, knowing that if he doesn’t release my clients, he’ll be remembered as the governor who brought martial law to Hawaii, by provoking the United States Congress, and financial ruin to local businesses, by alienating the United States Navy.”

  Kelley snorted, sneered. “You’d prefer that he be remembered as the governor who ignored law and order, and arbitrarily freed four people convicted of killing an innocent man.”

  Weariness passed over Darrow’s face in a wave; then he blinked a few times slowly, and a smile came to his lips at about the speed it takes for a glacier to form.

  “I prefer to put this suffering behind us. Two of the three men who assaulted Thalia Massie are in prison on life sentences; a possible unidentified third party has fled to parts unknown. Those innocent Ala Moana boys have seen their number diminished by one, and their lives turned inside out and upside down. My clients have been held in custody for months, and have lost their dignity and their privacy and have, goddamnit sir, suffered enough. So, I would dare say, have these fair islands.” He slammed a fist on th
e arm of the easy chair, and a frown turned the kindly face into a mass of angry wrinkles. “Enough, sir! I say enough.”

  Kelley swallowed, nodded, let go another sigh, said, “What precisely do you propose?”

  “George,” Darrow said to Leisure, “would you show Mr. Kelley that document you prepared?”

  Leisure sat forward and removed a sheet of paper from the briefcase at his feet. Handed the document to Kelley, who read it.

  “You’re not asking the governor for a pardon,” Kelley said. He looked up at Darrow. “You’re asking him to commute the sentence….”

  Darrow nodded slowly. “A pardon can be viewed as a reversal of the jury’s decision…while commuting the sentence is a fine way for the Territory of Hawaii to save face. After all, the felony stays on the record, the crime is not officially condoned in any way. Prison time, in this instance, would serve no rehabilitative purpose…. Does anyone really believe Tommie Massie and Grace Fortescue are dangers to society? And, remember, the jury did recommend leniency.”

  Kelley seemed somewhat overwhelmed by all this. He sounded almost confused as he said, “Sentence hasn’t even been handed down yet….”

  “We’d like it to be, tomorrow.”

  The prosecutor frowned in surprise. “It’s not scheduled till Friday….”

  Darrow cocked his head, raised one eyebrow. “If we move it up, we get less press attention.”

  Kelley shrugged facially, then gestured with the document. “Commuted to what? Time served?”

  Darrow shrugged. “Whatever. As long they’re allowed to leave Honolulu.”

  “I’m going to be expected to prosecute the Ala Moana boys, you know. I certainly have no desire to, particularly knowing what I do about Lyman and Kaikapu.”

  Darrow’s smile turned sly. “You won’t be able to prosecute without your complaining witness.”

  Sitting so far forward, he seemed about to tumble off the sofa, Kelley said, “So you’ll advise Thalia to leave the Islands?”

  Darrow looked at his pocket watch. “I will. In fact, I’m expecting her in just a very few minutes…. Would you care to stay to pay your respects?”