For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  The someone or something turned out to be a gray and white tabby cat. Clearly not a stray. It wore a brown leather collar, with some shiny medal-like object attached. And by the way it purred and rubbed its not-so-lean body along my ankle, it was used to being around people. Its heftiness indicated that it was also used to being fed. I picked it up and gently carried it to the front door step. This was chancy, but better than waiting all night.

  I walked right into the path of the security cameras and rang the doorbell. If the elderly woman answered, my cat alibi would be useless, and I’d have to come up with a reason for returning so late at night. To my relief, the young woman who had entered minutes earlier opened the door. “You shoulda—,” she began, then covered her mouth. “Whoops, thought you were—”

  “Is this your cat? It was following me.” The woman who definitely wasn’t Kay but looked to be about the same age wore a gray tank top that was several sizes too big. And loose shorts—like it was someone else’s clothes. No makeup. Could this be Mia?

  The woman looked at the small creature that was forcing its way out of my arms. She grabbed it by its front legs. “Oh, Marvin, are you being bad?” She looked at me. “Quite a Neighborhood Watch we got here.”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate the gesture. We do let Marvin run loose, so, uh, next time you see him, rather than climbing all those steps, just ignore him.”

  “I would have, but he kept following me.”

  “Aha. And why did you think he lived all the way up here?”

  “A hunch. I had seen him coming down the steps earlier.”

  She tilted her head just a bit, sizing me up. “Guess he likes you. You always take walks around midnight?”

  “It’s the best time. It’s cool, quiet. I can think clearly.”

  “Why anyone would wanna think more than they have to, I don’t know, but, hey, thanks.”

  She started to close the door, so I quickly told her that she reminded me of someone I used to see all the time at Lanikai Beach. “Kay, I think her name was.”

  She looked straight at me. “I know several Kays, and none of them look anything like me.” The sudden flatness of her voice, the shift from clear articulation to just above mumble—she was hiding something. She shut the door.

  She wasn’t Kay. While Kay looked somewhat Asian in her photos, mainly due to her high cheekbones, it was obvious that there was some haole and Hawaiian in her mix. This woman I had just encountered showed no traces of being anything other than Asian.

  As I walked down the stairs I noted that she had been expecting someone. You shoulda, she had said. Shoulda what? And thought you were—. Thought you were who? Reason enough to wait? Well, except for a late-night poker game I could probably be let into—a friendlier game where the betting was limited to a dollar—this was all I had. So I settled in, playing with the one chip I had refused to cash in on that bountiful night. I rolled the green-edged chip like a coin between my fingers, over and under … over and under … over and under …

  5

  (Day 2—Tuesday, May 22) I was quite annoyed with myself when the roar of a refuse truck snapped me awake at sunrise. I had been up until half past four, and then allowed my mind to drift off. In my dream I’d been playing draw poker, then some guy—I don’t remember his face—drew aces from his sleeve, a slew of them. The aces took flight, cards flying everywhere. At least it was an improvement on my recurring poker dream, where I blow it all.

  Had the person she was expecting arrived?

  Had I wasted an entire night?

  Well, maybe not, because there she was, in that same tank top and loose shorts, but now wearing running shoes. She stopped at the bottom step and bent over to lace or relace them. She wore no socks. I leaned back, slid down a bit so she wouldn’t see me if she turned my way. And off she went, running, her ponytail bouncing with each step.

  Considering her obvious athleticism, I wasn’t about to give chase. I waited a few moments, then fired up the Toyota, headed down Ko‘oko‘o till I got to A‘alapapa, where I saw that she had gone right, running with the traffic. I went right also, then took the first left into Haokea, which brought me to Mokulua Drive. I drove up to Mokumanu, where I had parked yesterday. Not too many beachgoers yet on this Tuesday morning, so I was able to park right by the beach access road.

  I shut the engine off and slid the driver’s seat backwards. With clandestine precision I changed out of my cargo shorts and shirt, making sure as I folded the shirt that the pikake buds weren’t being crushed, and put on my funky swim shorts and a tank top. I used Brush-Ups to deal with my morning mouth, switched from glasses to contacts, and, deciding to go barefoot, took the beach access road to the sandy beach, thinking there’s no way she’d not come this way. What runner would choose to stay on a precarious, uneven road when, a couple hundred meters away, there’s this beautifully scenic hardpan stretch of sand left by the receding waves?

  But then, what do I know about runners?

  After wandering along the sand a few minutes, and not seeing any of the beachgoers I had approached yesterday, I was ready to concede that I had made the wrong guess and was about to head back to my car and drive back to the house when I saw her from afar, running along the beach in my direction. Her long stride seemed effortless. I felt clumsy and heavy just watching her.

  While waiting for her to come along, I gazed at the twin islands Mokumanu and Mokulua, collectively known as Nā Mokulua, or da Moks. I hoped to stop her in her tracks. As she got closer I edged toward the hard-packed shoreline that she was favoring, still running like a well-oiled machine. She was almost past me when she suddenly stopped and said “Hey.” I said “hey” in return.

  She wasn’t breathing hard at all. “You’re the midnight walker. Still out walking?” She placed her hands on her hips; she reeked of sunscreen.

  “I do morning walks as well,” I said.

  “Helps your thinking?”

  “Nah, morning walks are for aesthetic purposes: beautiful sights, engaging conversations.”

  “You don’t need your glasses for that? The sights, I mean?”

  “I’m wearing contacts.”

  “Hmm.” She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “I’ve never seen you out here before.”

  “I’m house-sitting.”

  “Funny. So am I.”

  “You like to wear shoes when you run in the sand?”

  “Gotta get used to it. Triathlon’s coming up.”

  “Triathlon?” That would explain her outfit: a kind of jog bra and swim shorts. Don’t know where she abandoned her tank top and loose shorts. Her goggles were tucked into her jog bra strap.

  “I’m trying to qualify for the Kona Ironman.”

  “I assume that’s a triathlon.”

  “Only the biggest one in the world…. Not your scene, I imagine.”

  I shook my head. “Well, I’ve heard of it; just never paid much attention. Didn’t know you had to qualify for these … events.”

  “You have to when it’s the one everyone wants to do.”

  “Everyone? Hmm. So how does one qualify?”

  “You have to place high, top three in your age category, and it has to be a ‘qualifying race.’ These are other triathlons, both Ironman and Half-Ironman lengths. Another way is to get picked in one of the lotteries.”

  “A lottery?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Reminds me of that Shirley Jackson story.”

  She frowned. “It’s a reward, not a punishment.”

  “I’ll take your word.”

  “Keeps me from going crazy.” She slipped off her shoes. Plucked the goggles from under her strap. “I usually run for a few minutes,” she said as she placed the shoes on the sand. “Just to warm my body up. Then I swim for a half hour. Then it’s time for some serious running.”

  “Then you get on a bike?”

  She smirked. “No. Not today. Say, before I jump in, can I ask you a ques
tion?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why are you looking for Kay?”

  6

  How’d you figure it out, Mia?” She had to be Mia.

  I saw a flash of fear in her face. “You been following me?”

  “No, just took a guess. Figured you had to be Mia, a friend”—I almost said known associate, but that might’ve frightened her even more—“of Kay’s.”

  “Well, look,” she said, “this is serious shit and I don’t want to play games. Mrs. Loo told me someone had come by looking for Kay, asking questions. The person she described was obviously you. So let’s cut the crap. You’re a cop or private eye or something?”

  “I’m a PI. My license is in the car.”

  “I don’t need to see it. Who hired you?”

  “Her mom.”

  That gave her pause, for some reason. After a minute she said, very deliberately, “Look. I heard she hadn’t been seen in a while. I didn’t think much of it, but, Jesus, if her mom’s hiring a private detective—” She stopped, covered her mouth, then, through he fingers in a raised pitch, uttered, “Oh, my god.” She seemed to finally understand the gravity of the situation. Her friend was really missing. “Look, I wanna help you look for her. Could you use my help?”

  “I could definitely use your help.”

  “I tell you what. I’m totally serious about my training. Like I said, it’s all that keeps me sane. Say I meet you”—she looked at her watch—“in forty-five minutes, at the house. Nobody’s there and if you get there before me”—she unpinned a key from her Speedo shorts and handed it to me—“here’s the house key. It opens both locks. The alarm’s disengaged.”

  “Very trusting,” I said as I grabbed the key.

  “As Kay often said, and I concur, if someone’s desperate enough to steal something, let ’em have it. Besides, if you’re any good at your job, you could find a way in no matter what, right?”

  I wished that were true.

  “We could talk over coffee. Breakfast, if you haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Want me to pick something up?”

  “Please don’t bother. We got everything at the house.”

  As she stepped into the mix of silver and turquoise and white foam I noticed a tattoo on her lower back, where lots of young women get them nowadays. It was somewhat nondescript—curved, wing-like lines. Didn’t seem to mean anything. When she got waist deep in the water, she spit into her goggles, rinsed them out and slipped them over her head. She adjusted the strap, pressed the lens into her eye sockets, and dove in. I looked at the key in my hand. It was a start.

  I had nearly forty minutes to kill. And my stomach growled. After watching her swim some steady, incredibly smooth strokes, her arms rotating like windmills, I walked over to my car and opened the trunk. A couple of Elmore Leonard paperbacks sat amidst the clutter. Wondered what Mr. Snappy Repartee would say about this reading choice. I tucked one of the books under my arm, grabbed my funky but dry towel, and put my ID and credit cards and a pair of twenties in a Ziploc bag, which I placed in my supposedly waterproof wallet, to which I pinned my car key. After congratulating myself for accomplishing this feat, I walked back to the beach and sat down. I opened up the novel, marked where I had left off weeks ago. My eyes glazed over the words as I thought about how trusting—or naïve—she was. Or maybe this was a trap. She was athletic, pretty in the way that lean women can be, and either living with or house-sitting for a film director. Was she sincere about wanting to help, or was she too an actress, playing out some duplicitous role?

  And what’s my role in this? I knew my storyline: disillusioned—some say disgraced—news reporter who reinvents himself as a private eye, an obsolete profession if there ever was one. Divorced, not quite ready for another relationship, yet in less than twenty-four hours he’s encountered two women—one older, one younger—who remind him that maybe he’s missing something.

  Then there’s that third woman, who, judging by the photos, is drop-dead gorgeous. And missing.

  With my eyes closed I could see her face. The daughter of some local syndicate player, whose unkindly death I had covered for the newspaper way back when, in the days when low-rent syndicate operatives had nicknames like “Boots,” “Two-Face Nelson,” “Legs,” and “Smokin’ Joe.” Always wondered if Boots hung out with Legs. These guys trafficked in heroin, marijuana, and that then new horror known as ice; they extorted nightclubs, bought and sold firearms, and you couldn’t find a witness they couldn’t tamper with. Some of them committed murder, some were murdered, and some survive to this day.

  Out of that world, a world so wretched and fraught with needless heartache, came someone so beautiful that, as I gazed out toward the Mokuluas, possibly sitting right where she once stood for a picture, I had to wonder how these opposing images could inhabit the same frame.

  I thought about Matthew’s boat, and the overly helpful harbormaster. Could they have gone to Tahiti? Shit, I’d pay my own way there. I’d even bring this Mia person with me. We’d share a room, make love when we were not looking for the runaway couple. Maybe we’d find them in hiding, huddled up under some waterfall, and reassure them that all was right and then we’d all end up having drinks together at the Papeete Marriott, or better yet, over in Huahine on the veranda of a home overlooking the clear-as-glass shallow water, watching the fish spawn.

  That’s the movie version. Real life? That’s another story.

  I bookmarked the same page where I’d left off the last time, and walked to the Corolla. My watch said I had a half hour to kill. I pinched the fat around my waist and suddenly felt an urge to run barefoot on the beach.

  After a painful three minutes and seventeen seconds, according to the stopwatch feature on my digital, I gave up. Pitiful. I kept coughing up phlegm, my quads and calves burned; I felt a headache coming on. I walked a bit, then tried again, this time keeping a slow, easy pace. It felt better.

  As I ran, I could see her in the distance. I removed my tank top, secured both keys, the one she had given me and my car key, and jumped in the water. I caught a few small waves to the shore, enough to feel sufficiently cleansed, then went back to my car to change.

  As I unlocked the car door, I debated whether I should drive or walk over. Just when I decided that a walk would do me good, my hand, acting with no prompt from my conscious mind, turned the key in the ignition. I gunned the motor, put the air-conditioner on full blast, and rolled down my window to let the hot air out till the colder kicked in. I took the same route that I took yesterday. When I came close to the dead end on Ko‘oho‘o, I parked near a construction site, waving at a couple of workers as I passed them. One of them waved back. No need to be discreet; I had the key to the house and an invitation.

  When I got to the house, the door was already open. Mia had probably taken a shortcut. She was already in the kitchen.

  Boy, it was a lot of house. Made Andy’s Portlock manor seem modest. Made me wonder, What’s the story behind this place? The living room seemed to be the size of three and designed for partying. You could easily fit a rock band with all its equipment in this part of the house and still have room for dancing. Shit, you could have the Honolulu Symphony in here, have the crowd rocking to Mozart.

  Adjacent to this vast room were an open kitchen and a formal dining area. The other side, the ocean side, opened up to the swimming pool, which was partially covered with canvas. With the ocean a three-minute drive away, this struck me as superfluous. But then, so much of a house like this was superfluous. That was the point.

  I could almost forgive the extravagance when I stepped out into the pool area and walked to the edge of the yard. The view planes inspired awe, one hundred and eighty degrees worth. Northward sat the many-hued but predominantly jade and turquoise ocean, with the Mokuluas providing backdrop. Toward the east was a hill, one that hid Bellows, the pristine beach that the military had confiscated long ago to use for R&R and maneuvers. If you gazed west, you’d see the rest of the Wind
ward Coast, running from Kailua town all the way to Ku‘uloa. Beach, beach, and more beach.

  Who do you have to kill, to live in a place like this?

  The spell was broken by the collective aromas of coffee, bacon, and toasted bread. I entered the kitchen. A large rectangle, it boasted of endless counter space, a stainless steel cooking grill, where Mia was busy at work, a refrigerator with French doors, and an island about the size of Ni‘ihau, though shaped like Wyoming. Through the windows I could see the deep green of hills and mounds of dirt and sand. Another construction site. Huge piles of dirt and sand and gravel. Bags of mortar and lime. The skeletal wood frame of another castle in the making. For some reason Andy’s words came to mind: St. James’s bones are supposed to be buried there. There’s a whole story behind it—you know how that goes.

  “Coffee’s made. Turkey bacon’s frying to a crisp,” Mia announced. She handed me a glass of orange juice. “Fresh squeezed. I made it this morning. Mind doing the eggs? I like to cook them in the bacon grease. I need to wash off.”

  “No problem.” I handed her the key.

  She was making her way toward the bathroom when I added, “How’d you get in?”

  She turned to me and said, coyly, “I know where the spares are hidden.”

  I watched her shut the door, took a quick sip of some wonderful-tasting OJ, then turned to scope out the immense kitchen. A guy could get used to this. The island was flanked by several tall black and silver stools. I took one more sip of the sweet juice and walked on over to the gas range.

  I grabbed the spatula and turned the crisp bacon over, then scooped the four pieces onto one of the two plates set by the egg carton. It was a full carton, with eighteen eggs. I pulled out four of them and broke them onto the large hot pan one by one.