Dede directed Hamlin, who got a lot of amused and envious stares in the stop and go traffic, to a narrow residential road that ran parallel to Kamehameha Highway. When they got to the house she pointed out, the front yard already looked like a parking lot. Dede’s friend had been standing on the last patch of grass, and she watched them pull up with an expression that combined relief, impatience, and amusement.
“Thank God,” the young woman shouted at them. “Hey, nice car. You probably want to put the top up.”
Hamlin did, and they gathered their hats, binoculars, and water bottles before joining the throng of pedestrians marching along Kamehameha Highway. People trekked along the narrow shoulders of the highway like pilgrims on their way to Mecca, small packs of supplies slung over their backs. A nimbus of excitement moved along with them. The aura grew more charged as they got closer to the contest site and saw signs of the hoopla surrounding the event.
Television vans, studded with satellite dishes and antennae, already lined the highway. To get so close, they must have parked the day before, and some of the technicians who climbed in and out of the vehicles looked like they’d spent at least one night on site. Large Starbucks cups were apparently part of their gear. Razors weren’t.
The logistics of getting to the site kept the crowd from getting as unruly as the highway. There were no parking lots, and the road was lined with cars as far as they could see. Like the vans, anyone with a nearby spot had to have staked it out the day before.
Sunny apparently was thinking along the same lines as Storm, because she turned to Dede. “Thank heavens your friend saved us a spot. Some of these people won’t get in.”
“Yeah, a bicycle is better than a car when it comes to attending one of these,” Dede replied.
The four of them followed the majority of the spectators along a public beach access. It led through a stand of tall ironwood trees, which separated two large beachfront homes. Many of the arrivals paid no attention to the public walkway, and made their way across private yards and driveways.
Sunny led the way across a stretch of the beach to a makeshift hut, where a cluster of media personalities and TV camera operators came and went. A board that announced the teams, the color of their singlets, and their standings loomed behind it. Storm could see O’Reilly inside, waving his hands and gesticulating at one of the sports announcers.
On the way by, Storm could hear snatches of his diatribe. “…don’t give a fuck about any floating leis in their memories…let the goddamn girls cover the heart-warming stuff…” His voice sneered at the word “girls,” and Sunny and Dede exchanged glances.
Storm caught Hamlin’s eye. “A few hours ago, he was in his lavalava, making lattes,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “He was downright jovial, then.”
“High pressure job,” Hamlin said.
“Yeah.” Sunny jutted her chin toward O’Reilly’s partner, who was planted not far away on the sand. Barstow stood, feet planted in a wide stance, arms folded tightly across his chest. He glowered at Goober, whose back was to Storm and her friends. The muscles in Barstow’s jaw stood out in knots.
“Makes me tense just looking at him,” Dede said. “Let’s go farther down the beach and see if we can figure out who’s in the water.”
“Looks like the judges are sitting over there.” Storm pointed to a large, square tent that had been pitched on the sand in a prime spot.
“That’s a good place to hang,” Sunny said. “If any of us get separated in this crowd, let’s meet behind it.”
“Good idea,” said Storm. She squinted at the back of a wiry, dark-skinned man who had stopped to shake the hand of a surfer. Sure enough, when he turned to face the water, she could see it was Buster.
Storm took a deep breath. She’d had time to digest Warren’s news about Nahoa, and she figured now was the time to tackle Buster. He looked happy and relaxed. “I’ll be right back,” she said to Hamlin, who had put his binoculars to his eyes.
Before Storm reached Buster, though, a lovely woman holding a microphone intercepted him. Storm stopped dead in her tracks. Pua wore TV makeup and a tasteful dress. A graceful puakenikeni lei encircled her neck, and a cameraman hovered over her shoulder. Her hair drifted in the offshore breezes. She looked happy and relaxed, a magnet for the camera and anyone she approached to interview.
Pua saw Storm at the same time, and gave her a brilliant smile. Buster followed her gaze, and looked over his shoulder. He grinned, waved gaily, then turned back to Pua, who asked Buster about the conditions today’s surfers would have to deal with, then held the microphone out for his answer.
Overhead, a couple of helicopters hung above the shoreline, one of them emblazoned with the call letters of a TV station. Between the surf, the helicopters, and the blats of the contest announcer’s public address system, Storm could only hear snatches of their conversation. Buster said something about how the lateral current would pull the surfers and all their equipment toward Haleiwa, and then Storm lost the rest of his words in the noise.
She looked around at the media activity. This was turning into a well-publicized event. And there was Pua, in the middle of it, talking knowledgably about conditions, wave form, and prevailing currents. Some weather woman. Storm couldn’t wait to hear how she’d pulled this off.
Meanwhile, other camera operators honed in on the inevitable scantily clad beauties and buff beach boys. There were always a few. Naturally, the cameras ignored the majority of the spectators, who, like Storm, had dressed for the cool onshore breezes by pulling sweatshirts and jeans over their bathing suits. The bathing suits were an optimistic touch. No way did she want to get in surf conditions like the ones today.
Storm realized these shots would be transmitted across North America, which the morning’s paper announced was suffering its first major winter storm of the year. It might be warm compared to Wyoming and Saskatchewan, but no one was getting a tan that day. The swell was high and still rising. Arctic storms, part of the same weather system that swept across the continent, generated waves that grew as they accelerated, unimpeded, across the North Pacific. NOAA ocean buoys pinged their warning of these monsters, which barreled toward Hawai'i’s reef system, a veritable welcome mat.
Impenetrable gray clouds draped the skies, and the surf, already approaching twenty feet, sent salty mist rolling across the shore and land. A tiny young woman, wearing a thong bikini that would fit in one of Storm’s B-sized bra cups, scampered by. The breadth of her lower back was tattooed with a hawk’s wings, and goosebumps pimpled her lithe and exposed body. Of course, the cameras that followed her like flies at a picnic wouldn’t see those.
DeSilva finished his interview and walked over to greet Storm. Pua mouthed “later” at her, and turned to a famous Australian big wave surfer, who towered above her, wearing a very pleased expression.
“Hi.” Storm intercepted DeSilva. “Do you know Pua?”
“I’d heard of her, but this is the first time I met her,” DeSilva said. “She’s my grandson’s auntie.”
“Um, I just heard about that.”
“I wondered if you knew,” DeSilva said. He gave her a wry half-smile.
“You must have been terribly upset with Nahoa.”
“I was, at first.” But he sounded cheerfully unperturbed. Storm watched his face carefully, but his eyes met hers without hesitation. “I thought about having him arrested,” he admitted.
“For what it’s worth, I thought Nahoa used terrible judgment.” The anger in her voice surprised her, but DeSilva just shrugged.
“Most people did,” he said. “But Evie was part of the act, and by the time I found out, it was too late to do anything about it. The little guy was on his way, and he needed a family to love. Why not us?” This time, his smile held a touch of sadness.
Storm wondered about DeSilva’s wife, Evie’s mother. Warren hadn’t said anything about her, and Storm hadn’t seen anyone else at the house.
“Still, it must be hard for you and Evie to have a baby around.”
DeSilva squinted toward the edge of the beach, where two contestants gathered their gear to head into the waves. A shout had gone up from the crowd, and Storm noticed that Kimo Hitashi, who had been with Goober yesterday, was now paired with the tall Australian Pua had just interviewed.
“You know, she was never good at school before,” DeSilva continued. “Her grades have been better since Sparky was born. Like she’s starting to see a reason for it.”
“What about Nahoa? Did he accept any responsibility?”
Storm had been carefully watching DeSilva for his reply, so when his eyes slipped from her own gaze to something behind her head, she turned, though she sensed he was relieved at the distraction.
Goober was stomping toward them, and the scowl on his face would distract most people. He still wore the board shorts she’d seen that morning and had added a faded red sweatshirt to counteract the chilly day. His dreads were more matted than usual, and the wind, which swept from behind him, carried unwashed body odor. His arms were rigid and his hands clenched into fists. Though she and DeSilva stood shoulder to shoulder, Goober’s stare bore into Storm. So intense were his emotions, and unwavering was his focus, that she doubted he even saw DeSilva.
He marched right up to her. “Better watch yourself,” he said and grabbed her arm. He shoved something into her hand, then shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Without another word, he dashed away from the water, toward the tree line and beach homes.
Chapter Thirty-four
O’Reilly finished sorting out Gordon, his former colleague from KZXM TV. Honestly, why would the man think a national audience would be interested in a local memorial service for the two dead surfers? Hell, he’d straightened him out on that sappy idea, then sent him off to do some surfer interviews. That’s where the juice was. In fact, the idea had come to him while they stood there. One of KZXM’s competitors had zoomed in on a babe’s tattoo—across her nearly bare ass—and it had given him an idea. One of the girls in the local pizza joint had told him that Sunny, Nahoa Pi'ilani’s girlfriend, was a big name on the women’s circuit. So he’d sent Gordon off to talk to her on camera. People would eat it up. Good grief, the woman was gorgeous, a champion surfer, AND her celebrity boyfriend had just died doing the sport he loved. What a story.
Gordon trotted off with his panting cameraman in tow. Next conversation, he’d have to tell him to lay off the hairspray. Looked like a Viking in a fucking helmet. It was bad enough he wasn’t a natural blond.
Sunny, a girlfriend, and a man O’Reilly didn’t recognize all stood shoulder to shoulder, binoculars growing out of their faces. The guy was too pale to be a surfer, plus he walked with a limp. Maybe he was a relative from the mainland. And whoa, there was Ben, about twenty feet away from them. Where was Barstow, anyway?
“Hey,” O’Reilly shouted, when he finally caught sight of his partner, face to face with fucking Goober again. Poor kid was still trying, but he had to hand it to Barstow on this one. The guy treated the young man with more patience than he would have been able to dredge up. For crying out loud, the little prick had blown it himself, after they’d given him the chance of a lifetime. Handed it to him on a platter, just for doing them a few favors. Barstow might not even know about some of the favors O’Reilly had asked of the kid. Still, Barstow treated him with respect.
Barstow’s expression was pretty grim when O’Reilly finally got his attention. He shrugged and turned his palms up in the universal, “What am I to do?” gesture, and made his way toward the media hut.
“Over there,” O’Reilly shouted again and pointed to Ben, who was talking to Pua Pi'ilani. Christ, what the fuck was she doing here? O’Reilly felt his face flush and forced himself to take a deep breath. She was doing surfer interviews, too. And he knew the station she worked for had as much pull, or more, than KZXM. She was a lot easier to look at than Gordon, too. Fuck.
O’Reilly would have to deal with Pua later. He mouthed “Ben,” and pointed again. No one could hear over the racket of the surf, helicopters, and PA system, which blatted and crackled. He needed to get a technician to look into that problem, too.
Barstow finally saw where O’Reilly pointed and veered off to intercept his son. O’Reilly could see a mixture of relief and frustration on his face. Barstow loved that kid, and he must have been worried as hell last night. That morning, in the short time they’d had together before the Kayama woman and Goober showed up, he’d related how Stephanie had shown up at his house.
O’Reilly had seen the fear in Barstow’s eyes and deep lines of fatigue that bracketed his mouth. In fact, the thought had gone through his mind that Barstow might actually still care for Stephanie. Nothing he’d said, just a niggling suspicion.
Whatever, O’Reilly was himself relieved that Ben stood there on the beach, the big gun his dad had bought him for the contest propped beside him. One of Mo'o Lanipuni’s special designs, a primo board. There was Gabe Watson, too, never far away from anyone with a microphone. Or a beautiful woman, O’Reilly thought with a surge of emotion he couldn’t identify.
A roar from the crowd distracted O’Reilly. Jesus, Kimo Hitashi was having a spectacular ride. O’Reilly shouted at a nearby cameraman, a fellow with a tripod and a huge lens. “You getting that?”
The guy didn’t answer, which was a good thing. He was too busy getting footage. O’Reilly held his breath and watched Kimo’s maneuvers. He couldn’t help being captivated. What a sport! They’d have it on ESPN this evening, by God. Even more sponsors would get on board. This was turning out just as he’d hoped and prayed. He only had a few loose ends and another day to keep up this momentum.
Then he’d pay attention to some personal issues he hadn’t had time to deal with. Women, for one. And Goober. He was a good kid, but he was getting kind of wacky.
Chapter Thirty-five
“What the hell?” DeSilva said, watching Goober’s disappearing back. “That kid getting so pupule. What’d he give you?”
“Keys.” Storm stared at the item in her hand. “To my house.”
“You just notice?”
“The Honolulu one. They were in my purse.”
DeSilva frowned at her. “How’d he get ’em?”
“I’m not sure,” Storm said. Unless he was the person who broke into the cottage. But why would he return them? And in this manner?
“I better find out,” she said, looking around for Hamlin. Hamlin, who stood with Dede and Sunny about thirty yards away, lowered his binoculars. Their eyes met.
“I’m going after Goober,” she shouted, and pointed toward the trees. A gust of wind, crowd noise, and static from the loudspeaker system whipped away her words. She looked in the direction Goober had gone, then at DeSilva.
“Will you tell him?” she asked DeSilva. “Tell that man I’ll be right back.”
Storm kicked off her rubber slippers so she could run more easily, and headed away from the swarm of people on the beach. Spectators were still arriving, and Storm made her way against the flow, weaving among the beach-chair, mat-schlepping individuals who staggered in after having to hike along the highway for at least a mile.
A low beach scarp, left by the combination of high surf and receding tide, slowed her down a bit. To save time, Storm tried to climb right up the face, and the two-foot soft sand cliff collapsed and carried her back with it. The incoming stragglers avoided this pitfall, and headed for a shallower slope. Since the mini-avalanche had already come to rest, she clambered up the rise on her second try and trotted across an apron of deep sand to a wide-leafed ground cover.
Most of the arrivals got to the beach via a sandy path that was a public access, but Goober had taken a less-traveled route. Storm
saw movement some distance away, in the private space between two large beach homes. It was the combination of the faded red sweatshirt and blond hair that caught her eye. If he hadn’t turned to watch his former partner’s progress into the water, he would have been long gone, but he stood with a hand shading his eyes and a droop to his shoulders.
Though she wanted to confront him with how he’d had possession of her keys, she also felt a surge of pity for the young man, so she stopped and observed him for a moment. She’d grown up with kids like him. There had been a boy in the tenth grade whose parents were notorious drunks, and who came to school with bruises, cuts, and one time, a black eye. He’d been a surfer, too.
The kid Storm had known had won local events and eventually dropped out of school and moved somewhere—word was he’d gone to Australia with the World Surfing Tour. Storm hoped so.
She could understand Goober’s disappointment. Not only was surfing the ultimate in cool for his peers, it took balls the size of coconuts to face waves like Goober did yesterday. Surfing like that demanded respect, no matter what your family life or income level might be.
But Storm doubted he gave himself any credit for having braved yesterday’s challenge. He would want at least enough points to rise above his existing anonymity.
She would bet that Goober had been counting on the Intrepid to carry him out of the mire of mediocrity and hopelessness that had probably dogged him all his life. A chance like this didn’t come often.
How often do people like Goober hear the word no, Storm thought. No job, no credit, no down payment, no car, no hope. She’d felt the same bleakness she saw in him, before Miles Hamasaki had given her a shove and powerful encouragement—along with trust, maybe the most potent boost she’d ever had.
Barstow had told Goober he was out of the Intrepid. His chance, however he had come by it, was pau, gone with one ill-timed fade on a treacherous wave. And though Storm thought Barstow had done his best to be gentle, he’d done it in front of her, which had to hurt Goober even more. O’Reilly had also witnessed the rejection, and had done nothing to defend the kid.
The Green Room Page 20