by Larry Darter
“That’s satisfactory,” Camargo said. She opened a desk drawer and handed me a color print. “This is Tiger Ying.”
The photograph showed what looked like a large metal teapot complete with spout and handle. It had three short legs, and a base. There was a sculpted tiger on the top and tiger images cast on the spout and handle. The surface appeared tarnished which made it difficult to identify the metal used to cast it as bronze. It had almost an aluminum-like finish.
I had no other questions for the moment. Camargo escorted me back to the front door and unlocked it. I told her I’d be in touch and went out. The little brass bell over the door tinkled, heralding my departure. I climbed onto my Kawasaki Ninja 400, pushed my ginger-colored shoulder-length hair behind my ears, and put on the helmet. After zipping my black leather bikie jacket, I started the motorbike and roared off down Queen Street on my way to my other appointment.
Two
My other appointment was with Stephen Neal. Stephen was a forty-year-old car salesman at Ala Moana Motors. He suspected his wife Kimberly of infidelity. He hired me to find out if his suspicions were valid, and if so to gather evidence of her indiscretions. Steven earned a good living. Kimberly, twelve years his junior didn’t work at all. If Steven divorced his wife of three years, he wanted evidence of her unfaithfulness to get a favorable property settlement and to avoid having to pay the stupid cow alimony. I couldn’t fault him for that. It had taken a bit less than a week to confirm Kimberly was shagging another dude regularly. Infidelity cases weren’t my favorites, but they helped pay the mortgage.
Steven had asked me to meet him at the Windjammer Bar & Grill located off the Sand Island Access Road on the shores of Keehi Lagoon near Daniel K. Inouye International Airport. I loved the Windjammer, the last original Tiki bar on Oahu. It was a unique place with its Bali Ha’i style decor complete with Polynesian islands motifs and sculptures, fishing nets on the walls, rattan chairs, and wooden tables.
It was almost four o’clock when I rolled up in front of the pub, fifteen minutes early for the appointment. I removed a manila envelope out of the under seat storage bin on my motorbike and went inside. The envelope contained some still photographs for my client.
I stopped off at the ladies to check my appearance. I fluffed my hair as best I could which looked a bit flat thanks to the motorcycle helmet. I could have done with a little makeup, but as a rule, I didn’t prefer to wear cosmetics. Besides, I was meeting a client, not a date. I had on a black Under Armour vee-neck tee under the jacket over a pair of black ripstop cargo pants with a pair of black tactical boots.
At the bar, I chose a table with a view of the entrance. I ordered a vodka and a draft beer chaser to pass the time while I waited for my client to arrive. He walked in at four-fifteen. I waved him over, and he sat down at the table. Neal was of medium height, solidly built, wide in the shoulders, thick in the neck, with some grey at the temples of his closely trimmed dark brown hair. He wore a nice suit as you would expect from a successful car salesman.
“What’s the verdict?” Neal said.
“Sadly, your suspicions were correct,” I said. I slid the envelope across the table to him. “Here you go,” I said. “Those are photographs for your attorney if you file for divorce.”
“Who is she screwing?” Neal said.
“She is shagging her personal trainer from the gym, Jordan Keo,” I said.
“Are the photographs explicit?” Neal said. “Did you catch them in the act?”
“Yeah, nah, Mr. Neal,” I said. “I don’t do porn shots. There are several photographs of them engaged in public displays of affection in different locations. There are also photographs of them entering various hotels and leaving together later. The time stamps show how much time passed while they were inside the hotels. With my written report, you will get copies of the hotel registrations and text messages from mobile phone records. In the text messages, they discussed details of what they had planned for each other when they got together next.”
“Will that be enough?” Neal said. “I thought you people took photographs of people doing the deed using a telephoto lens.”
“Yeah, not me,” I said. “That’s all a bit creepy in my opinion. But, in answer to your other question, absolutely, it should be enough.”
Neal nodded. “What’s he like, this Jordan Keo?”
“Athletic looking, he is a personal trainer after all. He is about six feet two, and three years younger than your wife. He is an attractive bloke if you have a taste for gym rat types.”
“When do they get together?” Neal said.
“Afternoons, after Kimberly finishes her workout at the gym,” I said. “They usually have a late lunch together and go to a hotel afterward.”
“What do I owe you?”
“We’re all good,” I said. “Your retainer took care of my fees and expenses unless your attorney needs me to testify in court later. If so, the attorney will pay me and add it to your legal bill.”
“Okay, good work,” Neal said. “Can I pay for your drinks?”
“No, I’m all good thanks,” I said.
We stood up and shook hands, then Neal left. He had looked a bit shaken at the end. They always did. When someone suspected their partner was being unfaithful, it was always difficult. They all believed they would feel better knowing for sure. But, when it turned out the way it had for Neal, they almost always felt worse.
I ordered another beersie, relaxed, and enjoyed the Hawaiian music. The Windjammer made you feel as if you had traveled back in time to the 1970s.
A guy sitting at the bar kept glancing over at me. He looked to be about my own age, mid-thirties, and about as tall as I was too. He was naturally dark or quite tanned. His hair was dark. He had brown eyes and thick eyebrows. He was talking to the barman in a rather loud, blustery way. His eyes ran their bold appraising gaze from my face to my feet and up to my face again whenever he glanced over. He stood up, grabbed two draft beers off the bar and made his way over to my table.
“Buy you a drink gorgeous?” he said. “You look lonely sitting here by yourself.” He was the one who looked lonely. It always winds me up when I’m in a pub enjoying a quiet drink at the end of the workday, and some random guy hits on me.
“I’m all good thanks,” I said. “Awesome pickup line by the way,” I said. “Did you come up with it on your own?”
The bloke looked perplexed. “You’re not going to invite me to sit?” he said.
“No. I’m leaving once I finish this beer.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those lesbo chicks,” prince charming said.
I sipped a little beer. “Did I not make myself clear?” I said. “Piss off.”
“What’s your problem, bitch? I only offered to buy you a drink. You think you know what I’m all about without even knowing me?”
“I have a bloody good hunch,” I said.
“Screw you, bitch,” the guy said.
“Bugger the fuck off, you lowlife prick,” I said.
“Get over yourself, bitch,” the guy said. “You’re not nearly as hot as you seem to think. I’m going back to the bar.”
“Off you go then,” I said.
“Screw you,” he said.
“You already said that,” I said. I extended my middle finger. “Fuck off dickhead if you want to keep your nuts.”
The guy glared at me.
“Go!” I said.
He turned and swaggered back to the bar with his beers. I drained mine, got up, and went out. Fun stuff.
I got on the motorbike, put the helmet on, and headed home. I’d had such an awesome day.
It was after six when I parked the motorbike in the garage at my house on Ka’alawai Place. The neighborhood I lived in was on the southeastern edge of Diamond Head Monument. My modest beige three-bedroom modern bungalow was on a lot at the end of the street that backed up against the beach. The property had a mortared privacy wall built of lava rocks.
I’d lived in
a small, one-bedroom flat near Fort DeRussy Beach Park for the first year after I moved from Los Angeles to Honolulu. A few months back, a private investigator in Los Angeles and former colleague, Ben Malone hired me to help track down a bloke who had made off with millions in rare diamonds. When the guy fled to New Zealand from the States, Malone and I traveled to Queenstown to look for him. We eventually found the guy and recovered the diamonds. Malone received a massive reward from his client. He generously halved the reward with me. I pocketed a cool quarter-million dollars. I’d already been thinking about buying a house in Honolulu for a while. The unexpected windfall sealed the deal. I purchased the house on Ka’alawai Place a short time after returning to Honolulu from New Zealand.
In the bedroom, I took my kit off and put on my swimming togs. Then I walked through my backyard to my private stretch of white sandy beach. I put down a straw beach mat on the sand and sat on it to wait for what promised to be yet another amazing Honolulu sunset. Watching the sunset while listening to the rhythmic sounds of the ocean waves lapping the sand always calmed my mind. That was how I ended most days since moving to the house.
To be precise, all beaches in Hawai’i are open to the public, except certain federal government areas. Officially, there are no private beaches in Hawai’i. But, when the builders developed the neighborhood, they put up connecting privacy fences around the lots. The result was there was no public access to the stretch of beach behind the neighborhood. Since it is unlawful to trespass on private property even to access a public beach, lucky homeowners like me with a lot that backed up against the beach enjoyed our own wee private stretch of white sand.
I watched as the vibrant oranges and reds gave way to pale yellows and pinks. As the sun touched the ocean, the turquoise waters turned a cobalt blue. That was my favorite part. As the sun touched the ocean, I felt I could let all things go and could await the dawn and a new day. After the magnificent light and color show, I rolled up the mat and went back to the house.
After getting into bed, I thought about how I’d acted like a mad bitch at the bar earlier. Not that I felt bad about what I’d said to the dodgy guy. He had deserved it. The quick change in his behavior after I told him I wasn’t interested proved he was a total douche. I didn’t have anger management issues either. But, I knew part of the reason I’d been so hard on the guy was my ambivalence about my love life. Who was I kidding? I didn’t even have a love life, actually.
I’d dated a Honolulu cop for several months after moving to Hawai’i. The relationship, using the term broadly, hadn’t lasted. He was an amazing guy, but he was ready to take things to the next level. I wasn’t. Once he got on to that, the relationship withered and then died.
Not that I didn’t like guys. I’d always thought sex was amazing, actually. At least good sex was. But, once things got serious, I always managed to do something to cark it. Not by design. It just happened that way. Dating someone was great. It was a relationship I wasn’t ready for. I’d been married once but was widowed after only three years. David had been an awesome guy. I still missed him. After he died, I wasn’t sure I’d ever want another relationship. Losing him was just too bloody hard. But, then I met a guy, someone I couldn’t help developing feelings for. It was my former colleague and mentor, Ben Malone.
The issue was he was in a relationship when I met him. He still was. I knew he would never be available. I’d moved to Hawai’i to put distance between us because I hadn’t been able to deal with staying in Los Angeles and seeing him at work every day. I knew I had to get over him and move on with my life. For a while, I’d convinced myself I had done both. But, when we had done the case together in New Zealand, all the old feelings came flooding back. I still fancied the guy. I felt stuck and didn’t know how to move past it.
Lying there thinking of Malone, I felt a cry coming on. I tried to stuff it but started taking those short little breaths that always happen right before I start to cry. I gave up and let go. I cried hard for a while, my forearm resting over my eyes. I understood none of it. Why couldn’t I let go of a guy who would never be available and find someone else? I supposed a part of the reason I avoided getting into a relationship with someone else, was because I couldn’t stand the finality of it. If I committed to someone else, then I’d have to accept Malone was lost to me forever. It was the unyielding reality of it. That’s why I couldn’t commit to anyone, live with anyone, or fully share my life with anyone. I was still in love with Malone. I listened to the spasmodic quality of my own sobbing. What the fuck was wrong with me?
Three
The next morning I was still red-eyed, even after I showered and dressed. I skipped breakfast. I wasn’t hungry. Instead, I drank some orange juice and made tea. Malone and the mess that defined my life weighed heavily on my mind. I was meant to get on to the case for Brandi Camargo straight away. What I felt least like doing was working. What I felt most like doing was getting trolleyed. I thought about the bottle of rum in the cupboard. But, then I thought working was a better option than sitting at home drinking rum and crying all day. I didn’t feel like doing anything, actually. The thing with Malone hadn’t hit me so hard in a long while.
When I felt this bad, I always talked to my best mate, Jackie. Jackie Fitzgerald and I had become friends a short time after I arrived in Honolulu. She owned a helicopter air transport company, flying tourists and freight out of John Rodgers Field in Kapolei. Before I leased my office downtown, Jackie had shared her office with me at mate’s rates so I didn’t have to operate my private investigations agency out of my tiny flat. She had also helped me with a number of cases I’d worked on. Jackie also had provided me free helicopter transportation between the islands when I needed it before I was making enough to pay her for it.
Jackie always genuinely cared when I was packing a sad about Malone or my non-existent love life in general. It was selfish, but I was also aware that part of the reason talking to her helped was because I knew Jackie’s love life was as shit as mine. She understood what I was feeling.
“Okay,” I said to myself. “I’ll go see Jackie for a bit this morning, then I’ll do some work.”
I backed the motorbike out of the garage, and took off for Kapolei.
When I walked into the hangar at John Rodgers Field that served as Jackie’s office, she was sitting behind her desk talking on the phone. She smiled and gestured for me to sit. I sat on the gray military surplus metal chair beside her desk. Jackie finished the call and hung up.
“How’s it going?” Jackie said. “Did you finish that infidelity case you’ve been working on?”
“Yes,” I said. “I met with the client yesterday afternoon and told him what I’d found out. That closed the case unless he files for divorce and needs me to testify in court.”
Jackie frowned. “Your voice sounds funny, and your eyes are red. Do you have a cold?”
“No, I’ve been crying,” I said. “Heaps.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Jackie said. “Why? What’s wrong?”
I started to tear up again. “Same old thing, I can’t get Malone out of my head.”
“What happened? Did he call you or something?”
“No,” I said feeling the tears trickling down my cheeks. “I must be mental. Some prick hit on me at the Windjammer yesterday afternoon after the meeting with my client. Then later after I got home, I was thinking about that. Next thing I was thinking about Malone and my shit love life. All the emotional shit from seeing Malone again in New Zealand came rushing back. After going to bed I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I cried myself to sleep.”
Jackie rolled her chair around the desk next to mine. She put her arms around me and held me close. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” Jackie said.
“I’ve tried everything, but I can’t seem to get over Malone and get on with my life. I don’t know what to do.”
“Of course you don’t,” Jackie said. “You fell so hard for the guy. Even though you know it’s unrealistic to keep hoping
he will become available, you can’t let go of the dream that someday things will work out so you will be together somehow.”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said sniffing. My voice sounded small and muted against her shoulder.
“When I get like this, I can’t even muster the energy to work,” I said.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but this is as bad as it will get,” Jackie said. “Seeing him and working a case with him again has just reopened the old wounds for you.”
“It doesn’t feel like it will ever get better,” I said.
“I know, sweetie, but it will I promise,” Jackie said.
“For fuck’s sake, what is wrong with me?” I said.
“Sweetie, there isn’t anything wrong with you. It’s just really hard for you that’s all.”
“But, why can’t I just accept Malone is unavailable, and carry on?”
“I don’t know, sweetie,” Jackie said.
“I don’t either,” I said. “That’s why it bloody sucks so bad.”
“Maybe you should think about seeing a therapist,” Jackie said. “Talking with someone able to help you sort out all the feelings might help.”
“Oh, God, you think I'm mental too,” I said.
“No, sweetie,” Jackie said. “Seeing a therapist doesn’t mean there is anything wrong with you. When I came home from Afghanistan I had a few problems as a result of things I’d experienced there. I saw a therapist for a while. It helped a lot. Sometimes you need to talk with someone who can help you see things from a different perspective when your struggling with a problem so you can work out a solution.”
“It’s probably just hormones,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll pull out of this gloom in a day or two.”
“I hope you’re right,” Jackie said. “But if not, I think it would help if you talked to someone.”
“Ahkay, if I don’t feel better in a few days, I’ll think about therapy,” I said.
“Meanwhile, you need something to get your mind off what’s making you sad,” Jackie said. “I have to fly some freight to Maui in about an hour. Why don’t you go with me. When we get back we’ll go have drinks.”