For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  “I have a very unusual request,” this woman stated in a clipped, matter-of-fact tone, and with traces of an accent that might have once been British. She sat where Minerva had sat. I stood, leaning against the cabin door. Need to get another chair, I told myself, since this was still functioning as my office. I put the woman’s age at mid-to-late twenties. Eyes, blue; hair, auburn; chest, notable. Rian had described her well.

  “Go on.”

  “In fact, I’m not even sure why I’m here. I—I—” She was looking downward, blushing. “I’m embarrassed to say—”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. Just tell me.” I sank down a bit, to almost a squat position. She sat in profile, her face lit up in the last throes of twilight, revealing fine, almost translucent facial hairs.

  “I would like you to….” She paused. I was ready to fill in the rest: Find your lover? Your husband? Your husband’s lover? Your very special dog, a pure breed? “I would like you to … oh god, I can’t do this. This is so embarrassing.” She stood up.

  “Just say it.”

  Right then, she blurted out: “I would like you to find out why I didn’t get a part in a play.”

  “A part in a play?” It was like getting a set of trash cards; no chance for a straight and no matches period. I kept a straight face.

  “Yes.” She sank into the chair and looked around. “A part in a play. Sounds horribly self-indulgent, doesn’t it?”

  “That, um, that seems a bit outside of my—” I almost said jurisdiction. If anything, this was a distraction, one I didn’t need.

  “What if I told you that I was given the part, told I was a perfect fit, then had it taken away? With no real explanation.” She threw her hands up. “What if I told you that the director himself told me he couldn’t stand the very actress that he ended up going with? None of the actors could. What if I told you my shit-ass career is on the line?”

  “Who would I talk to?” I couldn’t believe I said that out loud. I was thinking about Brenda’s rejected screenplays. Rejection is a way of life for most actors and artists. God, if every one of them wanted a rejection looked into there’d be a zillion investigations going on at any given time.

  “If every actor that didn’t get a part,” I began to say carefully, “filed a grievance—”

  She stood up again, sparing me the need to find a proper end to my comment. “I’m sorry. I never should have come here. I knew this was stupid. The dumbest thing I’ve ever—”

  “Wait.” I stood up too. Mia had been involved in theater. And Kay was an actress. I don’t know if Mr. Snappy had any connections to the stage, but he did mention Mamet and a certain theater. Maybe I shouldn’t let this one go just yet.

  “Is this taking place at Diamond Head Theatre, by any chance?”

  “Yes! How did you—”

  “Lucky guess.” Not too many theaters around. “Is it a Mamet play, by any chance?” She’s gonna think I’m a genius.

  “Mamet? Heaven’s no. It’s a Restoration play. The Rose and the Sword. Mamet?”

  “Who’s the one who decided to let you go?”

  “Gerard, that’s the director, Gerard Plotkin; he’s the one who called. But I could tell that it wasn’t his idea. In fact, he told me it wasn’t his idea. He just muttered something about politics.”

  “If you give me some names, some direction, I can at least ask around. You think talking to Plotkin would help?”

  “He can in no way, in no way, suspect that I’m the one who prompted you to act.”

  Curious choice of words. Am I being asked to perform? Never thought of my job as acting, but role-playing does come with the job. There was something odd, something peculiar about this woman; I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “Sure,” I told her. “I’ll be discreet. No need to bang doors down in this case.” Though I may have to raise a curtain.

  “Why’d you say Mamet?” She spat out the name like it was the dumbest thing.

  “Probably saw his name in some ad. Another theater or something. I don’t know.” The play’s the thing, these days. She turned to look toward the eastern sky, allowing me to gaze—again—at her profile. Her complexion, not as fair as Minerva’s, or Rian’s, seemed better suited for the tropics, and probably perfect for a Restoration play. “You are serious about this.”

  She seemed strangely calm now, her eyes meeting mine. “Yes. I’ll pay you for your time. How much do you want in advance?”

  I raised a hand. “Why don’t we hold up on that. Let’s consider this a free consultation, for now.”

  She said her name was Amber. Amber Kane. A stage name, no doubt. While she was obviously European, her pedigree seemed more southern than northern. Italian? Greek? Maybe she came from one of those breakaway states cut out of what used to be known as Yugoslavia. Her hair’s likely a dye job. Again I thought about Karl Lemon’s “stacked blonde.”

  Amber and I were stepping off the boat when I saw Rian and a lean, bikini’ed woman—presumably Megumi—standing on deck with half-filled wine glasses in hand.

  “You two ready to join us?”

  We stepped onto the landing.

  “Ah, she’s a client, Rian.”

  “I bet. Well, no matter, mate. We’ve got enough.”

  “Care for a drink?” I asked my client. “Comes with the retainer.”

  Amber stayed for nearly an hour, nursing one drink, engaged in conversation as if the four of us were old friends. Rian, it turned out, was quite the bartender. He mixed Hawaiian sunsets and vodka sonics and something he called a Double-O-Seven—orange flavored vodka, orange juice, and soda water. Amber held on to her one drink, waving away Rian’s offers to try this or that, while Megumi, or Meg as she preferred being called, and I drank away and occasionally picked at the poké, the sweet potato, the thin strips of pipikaula, and the chips and salsa.

  Amber made a couple of moves to leave, but was somehow stalled by Rian’s antics, like when he stepped away and went down into the cabin, and returned with a hardshell guitar case. He laid the case down, opened it, then reached in to gently extract a Martin classical guitar. It struck me as a state-of-the-art bit of machinery: Sitka spruce top, mahogany sides, arabesque rosette inlay around the sound hole, and mother-of-pearl inlay running through the fretboard. Nice.

  “I gotta hear this,” Amber said. I was curious too.

  Rian slacked the strings to what he said was “taro patch” tuning, with the E strings laxed to Ds and the A string downgraded to a G. He did some quick scales, just to loosen up or find his way, then began strumming something based around your typical Hawaiian style vamps and turnarounds. Meg did an impromptu hula. Amber leaped up and joined Meg. Amber’s delicate hand and hip moves were the articulations of a professional, but she didn’t try to upstage her fellow dancer, as least not until the song ended and she announced that she’d like to give us a song before leaving.

  Amber named several songs for Rian until he finally recognized one that I identified with Etta James, and, after making the appropriate string adjustments, Rian strummed a faithful blues progression while she sang. Rian was a good guitar player; he could back up anybody. But Amber, she was riveting. It wasn’t just pipes. She sang with passion and pathos, hitting those hard-to-reach blues edges, the kind that scrape at your soul, if that place in the middle of your chest was your soul, because that’s where I felt it.

  “You guys know how to show a client a great time,” Amber said as she got up to leave, assuming perhaps that Rian and I were a team. When she stepped off Rian’s boat, Rian, Meg, and I looked at each other, seeking corroboration for what we had just witnessed. If she wasn’t the right gal for the role, I had to see the woman who was.

  I stayed for another drink. We traded stories in a way that took me back to the Tahitian Lanai, where as a crime beat reporter I used to hang with off-duty cops, guys who were at times so buzzed with adrenaline they didn’t want to go home, other times so jaded they drank to keep from shooting themselves. As he s
pun horrifically funny tales about his adventures sailing throughout the Pacific, I got a little more insight into Rian’s chosen lifestyle. Whether it was Moorea or Bali, there always was some beautiful girl he left behind. Made me wonder: Was Meg the next one to be left behind? She seemed enthralled with rather than disturbed by these stories. How invested was she in this relationship? When Rian finally said, “I needed to settle down” and put his arm around Meg, I raised my glass in toast.

  Megumi had stories too. I also learned more than I needed to know about her sickly and distinctly pain-in-the-ass father, a hard-drinking philanderer who lived in the heart of the Asakusa district in Tokyo. Meg said she got a call one day. The woman was hesitant to say her name, told Meg her dad had had a heart attack. Then quickly added he was all right, that she had called an ambulance for him and he had been taken to Tokyo General. After a few candid conversations with the doctors and other staff, Meg determined that the woman who had called her had been having sex with her dad when it happened. The officer she talked to at the hospital said the woman was nineteen, and that her dad had been chasing down his Viagra with copious cups of saké. The woman thought he was faking his attack. When Meg called her mom, her mom said, Baka. I hope he dead. I decided I liked Meg too.

  When I noticed that Rian was working his spell on the much younger Meg—Meg/Rian, now how’s that for a match—I decided it was my time to hit the road too, which meant navigating from one boat to the next, putting on warmer clothes, and heading toward Chinatown.

  • • •

  I parked in the public parking lot near the corner of Beretania and Nu‘uanu. Lovey’s Flower Shop was still there and still open at this late hour. I went in to ask about Agnes.

  Two young Vietnamese women were stringing flowers. A third was so focused on creating her elaborate floral display that she never bothered to look up. All three were too young to have been around here two decades ago, unless as infants or toddlers.

  I asked them if they knew of one Agnes Carvalho. They had no idea who I was talking about. One suggested I talk to their mom, who was out back. Since her English was poor the daughter said she would act as interpreter.

  What I learned was that Agnes had sold this family her flower shop a few years ago, and they retained the name. Agnes, aka “Lovey,” had been suffering from diabetes and other ailments, had to have both legs amputated just below the knee, and after selling the shop she moved in with a family in Pearl City. Agnes had no relatives—well, at least none that could step up—and through friends was set up for senior foster care. That was all the older Vietnamese woman knew.

  I thanked the family and walked out on the street. There I had a vision of a man lying in the gutter. The shots had come from across the street. Considering the angle, investigators had determined that the shots had come from higher up. I looked at the windows in the building above. Remembering that my old friend Sal had been a key investigator in the case, I knew I had to query him on that. I was a bit leery, however. To begin with, he’s always been temperamental; you never know which Sal you’re going to encounter. Add to that what he’s been through the last few years, after he blew the whistle on the elite Criminal Investigations Squad, of which he was a member. Life for this former cop had never been a picnic, but in recent years it had been a shitstorm. I needed some information, however, and, well, he had it.

  Sal and I got to be acquaintances—with someone as reticent as Sal, it’s hard to use the word friends—when we were both late-night regulars at the Tahitian Lanai, before that legendary restaurant had succumbed to the demolition squad. Besides being a cop hangout, the Lanai attracted politicos, truck drivers, musicians coming off other gigs, and tourists in search of the “real Hawai‘i,” signified by the Lanai’s ’50s Polynesian décor: tiki torches, tapa table cloths, glass fishing floats, and waitresses in sarongs. It was the go-to place when the other bars and clubs had closed for the night. I got half of my reporter scoops just being there. On occasion, when I was drunk enough, I’d join the Friday night sing-alongs where, led by blind pianist Ron Miyashiro, we’d sing every hapa haole song known to man—and then some. When the Lanai closed down, doors and windows nailed shut, those who wanted to continue these festive sing-alongs made a bold effort to recreate the atmosphere at La Mariana, near Sand Island; I was one of those who opted for a place less circumspect, like the edgy quietude of Sally’s Tavern.

  Sal (no relation to Sally, the seldom-seen owner) had been their most steady customer—literally, since he never seemed to get drunk, whether he did shots or lined up bottle after bottle of his favorite beer. When he quit the force after the CIS debacle, he sued the city and won a big settlement, then laid low for a while. A year or two later he made an auspicious return from self-imposed exile as the tavern’s head bartender. Outfitted in his usual jeans and aloha shirt, hair in a ponytail, he came over and showed me immediately that he hadn’t forgotten my usual.

  I could still feel the effects of Rian’s concoctions, so I thought I had better take it slow. Didn’t want to spend another morning recovering from a hangover.

  Sal, unlike a lot of bartenders, doesn’t care much for conversation, except on those rare occasions when he’s in the mood. Like once a year. Still, considering that he hadn’t seen me in months, I figured he’d have something to say.

  “Nice-looking woman, blonde, about half past fifty, was asking about you. Tired a young meat?” Sal dropped my usual—G&T and a bowl of popcorn—on the counter, waving off my five.

  “Yeah, I have mother issues.” Now how would she know to ask about me here? “What was she asking?”

  “For recompense? Actually, she was asking around for a PI and one of the regulars gave her your name.”

  “That’s not what she told me.”

  “It’s never what they tell you.”

  “Well, she did find me.”

  I handed Sal my new business card. He glanced at it, smirked wanly, spat out “a boat,” then tossed the card into a square-shaped glass jar, which was filled with other business cards. “For Sally’s next drawing,” he said. “Winner gets a free lunch.”

  “What do the losers get?”

  “Sally.” He walked away to deal with some impatient customers. I threw the five into his other jar, his tip jar.

  “Heard anything about that incident in Tinian?” I said when he returned. He had a dishrag in his hand.

  “What’s Tinian?”

  “An island in the Northern Marianas.”

  “As you can see, I don’t get out much.” He wiped the counter, then tossed the rag somewhere below.

  “Happened a few months ago, a fifteen-year-old girl found dead in the hotel room at the resort casino?”

  “Was it on 48 Hours?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “I might have read about it—that and a zillion other sordid cases.”

  Sal walked away. Jaded is right.

  When he returned a few minutes later I asked him if he remembered the Lino Johnson case.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? Why you bringing that shit up? Keep in mind, my cop days are over.”

  “So are my reporter days.”

  “Guy used to work for the TLDU.”

  “Johnson?”

  “Yes, Johnson.”

  “Can you remind me, what’s TLDU?”

  “Taxi and Limousine Drivers Union. You know its slogan? ‘The union that gives unions a bad name.’”

  “Thought he was with the Inland Boatman’s Union.”

  “That was before.” Sal refilled my drink, a little less gin and a lot more tonic, as always. I again offered a five. He said, “You already put one in the tip jar. That’s more than enough.” He grabbed his cranberry lemonade concoction—all he drank on the job besides water—and we toasted.

  “To the criminals who keep us on our toes,” I offered.

  “To our toes.”

  “Speaking of TLDU,” Sal added, after we both had swallowed a good portion of our respective
drinks, “you might find some of those union drivers around here soon.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re gonna be filming some TV pilot. They wanna get some ambience; the flavor of Chinatown. The milieu.”

  “Milieu.” Saying that word made my mouth do funny things. “Say, you remember how Johnson was killed?”

  He just looked at me for a second and walked away. My immediate feeling was I had said the wrong thing, but that feeling was tempered by years of dealing with this character, and knowing he always operated in such a fashion. Plus, he was at work. He had other customers to deal with.

  When he did return he said, while polishing a glass that did not need polishing, “I seem to remember some greenhorn reporter hot to get a story. And boy did you stumble on one. Drugs, racketeering, murder, all rolled up in one—”

  “So, you do remember.”

  “Yeah, and I remember that you were too much of a print media rookie to go after the real story, the one behind the news.” He spat out the words print media.

  “Yeah.” I stared into my glass. It was the story that had transported me from stringer, a freelancer being paid by the story, to a full-fledged reporter with a long-term contract and freedom to investigate. Or so it seemed. Anyway, it sounded good at the time, and then I learned, the hard way, that I was even less free, though now wasn’t the time to relive that chapter. Not when an older story, one apparently incomplete, had that seeped like blood into the tiny cracks and crevices in the ground, accumulating deep in the earth over the years, and now, almost two decades later, was pouring out of every tap I found the courage to turn on.

  “You were young,” Sal said.

  “So were you.”

  “And we made mistakes. I’ve moved on. You need to move on too.”

  “Can’t. Got a client.”

  “Blonde, in her fifties?

  “Yeah…. Missing daughter … daughter of Lino.”