For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  When Gerard returned he sat and lifted his glass. I followed his lead and lifted mine. We clinked glasses. “To your play’s continuing success,” I stated.

  “To staging yours one day.”

  I sipped at the sake-tini. OK as it was, it wasn’t beer. Gerard drank his pomegranate martini real fast, like he had gotten a late start and needed to catch up. I wondered how rude it would be to get up, drop a twenty, and leave abruptly. Then I thought: He knows Caroline. What if he knows something? I can’t walk away just yet.

  In minutes he was drinking his second glass, while I still nursed my first. I had been picking at the chips and salsa, to abate both my hunger and the mild disorientation I was feeling from my drink, when I realized that I hadn’t had dinner. I ordered buffalo wings and jerk fries.

  “If this Penelope was not your ideal Belvedira, why did you select her?”

  Gerard looked forlorn, his right index finger circling the rim of his martini glass. Then he said, “Wasn’t my decision. Hey, I’m just the director.”

  “Just? The play’s your baby.”

  He chuckled and sighed. His eyes were red, a bit watery. “You make a lot of compromises when you need to pay people. Even on the scale we operate on, we need some upfront money, and we need to generate revenue.”

  “So—?”

  “So there. I had to sell my soul to Jerry Herblach, just so I could pay my actors. Heard of him?”

  “Not sure.” I had seen the name somewhere. “Is he in the music business? A producer or something?”

  “Pffhh. He is the music business here. Well, I should correct myself. He used to be. He sold his studio and went into film production. He’s made a killing in Hollywood.”

  “Really? Jeez.” I could write a book on the relationship between alcohol and a loosened tongue.

  “He’s not from here, but he did live in Hawai‘i for a couple of decades. Fucker owns several homes. A pent house apartment on Ala Moana Boulevard. You know, overlooking the ocean. Tell me, David, why is it—” He stared at me the way impassioned drunks do. “—Why is it that the skankiest skanks are the most successful? That I’ll never understand.”

  “So he’s a—”

  “Says he likes to dabble with community theater. Says it keeps him honest. Yeah, right. As honest as Iago. He invests in”—air quotes—“‘safe projects,’ mostly sequels to the most successful franchises. Little risk. Just sit back and reap the profits….” The word reap came out as a belch.

  “So the play?” I managed to squeeze in.

  “Anyhoo, since I was prostituting myself with him I figured I’d go all in. I told him I wanted the works: an elaborate stage setting, live musicians. I was thinking Broadway. If I couldn’t bring it to Broadway, shit, I was bringing Broadway to Hawai‘i.” He chuckled again, albeit grimly, probably remembering or dismembering some poignant memory.

  “Jerry went for it,” Gerard continued as he crossed his arms. “Said he’d come up with the dough—pocket change for him—as long as he got his producer credit and I said, ‘Sure, of course, why not?’ Then, get this, then he tells me there’s one condition: I have to hire Penelope Langham, and I’m like, ‘You know she can’t act her way out of a paper bag. There’s no way—’ and he tells me to stop talking and makes it quite clear that that’s the deal breaker.” Gerard’s right hand went up until his chin rested on his palm. “I had to give in—shit. Did you see the Tribune review?”

  “I don’t read reviews.”

  “You should. I read them with a grain of salt … and a pitcher of margaritas.” He smirked, arched his back, and refolded his arms as they rested on the table. “The play got reviewed quite favorably, except for the lead actress.”

  “That’ll teach him.” I was trying to be funny. He wasn’t biting.

  He leaned forward, right elbow on the table, gesturing with a wayward left index finger. The alcohol was really hitting him now. “You’re not listening. His wealth places him above all that sh-sh-shit we mere mortals worry about.” He smacked his lips. “He’ll dismiss the critics. Have them sh-shot, if he chooses.”

  “But why her?”

  “Beats the shit out of me,” he said loudly. He was getting a bit loud. “My guess is he’s banging her. Seen the rack on that gal? Or paying off some debt ’cause she’s the friend of someone he screwed around with.”

  “So this Jerry Herblach—say, isn’t that the name of the guy on Law and Order?” Once upon a time I watched that show religiously.

  “No, no, no.” He grinned. “That’s Orbach. Jerry Orbach. And he’s dead. Orbach.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s right.”

  “Speaking of Law and Order”—he pointed at me—“you remind me a little of that Bratt fella. Benjamin. Anyone ever tell you you kinda look like him?”

  “Nope.” I had a vague picture of him. Remembered that I didn’t like his hair.

  “He was great in Piñero.”

  “Never seen it.”

  “An awesome performance. When he was dallying with Julia Roberts—remember that? Those damn gossip columnists and columnistas went at him, saying she was carrying him, you know with her Oscar and all that friggin’ rot. Like he was some third-rate TV actor….”

  This guy could probably talk Hollywood trivia all night long. I had to reel him back. “So even if Caroline Johnson were interested, you would have had to go with Penelope.”

  “I would have fought harder, no doubt…. Honestly, I really don’t know what I would have done.”

  After letting him contemplate his past decisions and nondecisions I said, “You happen to have any contact information for Caroline? I seem to remember she was seeking funding, and I may know someone who could help.”

  “Funding?”

  “Yeah, since she’s part-Hawaiian. There’s all kinds of resources out there.”

  He looked at me probingly. “Well, I don’t know if I have a current number. I can give you what I have. My guess is she’ll be hard to reach. She’s always on the move … got a boyfriend, you know.”

  “I think I met him too. Matthew, right?”

  “Yes, Matthew.” Gerard didn’t look too good.

  “I’m sorry. Did I say something to upset you?”

  “No, no, no.” Chin on palm again, his hand covering the right side of his face. “Just that … you got me thinking. You young people … all this energy…. Makes me wonder: Why did I go for this big production shit? I don’t need it. Just … just give me a couple of good actors and a darn good script…. I tell you, Caroline, she was born to be Belvidera. It’s more than acting, you know. Whatever it is she’s channeling, man, she’s channeling it from deep inside. Young woman, old soul. That’s how I think of her. And that face … those cheekbones….”

  “I remember those cheekbones. That guy Matthew’s a lucky fella.”

  “Sure is.”

  “You don’t see them much anymore?”

  “No, unfortunately.”

  “So in the end, it’s all just like your play.”

  “Whadaya mean?” Head tilt. He looked quite sober all of a sudden.

  “Politics.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded steadily. “Theater politics. I’ll never know why Jerry insisted on Penelope Langham.”

  Lily brought another round of martinis, my second and Gerard’s third, along with the fries and buffalo wings. The smell of fries was heaven. I pointed at them, but Gerard shook his head. I grabbed a few fries, dipping them in ketchup or the blue cheese dressing, and shoveling entire pieces in my mouth. I tried the buffalo wings. They were tasty but quite hot, so I soaked a piece in the blue cheese just to take the edge off. Gerard, he simply worked on drink number three. Was he going to ask for a fourth? Was there a drinking problem here? Loose lips may sink ships, which would work for me, but let’s not get too loose here.

  “So your manuscript,” he said out of the blue. “Want me to take a look at it?”

  “You’d do that?”

  He nodded. “Sure. Gladly.”<
br />
  “It may not be that good. I’d hate to waste your time.”

  “Not a problem. If I hate it I’ll just stop. But I got a good feeling about this.”

  “Where can I send it?”

  “Oh, just send it to me as an attachment.”

  “Yeah. Why waste paper.” Of course it was a bluff. I had no manuscript. But then, my ex-wife did. And I was sure I could get my hands on a digital copy.

  Gerard took out his business card, scrawled some stuff in the back, then handed it to me. I held it up:

  Gerard H. Plotkin

  Director/Screenwriter/Script Doctor/Agentless Provocateur

  ghplotkin@lava.net

  I turned it around. He had scrawled his home address. It placed him in Mānoa. He also had written Caroline’s name, along with a phone number. I already had that number, and no one was answering.

  “I don’t know if it’s current,” Gerard said.

  “I like ‘Agentless Provocateur.’”

  “Had to liven it up. Other wise it’s a dreadfully dull résumé.”

  “Can’t fit your life on a card.” I regretted not being able to hand him my card, another life reduced to its barest essentials. I pocketed the card and told him I needed to take a piss and after he explained the needlessly complicated route to the restroom I worked my way through the dim corridor, climbed a creaky staircase, and finally found the men’s restroom in some far corner. As I peed I tried to shake off what seemed like intermittent dizziness. After two martinis? Then, as I pulled my zipper up, my head seemed to catch fire. I looked in the mirror, to see if my hair was aflame. But it was an interior burning. An allergic reaction? To what? The drink? The buffalo wings? Couldn’t be the fries.

  Maybe I’m being poisoned, I thought. Now that would be interesting.

  I drank water from the tap and splashed the hot spot.

  After a minute or so the burning sensation passed. Luckily, this “incident” happened in the restroom, with no audience.

  As I walked back to the table I remembered the house wine back at the theater. Maybe that was the poison. Slow-acting. Maybe I had drunk the same shit Penelope had drunk on stage. Maybe mixing cheap wine with martinis adds up to poison. The music had stopped. The guitar player had probably gone on break.

  When I returned Gerard was ready to order another round of drinks. I was hesitant, but the inexplicable freak reaction seemed behind me. Gerard was switching to a lychee martini. Not wanting to spoil the party I ordered a mojito. Rum, I can handle.

  While I nursed my mojito and finished up the fries, Gerard drained his fourth martini like there was no tomorrow. Then there was a blast of noise, the sound of someone banging on an electric guitar, fussing with the reverb, followed by what sounded like a few hits on a snare, the onomatopoeic tom-tom, and cymbals. The band, all scrunched into a corner of the bar and just about ready, was going to be hard to ignore. Someone counted off and the thumping bass took over the counting. The whole building shook. The guitars, powered by speakers mounted where ceiling met wall, screeched, squealed, and screamed. The drummer was channeling Keith Moon, trying to break everything around him. We tried talking over the noise. We yelled, just to be heard. It was useless. I wanted out.

  We somehow managed to get the check from the waitress. I was about to pay when Gerard yanked the check out of my hands. “This is business!” he yelled over the noise. “I can write it off!”

  “So can I!” I yelled back, realizing the second I uttered those words how stupid that was, but was saved when he seemed to have ignored or not heard what I had shouted, and, putting his hand on the back of mine, yelled, “Too late! Got it covered!”

  “Well,” I announced after he had settled the tab with his Platinum Visa card, taking advantage of the quiet between songs, “I owe you one.”

  “I’ll hold you to it,” he said with a smile, again pointing a finger at my chest. We both stood up. I felt a bit of dizziness. Maybe Gerard did too, since we both held onto our stool backrests, trying to get our bearings.

  When I first arrived here I had thought I might go visit with Sal afterwards, since the tavern was only a block away, but the mix of wine, martinis, rum, and greasy food wasn’t sitting right, so when I shook hands with Gerard, who seemed to be in no condition to drive, I offered to give him a ride home.

  “I am so fine,” he said, smiling again, waving me off. “I zzhhrink and zzhhrive all the time.”

  The valets roared up with our cars. Gerard’s was an olive green Miata with a few dents and a lot of mileage on it. I tipped the guy who went the whole nine yards to get my Toyota and open the door for me, sparing me that adventure.

  I felt a bit guilty for not insisting on driving Gerard home and, since I was headed in the same general direction, I decided to tail him as he weaved down King Street toward Mānoa. I stayed far enough back to be out of sight, yet, hopefully, useful if he crashed into something. I was curious about where he lived anyway. Mānoa’s a nice neighborhood. Not as ritzy as Portlock, thanks to the rundown domiciles that gave it respectability. A peek at his living quarters might tell me more about this director of stage plays.

  Amazingly, as he fell into what was probably a pattern of familiarity, he navigated quite well, probably better than I was doing. He did scrape a tire on his turn into East Mānoa Road, but I see sober people doing that all the time around that tight, twisted bend. When we were approaching the Chinese cemetery, situated on a hill, where during daylight the shiny red wrappings and other gifts sparkled to enliven the dead, Gerard turned left into a cul-de-sac. I slowed down to a crawl, pulled over, and watched him ease into a driveway. He was headed toward either the newly renovated piece of real estate worth millions or the rundown looking shack on the adjacent property.

  Gerard stumbled out of his Miata, clicked the electric key to lock the car, and headed toward the shack. He took a few steps, then, turned back to the car, and probably saw what I saw: His headlights were still on. He did a Charlie Chaplin type of stumble back to the car, dropped the key in the grass, managed to find it, clicked it again, got in the car, and blinked off the lights. Then repeated his earlier steps.

  I had seen enough. If he trips and kills himself going up two steps, I concluded, that’s all on him. I made a U-turn and headed home.

  20

  (Day 6—Saturday, May 26) Again I woke up feeling like shit. After my nighttime self assured my morning self that he would seriously reconsider his lifestyle, and determined to make unimpeded headway regarding the ongoing mystery of the missing Caroline Johnson, I swallowed a couple tabs of Advil and went for a short run, to Ala Moana and back, assimilating new information as I sweated out the toxins. Afterwards I showered and drank a cup of instant coffee. It wasn’t Starbucks but it was convenient.

  I stared into the cup. Someone had a stake in getting me to the theater. Why? So I’d meet up with Gerard? Who could foresee that? Maybe someone assumed I’d be so taken by the play I’d write a review and begin a new career as a theater critic. That made the same amount of sense. I had to let it go. Intriguing as this Amber business had turned out, it was a red herring, and I had to treat it as such.

  I turned to Brenda for help. Called her at her station, K-KOI. When she picked up the phone I asked if she had a moment. She said she was working on a story for the weekend evening news, which she co-anchored with Dan Hogan, but she could spare her old consort a moment. I asked her if she could maybe look into the station’s archives and see if they had any video on the Lino Johnson murder and while I asked I was already seeing her frowning at my request. “How long ago was that?” she asked.

  “Eighteen years ago.”

  “We should have something. I think our files go back thirty.”

  “Could you let me know?”

  “Why that case?”

  “It’s related to something I’m working on.”

  “Be careful, David. You don’t want to antagonize those people.”

  I knew which people she meant. “I�
�m always careful.”

  “Sure you are. You eating right?”

  “Of course. I’m acquiring girth.”

  “I’d like to see that day.”

  “Oh, by the way. You know that screenplay you were working on, the one that was kinda like Married to the Mob?”

  “It was nothing like Married to the Mob. ‘Married to the Mob’? Really, David—”

  “Just in terms of sensibility. Didn’t mean to offend you. I was just thinking about how you were doing a comedic turn on some otherwise grim stuff. Anyway, could I take a look at it?”

  “Why on earth?”

  “Let’s just say sometimes art imitates reality.”

  “It’s not very good.”

  “Reality?”

  She snorted in exasperation.

  “Maybe it’s better than you think,” I continued. “You never know. I’ve heard a script is just a guide for most directors. Sometimes they see things in it that bring it to life.”

  “Or they murder it. You can have the damn thing.”

  “You got a digital version?”

  “It’s the twenty-first century, David.”

  Ouch. “Can you send it to me as an attachment?”

  “Sure. Just don’t forward it without my permission.”

  “I won’t. Promise.”

  Those people. It would save me a lot of time if I could ferret out one of, as Brenda put it, those people. Smokin’ Joe was my best bet, and it was time to act. I was walking into a hornet’s nest, I knew. That’s probably why Sal told me to give it a day. Either he was checking on something or he hoped I would forget about it and look elsewhere.

  Well, the day was up. Sal hadn’t called, so I called him. No answer. I made a few more calls, utilizing my law enforcement contacts, including an overly paranoid but useful friend in the city prosecutor’s office, a couple of investigative journalists who had covered organized crime in the past, and with whom I had exchanged information with in the past years, and the renowned investigator Orse Levinson. From their collective wisdom I learned that Joe Sperry was an “over-the-hill,” “punch-drunk” beach boy, operating a surfboard concession right under my nose, or at least within walking distance. Orse said his concession was located near Kuhio Beach, which was where Minerva first encountered Lino so many years ago. While this was “within walking distance,” it meant a lot of trudging in the sand again. I figured I could shuffle my way there.