by Eva Shaw
“That’s good then, I mean for your campaign, right?”
“Yes, it is, but Miss Margaret isn’t a fool. Any hint of inappropriate conduct on the part of my group or me, for that matter, would be just what the Flint people would love to get to the press. Honestly, Nica, that’s why I came alone today. My manager fears that if someone saw me and you meeting, you an FBI undercover consultant, they’d concoct a story that would have even level-headed Henry screaming at the top of his lungs.”
“But you’re above reproach, Payton,” I said, but then added, “Unless they can twist something about you and Courtney and Pat.”
“That was already tried. However, Patterson’s dad is one of Hawaii’s largest cattle ranchers on the Big Island and Miss Margaret back peddled when they tried to disgrace him. Suddenly my month-long marriage to Patterson’s mom was a non-issue.”
I shook my head. “Politics.”
“But you know this stuff, being in Washington and everything,” Payton replied. “Now tell me how I can help you with whatever this undercover op is that you’re on.”
I didn’t want to trust him, but as one friend to another, he’d just revealed private matters to me. He didn’t have to and I knew he was doing so to gain my trust. “There’s no ‘op.’ Someone Henry once knew, a novelist and rocker from the eighties, fathered or didn’t father a daughter. She contacted Jane—wait you haven’t met Jane and that’s not a bad thing because my cousin will take your breath away at the speed she moves—and I got nudged into trying to find out the truth.”
“No reason why a paternity test can’t be done now, even with long-standing family connections, you know, oh, yeah, you know this,” he said, putting his hand over the coffee mug as the food server offered more.
“The problem is that this woman’s father was murdered or took his own life. The body was never discovered. She needs to establish that she is his only issue, his only offspring, so that the royalties will justly go to her.”
“That I get, but why was some creep following you?”
I saw a true look of concern in those dark chocolate eyes, ringed by eye lashes that would make a runway model drool, and yes, I did remind myself to stop looking at his eyelashes. “The only thing I can imagine is someone didn’t like me talking with a resident of Carlton Villas.”
Payton took a twenty out of his wallet and slipped it beneath his coffee mug. “But it’s not like you were visiting someone in witness protection.”
“Thanks.” I nodded to the server as she cleared our coffee mugs and smiled at Payton. I was surprised she didn’t scribble her phone number on the receipt. “The woman’s name is Diamond Dupris. Do you recognize it?”
Payton shoved his chair back and we stood. “Dupris? Sure, another old island family. Once thought of pineapple royalty, I remember. I haven’t heard of a Diamond. My mom, I think, had a girl friend named Elaine, from the family. I seem to recall some photos of them going to dressy debutante balls, but Mom isn’t one to hash over old times. Want me to ask her?”
“Could you? And could you ask her if this old friend Lanie knew Jimmy March?”
Payton’s eyes blinked and blinked again. “The Jimmy March? That’s the connection? He’s been an island legend for years, Nica. Folks swear that he shows up at rock concerts. A month back there was something in the Honolulu Advertiser that said he was reported to be seen on Waikiki or surfing on the North Shore.”
“Like Elvis sightings?” I slipped my purse over my shoulder and we walked to the sidewalk.
He laughed and touched my elbow. “Yeah. Like that, I suppose, except the King is alive and everyone knows that. If March isn’t alive, the royalties would be something else. Heck, everybody from Aretha Franklin to the Black Eyed Peas has recorded his songs. There’d be a pot of cash for this woman if she can prove herself to be his daughter.” He flicked on his phone, sent a text, and said, “I’m not going to have you walk back to wherever you parked your car, am I? Better yet, my driver will be here in a second and we’ll drop you off. Why people think that Hawaii is too much like paradise not to have its own share of folks who are maika’i’ole, that is, bad, I have no idea. We do—plenty of losers just in case you haven’t yet consulted with local HPD, yet.”
A Lincoln Town Car pulled to the curb and Payton opened the door as I said, “This inquiry is strictly personal, Payton. There’s no connection to any law enforcement groups; it’s just me asking questions.”
We settled into the deliciously cool leather backseat. “Then tell me,” he said, “who you were visiting at that assisted care facility?”
“It’s an old band member with Henry and a friend of March’s.”
“If you tell me more maybe I can help. I’m well—”
“Well connected, I know,” I replied and this time, unlike the last, it didn’t come out snippy. “No need, not yet, at least.” I gave the driver the location of my car and when we arrived, Payton slipped out before I could. “Thank you. This was nice.”
“Was nice, and it’s our first date.” He smiled and reached to give me a hug.
I took a step back. “Aren’t you afraid someone might spot up and snap your picture with a FBI advisor? Wouldn’t it be splashed over every local news program throughout the islands by eleven tonight?”
“Changed my mind. Crime-fighting superstar, hometown girl, long-lost love from high school is back for reunion and just catching up? I am actually going to tweet this from the car as we head back to the office. What could be better than the hometown jock stomping for governor to be seen out and about with a drop-dead gorgeous, all-American woman who happens to be linked, in a good way, with the FBI, and someone who at one time had eyes only for him. Yeah. I can handle that heat. Now if you get arrested? Well, that’d be another matter.”
We laughed, easily. I accepted the hug and smiled, but then softly punched him in the arm and said, “Eyes for you? If you even noticed mine, you would have added ‘Four Eyes’ to the list of nicknames I was called in high school.”
Payton’s eyes flicked down to the sidewalk. “I did notice you. I’ll tell you about it sometime.” And he was off, which was good for me, because right then I knew Quinn and Governor Margaret should be standing on the first tee at their country club. But how was I going to get by Tina before she could text her tutu, who would email Payton that I’d returned? Right then, I had no strategy to get into Quinn’s office that wouldn’t alert everyone in the Yu family. Within minutes.
I got into the car, let the windows down, and hoped a plan would appear. It didn’t. But I did see a clothing consignment shop directly across the parking lot with a rack of glittering t-shirts displayed in the front. I needed something for the next night’s performance, whether I wanted to be there or not. Just maybe I could get some information too, I thought as I headed into the shop.
I pulled two black t-shirts from the rack and the clerk came toward me. “I’d take the smaller size, honey,” she said. “With a figure like yours why waste it with extra fabric.”
“Agreed,” I replied. “And maybe I’ll take one in red, and would you mind if I wear it? Hey, I was wondering. I think a girlfriend of mine works in this neighborhood. Tina Yu? Do you know her?” I handed the clerk a fifty and dashed into a curtained dressing room. I didn’t want to give her added info from my credit card, just in case she was related to the Yu family.
“Oh, yeah, Tina Yu comes in here once in a while. She’s a cutie, so full of life. Went to school with my son. I thought for a while they were going to marry, but she’s got aspirations to be a journalist or a writer or something like that. Yes, she works across the street at that care facility. Want me to call her?”
“No, just curious and I thought I might surprise her and take her to dinner later. I know you’re really busy here, but you wouldn’t have any idea when she leaves for the day, would you?” It was lame as p
lans go, but the clerk was only too happy to help. On the dot each evening, Tina left at six.
“Mahalo,” I replied and suddenly I knew exactly how I’d storm Quinn’s office, but first I had to make believe I was a keyboard player for the boomer band Slam Dunk.
• • •
The Hawaii Theatre Center on Bethel Street felt like an old friend when I walked inside, grand but not stuffy, even though there was a musty smell in the air. It was the musty smell that brought back the memories. I looked at the blue padded chairs and the gold leaf on the architectural details and fell in love with it once more, just like I had when, as a youngster, Jean and Otis brought me there to see Peter Pan. The band wasn’t there yet, but I knew I was in the right place for the practice session with Slam Dunk because the sound crew and technicians came and went. I attempted to be patient, something I’m not particularly good at, and with the music already in place at the keyboard I ran through the songs. This held my attention for another half hour and then I’d officially had it with the guys.
At ten minutes to four, I walked down the block to the ABC store for a bottle of ice tea or water and came face-to-face with Max Robertson. Naturally, there was a woman hanging on his every word and his arm. I backed out, thinking that I really didn’t need water. But it was too late.
“Hey, Nica, wow, it’s you,” he called, extracted his hand from the blond who seemed to be fixing the collar of his Hilo Hattie bright red flowered aloha shirt.
“Hi Max, I’ve just come from the theater.”
He took my arm and steered me to a buxom redhead who seem entranced by the sunglass display. “Nica and I and the band are playing at the Hawaii Theatre.” Apparently the near lynching earlier that morning was forgotten because he said, “You’ll be there, Angela, won’t you?”
“Oh, Maxie, honey bun, this is so exciting,” she purred. She looked to me to be about sixty and like she had enough money to stay that age.
“Maxie,” I mimicked her, which was rude I know, but felt good. “Are you going to come to the theater at all? Are we having practice this afternoon?”
“Nica. Angela. Hey, it’s not even one yet.” He flashed his Rolex and if I hadn’t been there to make sure he didn’t just reset the time, I would have sworn he was pulling a fast one.
“Did you neglect to adjust your watch? We’re not Pacific Time, Max. Here in Honolulu, we’re on Hawaiian time.” I rolled my eyes, shrugged, and nodded goodbye. “I’m going to get a couple bottles of water and head to the theater. When will you join me and the band?”
“Wait up, Nica. Sorry, Angela baby, got to run. This gal is a slave driver.” Then he pretended to have a moustache to twist and added with a glint in his jet black eyes, “See you later, baby doll.”
“Are you aware that your supposedly seductive chatter to that lady went out in the nineteen-eighties? I muttered, paying for the water and leaving the change in the tip container.
“Hey, if it’s not broke, don’t fix it. That’s my motto,” he replied, bouncing along beside me as if he were already playing his bass.
As we reached the back door of the theater, a clerk greeted us by jousting a FedEx package into my hands. Max looked to me and then at it. “The contract. From your agent? In Detroit?” I said, somehow keeping the angst from my voice. “Henry said it was going to come here. Do you remember? Do you even care, Max?”
“Oh yeah,” Max replied. No one in the band was hurting for money; all had other jobs, but if one had a business, I always thought, one had to run a business. I had volunteered to look over the contracts, but I didn’t think the rest of the band would ignore them, as they did. I pulled open the paper envelope. The cover letter said I had to get that form back to the company in Detroit, which was about to pay a huge amount of money for the rights to record the band’s live performance. They would produce a new CD that would come out in stores the following year.
When I had arranged it all, it seemed simple. Get the guys to sign for the form and FedEx would personally see to it that the contract arrived on time. “But only if you can get it to me by six,” explained the clerk at their office. It was nearly four-fifty now. I vowed at that moment, I was going to un-volunteer as Slam Dunk’s under-appreciated and unpaid manager or get a power of attorney, so I could just sign all the forms myself. The proceeds from their events and the royalties from the CDs and DVDs went to the Slam Dunk Foundation, but honestly rounding up musicians was like organizing preschoolers on a sugar-induced Halloween trance.
I heaved a deep sigh. “Max, could you sign this? I know.” I lifted my hand, palm out, to stop him from offering any stock market tips. “I’ll go wait by the back door and catch the others as they come in.”
In the next hour, my breathing returned from the aforementioned huff. I put the cookies I’d purchased while being stalked on a table near the stage entrance and like getting a reward, each of the guys signed their name and took a cookie. “Preschoolers.” I chuckled.
“Whatever works,” Henry said, coming up in back of me.
“I have to get this to FedEx by six, Henry, so—”
He patted my shoulder. “Would you mind, then, taking it over there? Just put in a bit of face time, and we’ll muddle on without you. I’d feel a whole lot better than having one of these characters do it?”
“You are sure lucky, Henry, because I have a short errand I need to run near six, too, if that’s okay.”
“You’re saving our bacon, Nica, you take your time.”
The plan, which had been impossible to concoct earlier that day, was nearly forming. Details? I’d work them out once I stopped at FedEx and waited across the street from the entrance to Carlton Villas. I’d wait for Tina to leave, and then? Actually, I had a fancy idea of what I’d do except to talk with Tina, but after that? I didn’t have that part worked out.
I sat fiddling with the piano’s keys, replaying the chorus to their smash hit “He’s Alive,” and tried to make sense of the last few days. It was like a jigsaw puzzle with plenty of the pieces missing. It didn’t help that guys were joking and telling what sounded like tall tales, even to my naïve ears.
“How many musicians does it take to screw in a light bulb?” Max cackled. In the next breath he blurted the answer, “As many as you’ve got and they all have their own twist on it.”
One of the other guys shouted, “What’s the difference between a rock musician and a large pizza? Don’t know? The pizza can feed four people.”
“Come on, boys and my niece, let’s hit it. Let the music begin.”
I was about to make my debut performance with the band and felt about as ready to do that as to swim the English Channel.
At five-thirty, Henry returned my nod. I snapped up my purse and grabbed the FedEx return envelope with the signed contract tucked safely inside, dropped it off without a hitch, and headed, eventually, to Carlton Villas. I concentrated only at getting safely into Quinn’s office to read the files. Why? I was scared to think about performing with Slam Dunk. Practice was one thing, screaming fans, bright lights, me sweating buckets, was definitely another. Yes, I was in denial about the forthcoming ordeal.
I was pulling into the parking lot across the street from the assisted care home when my cell rang. Music blasted in the background as I answered that sounded strangely like Slam Dunk’s hit “He’s Alive” and I spotted a young man, dressed in a blue uniform with “Honolulu Security” printed on the back, lock a pristine inky black Chevy truck, so new it had no plates. He was the same guard who saved me when my heel caught on the doorstep my first visit to the facility.
The man slowly walked around the truck. Then he smiled like Publisher’s Clearing House just gave him an oversized check and finally he looked around him and kissed the hood (could I kid you on this?). Finally he danced like he’d just caught a football and dashed to the end zone. “Guys and cars,” I muttere
d and chuckled before concentrating on the call, from a number I didn’t recognize.
“Nica, it’s me, Max. Can you hear me?”
“Hi Max. I left fifteen minutes ago, can’t you live without me?”
Max must have walked well away from the band because then I could hear him clear his throat. “Think you need to know something, Nica.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble? With Angela from the ABC Store meeting?”
“No. Trouble’s not exactly the word. It’s more like a coincidence that I wasn’t quite, well, clear about.”
“Clear, you mean you have something to tell me that you didn’t and because you didn’t, it’s a lie of omission?”
“You go straight for the soul, don’t you, Consulting Agent Dobson. Or have you been hanging out with Pastor Jane too long?”
I waited, again allowing silence to encourage Max to talk about whatever he had on his mind. “When I flew into Honolulu yesterday, I met Diamond Dupris coming off her flight from Switzerland. That was before you saw me being chased around the Hilton by those voluptuous ladies. Diamond called me about a week ago. We talked a few times when she was in Europe.”
“All kidding aside, Casanova, what do you think of her?”
“I felt for her. She’s innocent of this crazy business. I met her at the airport. I needed to tell her I’d met her father and wanted her to know he was okay to me. Got a feeling she’s going to hear some nasty stuff about Jimmy and maybe the fact that he treated a kid like me as if I was a human being could ease some pain. Don’t know. Just had an inclination and since I knew you were coming here, I, well—”
“What did you say? Did you give her the same guarantee that Jane did? Did you promise that I’d find her father’s killer, if in fact he was killed and not in hiding for the last thirty years?”
Yes, I did sound jaded. But the truth is: there were plenty of men like Max Robertson, in politics, in the Bureau, and behind bars. They were smooth and would promise anyone anything. These are great guys to have on your side when they’re honorable, but not when they’re not. But you already know that, right?