For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  Mia paused, hopped over the low-profile barrier to avoid two runners coming toward us.

  “Then,” she continued, “her father gets wind of this, he goes crazy. Confronts his daughter. She ends up stabbing him too. A bit too melodramatic for my taste. Anyway, Song Jin can’t find it in herself to finish him off. Instead she gets help and saves him. The thing is, after making that movie, Kay seemed to continue playing that role.”

  “Stabbing then saving her father?”

  “No. Unfortunately, he’s already dead.”

  “So in what way does life imitate art?” As the road leveled out, I noticed that Mia’s strides were lengthening. I struggled to stay with her.

  “Well … she couldn’t let it go. She began tracking down and investigating actual sweatshops. She went to Saipan, lobbied local politicians, tried to get them to look into the situation. Nobody gave a shit. One day, a couple months ago, we were shopping at Ala Moana. When we walked into Banana Republic, I saw her checking the labels. Same thing at Abercrombie & Fitch. She wanted to know where the clothes had been made. It was bad enough when she saw ‘Made in Indonesia,’ or ‘the Republic of Vietnam.’ But when she saw ‘Made in the USA’ and knew that it meant Saipan, boy did that set her off.”

  Mia stopped running, a move for which I will be forever grateful. I followed her lead, and was finally able to utter more than two words at a time.

  “So it offended her deeply that women were being exploited.”

  “She takes those kinds of things a bit harder than most people.

  “The authorities would never call it that, of course. It’s always framed as immigration that opens up opportunities. These women from other parts of Asia, Philippines, Thailand, they were lied to. They were told they’d be making five bucks an hour or some shit like that—in America, mind you—and then found themselves working in horrible conditions in an American territory for next to nothing.”

  “Hasn’t there been legislation to stop all that?”

  “So they claim. There are several human rights groups monitoring the sweatshops. But this shit still goes on. The bigger problems now are prostitution and forced abortions. 20–20 did an entire hour on this….”

  I needed to watch more TV.

  “It was quite a trip—shopping with her,” Mia continued. “You’re not so inclined to go binge-buying when you’re wondering whether there was women’s blood on these clothes.”

  “No. I guess not.”

  “You know that except for the blind luck,” she said, facing me with her hands on her hips, “the blind luck of geography, I could have been one of those women. I’m supremely grateful for Kay’s concern.”

  “Is there water around? I’m dying here.”

  “That’s why we stopped.” She indicated left, my right, and there stood a golden drinking fountain. Well, not golden—

  I felt supremely grateful for the water stop. I pressed the button for the water, but the fountain was anything but. It was a dribble, if that. I bent down and did my best to suck up some water.

  Mia, meanwhile, began to stretch, using the railing as a ballet bar. I turned to face the ocean. It was green-blue in the shallows and deep blue further off. It topped off near the horizon with a thin line of indigo. Lit up by the sinking sun, the ocean sparkled everywhere, as if Minerva’s diamond earrings had been tossed into the water and had multiplied a thousand-fold. A million-fold. Surfers were still out in large numbers.

  About a decade ago Brenda and I trekked through England, Holland, Belgium, and France. We were star-struck by the ancient cathedrals in every town, the stained glass windows and chimeras, the sheer grandness. We got lost in plazas, gardens, palaces, museums, experienced all those awe-inspiring monuments built by man…. But all those sites paled in comparison to the ceaselessly startling panorama of this ocean … staggering in its beauty, seductively peaceful, overwhelmingly powerful—ask anyone dumped under a crushing series of waves, hoping to come up one day for a breath. It made poets out of journalists … but I wasn’t one of them.

  All I know is when I returned from Europe, what I felt when I looked out of the plane and caught a glimpse of the vast ocean was a blend of serenity and elation.

  Seems I haven’t felt it since.

  I gazed upon the same body of water now. Those ostentatious palaces and cathedrals were like the wrecked ships I imagined lying deep beneath this ocean, their magnificence reduced to a dot on some GPS, like a lost soul below, a dim memory…. When you’re taking in the power and breadth of the Pacific, searching for words that could express what your heart knows, and then turn away from that and see the sensual form of a woman stretching her limbs in seamless congruity with her surroundings, you know it’s time to shake off the distraction and start asking questions.

  “Are you trying to tell me that Kay may have disappeared because of these concerns?”

  “It’s possible. Maybe she’s in trouble. Oh god, what if she’s hurt? Lying somewhere—” Mia looked straight at me, as if she had just realized something. Her eyes probed mine, then closed shut. “I don’t wanna go there. I can’t go there.”

  “We have to go there. Why would you think she may be in trouble?”

  She looked frazzled. “Look. This may be way way off. But lately, I mean just before she disappeared, she was interacting with some pretty scary people.”

  “Whadayou mean?”

  “The documents I mentioned? I have them in the car. I’ll show you when we get back.”

  “You said, ‘scary people’?”

  “Sick? Nasty? Degenerate? I dunno, I lack the vocabulary. I mean, the kind that would kill for a price, probably kill you if you spit in their general direction.”

  “Thugs?”

  “Yes, thugs. I even entertained the thought that maybe she wanted somebody killed, ’cause to me that’s the kind of people you approach—”

  “Wait wait wait. Where are we going with this? You think there might be someone she wanted killed?”

  Mia shook her head several times. “No, no, no … no, no. Look, I don’t know what I’m saying. Just forget it. I’m not thinking straight.” She took a breath. “Look, there’s no way. It had to be something else. She’s too gentle, too good a soul. What I really think is she was seeking protection. Her dad—way back when—was involved in extorting bars and nightclubs, and the people she approached, my guess is they were acquaintances of his. You know, criminal underworld types. Just before May Day I picked her up at Aloha Tower Marketplace. When she hopped into my car she was saying goodbye to this huge guy. I mean, really huge; built like a fucking brick wall. He had a shaved head, a goatee. You don’t forget a guy like that. A few days later I happened to be at the state capitol, testifying against that amusement park development they want to do near Kewalo’s—you know, the surf site—”

  “Yes, I do know.”

  “—and I see this SAME GUY walking with that state senator—Kamana.”

  “Kamana? You mean Josiah Kamana?” I remembered that slip of paper back in Matthew’s room, with two names and a word: Kamana, Blankenship, and herb. If Josiah Kamana is the person being referred to, who’s the other guy? And herb? What are we talking about here?

  “Yes, him. This guy seemed to be his bodyguard. His enforcer or something.”

  I didn’t want to burst Mia’s bubble by saying that authorities have speculated for ages on Josiah Kamana’s ties to organized crime. Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to prove anything. The Feds have launched several investigations—Operation ShoreBird, Operation Kingpin—and all they’ve come up with is hearsay. The people who had given them the most damning information in confidence would deny everything they said in the follow-up. Investigative reporter Orse Levinson once wrote that Josiah Kamana operated quite comfortably in that shady zone between organized crime and law enforcement. When Kamana was a city councilman he had a reputation for bullying everyone—his staff, his colleagues, reporters, and that included me. And only when the camera was not
on him. He showed a different face to the public and managed to come off to his constituents and the general public as a man of integrity. Those of us who worked the Capitol District were glad when he couldn’t run for city council again due to term limits. That’s when he shifted gears and ran for the state Senate. After a couple of years and I’m sure a lot of twisted arms he was Senate president.

  “Let’s continue,” Mia said abruptly. “At least to the next park.”

  “Yeah, let’s.” Here we go again. This time it was downhill, and not very steep. Yay, I thought, till I realized that it meant we were going back up this hill when we turned around. If we turned around.

  In a few minutes we were at another drinking fountain, this time at Fort Ruger Park, better known as Triangle Park. Having run, according to Mia, one point eight miles, which is about a mile and a half further than I had run in years, I was gulping down all the water I could from this working drinking fountain, while Mia the camel looked on.

  “I’ve heard Kamana goes on these Asian fuck tours.”

  I coughed out water. “What?”

  “Whatever you call them. From what I understand he travels to places like Hong Kong or Singapore with his wife, and while she stays in those places and hits all the shops and cafés he goes to Macao and Bangkok. Last couple years he’s been traveling with an entourage to the Northern Marianas.”

  “Sounds like quite the traveler.” I wiped my face with the drier part of my t-shirt.

  “I’m just trying to give you context. You’re gonna see something quite interesting in the stuff I have.”

  She keeps teasing me with that shit. “So let’s turn around and go get it.”

  She laughed. “Sure. Don’t wanna kill you on your first day out.”

  “Wouldn’t need a gun, that’s for sure.”

  She had changed the subject and was going on about when and what I should eat before, during, and after a workout. Going back wasn’t as steep, so I was able to maintain a rhythm. But I still would stop on a dime, if Mia allowed me to. By the time we reached the top of the road again, the sinking sun had lit up the horizon. We stopped and we gazed.

  I tried to suck a few sips of water from that dribbling excuse for a fountain and gave up right away. Gotta talk to the mayor about upkeep of park facilities. Mia used the fountain to wet her lips. Probably just to humor me. We then continued the absurd exercise. And even though it was downhill, going back was steeper, and I quickly learned how hard such a descent is on one’s quads.

  “Sorry your run was so short,” I said when we got back to Kapi‘olani Park.

  “It was productive.”

  “Yeah. It was.”

  “That’s the idea. Look,” she said while gazing around. “These documents I’m giving you, I found them at Les’s place.”

  “Speaking of Les, I need to talk with him. You got his phone number?”

  “I have his cell number. Please don’t tell him that it was me who gave it to you. I’m not supposed to give it to anyone, ever. But I know this is important.”

  Mia opened the driver door and reached under the seat for a purse. She pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, then wrote down the number. She handed the piece of paper to me and I pocketed it.

  “One of the documents seems to be a transcript. When you look at it, note the annotations. Those in red ink are Kay’s, I’m pretty sure. The few that are in green are mine. I also threw in some newspaper clippings that might be relevant in terms of what Kay was looking into.” Mia opened the trunk door, moved some clothing and then lifted the panel to the spare tire well. From there she pulled out a ratty, folded-up beach mat, the kind you can get at any ABC store in Waikiki. She opened it up and from within its folds she pulled out a large, tattered manila envelope and handed it to me.

  I opened it and glanced inside. There were smaller folders and a few small envelopes within. I pulled out one of the smaller envelopes.

  “What are these?”

  “Photos. The ones of Matt and Kay, and some others that may be relevant. You can have the rest of the stuff, but the pictures of Kay and Matt, I want those back.”

  “Of course.”

  Mia did a quick stretch, then announced that she was going to do a long run then a wash-up swim after. She thanked me for the warm-up.

  I waved the envelope half-heartedly. “I’ll be in touch.”

  11

  That evening, ensconced in the boat’s cabin, I emptied the contents of the large envelope onto the tiny table I used for dining. While eating from a chicken and chili plate I had picked up at Zippy’s, I went through the photos with my non-greasy hand. There was a nice picture of Kay and Matthew, with the ocean in the background; her hair was pinned back, revealing the full oval of her face. Matthew, no longer just in profile, as in the photo at the Serrano house, really looked like a lifeguard; rugged, lean but well muscled … scars on his left shoulder and left cheek. He looked like a guy who could not only take a punch, but give one as well.

  There was a group picture, which included Mia along with Kay and Matthew and two other men. I guessed that one of them might be Les. The other guy, who wore shades and was considerably older, looked vaguely familiar. In still another photo Mia and Kay were running amidst a pack of women. It looked like a road race. I could see the Natatorium in the background, so the race must have taken place around Kapi‘olani Park. They each wore ponytails and looked remarkably alike. But in photos where you could see Kay’s face more clearly, the resemblance was less marked. Kay’s eyes were rounder, with slight bags under them, as if she, in her mid-twenties, already carried the weight of the world. And in contrast to Mia’s black hair, Kay’s was a mix of dark brown and what seemed to be sun-lightened strands of blond at the ends. They were shaped similarly, and while they might not pass for sisters, the resemblance was still worth noting.

  After dispensing with the chicken and chili, I rinsed my hands in the tiny sink and began rummaging through the notes and newspaper clippings and what turned out to be a poorly photocopied transcription of an interview or interrogation regarding an incident that occurred on Tinian, the resort island in the Northern Marianas. Apparently, an unidentified person was spilling the beans on the cover-up of an accidental death. The names were redacted, though the person being interviewed kept referring to “the Hawai‘i boys,” or “the Hawai‘i entourage.”

  Is Kay somehow connected to this? Is it the film? Mia’s green-inked marginal scrawls helped to explain some dubious links, like where she wrote, “Kay and Matthew set up a meeting with this guy. He didn’t show.” Problem was, his name was redacted. Besides Mia’s annotations, there were some barely decipherable phrases in the margins in bold red ink—Kay’s jottings, if what Mia said was true. She had drawn red arrows between her phrases and the redacted names. I made out words like “guess who” and “police cover-up.”

  After skimming through the transcript, the sordid story of a fifteen-year-old woman—girl?—found dead in a hotel room, which reminded me of the film plot Mia had related to me, I found it gave me nothing in terms of Kay’s whereabouts. I put the transcript back in the folder and then pulled out the newspaper clippings. Some were very old clippings, yellowed and frayed at the edges. Accompanying these were photocopies of other news articles. Most were related to the Lino Johnson murder case. Mia had attached this note: “Found these in a folder in Les’s library. What would it be doing there? Could Kay have been looking into her father’s murder?”

  God, I wish she had told me this when I was at the house.

  I looked through the articles. Among those quoted in one of the stories, one that came out two days after the shooting, were Agnes, the proprietor of Lovey’s Flower Shop, and one Atherton Sperry. These interviews and articles didn’t reveal any more to me than what I already knew. What I didn’t know was why would Kay be looking at this stuff and why now?

  12

  (Day 4—Thursday, May 24) I lay awake for more than half the night, reliving cases from my earlies
t days as a reporter, and that included my run-ins with the higher-ups, who kept putting the rein on me because I wouldn’t let go of my notion of what a reporter should be and they wouldn’t let go of theirs. As dawn crept in, I finally gave up on a good night’s sleep, sprang up, and got dressed. I picked up coffee and a scone at the nearby Starbucks, and made my way downtown.

  On the way I tried the number Mia had given me. It immediately went to voicemail. Of course. I left a message for Mr. Biden to call me, saying it was urgent, that it involved one of his house-sitters, that she had gone missing.

  Since parking around town is scarce and expensive, I parked my Corolla in the Federal Building parking lot, where there’s no fee if you’re doing federal government business. I was prepared to tell the guard I had to go to the Social Security office, but then recognized my badge-wearing cousin Randolph, who gave me a clandestine wink and shaka’ed me through the gate. After parking responsibly between two white lines and eating my scone between sips of coffee, I walked through the Federal Building and crossed a few streets to get to Kekaulike Hale, which housed the Department of Land and Natural Resources. I did a quick document search at the Bureau of Conveyances, then proceeded to the state library to look through their microfiche files and computer databases. Then hopped on over to the state archives to sift through even more files and documents. These places were all within walking distance of each other, and I took to them like gum to shoes.

  The resurfacing of the Lino Johnson story was seductive. Not only intriguing, like any good conspiracy, with its rumors and conjectures, but because it took me back to a time early on in my reporting career, a time when the world seemed mine to conquer. But it was his daughter I was looking for, and it made more sense to stay focused on the Tinian angle.