Mahu Surfer

by Neil S. Plakcy

  No one else seemed to have heard anything—at least, none of them stopped talking. I was worried that Rich was out there taking pot shots at surfers again, so I slipped out the side door, taking care not to let it slam.

  It was in the low eighties, and there was a nice breeze coming up from the ocean. I stood there for a long moment, listening, but all I heard was the low susurrus of the waves and the sound of the occasional truck grinding through its gears out on the steep part of the Kam.

  I started down toward the beach, stepping carefully through the scrub and sand, trying not to make any noise. I walked along one side of the property, under the shelter of a long row of kukui trees, so I wasn’t easily visible. I realized, as I moved slowly, that my pistol was up at my truck; the only thing I had to defend myself with was a cell phone, which would probably go off at just the wrong moment.

  I reached down to my belt and flipped the phone off. Strike one for the well-prepared cop. After about ten minutes of a slow, steep descent, I came to a rise which gave me a panoramic view of the beach, only to find it deserted.

  By then, sweat had begun beading on my forehead, and dripping under my arms and down my back. I felt foolish, and yet I knew I had heard shots. Rich couldn’t have passed me going back up toward the house, I thought. I would have seen or heard him. So maybe the shots had come from the other side of the property, by the road.

  I looked back up the hill at the house and through the big windows I saw Terri, Bishop and Ari still arguing. I swung around to the side of the property and climbed back up the hill, staying close to the property line and the row of kukui trees. In order to get back to the house, I’d have to go out in the open again, and I didn’t want to do that, so I just stopped for a minute to listen again, a few hundred yards from the side door. I heard yelling coming from the house, but the only thing I knew was that it wasn’t Terri’s voice. I heard nothing else out of place except a creaking sound.

  Staying under the line of kukui trees, I continued to climb toward the street. This area was much more heavily vegetated than the land between the house and the beach. The soil had to be richer up here, and I could barely make out the contours of the twisting driveway, overgrown as the whole area was with hibiscus, succulent, white-flowered hinahina, and the papery flowers of red and purple bougainvillea. If you looked down from the Kam, you’d hardly even know there was a house back there, the land looked so natural and unspoiled. It wouldn’t be that way for long, I thought, once those papers got signed.

  As I moved toward the street, I lost sight of the house due to all the vegetation around me. Because the underbrush rustled, I had to move even more slowly. I pulled out the tail of my shirt and kept wiping the sweat from my forehead. Finally I was able to peer through the underbrush and see that the gate to the street was open. I distinctly remembered seeing Rich swing it closed behind us, moving with his loping gait.

  I didn’t see him anywhere, but if he was wandering around with a gun I didn’t want to surprise him, so I called “Rich?” softly. “You out here somewhere?”

  I heard something like a moan, and quickened my pace, forgetting about the noise I was making crashing through the underbrush. Jesus, had Rich shot some surfer who was trying to get on to the property? “I’m coming,” I called. “Hold on. Where are you?”

  I followed the sounds of the moans, and when I burst through the underbrush up at the highway’s edge, I was startled to come upon Rich Sarkissian, lying on the ground next to the open gate. He was holding onto his mid-section, and when he pulled a hand away to wave at me, it was covered in blood.

  “Jesus, Rich, what happened?” I asked, dropping to the ground. I pulled off my shirt and started ripping it into strips.

  “That asshole,” he gasped.

  “What asshole?” I asked, as I pulled away his own shirt to expose the wound. “Who shot you? Some surfer?”

  He nodded. “Fuh-fuh,” he said. I was busy stuffing strips into the open wound in his chest.

  “I know, a real fucker,” I said.

  He shook his head violently. “Fuh-fuh.”

  “Is that someone’s name? You know the guy?”

  He nodded weakly. I pulled my cell phone off my belt and turned it back on again, waiting impatiently for it to catch a signal. As soon as it did, I dialed 911. “I need an ambulance. A man’s been shot.” I gave them Bishop’s address. “He’s already lost a lot of blood. You need to be here now.”

  The dispatcher wanted me to stay on the line, but I had to see to Rich. “Fun…” he said.

  “No, I know it’s not much fun getting shot, Rich, but you’ve been through this before, buddy. You’re tough. You already know that. Looks like I got the bleeding stopped, so you just have to hold on until the ambulance gets here.”

  “Fonseca,” he said, though his voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper.

  “Fonseca? Dario Fonseca? Dario shot you?”

  He nodded weakly. “Where did he go? Up to the house?”

  “Go.” He pushed at me, very lightly. “Bishop.”

  I positioned Rich at the gate to the property, where anybody coming down the highway could see him easily. “You hold out, buddy,” I said. “I called an ambulance for you, and they’re going to be here any minute. I’m going up to the house, and as soon as I see what’s what, I’m coming back down here.”

  He nodded again. He looked like he was about to pass out, but there was nothing more I could do for him. If I was right, Dario had killed five people already, shot at me and then just shot Rich. And he was up at the house with Terri, Ari and Bishop, and he had a gun.

  Oh, and Bishop had an arsenal himself, which could all be at Dario’s disposal.

  Before I started making my way back up to the house, I pulled my cell phone out again and called Sampson’s office phone. The call went immediately to voice mail.

  “Shit,” I said. Frantically I paged through my call log, finding his cell number and dialing it.

  He picked up on the second ring.

  “I need backup ASAP, and you’re the only one who can get it for me fast.” I explained, as quickly as I could, that the suspect he and I had discussed was armed and at Bishop’s address, and that one man had already been shot.

  “Right,” he said, and hung up.

  Thinking that Dario was already at the house, I didn’t bother staying under cover as I hurried up the twisting driveway to the house, and I made it to my truck without seeing anything or anyone except a lean brown horse wandering the open land near the highway and grazing.

  Dario’s truck had pulled up next to mine. My old hand-me-down pickup still bore faint traces of the logo of my father’s business. Dario had seen me in it at Cane Landing, at Sugar’s and at The Next Wave. So he knew I was somewhere around—if he was thinking rationally.

  You could see the parking area from the house, so I dropped to my knees and crawled to my truck, using Dario’s as cover. I opened the passenger door as slowly and carefully as I could, and unlocked the glove compartment. The 9 millimeter Glock my father had given me was nestled in the back, wrapped in a chamois. I pulled it out and slid it into my pocket. I had a spare pair of handcuffs in there, too, and I clipped them to my belt.

  I didn’t bother to close the door, but slunk around the side of the truck and then the side of the house. I heard voices raised as I came to the back, and dropped flat to the ground. From the cover of some pili grass, I could see up into the tall windows.

  Ari, Terri and Bishop were clustered together, at one end of the room. Across from them stood Dario Fonseca, with a pistol trained at them. As I crept closer, I could hear him yelling at them, “Where the fuck is my wife?”

  That was so different from what I expected to hear that I had to pull back and regroup. Terri had called Bishop the night before to tell him there might be a problem with the deal. He had obviously called Ari. Ari must have spoken to Dario, who was already in deep financial trouble. He couldn’t afford to lose his investment in Bishop’s
Bluff. He might have come to force Terri to agree to the deal.

  But his wife? What could she have to do with anything?

  I closed my eyes and racked my brain for anything I could remember about her. Her name was America. She was younger than Dario, and had grown up near him on the Big Island, the daughter of another paniolo.

  Suddenly connections started zinging through my brain. That night at Sugar’s, Dario had said he was a rootin’ tootin’ cowboy, able to ride, rope and shoot. Did that mean America could, too? Was that America’s horse I’d passed before? Was she somewhere at the house? What could she have to do with anything? Why would Dario be looking for her?

  I lay there flat on the ground, surrounded by the pili grass, and out of the corner of my eye I caught a tiny movement to my left, just the waving of another stand of pili grass. I shifted ever so slightly, moving my head so I had a clearer view.

  I saw the outline of a woman’s body, and black hair in a ponytail that hung over one shoulder. While I could not see her face, something about her was familiar. Could that be Dario’s wife? I thought it was possible that I had seen her at The Next Wave, though we had never been introduced. Then she shifted again, and I saw the outline of her face, and recognized her. I had seen her at the outrigger practices and kissing Melody at Kahuna’s; she had been called Mary.

  It was an easy leap; if my name was America I’d want a nickname, too. Mary lay there, her eyes fixed on the tall windows of Bishop Clark’s house. The air around us was so still and quiet, I could hear the waves down at the beach, and an occasional gentle whinny from her horse, out toward the road. Where was the ambulance, I wondered. I hoped Rich Sarkissian was holding on.

  Mary shifted and raised the barrel of a rifle. Was it the same M4 carbine that had shot Mike Pratt and Lucie Zamora? I had to reevaluate everything I had been thinking about the case—but I couldn’t do that until the people in the house were safe.

  I did have to think about the situation, I realized. If Mary had shot Mike Pratt off his board at Pipeline, that meant she was an expert marksmen, and that meant I was in big danger if she realized I was watching her. If I could see her, camouflaged as she was in the pili grass, she could see me, too.

  Up at the house, I saw Ari lunge for Dario through the big windows. I held my breath as they wrestled for the gun. I wanted so much to rush up there and save them all, but couldn’t do anything as long as America Fonseca had her rifle trained on the windows.

  Finally, I heard a siren. Was it an ambulance? The police? There was no way I could get in contact, warn anyone. As soon as I tried to use my cell phone, Mary would hear me, and that rifle would swing my way.

  I heard a shot fired up at the house, and saw both Dario and Ari fall. Mary rose to one knee, sighted her rifle and released the safety. I pulled my pistol up and sighted her myself.

  I was a fraction of a second too late. She got a shot off toward the house just as I shot her. I caught her in the chest and knocked her backward. She dropped the rifle and I ran toward her. It appeared I’d only winged her shoulder; she reared up from the pili grass and shakily pointed the rifle at me, but by then it was too late for me to stop charging. I took a big jump and landed on her.

  We wrestled back and forth, and she was a tough opponent. The rifle was kicked away, but I still clutched my Glock in my hand. Finally I was on top of her, and I took that opportunity to knock her on the head with the gun. She went out cold, and I popped the cuffs on her.

  I couldn’t tell what was going on up at the house, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I heard more sirens in the distance, but knew I had to get up to the house as soon as possible. I jumped up and ran for the side of the house; fortunately, no one seemed to be firing at me. I ran around to the side door and found it locked, then ran around to the makai side, the one facing the ocean.

  Terri was leaning over her uncle, who lay on the floor. I didn’t see any blood coming from him, but that didn’t mean anything. Ari sat cross-legged on the floor next to them. Dario sat on the floor a few feet away, shakily training his pistol on them.

  “Kimo,” he said. “Nice of you to join us. I knew you had to be around somewhere.”

  He nodded toward his leg. “Your aim sucks, you know.”

  “I didn’t shoot you, Dario. Your wife did.”

  Blood was leaking out of a wound in his leg, spilling all over Bishop’s hardwood floor. There was a hole in the window where Mary’s bullet had come through. Looking around quickly, I saw other bullet holes in the walls. I tried to count, to see how much ammunition Dario had left, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Dario for too long.

  I didn’t want Dario to realize that there was a cabinet full of weapons and ammunition, so the only thing I could think to do was keep him talking until reinforcements arrived.

  “Mary wouldn’t shoot me,” he said. “Mary loves me. My little piece of America.” He laughed bitterly.

  “She’s outside. She had a rifle. Are the ballistics on that rifle going to match the gun that killed Mike Pratt and Lucie Zamora?”

  Dario burst into tears. “I could never make enough money to make her happy.”

  “Who? Lucie?”

  “No!” Dario said angrily. “Mary!”

  “Is that why you started dealing ice out of The Next Wave?”

  “I never did.” His hold on the gun wavered. “It was always Mary. She got the idea, get surfers to smuggle the drugs in for us, and use surfers as dealers. They were hungry for cash, just like she was.”

  He looked up at me. “I was trying to get us legit,” he said. “I was taking the money Mary made from dealing and putting it into this deal.” He aimed at Bishop again. “This stupid project, which never seemed to take off, and just needed more money, more money. Until there wasn’t any more money left to put in.”

  I heard Terri whispering to her uncle. “Hold on, Uncle Bishop,” she said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “Everything’s not going to be okay!” Dario shouted.

  “Calm down, Dario, we can work things out,” I said. “How did everything get so bad?”

  “That idiot Pratt couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Mary heard him bitching at the outrigger club. She came home and told me. But shit, I didn’t know what to do. I said I’d talk to him. Mary said no, she’d take care of it.”

  He looked up at me. “She used to sit right in front of him in the canoe,” he said. “I thought she’d talk to him, convince him it was better to shut up.” Tears dripped down his cheeks. “The next time I heard his name it was somebody at the store saying he’d been shot.”

  He waved the gun a little. “I swear, I didn’t know she was going to kill him. But what could I do?”

  “Did Lucie find out?”

  “Stupid little bitch. She tried to shake Mary down. Wanted enough to finance a year around the world, going to surf competitions. Mary told her she was a dumb cunt.”

  “How did her friend Ronnie get involved?”

  He snorted. “The idiot hacked into the store’s accounts, thinking he could find the money she wanted and take it out. But there wasn’t any money—we’d given it all to Ari.”

  Ari finally spoke. “You should have told me, Dario. We could have worked something out. You didn’t have to do… this.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” he said. “Shit, I haven’t had a choice about anything for eleven years.”

  Oh, Jesus, I thought. I knew what was coming.

  “It was almost eleven years ago, you know that, Kimo?” he asked. “I still remember the first time I saw you.”

  I had to keep him talking. At least he wasn’t shooting. “Yeah, Dario? Where was that?”

  “At the Surfrider. You had just come home from college and moved up here. You were with Dickie Yamassa, remember him?”

  I did. Dickie had gone to Punahou with Terri, Harry and me, but instead of going to college on the mainland the way we all did, he had stayed at UH, surfing the North Shore every chance he had. He was an ama
zing surfer by then—he had dropped out of UH the year before, started entering tournaments, and started winning.

  I slept on Dickie’s floor the first three months I was on the North Shore. He had a girlfriend he stayed with most nights anyway, but we often surfed together during the day, then cruised bars together at night.

  “The Surfrider has a lot of memories for us,” I said.

  “Jesus, Kimo, I thought the sun rose and set on you, and you hardly knew I was alive. For months—months—I knew where you were all the time, I followed you around, just waiting for you to notice me.”

  “I noticed you, Dario. We used to surf together all the time.”

  “But you ignored every hint I gave you.”

  “I was scared, Dario. I didn’t want to be gay, and the way you kept coming on to me, touching me, saying stuff—what did you expect me to do?”