As I started my trudge my cell went off. It was Brenda. She said she had found something. We agreed to meet during her lunch hour.
I had nearly a mile to cover, from the Hilton complex to the area that just preceded the Kapahulu Groin and The Wall, the favorite surf spot of every town kid. Once I passed the Hilton lagoon it was a mix of sidewalk and sand, and I embraced each accordingly. I worked my way past Fort DeRussy, with its stretches of grass, the Sheraton, the famed but seemingly smaller “Pink Palace,” and finally saw the Outrigger up ahead. It felt a lot further than it was; there were sections lacking sidewalks and I had to slog through very wet sand that made each step ankle-deep. It took me all of twenty minutes to get from boat to concession. A young woman stood behind the crowded display table, under a nylon canopy. A large sign, which also functioned as a windbreak, stated, in bold letters,
surfboard and bodyboard rentals
surf lessons
t-shirts & visors
sunblock
beach mats
beach umbrellas
lounge chairs
soft drinks & bottled water
No sign of Joe.
“Looking for my buddy Joe,” I told the young woman. She was well tanned, wearing a thin, white shirt over her blue-green, two-piece swimsuit and a visor that advertised the Bullfrog brand of sunblock.
“Joe’s called in sick the last couple days.”
Shit. “Know when he’ll be back?”
“I hope he’s back tomorrow. He knows I can’t be here. Got my other job, at Duke’s. Where the tips are better.”
“I’m sure they are.” The walk had made me quite thirsty. I purchased an overpriced bottle of water and thanked the woman as she took my three bucks. I put another dollar in the tip jar and headed toward Kalakaua Avenue, thinking it would be easier trekking the wide sidewalks than dealing with the ever-shifting sand.
But the sidewalks weren’t wide enough, I quickly learned, as I wove through the throngs of tourists making their way up and down this too popular strip. Waikiki had once been a swamp, so I’ve heard. Then, somewhere around the fifteenth century, depending on who you ask, Hawaiians began irrigating those wetlands to grow kalo. About four centuries later, Japanese immigrants turned a good part of these taro patches into rice fields. Then, after the Second World War, these fields were drained, creating the Ala Wai Canal, and the area between the canal and the ocean became a land of cottages. By the 1970s, most of these cottages had been knocked down and replaced with walk-up apartments and boutique hotels. Then came the big hotels, each one taller than the last, each one more luxurious, more out of range for everyday people. These came with concierges, valets, and multilevel parking structures. A different kind of swamp.
I walked past Joseph Magnin, Emporio Armani, cheesy art galleries, restaurants, and semi-outdoor malls. Visitors were eating it up. I wanted to shout out, FOOLS! just to fuck with them.
When I reached my boat, I refilled my water bottle with the jug in my mini-fridge and got in my car. I headed to town.
I was making a quick stop at the state library before going over to K-KOI, and just as I made a right turn into Halekauwila from Punchbowl, my cell phone went off.
“You busy?”
“Always, Mia.”
“Don’t you PI’s have any days off?”
“No, just off days.”
“You don’t sound too happy…. Learn anything?”
“I’ve learned a lot about certain associates of certain people, but I’m no closer to solving the riddle of Kay’s disappearance. Frankly, I’m not even sure that this avenue isn’t a dead end. Funny, as I’m telling you this I see that I’ve come to one.”
“I’ve never been into symbolism. By the way, you shouldn’t be talking on a cell while driving.”
“You called.”
“You answered.”
I stopped on the side of the road, shifted to park, stepped on the brakes, and let the car idle. “I’m hanging up.”
“Wait. Can we meet? I wanna show you something.”
“Sure. Where and when?”
“You know Flats?
“You mean Maunalua Bay?”
“Yeah. The big parking lot. Let’s meet there. I’ve thought of a good way to combine work and working out.”
“Look. I don’t think that’s a good idea….”
No response.
“… I mean combining the two. If you got something for me, can’t you just give it?”
“It’s not something I can give, Kawika. It’s something I need to show you. It could be important.”
“I’ll meet you there. But no exercise. Not for me, anyway.” I was already worn out from that two-mile trek this morning.
Mia sighed. “O-kay.”
“What time?”
“I could meet you around seven? Maybe a little earlier. Quarter to—?”
“Six forty-five it is.”
“Bring exercise shoes. Just in case.”
“I’ll wear the only pair of shoes I own.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t make you run.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“At least not this time—Whoa!”
There was a pause and what sounded like shuffling.
“Hello, hello,” she said right when I was about to hang up.
“What was that?”
“Almost dropped the phone.”
“Where are you?”
“Lanikai.”
“Where exactly?”
“On the road.”
“On the road? In a car?”
“On my bike. It’s absolutely gorgeous out here today.”
“You’re telling me not to use a phone when—”
“But I’m used to it. Besides, I never listen to my own advice.”
“Just don’t text me, whatever you do,” I said as the phone clicked on her side.
I’ve been told that Hawai‘i is the only state in the U.S. with a statewide public library system. True or not, it sure makes my life easier. With a library card and a PIN I can access all kinds of subscription databases, including Transparency International’s Corruptions Perceptions Index, Newspaper Source Plus, and even World History in Context, in case I needed a context for whatever I’d find.
Now that I had another name to enter, I tried adding Gerard Plotkin to all variations of Kay’s name. I quickly learned that she played Beatrice in his production of Much Ado About Nothing in 2003. Other than that, I found nothing to link the two. It bothered the hell out of me that there was a possible link, and the odd sequence that put me there. Again I wondered about Amber. Did somebody send her to lead me to Gerard? If so, why?
Additional searches gave me little more than I already knew about Lino Johnson or the Sperry brothers. I did find a photo of Curtis Sperry holding up two halves of a quarter he had torn in half; the caption read: He says his brother is even stronger. I hadn’t seen Joe Sperry in years but was struck by the filial resemblance. Norm was right about them looking like identical twins. What do you say about a world where goons keep cloning themselves?
Another pattern was emerging, a troubling one. Though they both had done time in jail, neither ever served more than a few months; seemed like they carried get-out-of-jail-free cards in their back pockets.
They had attended Roosevelt High School in the late 1960s, as did Lino. All three flunked out. Not only had they hung out with the wrong crowd, they were the wrong crowd. Minerva’s comments about her first husband notwithstanding, anything you read about Lino painted a picture of sleaze.
At some point I had a decision to make: feed the parking meter or leave. My eyes were blurry from the computer screen so I opted to exit the library. I had a lot else to do anyway.
I stopped at the post office on Nu‘uanu to check my P.O. box and pulled out the clutter of junk mail. As I walked to the trashcan to dump all the come-ons and the other usual crap, I saw a letter with Ah Sing’s return address. I opened it. It contained a check for fourt
een hundred and change. It was my full deposit and half the May rent. The old coot hadn’t taken a cent.
Feeling flush, I drove to Runner’s Route near Ala Moana to shop for some exercise gear. I hadn’t done that since—well, I hadn’t done it ever. On a roll, I checked out a couple other running stores and heard more than I ever wanted to know about breathable fabric, metatarsal support, and cushioned heels.
I settled on a dri-fit tank top with moisture wicking features, a pair of Asics with cushion to spare, and a stretchable nylon waist belt that you could tuck a lot of shit into, and headed on to K-KOI. Kyla, the receptionist, remembered me and showed me the way to Brenda’s cubicle. Brenda was coming from the other direction with a cup of coffee in hand and stopped abruptly, spilling a few drops.
“You look … heavier.”
“Told you I’m eating.”
“Good. How’s the ulcer?”
I pressed my side. “Baby and father are fine, thank you.”
After commenting on my “nice shoes,” Brenda took me to the archives, where she had located some footage of the aftermath of the Lino shooting. She left me to sift through the materials.
I could handle the microfiche and microfilm, but the huge video machine, a relic but the only one that could run the old type of videotape, was daunting, so I left it alone. I looked through useless shit for over an hour and my eyes hurt. I stepped out to stretch my legs and look for a vending machine.
A pimple-faced guy who might have been too young to vote stood before the machine, trying to figure out which button he’d press. He glanced at me.
“You da guy who was married to Brenda?” He looked at me, then punched a button. Out came a package of Lay’s potato chips.
“That was a while ago, yeah.”
“A bit much?”
I wasn’t sure I caught his drift. “You could say that.”
“Career first, huh?”
“First, last, and in-between.” I was making her sound like the supreme bitch. This was not Brenda, not exactly, but I went with the flow.
“I’m Todd.” He held out a hand. I shook it. “I’m the guy to see if you need any help with the equipment.”
“Then you’re just the guy I want to see.”
As I put my coins in the vending machine and punched out a pack of what looked to be oatmeal cookies, I told Todd I wanted to view some pretty old footage, and that it was on a fat band of videotape. He led me back to the archives and began setting up the rig.
“TCR-100. Primitive shit,” he said as he pulled a pair of Q-tips out of a drawer, dipped it into a bottle labeled Xylene. “Gotta clean these fuckin’ heads first.”
With Todd’s help, I ran the video. We shared chips and cookies.
The camera zeroed in on the blood along the gutter, then panned back to take in the flower shop Lino had allegedly just exited when the shots were fired. Reporter Kim Ornellas, who went on to work for the local PBS station, stood on Maunakea, pointing and explaining the circumstances.
“How’s it going?” It was Brenda, peeking in.
“We’re good,” I said. “What’s Kim Ornellas doing now?”
“Don’t you know? She moved to L.A. a year ago. Got married again. Been trying to sell her screenplays.”
Sounded like someone I knew. “My guess is she’ll be back or on crack within the year.”
“Thanks, Todd, for helping,” Brenda said. Todd nodded, watching the screen with me. “David used to be an investigative reporter,” she said to him. Todd nodded again. His eyes were still fixed on the screen. “Used to follow a story wherever it took him.”
“Thank god I outgrew that nonsense.”
“Thought you did. But look where you are.”
“In that case could you get us some coffee?”
“Fuck you, David. I’m not your bitch.” I saw Todd’s lips pucker. “Let me know when you’re done.” She left.
“I see why you broke up,” he said right after the door shut.
I wanted to run the video player, but Todd insisted on helping. I had him fast forward to the next sequence. A police lieutenant was being interviewed. It bothered me that I couldn’t remember his name. Then I noticed someone in the background and had Todd rewind the tape. It was my old buddy Sal. He was a homicide detective then. Young, an innocent on the job, compared to the Sal he was to become. He stood about 6′2′′, and the guy he was talking to towered over him.
“Stop,” I said to Todd. He pressed the stop button. “Can you enlarge the image?”
Todd shook his head. “Not without losing all the resolution we got right now. This is as clear as it’s gonna be.”
“I think I know the guy the cop is talking to.”
“Which one’s the cop?” He waited about two beats, then looked at me.
“The one in the suit.”
“Just making sure.”
A young woman, probably an intern, came in with a cup of coffee. “Compliments of Brenda.”
“Thanks. Only one cup?”
“She knows I don’t drink,” Todd said. “Coffee, I mean. Thanks, Wen.”
Wendy nodded and left.
“She is your bitch,” Todd muttered softly.
“If only.” It was time to get serious. “I think that’s Joe Sperry…. Could be his brother. Curtis. You guys got any pictures of the Sperry brothers?”
“Let me check.” He walked to another section of the archives, pulled out a file folder and returned. He pulled out several photos. Some were labeled.
“They look like twins.”
“A year apart in age.”
“Poor mother.”
I nodded and sipped my coffee. “Back in their prime years, they used to give the cops fits. They never knew which one they arrested.”
The file contained photos of the Sperry brothers going back to the mid-seventies. They were leaner back then, and solid, like a pair of NFL defensive ends. They had no facial hair except for bushy eyebrows. Long, dark curly locks topped their heads. I remember their hair being thick and reddish brown, though you couldn’t tell the color from these black and whites.
I turned back to the frozen image on the screen.
“Damn.”
“What?”
“It’s one of them but I can’t tell which.” Not that it mattered. Or did it? “Run it forward.”
The next part of the videotape was a recap of organized crime hits in the ’70s and ’80s. A lifetime ago. The parade of the killed was followed by mug shots of key players: alleged hitmen, those who were tried and convicted, and those who were suspects but got away—including the Sperry boys. The final sequence was a return to the crime scene, with Kim Ornellas wrapping up her story. But not before showing a quick shot of a stunning blonde. It took me a moment to realize it was Minerva. She held the hand of a girl who looked to be eight or nine.
My missing girl.
My heart sank.
“That’s it.” Todd announced. “That’s all the footage we have.”
He insisted on a soul handshake and he got it. I left the archive room and stopped at Brenda’s cubicle and thanked her. She handed me a folder.
“What’s this?” I already had a copy of the divorce documents. I had shredded them months ago.
“The screenplay? I don’t wanna go hunting for the digital version. Here’s a hard copy.”
“Oh. Great. Thanks.”
“Don’t sell it.”
“Promise I won’t.” And if I do, half is mine.
After leaving K-KOI, I phoned McMichaels again and got some specific information about Smokin’ Joe’s prison record. He had served three months for a B&E. Norm confirmed my thought that it was a ridiculously short sentence, considering his past record, and speculated that he had some very powerful friends. When he said that I knew he was referring to either City Hall, or the state capitol, or the judiciary. Or some combination of all of the above.
We talked a bit more about Lino Johnson’s known associates and one name leaped up in par
ticular. He was the quintessential informant, the guy with information to sell, as long as you were willing to part with a couple of Jacksons, and I don’t mean Jermaine and Tito.
21
It was drizzling in Chinatown in the late afternoon when I tracked down Aaron “Double-A-Battery” Chun. Way back when, in his cop days, he was notorious for beating up suspects, committing his own form of A&B, hence the nickname. Chun was a useful, if off-putting son-of-a-bitch, an off-the-record source of information on anyone and anything happening around town. While still a cop he participated, for reasons I could never understand, in a holdup. He was the driver. The idiot used his unmarked police car. Because he cooperated and thanks to his lawyer’s plea-bargaining he got off on a petty charge and was dismissed from the force. According to McMichaels, Aaron later got a job with the Taxi and Limousine Drivers Union, the same union that Lino had belonged to, and somehow lost that job. When I met this guy several years ago, he was working security at some condominium complex. God give me a nickel for every disgraced cop who becomes a security officer.
Double-A wasn’t hard to find. A few calls and I knew his main hangouts. Sure enough, I found him standing outside the Wo Fat building, a relic with a deep history and up-to-the-minute notoriety. Lino Johnson had been killed right across the street. Just recently, police disrupted a major casino operation on the building’s second floor and busted over two dozen players. Since it was a misdemeanor, those arrested paid their fines and looked for another place to roll the dice.
“’Sup, Aaron?”
“Still shaking, braddah. How about you?”
“Can’t complain.”
His leanness made him look tall but we stood eye to eye. His black hair seemed to come from a tube and it framed sagging jowls and features that gave the illusion of gravitas to his Hawaiian-Chinese visage. He had a toothpick in his mouth; I’d never seen him without one. As he talked, it bobbed up and down and you wanted to do something about it, but what?
For a Song Page 16