For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  Gerard’s wooden desk was clear, except for an award for directing near the right edge. That didn’t square with all the clutter. I dragged my gloved fingers along the desktop and noted the lack of dust in the middle. Something had been removed. A desk computer or laptop? If so, by whom? The killer? HPD? I rifled through the desk drawers that had already been rifled through, hoping to find something the killer or police had missed. It contained receipts, ticket stubs, insurance enticements, and bills—the detritus of our lives.

  I stepped toward the chalk outline. It looked like he had fallen straight back, his head going beyond the carpet and banging against the wooden floor. There should have been a lot of blood there. Must have been cleaned up.

  Next to the chalk outline on the wooden floor was a faint circle drawn around a bloody shoeprint. Looked to be a size 13. I got the Nikon out of the waist belt and photographed the shoeprint. I stood next to it for a size comparison and snapped a couple of shots from different angles. Since the crime scene had already been closed I wasn’t compromising anything.

  I scanned the wall until I found a bullet hole. Probably caused by a nine-millimeter. The bullet had gone right through the wall. I went into the bedroom and found the spot on the wall where it had landed. It had been dislodged. I returned to the living room and kicked around the edges of the carpet near the front door and came across a key. It wasn’t a door key. I grabbed it and put it in my waist bag, along with the camera. I heard noises outside and peered out from behind the curtains.

  An elderly couple stood outside. One of them was pointing at the house. I was sure they hadn’t seen me climbing in through the window on the other side. They were probably talking about the murder that had taken place in their other wise peaceful neighborhood.

  After checking to see that no one was out in the backyard area, I snuck out the same window I had entered through, and landed as quietly as I could. When I turned to face the house next door I saw a kid looking out the window, looking straight at me. I removed the surgical gloves, pulled my wallet out of my shorts pocket and flipped it open the way TV cops do, revealing my ID, and nodded. He grinned and nodded back. I pocketed my wallet and walked away. Hopefully, that would do it and he’d not go running to his folks, yelling, “burglar, burglar!” When I turned the corner, knowing the couple was on the opposite side, I ran behind a tree, and waited to see if they’d show. When I felt assured they were gone, I walked briskly toward my car.

  Two men in suits were eyeing my Toyota. Shit. Looked like the same cops I saw leaving the theater. Sure enough, the Dodge Challenger was parked nearby. I backed up near a plumeria tree and stuffed the surgical gloves into my waist belt. When the plainclothes duo began walking toward Gerard’s place I scurried across the narrow street, under the cover of trees with low-hanging branches, then crossed Pakanu Street over to the cemetery.

  The May Day flowers and fruit had long been cleared out. In anticipation of Memorial Day, people were trimming the overgrown grass and placing fresh flowers, plants, fruit, and snacks on the graves of their loved ones. I grabbed the freshest-looking bunch of flowers I could find, a multicolored bouquet, walked up a small hill through the freshly cut grass and placed these same flowers on the one gravestone I knew well, pausing there for a moment, then walked down the hill toward my car and saw them coming from the other direction.

  “What’s up?” I said to them. Both wore standard-issue police shades, which wouldn’t have prevented me from recognizing them, had I known either cop. And they didn’t seem to recognize me.

  “You’re wandering around near a crime scene. Any particular reason you’re out here?”

  I looked around, befuddled. I had a hundred glib replies, beginning with This a crime scene? You’re a little late. Or, Somebody died here? But this wasn’t the time. Instead I said, “Just visiting a relative’s grave. Is there a problem?”

  “Who’s your relative?” the taller cop asked, folding his arms. The other cop was scanning the cemetery.

  I was prepared for this one. “Chang Apana.”

  They looked at each other. They knew the name. Either they’d been to HPD’s museum, or they’d heard the lore. “You’re kidding,” one of them said.

  I offered the dynamic duo my driver’s license. The name on it was David Karl Apana. “This guy seems legit,” the shorter one said to the one with the folded arms. At least he didn’t say, Privileged to meet honorable descendent of great detective. “OK … well, if you plan to come here the next few days, park on the mauka side. There was an … incident here the other day. We’re keeping an eye out for suspicious activity.”

  “Memorial Day’s gonna be nuts,” the taller detective said as he looked around.

  “That’s why I come a day early,” I told them. “Please don’t let me get in the way of your job.” I headed toward my car, knowing they both were memorizing my plates, and waved as I drove off.

  27

  Around the time Brenda had begun the divorce proceedings I rediscovered this cemetery. One day, after driving all over the island for hours, contemplating the weight of huge decisions, I drove deep into Mānoa, almost to the Falls, then back out and then took a right into Nehoa, then Makiki Street, which became Round Top Drive. I drove to the top of Tantalus, at least as far as the road went. Couldn’t find it in myself to go beyond the road and into oblivion. I just turned around. While coming down the winding road I spotted a sizable bit of green acreage that sparkled with shiny red somethings. It startled me; what the hell was that? I had to track it down. I went back into Mānoa Valley until I found myself at this very same Chinese cemetery—and saw that the shiny red somethings were silk cloths that wrapped the various offerings. This steep, ascending cemetery, located deep in the valley, became a place that I would sometimes retreat to, sit and gather my thoughts. One day, as I walked around, looking at various stones, reading every epitaph, I was drawn toward a lei- and flower-laden gravestone. I had stumbled on the Chang Apana, aka “Charlie Chan” gravesite. It seemed oddly fortuitous. Still getting my sea legs as a PI—amateur dick stumble on grave of master—I was tickled and intrigued. After that discovery, I would occasionally bring flowers to his grave, sit myself down and spend a good deal of time just thinking. Though Chang and I shared a last name, his was gleaned through adoption, the system of hānai. And although I did have Chinese ancestors, watered down through the generations, the surname in that family line was Ah Fong. If we were related in any way, it was by a good distance. Yet I felt a connection.

  Brenda hated my new occupation. You’re always dealing with crooks and victims and dead people had become her common litany. Seems you find them more interesting.

  That might have been the last time I told Brenda I do.

  I called Brenda. “You home?

  “Yeah. I have to be at work soon.”

  “Those banker boxes I left at the house, where are they?”

  “They’re still in the garage.”

  “I can take them off your hands.”

  “You got a bigger place?”

  “Smaller, actually…. How’s my bike?”

  “Your bike?”

  “Yeah, is it still in the garage?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know, Dave.”

  “I’m coming to pick up the boxes. If the bike’s there, I’ll take it too.”

  “Is your car broken?”

  “I’m coming in my car. I’m in Mānoa. I can be there in ten-fifteen minutes.”

  There was a pause, then a reluctant “OK.”

  I got onto the H-1 and drove until the Likelike off-ramp. As I shot up the hill and into the valley I pondered the possible connection between Kamana and Kay’s dad. One possible link was Double-A, everyone’s favorite cop-turned-criminal-turned-snitch. The other and more obvious possibility was the notorious Sperry brothers.

  Speaking of Curtis and Joe, what kind of mischief are they up to now? More than ever, I needed to talk to Joe. Too bad I had missed him earlier. No doubt these guys all had in
criminating shit on each other, which made for uneasy alliances. Another possible link is Kamana’s campaign manager, Ike “Fat Face” Irashige. These guys and their fricken nicknames. Wasn’t Fat Face one of the parties mentioned in a sexploitation case, one that led to calls for his resignation? And wasn’t the recent news about the governor’s chief aide a case of déjà vu??

  All this speculation was getting me no closer to finding Kay, and I had to wonder if Mia, whose “evidence” had pushed me in this direction, was not just literally taking me for a ride.

  I passed the housing project that seemed to always be under renovation. Likelike Highway formed a barrier between lifestyles: the chasin’-the-dream middle mixers on one side, the welfare recipients/low wage earners on the other. The latter struggling to survive in an increasingly hostile world.

  As I exited Likelike and turned into Wilson Tract, heading toward the house I had lived in for seven years, my phone went off. It was Minerva. I told her I was driving so she made it quick. She reiterated that she thought the missing sailboat was the key. Kay’s missing, Matthew’s missing, the boat is missing. Simple math. I told her I was taking a good look at some of Lino’s former acquaintances. She wasn’t too keen on my direction. I promised her I’d look into the boat angle and she thanked me as she always does.

  The call made me wonder: Was I really following my gut instinct or was this simply the path of less resistance?

  Worse, I thought, am I kicking the can down the road?

  The ex-factor

  I almost didn’t recognize the house with its new color, something like sage green—or whatever they’re calling it nowadays. I tap-tap-tapped on the door.

  Brenda opened and said, “The bike and the boxes are in the garage.”

  “Thanks. Where’s Tom?”

  “It’s Ted, David. Not Tom.”

  Oh, yeah, I thought as I nodded. Short for Theodore. How could I forget? He used to sing with Alvin and Simon.

  “He’s on his way,” she said. “Weekends, he works days and I work nights.” She was dressed in her newscaster duds. I always thought she looked better in person than on TV. She began walking to the garage. I followed her. Nice ass, still.

  There was a time, seems like ages ago, that she and I used to ride our bicycles out along the Windward Coast, getting some good exercise, seeing the sights. When she fell and broke her nose and lost a tooth—a tooth nicely and expensively replaced thanks to cosmetic dentistry—that marked the end of her bike riding.

  My bike lay in the middle of the garage. My first thought was that she was hoping Ted would run over it upon arrival.

  “Where’s the Acura?”

  “Ted has it. His car’s in the shop. Did you look at my screenplay?”

  “Oh.” Shit, I forgot about that. I walked on over to the Corolla, popped the trunk and pulled out the manuscript, which I hadn’t touched since she had given it to me. I handed it to Brenda. “Didn’t need it after all. But thanks.”

  “Thought you’d sell it to some Hollywood producer.”

  “Only if we could share the proceeds.”

  Brenda said nothing in reply. She just had that look, the look that said, when we were together, You’re not getting any.

  The garage was maintained better than I’d ever maintained it. Everything seemed to be in boxes or drawers, nicely organized. Nicely contained. My two boxes, one on top the other, sat dead center in the garage. My Trek mountain bike lay against the boxes. I picked up the bike and realized it had been wiped up. The tires were flat.

  “I sprayed it with Simple Green.” That didn’t explain the smell. “It was covered with a thick layer of dust. Gross.” She held up her thumb and index finger, a half-inch apart, to indicate how thick the grossness was. “I Armor All’d the tires but I wasn’t about to break a sweat pumping them up. You can take the pump if you want.”

  Armor All. That was what I smelled. I slid my fingers along the chain. “Hmmm. Did you oil it?”

  “You’re pushing your luck, David.”

  Since when did David become such a harsh word?

  I took the pump and put air in both tires. In two minutes it looked ready to go. I hopped on the two-wheeler and rode out into the street. God, what a different feel from the bike I had ridden the other day. This one didn’t seem to fit me anymore. I shifted the gears. A funny noise came out of the rear wheel’s cassette assembly. I braked. The brakes were obviously worn out, and I dragged my shoes Flintstone-style to get the bike to a full stop. This bike didn’t need a tune-up; it needed an overhaul.

  I pulled to the roadside when I heard a car coming, then looked back to see my car coming toward me. It was a disorienting half a second, seeing a familiar Acura going past me then realizing it was Theodore arriving toward his home.

  I pushed against the road with my feet and rolled toward the garage.

  He rolled down the window. “Hey, David.”

  “Ted.”

  How civil.

  He parked in the cleared part of the garage and stepped out. By then I was off the bike and removing the front tire to see if I could get the bulk of it into my trunk.

  “Saves on gas,” he said.

  “Yep.” Especially since all my equity went your way. I turned the handle as far as it could go and tried to close the trunk. Damn, it wasn’t going to fit. I’d have to take the back tire off also. Complicated.

  Ted came over to watch the unintentional comic routine.

  “’Snot as big as the Acura,” I was muttering, mostly to myself. Damn car must have a hundred fifty thousand miles on it. Built to last.

  “Let’s try the back seat,” Ted said. He turned and shouted, “Hey, Bren, got an old sheet?” He looked at me with his TV smile. “Don’t wanna get the back seat dirty.”

  In seconds Brenda was putting a raggedy sheet over the rear seat, and together Ted and I maneuvered the still front-wheel-less bicycle into the well behind the front seats.

  Then she said, “Don’t forget your boxes.”

  If Ted wasn’t there she would’ve said Your goddamn boxes.

  I grabbed them like it was an afterthought and carried both, one stacked upon the other, to the trunk.

  “Thought you had to go to work,” I said to Brenda.

  “I’m going.”

  “She’s taking the Acura. We only got one car till the Beamer’s fixed.”

  Rub it in.

  The boxes fit perfectly. I said thanks again and opened my car door to leave when I saw Ted pull a new set of irons from the trunk of the Acura. Rub it in, part two.

  “Whadaya do with your old clubs?” I had seen a golf bag in the corner of the garage.

  “Don’t know. Probably donate ’em to Goodwill. Want ’em?”

  “Sure. I could use the practice.” About time I got something back.

  Brenda had this incredulous look. She knew I never played golf, refused to, but said nothing.

  “They’re yours.”

  “Thanks. Really scoring today.”

  I threw the clubs on the back seat, next to the bike, then fired up the vehicle. As I drove off I could see the lovely couple with the lovely house and lovely car encapsulated, diminishing in my rear view.

  28

  SAINT AGNES

  I headed toward Pearl City, to see Agnes Carvalho.

  The family she lived with was not related to her by blood. In fact they were strangers who had taken her in, for a fraction of the cost of a nursing home. The heads of this household were Al, a retired Portuguese longshoreman, and his young-looking Filipina wife, Felicia. I had heard that Agnes loved it there, that they took good care of her. If I sensed anything to the contrary, this could end up being an impromptu rescue operation.

  “Auntie Agnes?” I asked the teenaged woman who answered the door when I arrived. She ran upstairs to get her mom. I had talked to Felicia earlier, saying I had been a customer of Agnes for many years and wished to see her.

  The young woman came back down, said her mom was tied up, and
she took me to a room in the rear, downstairs side of the large two-story house.

  It was a clean room. Warmed by the presence of a crocheted bedspread and matching crocheted pieces on the furniture, a beat-up desk, and a funky set of drawers. A jug of water sat on the bedstand; a plumeria-filled koa bowl covered much of the desktop. On the wall above the desk, nicely framed, was a Diana Hansen-Young print, a painting of a woman in a holuku gown.

  Agnes sat in a wheelchair. She had lost both legs just above the knees as a result of diabetes. Both her hands shook. The girl had explained to me that her hand tremors was not Parkinson’s, and that when the shaking abated, thanks to some drugs that she’d take all the time if it weren’t for the awful side effects, one of them being they rendered her almost voiceless, Agnes could still string a lei.

  “Your nephew,” the young woman said to Agnes.

  I didn’t dispute that.

  Though nearly blind, she stared, smiling.

  “She wants to hear your voice. She can still hear good.”

  I was at a loss. Though I didn’t want to ask, How you, Auntie? since I knew how she was, I had to. It was a key part of the ritual.

  She smiled and her lips moved, as if to say good, though no sound came out of her mouth. The young woman left us alone.

  I talked, telling her I wasn’t her nephew, that I grew up on the North Shore, that my folks used to go to Maunakea Street to buy leis and never anywhere else, even though the lei stands at the airport were more convenient, which was the truth. I told her I spoke to her once about eighteen years ago, when I was a newspaper reporter, and that I now spent much of my time looking for missing persons.