Then we went to college, and I realized the gulf between us. Terri’s family was rich, while my father was a small-time contractor who’d have been delighted to get the contract to remodel one department in one Clark’s store. I went to Punahou on scholarship, while Terri’s family paid full freight, and donated money whenever the school came calling. My parents wanted me to go to UH but I convinced them I had to go to the mainland, and I ended up at UC San Diego, majoring in surfing. At least, that’s what I spent most of my time doing. I actually majored in English because the classes were often in the late afternoon and I could surf in the morning if the conditions were right.
I came to understand, when I saw Terri at home during those college years, that she was out of my league. She came back to Hawai‘i with her degree, summa cum laude, but without a husband, and started working in the Clark’s at Ala Moana, standing behind a counter in the perfume department. She told the other girls it was just a funny coincidence that her last name was Clark.
After six months behind the perfume counter Terri joined the management training program, and when there was a burglary at the Ala Moana store she was assigned to deal with the police. That’s when she met Evan Gonsalves, and no one was more surprised than I was when they announced their engagement.
In the years since then I’d seen her occasionally, more so after I gave up on being a professional surfer and came back to Waikīkī. I went to the christening for her son, Danny, and the regular Christmas party she and Evan held every year. We talked about Punahou a little, and she always asked who I was dating.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said as I walked up to the front door. I kissed her cheek and she took my hand. I followed her into the graceful living room, decorated with her family’s antiques. The room was dominated by a mahogany sideboard that had been brought to the islands by her missionary great-grandfather, and it was filled with fragile Chinese export porcelain. But her couch, covered in a floral fabric, was overstuffed, and there was a child’s plastic train on the highly polished coffee table, so the room wasn’t as oppressive as it could have been.
She gave me a splash of single malt scotch over ice in a crystal glass, and we made some small talk. Finally I said, “So tell me what’s wrong.”
“You have to understand something,” she said, facing me. “I love Evan. I wish I could convince him that I love him for himself, that he doesn’t have to constantly fight to keep up with my family. But I can’t.”
“What do you mean, keep up with your family?”
“Buying things.” She held out her wrist to me, to show me a thick gold bracelet set with tiny emeralds. “Yesterday was my birthday. This is what he gave me.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I took it to a jeweler on Fort Street and had it appraised today. He told me it was worth five thousand dollars.”
“Wow.”
“Evan doesn’t make that kind of money,” she said. “I know.” She waved her hand around to encompass the living room, the house. “He’d kill me for telling you, but we don’t live on his income. I have a trust fund, and even though Evan hates it, we use that money to pay most of our bills.”
“Maybe he’s been saving his money. You know, putting away a little each week so that he could buy you something special.”
“I don’t want money from him, or expensive jewelry. I can’t convince him of that.” She paused. “Besides, his paycheck gets deposited automatically. It goes into our joint checking account, and he never makes big withdrawals.”
“He could be doing private security work somewhere. Maybe sometime when he says he’s working late, he’s actually on duty for somebody else.”
She shook her head. “I know him. And I don’t mean to say that I’m checking up on him, but sometimes I have to call him when he’s working late, and he’s at his desk.”
“So where do you think he got the money for the bracelet?”
She put her hand to her mouth, and looked away. A minute later she looked back. “I don’t know, I think maybe… I think maybe he’s taking bribes.”
I sat back. “Whoa, Terri, that’s a serious accusation to make. Evan could lose his job just over the scandal. Do you have any evidence—I mean, beyond the bracelet?”
She shook her head. “I was hoping you could help me find out. Unofficially, of course. Then I could confront him and make him stop.”
“This is a bad idea, Terri. Remember, I’m a cop too. If I find evidence of a crime, I’m morally obligated to report it. That would mean I’d be snitching on a fellow cop, which is one of the worst things a cop can do.”
“I didn’t realize it would put you in such a bad position.”
“If you have suspicions about Evan, you need to talk to him about them.”
“I can’t, not without evidence,” she said. “What if I’m wrong? What if there’s a logical explanation for this?” She waved the bracelet at me again.
I drank the last of my scotch and she offered me another. While she fixed it I tried to think about what she should do. When she handed the glass back to me I said, “I’m no expert on relationships between husbands and wives, but it seems to me you guys need to talk to each other more. You have to find some way to tell him you don’t want the bracelet, and get him to take it back.”
“It’s not just the bracelet. It’s a lot of little things. We’ll go to dinner, and Evan will insist on an expensive restaurant. Then he’ll pay the bill in cash. Or he’ll bring me flowers from a fancy store and I’ll never see the bill. He’s getting extra money from somewhere, and I’m so scared I don’t know what to do about it.” She started to cry a little, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
“I can’t do anything for you, Terri. Officially or unofficially. It’s not unheard of for cops to be on the take. Evan’s a prime candidate, living like this on his salary. It’s got to make him feel bad. You don’t want to have to move out to a duplex in ’Aiea just to be able to live on a cop’s salary, not when you don’t have to. But let’s face it, you’re accustomed to living well, and Evan is going to do whatever he can to make you happy. If he thinks you want a richer husband, he’ll try and make himself that person.”
“Mommy?”
We were both startled. We turned simultaneously and saw Danny standing at the edge of the living room in his pajamas. “Can I have a glass of water?”
“Of course, darling.” She stuffed the tissue in the pocket of her dress and stood up. “You remember Uncle Kimo, don’t you?”
Danny nodded. I usually got out to Terri and Evan’s every couple of months, and Danny and I always spent a little time hanging out. Like my nieces and nephews, and most of the island kids, he was mad for pogs—paper disks that originally came from milk bottles, but now were given out by every island business as a promotional tool. Kids loved to flip them, trading them back and forth based on how they landed.
“I’ll let myself out,” I said. “I wish I could do more for you.”
“I understand.”
I stood in the velvety darkness of her driveway for a minute before getting into my truck. Looking out toward the ocean, I could see the vast compass of stars. There was a slight scent of jasmine and new-cut grass in the air, and I could hear distant traffic and the slight rustle of a lizard in the underbrush.
There are always days like this, but that doesn’t make them any easier. I couldn’t help Tommy Pang, and I couldn’t help Terri Gonsalves or her husband Evan, a nice guy who had probably already started down the wrong road. Hell, who was I kidding? I couldn’t even face my own demons, no less help someone else with hers.
I got into my truck and drove back to Waikīkī.
LINGERIE AND GENTLEMEN’S ITEMS
Tuesday morning, Lieutenant Yumuri called Akoni and me both into his office. He’s full Japanese, only about five-seven, and all business. “Where are we on this murder?” he asked.
We gave him the rundown, walking through everything we had done, the interviews, the tong rese
arch, the discovery of the murder weapon. We told him our plan to start tracking down the people in Tommy’s address book that day.
“You’ve done all that, but you don’t have any suspects?” he asked. “Go back to investigation 101, gentlemen. Who benefits from the crime?”
Akoni and I looked at each other. I said, “The wife inherits everything. But I’ll bet the son and his boyfriend take over the Rod and Reel Club.”
“Boyfriend?” Yumuri asked. “Figures. The guy was found behind a fag bar, after all. Those queens are always mixing it up, sticking bottles up their boyfriends’ butts, clawing each other with their fingernails.” He made a limp-wristed gesture.
Yumuri had been a homophobe as long as I’d worked for him, but it hadn’t bothered me before. I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t dare look at Akoni either.
Yumuri thought for a minute. “You’re doing good,” he said, finally. “Wrap it up as soon as you can. Murders are bad for tourism, you know. If we let this go I’ll have every hotel manager on Waikīkī on my back.”
Akoni and I went back to our desks. “Let’s take a look at that address book,” he said, and I pulled out the printouts. There were records on a couple of businesses Tommy owned besides the Rod and Reel Club, including a lingerie shop in Chinatown that we were pretty sure was a front for prostitution. Live models would stroll around the store in their underwear, and for a fee you could take one into a back room and examine the merchandise more closely. Vice had closed the place down once or twice but they hadn’t been able to make any charges stick.
He also owned a pack and ship place that specialized in sending goods to and from mainland China. They did a big business in relocation of ancestral bones, and it seemed like it was all legit. Chinese have a big thing for ancestor worship, and it’s important that the graves of their dead relatives be maintained properly, that the right prayers are said and the right offerings made. As Chinese émigrés become successful and settled in the US, one of the things they do is arrange for the remains of their ancestors to be brought to the US for re-interment, where they can visit more frequently, and don’t have to depend on a Communist government that might interfere with their observances.
“I’d say these two places give us a good head start,” Akoni said. “Which one you want to start with?”
We decided to do some more research before calling anybody. I gave him the lingerie shop and took the pack and ship for myself, and we spent the time until lunch on the phone, finding out as much information as we could on Tommy Pang’s business life. Akoni made an appointment for us to go out to the lingerie shop and interview the manager, so we decided to get lunch in Chinatown. We found a parking space on Pauahi Street, named for one of the royal families of Hawai’i, and ended up eating at a place on North King across the street from the lingerie shop, called Sally’s.
“They have nice stuff over that place across the street?” Akoni asked the waiter as he delivered our kung pao chicken. “I need a present for my wife.”
The waiter leered. “Very nice stuff.” He made curving motions with his hands. “You like very much.”
“Me, I’m not married,” I said to the waiter. “They have pretty girls that work there? Maybe I can get one to go out with me.”
He shook his head. “They no go out.” Then he broke into a wide grin. “They have rooms in back, no need go anywhere else. You like,” he said, nodding. “You like very much.”
The waiter went back into the kitchen and Akoni looked at me. “You’re still interested in girls?”
I gave him a look. “And you’re really going to buy something there for Mealoha.”
“I might,” he said defensively, and turned his attention to his chicken.
When I was a kid, I remember Chinatown was a lively neighborhood, full of colorful groceries, lei shops and dark little restaurants and bars. Now, though, it was pretty dismal. The streets were dirty, with old soda cans, shriveled dog turds and shreds of newspaper rustling in the wind. Most of the storefronts were shuttered and many were scrawled with graffiti, and there was nothing much Chinese about it.
There were still a bunch of lei stores on South Beretania & Maunakea Streets, but they’re tiny rooms with folding shutters or rolling grills, and the leis were all behind glass refrigerator cases. You could walk past and only smell car exhaust and fried oil, not a single flower. North King was the only street with any life on it—groceries with tubs spilling out to the street, stacked with garlic, ginger, hard-boiled eggs, and packages of dried mushrooms, noodles, and soy sauce.
We paid our bill and crossed the street, past a stand with row upon row of leis made of orchids, velvety orange ‘ilima flowers, and fragrant maile leaves intertwined with tiny white pikake blossoms. Behind the counter, an elderly grandmother sat stringing even more. Chattering teenagers and haole tourists crowded around the booth, debating the merits of different leis and bargaining for better prices.
Through the window of the lingerie store, we saw three elegant young Chinese women and one Filipina strolling around inside in lacy undergarments, periodically stopping to strike poses for the half-dozen male customers. We walked in, and a soft, musical bell rang. No one paid any attention to us.
Each of the girls was wearing more than you’d see on any public beach, particularly since the invention of the thong, but their effect was totally sexy, from their high heeled shoes up to their expert makeup and hair. And each had a flawless body. “If you see something you like, just ask,” a girl in a red lace teddy said, brushing past Akoni. He turned almost as red as her outfit.
“Where do we find Norma Ching?” I asked the girl.
“She’s in the back.”
Akoni and I steered our way past tables of panties, racks of bras and waterfalls of see-through nighties to a desk in the back where an improbably elderly Chinese woman sat behind an elaborate French renaissance desk.
She looked tiny, barely four feet, and wore a bright blue silk cheongsam. Her gray hair was as elegantly coiffed as any of the girls’, and her skin was hardly wrinkled. Even so, I guessed she had to be at least eighty. “Mrs. Ching?” Akoni asked.
“You must be the detectives,” she said. “Please sit down.”
She motioned us to two tiny embroidered chairs across from her desk, and Akoni and I perched on them like embarrassed elephants. “We’re interested in anything you can tell us about Tommy Pang,” Akoni said.
“That man, what a flirt!” she said, with a light, musical laugh. She had almost no accent and her voice was high and girlish. “He used to come around once a week or so to meet the girls and examine our merchandise. He was very interested in quality control.”
I’ll bet he was, I thought. “Did he ever bring anyone with him?”
“Oh, yes, often,” she said. “He often brought business colleagues here to show them our facilities.”
Akoni took out a pad and pen. “Can you give us any names?”
Norma Ching looked horrified. “Our business is very confidential.” She leaned toward us. “Sometimes, you must understand, our clients are making purchases they would not want revealed to their wives.”
“We understand,” I said. “And we’re not interested in anything that goes on here, or in connecting anyone to this facility. We’re trying to find out who killed Tommy Pang. And in order to do that we need to talk to people who knew him.” I smiled at her. “We won’t find it necessary to reveal how we were able to secure these names.”
“Let me see.” She opened a box filled with index cards and flipped through for a minute or two. “Melvin Ah Wong,” she said. “Dong Shi-Dao. Those are two associates he brought here occasionally.”
“Melvin Ah Wong runs his shipping agency,” Akoni said. “I don’t know Dong Shi-Dao.”
“Anyone else?”
“Others were usually businessmen visiting from other cities. Sometimes Hong Kong, sometimes Manila. Once or twice Japan, Singapore.” She paused. “You might also want to speak with Treasure Che
n. She used to work here.”
I nodded. “A special friend of Tommy’s?”
“You could call her that,” Norma Ching said. “She worked here once. Mr. Pang took a liking to her. They became good friends. She now works at a restaurant in the Ward Center, the Lobster Garden. She is the hostess.”
That was about it. I knew Akoni wanted to check out the merchandise, but was too embarrassed to say so, so I said, “May we look around for a few minutes?”
“Of course,” she said, smiling. Akoni almost blushed, but he looked happy. He got up and walked back to the front of the store. As I was going, she said, “We have some gentleman’s items in the corner there.”
So she knew. That was interesting. I wondered if, now that I had acknowledged my sexuality to myself, there was now some change in my body language that enabled an astute observer to see. On an impulse, I turned back and asked, “Did Tommy Pang ever bring his son here?”
“Once. As you can imagine, he was not particularly interested. Although it was at his suggestion that we included the section to which I referred you.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Do you know if the ownership of this store passes to him?” she asked.
“I don’t know. You know of course Mr. Pang was married.” She nodded. “It’s possible that either Mrs. Pang or Derek will contact you.”
“I will look forward to it.”
I walked over to the gentleman’s section, as she had called it. They had a nice selection of extremely skimpy men’s thongs, as well as athletic supporters in a wide range of colors and styles. I had never realized you could buy a gold lamé jockstrap, and wondered under what circumstances it would be appropriate. You could buy an improbable-looking triangular patch that would cover your privates, but I couldn’t figure out what made it stay on. There was a lot to learn about my new life, I decided. A lot.
PACK AND SHIP
The Chinatown air was filled with the scent of ginger, frying fish, and something rotten coming from Nu‘uanu Stream, just down the block. The offices of U.S. China Ship, Inc. were sandwiched between the dirty windows of the Floating Palace restaurant, long since closed, and Hin Shee Dook dry cleaning, which may have been open at some time during the day, and then again may not have been open since statehood. The front windows of each store, like all those around, bore legends in both English and Chinese.
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