The Green Room

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  Nahoa’s death was different from her mother’s, which had changed Storm’s life. But here again, she stood at the abyss of loss and inevitability that humans faced. Death was not a situation anyone could fix, change, or solve. The phone rang from time to time, but she let it be part of another space, another time.

  Storm had no idea how long she’d been standing at the window when she realized someone was banging on the door. Fuzzily, she wondered if they’d been there long.

  “Storm Kayama?” Two police detectives stood on the doorstep. “Detective Chang got in touch with us. We’d like to ask you about the package Nahoa Pi'ilani received.”

  “Come on in,” Storm said.

  The detectives, in plain clothes, introduced themselves as Steve Yamamoto and Jean Ursley, then entered and stood politely inside the door. “Could you tell us how and when he received it?”

  Storm led them into the living room, where she sank onto the sofa. “He got it last Saturday.” She described the delivery boy in detail, down to the zinc oxide on his nose.

  “And you perceived it as a threat?”

  “Yes. Nahoa did, too.”

  “Did he tell you it was a threat?”

  “No, but it’s known as a challenge to battle among the old Hawaiians. He didn’t have to tell me.”

  “And you felt Nahoa knew the significance of the package?” Officer Yamamoto asked.

  “Yes.” Storm remembered how Nahoa had paled, then shrugged off his concern. But even the little boy knew something was wrong. Goober or Ben, one of them, had made a joke about Nahoa’s 'aumakua protecting him. In a flash, she wondered about this. Had the two young men realized the significance of the war club? Or maybe they, like the little boy, had picked up on Nahoa’s and her discomfort. Leila and Robbie certainly had.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Storm repeated.

  “Had you ever seen the boy before?”

  “No. He told Nahoa some guy paid him to deliver it.”

  “You think it’s possible the boy is staying nearby?”

  “I don’t know. Could be—lots of these homes are rented to visitors. He also could be from town—or staying at a hotel.” Storm gave the officers the best description she could of the boy, and they left her with their cards in case she saw the kid on the beach again, or if she remembered any details that might be important.

  They were halfway to their car when she ran after them. “What kind of injuries did he have?”

  Yamamoto shuffled his feet and looked away.

  “It’s hard to tell.” Ursley spoke in a soft voice. “In fact, we have to get positive identification through dental records. He’s on his way to Honolulu now, but the ME won’t have any answers for a day or two.”

  Storm wanted to ask if there was a chance it wasn’t Nahoa, but she knew better. The police had been discreet. Kind, even. They were probably hoping the ME would have enough to work on. Jesus.

  Disconnected suspicions, remorse, and misery ricocheted inside Storm’s skull like hornets in a jar. She still stood in the sun, where she’d watched the police make their way back to Kamehameha Highway. Her head pounded and her salt-crusted skin prickled in the heat.

  When she heard her cell phone ringing, she walked slowly inside. By the time she’d found it in the bedroom under the comforter she’d discarded sometime during the night, whoever called had hung up.

  Storm didn’t even check the number. Instead, she dialed Hamlin’s direct line to the office and his cell phone. She got his voice mail on both phones and left a message for him to call her back. Then she dropped the phone back onto the unmade bed. She wanted to just climb in again, start the day over and pray it headed in a different direction. But she knew better. And she could do more about the day’s sad events if she didn’t crawl into a cocoon. First, she needed a shower, then she had some people to see.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You think I should get the eight foot or the nine-six?”

  O’Reilly had pulled two surfboards from the racks at the Tubin’ Tanker and had them lined up for Barstow’s opinion. “I’ve had my eye on these two.”

  Barstow squinted at the boards, then over at O’Reilly. “Depends. You weigh about 200? You want to do some turns, but still cruise, right?” He walked down the rack of vertical boards.

  O’Reilly moseyed along with him, reveling in his feeling of well-being, which was due to the fact that he’d passed up the Strip and Go Nakeds last night. He could hardly believe the two words that had escaped his lips when those three hot babes offered him tastes. No Thanks. Jesus. The chicks were practically naked, too. He really was getting older. But wiser.

  He knew his nerves would ultimately be what was naked if he imbibed in those radioactive concoctions, and this meet was too damned important. True, the cocktails would have helped him get to sleep, but he’d be awake again at three, wrestling with some of the steps he needed to take to make this meet a success. Even telling himself that some of them were necessary to triumph (ask any politician), he fretted.

  It was good to unwind like this with Barstow, though that guy had nerves of titanium steel. Had to in order to surf like he used to, and they also served him well in business. The two of ’em were a good team.

  “Here’s a nine foot. You look at this one?”

  “I hate purple.”

  Barstow rolled his eyes, then glanced toward the door. O’Reilly followed his gaze. All right, now. That was a beautiful woman, if you like them a little on the strong side. Tall and curvy, substantial. He’d like to let that dark, wavy hair out of that conservative French braid. It was trying to spring its bonds already, and yeah, he’d bet that dame was like her hair looked—a real handful.

  She went right up to Mo'o, who’d been ignoring customers while he traipsed in and out of a back room, wearing a painter’s mask and a resinous cloud that blossomed around him like an overwhleming cologne. She stuck out her hand and introduced herself, which was when Barstow nearly dropped the purple surfboard.

  “Hey.” Shit, he didn’t want to have to buy that one.

  “Sorry,” Barstow muttered, looking over his shoulder.

  “You know her?”

  Barstow’s poisonous glare cut him short. It sounded as if someone had said Nahoa’s name, but O’Reilly hadn’t quite caught the words. Maybe Barstow had, though, because he planted the surboard against the wall and jerked his head toward the door. O’Reilly followed him out to the street. The early afternoon sun glared from the passing cars. Both men put on sunglasses.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Stephanie’s lawyer. I recognized her name.”

  “You’re shitting me.” O’Reilly grinned. “Introduce me.”

  “Grow up, O’Reilly.”

  “C’mon, I could be your spy.”

  “Like we need another spy.”

  “Jesus, what’s with you? A major sponsor bag out on you?”

  Barstow’s reflective sunglasses shot a laser of light so intense that O’Reilly shifted. Barstow let his insect eyes rove up and down the street as if he were expecting a gunslinger to step out of one of the stores. “Let’s go get something to eat,” he growled. “Someplace we won’t run into the Harridan. Or my kid, for that matter.”

  They found a nice, dark place. Like a cave from the blistering sun, ripe with the aroma of good beer on tap and something frying. Barstow didn’t want to sit at the bar, so they took a table in a corner. O’Reilly ordered a bacon cheeseburger with a side of onion rings without even looking at a menu. Barstow seemed as tense as a violin string, and he ran his eyes up and down both sides of the page, then finally decided on a teriyaki chicken sandwich. And lemonade. O’Reilly figured he’d better get lemonade, too.

  Barstow didn’t say anything until the drinks came, just kind of let his eyes run around the room as if his mind was so busy he didn’t want to distract it with words. When a teenaged waiter set the lemonades before them, he took a couple big swallows, and sa
t back in his chair.

  “I’m worried the death of this second surfer is going to hurt us.”

  O’Reilly nodded. “I thought of that, too. But surfing’s dangerous—it’s part of the appeal. Like race car driving, you gotta have risk to have glory.”

  “Maybe.” The cords in Barstow’s neck seemed to slacken. “It’ll depend on the spin the media puts on it. You talked to Gordon lately?”

  “I’ve left a coupla messages, but I know he’s busy. He’s in touch with KZXM on a daily basis. They’re planning a ‘History of Hawaiian Surfing’ docudrama for Thursday evening.” O’Reilly waved to the waiter for a lemonade refill. “I’ll talk to him before that. Don’t worry.”

  “I asked Goober to be his liaison to local surfers,” Barstow said.

  “Goober? Please.” O’Reilly’s lips curled in a sneer. “Who’s gonna talk to that loser?”

  “You wanted me to handle the local surfers, didn’t you?” Barstow’s voice was calm, but cold. There was a line of white around his lips, which barely moved as he spoke.

  O’Reilly took a deep swallow of his lemonade, nodded wordlessly, and felt the trail of icy liquid pass through his chest. Easy, now.

  The nearness of the event and the tensions of making it happen were making them both short-tempered. Antsy. And of course, Barstow still liked to think of himself as a surfer. With local connections, like in the old days, though he hadn’t been around for decades. He didn’t even have the Hawaiian wife anymore.

  O’Reilly looked Barstow in the eye. “What’s he doing for us?”

  “It’s no big deal. He’s keeping tabs on things. He can blend in.”

  “Okay, but let’s not ask Gordon to interview him. He’s barely articulate. At least Nahoa Pi'ilani could talk.”

  “C’mon, he’s a good surfer. He’s out there on the big waves.”

  “He doesn’t have respect.”

  “He does. You know how arbitrary one contest is.”

  O’Reilly could see Barstow’s left eyelid twitch. A bad sign. Now, if he could get Barstow off this topic. “You’re right about that,” he said.

  Usually, a rant on the preconceived ratings of the judges did the trick. Barstow was convinced that judges got caught up in the popularity and charisma of certain surfers and ignored others’ skills. “I meant he’s a bit young, that’s all. The judges will start to notice him soon.”

  It worked. Barstow set down his lemonade with a crack. “Judging is a crock. There are these gods of the moment, like—”

  The waiter appeared with their plates and set them down. O’Reilly lunged for his burger. He chewed, grateful to exercise the jaw muscles that had been hard knots all morning. He hoped the good food would improve Barstow’s ill humor. The guy was high-strung, but that’s what also made him good for the job. O’Reilly reminded himself that he needed to stroke his partner a bit more. This would all soon culminate in a wonderful contest that would benefit everyone involved. Well, almost everyone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Are you Mo'o?” Storm held out her hand. “I’m Storm Kayama.”

  Mo'o shook her hand and pushed a painter’s mask to the top of his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and the chemical tang of fiberglass resin hung about him. “Nahoa told me about you. You’re his cousin, the lawyer.”

  “He’s your assistant, right?” Storm wasn’t sure if Mo'o had heard about the body that had come ashore.

  “Yeah.” Mo'o splayed his calloused hands on his display case and leaned heavily against them. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She’d been afraid she would have to break the news to him, but this time the speed of the coconut wireless worked in her favor.

  “Yeh, me too. For your loss. You’re family.” Mo'o sighed. “Lotsa people going miss that boy.”

  “I wondered, did Nahoa tell you about a package he got?”

  Mo'o frowned at her. “A package? You mean he ordered something? He gets stuff sent here, but I haven’t seen anything lately.”

  “No, someone on the beach gave it to him.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Do you know if someone was angry with him? I heard he was kind of a ladies’ man.”

  “Nahoa’s kolohe, that’s for sure. Like most surfers—or young men, for that matter. But I never heard about anyone with a grudge.” Mo'o turned on his espresso machine. “Sit, let me make you a cup of coffee.”

  Storm slid onto a stool. It was a relief to get off her feet. She’d been running on nerves and desperate energy since her morning surf session had ended on such a sad, disturbing note.

  Mo'o poured beans into a grinder. “What kind of package you talking about?”

  Storm told him about the delivery of the lei o manō. Mo'o’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the Hawaiian weapon, and he opened his mouth as if to comment, then closed it when the door of the shop opened.

  “Hey, Mo'o. I come to say I’m sorry.”

  Storm turned around to see an older, dark skinned man making his way through the store. His eyes flicked to Storm, but his attention was on Mo'o. He held out his hand to the surfboard shaper.

  “S’good to see you, Buster.” Mo'o stopped grinding the beans and stepped around the counter.

  “I’m sorry, man, for getting all huhu the other day.” The man’s shoulder’s slumped. “I just heard Nahoa wen’ make.”

  “They found him this morning.” Mo'o’s voice trembled. “Thanks for coming. Life’s too short fo’ stay angry, brah.” He clasped the man’s hand, then threw his arms around him in a big hug.

  The smaller guy held onto Mo'o, and patted his back. “It’s terrible.”

  “Yeah. That boy. He make some dumbass mistakes, like any kid, but he was one good boy.” Mo'o took a step back and gestured to Storm.

  “Buster, you need talk story with this wahine. She’s Nahoa’s cousin. Storm, this here’s Buster DeSilva. Tell him what you told me, okay?” Mo'o stepped back behind the counter and loaded the espresso maker with fresh grounds.

  Buster looked between Mo'o and Storm, then back to Storm. His dark eyes were sharp and curious. Storm told him about the package Nahoa had received.

  Buster sat down hard on the counter stool and grasped at the ceramic mug that Mo'o had placed in front of him as if it would give him strength. He took a sip of his coffee, and studied the surface of it for several long moments. Finally, he spoke. “You part Hawaiian, right?”

  Storm nodded.

  “I heard some rumors.” He took another swallow of coffee. “You heard of lua?”

  “A battle to the death?”

  “An ancient fighting technique, with a'alolo. The winner used lua'ai on the loser of the match.”

  Storm knew about the breaking of the victim’s bones, but Buster had added a new dimension to Aunt Maile’s lore. “What’s a'alolo?”

  “Nerve pressure.” Buster pressed on the inside of his arm, then touched his neck.

  “How do you know this?”

  Mo'o had been paying rapt attention. “Buster here runs a dojo. He teaches jujitsu.”

  Storm looked back and forth between the men. Buster hunched over his coffee, while Mo'o labored over the espresso machine.

  “More coffee?” Mo'o could have been a waiter at Maxim’s.

  “No, thanks.” Storm turned to Buster. “What were the rumors you heard?”

  “You know Ken Matsumoto?” Buster asked.

  Storm took a sharp breath. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Buster took a sip of his coffee without looking at her. “Someone left a cord with a toggle hanging on the front door of his apartment.”

  “You think it was a ka'ane?”

  Buster’s eyes glittered. “I had a feeling you’d understand. Ken and his roommates thought the neighbor, who has a litter of Rottweiler puppies, left one of his training leashes lying around.”

  “You think it
was a real strangling cord? Did you see it?”

  “No.” Buster sounded disappointed. “One of my instructors, a Chinese-Hawaiian guy, told me about it.”

  “Why would anyone want to hurt Matsumoto? I heard everyone liked him.”

  “Liked him, yeah,” Buster said.

  “Well? What else?”

  “People are pissed about what’s happening to surfing. No one owns the ocean, you know.”

  “Okay,” Storm said, waiting.

  “Hawaiians were surfing centuries ago, according to the chants. You can still see prehistoric petroglyphs of surfers in the lava rock.”

  “True.”

  “So, instead of a lifestyle that celebrated communion with the earth and ocean, we got holding periods, with certain groups getting paid to guard a break, keep local Hawaiians away.” Buster’s voice became derisive. “They even use jet skis to get out to the waves.”

  Storm figured it would be a bad idea to bring up how many Hawaiians either competed or made a living from the North Shore culture. It wasn’t a simple problem. “You think activists are trying to discourage the contests?”

  Mo'o made a snorting noise and ducked to get something out of his under-the-counter refrigerator.

  “That’s just part of it.” Buster shoved his mug away.

  “I’ve seen some signs, at schools and beach parks,” Storm said. “People are getting together to protest the new tow-in contest, aren’t they?”

  “Think about it. Who was the guardian, the god of weather, sports, communion with the ocean?”

  Storm didn’t answer.

  Buster slapped his hand onto the countertop. “It’s Lono.”

  “Okay,” Storm said slowly.

  “He’s trying to restore the balance we Hawaiians have lost. These are sacrifices, like in the old days.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Storm turned away from Buster and stared at the surface of her own cooling coffee while she ignored the glances of the men. She’d heard old-timers go on about legends before, and some of their tales were as far-fetched as Buster’s. She’d actually seen phenomena with her own eyes that she wouldn’t believe if someone had merely related the tale to her, and she knew many well-grounded locals who had claimed to see ghosts, live 'aumakua, and spirits of the Hawaiian gods. Aunt Maile was one of them.