For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  “Not wit’ Kamana, by any chance.”

  “Oh yeah, Senetah Kamana. You know him?”

  “Kinda.”

  “You know, I da one who wen’ call nine-one-one.”

  It took me a few beats. Then I realized where his mind was.

  Joe gazed out at the horizon, like he was channeling a clip from eighteen years back. “He was in da guttah”—his shaky hand rubbing his chin—“between two parked cahs. Jes’ looking at me … was like, was like he was trying fo’ tell me something. He was trying fo’ talk, but den blood”—he choked on that word—“blood stahted coming out of his mouth.” Joe stared right at me with moist, piercing gray-green eyes and it chilled me. “Nevah felt so sorry in my life. I been seeing that face ev’ry fricken day fo’ eighteen years. Had to get outta dat damn racket.”

  “What racket is that?”

  “Phff. You know.” He looked around, as if to see if anybody was eavesdropping. “Drugs … axtawshen … ah-sen too, sometimes. Shit, we was fricken wild back den.” He stopped, as if he realized he had said too much. “Statue of limitations, right? You not goin’ write about dis, eh, braddah?”

  I showed him my hands, fingers up, palms facing him, and shook my head. “Brah, I not one reportah any more.”

  “Oh yeah, you MacGyvah now…. Hey, anyting you like me do, fo’ help find da daughtah …? I serious.”

  “I appreciate the offer. Nothing right now, but if you hear anything—”

  He clasped my hand. He stared into my eyes. “Anyt’ing, brah. I do anyting fo’ help you find her. Lino, he was like one braddah to me. He shouldn’t have died dat day…. Shoulda been me.”

  I nodded, my hand aching from his grip. He could still hurt me good if he wanted to. But he could also help.

  “I gotta go, Joe. Gotta keep looking.”

  We exchanged phone numbers. After I bid him goodbye, he shouted, “Anytime you wanna catch waves, you come see me. I fix you up. No charge for you, braddah.”

  I looked at the pile of boards lined up behind him. “Sounds like a plan.” Smokin’ Joe and North Shore Willie, two guys I’d like to spend my retirement years with.

  “You know where fo’ find me.” Two middle-aged women came by. As I walked away I heard him saying, “Special today. Rent one board, get the second one free.”

  As I walked away it struck me how Double-A Chun and McMichaels were right. This guy was a war casualty, and this nothing of a concession that he ran was probably restitution for his role in the war against humanity. I ambled on back toward the boat, thinking how stupid it was of me to not have talked to him earlier, to not have figured out earlier that it was brother Curtis whom Mia had seen with both Kay and Kamana and it was brother Curtis and nephew Declan who came to kick me and Mia out of the private park.

  It was again slow going in the soft sand, a terrible reminder of the pace at which things had been unfolding. I began jogging. When the surface became harder on the beach side of Fort DeRussy, I took it up a notch, pushing myself to a sprint. This was a hundred-meter dash. As I flew toward the Hilton lagoon I was seeing blurred images of Joe, Mia, Gerard, Agnes, Sal, and Kay. I knew where Gerard was, but where was Kay? Was she alive? If so, what was she doing? How was she doing? What terrible thing might she have gotten involved with? And with whom?

  I ran till I couldn’t and came to an abrupt halt, gasping for air, wheezing, coughing out phlegm. I threw my fists into the air, wanting to yell: Caroline Ku‘ulei Johnson, where the fuck are you?

  • • •

  Soon as I reached my boat and could breathe normally I phoned McMichaels again:

  —I should be put on retainer.

  —I know. I owe you big time.

  —What now?

  —Curtis Sperry. Present job, if any.

  —He’s workin’ security at the state capitol. He used to be part of the “for hire” security firm that Kamana once owned.

  —I thought Kamana was in the insurance business.

  —His interests are diverse.

  —How come the FBI never got him?

  —He’s too well protected. Guy’s got friends in the governor’s office, in the judiciary, and on the police force. Alliances that go back a thousand years.

  —Seems like everybody I talk to knows he’s got his hands deep in shit.

  —What we have here, Dave, is a community that looks the other way. Let me nuance this a bit for you. Even if forty-nine percent of those who vote Democratic think or know he’s a crook—and that’s a fucking lot of people—there’s still fifty-one percent who think he’s their guy. That’s how it works. And Republicans, they got nothing. The current governor’s a fluke. Anybody the Dems spot in 2010, and I mean anybody, is gonna win. The time’s ripe for Josiah Kamana.

  —You saying he’s gonna run?

  —There’s rumors…. He sees the opportunity. All he has to do is stay away from controversy. Bide his time.

  —But everybody knows he’s crooked.

  —You listening to me? Forty-nine percent. That’s a couple hundred thousand people. Forty-nine percent know, or at least suspect, what he’s all about. But he doesn’t need their votes. He just has to get more than the other guy. And not get caught with his hands in shit in the meantime. Look. The FBI—the FBI, for Christ sakes!—couldn’t bring him down. That’s what we’re dealing with here.

  —The guy they found dead.

  —Yeah, the theater guy.

  —Heard anything?

  —Hey, I’m a captain in Vice. I’m not in the loop with Homicide. I’m not even in the loop with those CIS guys, not after what happened with Sal. By the way, you know that your friend Jess is giving up reporting?

  —Mitsukawa? She’s leaving the Tribune?

  —Yeah, I heard she’s had enough. She’s gonna be the PR person for one of the hospitals. Queen’s or Straub, I forget which.

  —Those jobs pay well.

  —Yes, they do. Hey, maybe I can get a job as head of security there. Think she’ d vouch for me?

  —You? Never.

  —I see the attraction, though.

  —I don’t think you wanna go there, Norm…. Shit. Only Danby’s left.

  —I hear they’re shutting him down. Telling him, investigative reporting is passé, too costly.

  —Glad I got out when I did.

  —There used to be a community, Dave.

  —What are you saying?

  —Used to be “us vs. them.” You know, US? Me, you, grandma, uncle, the kids? And THEM being all the shits who want to suck the life out of the rest of us? You know something?

  —What?

  —THEM’s winning.

  30

  You don’t need to be sitting on a boat on Memorial Day to know when the wind’s been taken out of your sails. I breathed in the salty air. Braced myself for the days to come. I hadn’t been digging deep enough, the look in Agnes’s face reminded me of that. I had to up the ante. Had to, or else quit the fucking business and admit I was not up to the task. Failure wasn’t an option.

  But where to go? What was my move now?

  Minerva’s appearance on my boat, to notify me of her daughter’s disappearance, led me to Mia and Lino. Mia has thus far led me to Kamana and his cohorts, Lino to the Brothers Sperry. Amber, who came out of nowhere, brought me to Gerard, whose death I know is connected to all this, but how? Where will this day lead me?

  The phone rang. It was McCully Bicycle. My bike was ready.

  That was quick.

  I picked up the bike and when I returned to the harbor I decided I’d give it a test run. I removed the bike from the sheet-covered back seat, and rode it around the harbor. It felt incredibly smooth. I wanted to crank it up so I pedaled toward Kapi‘olani Park via the Ala Wai, riding on the sidewalk since I was going against traffic, and you don’t want to fuck with Honolulu traffic if you’re a bike rider.

  Once I got to the park I took the bike lane and rode up Diamond Head Road. This was the same road I had run up with Mi
a a few days ago, and it wasn’t an easy ride but I felt energized. When I got to Triangle Park I circled around it a few times, then continued my counterclockwise tour around Diamond Head Crater. At KCC I stopped for water, and looked toward the theater. In less than seventy-two hours I had seen a play, had drinks with the director, read about his death, and began my own investigation of how this could have come about and how it might be related to my missing girl case. Aside from Penelope, Gerard Plotkin had chosen his cast. Mine had been imposed on me: Kay, Matt, Minerva, Lino … Lino’s old acquaintances … Gerard, Amber, Rian, and, of course, Mia. And Sal. Their lives intertwined in ways that were as intriguing as they were baffling. I hammered the pedals and sped down Monsarrat, going almost too fast, and braked and skidded when I hit a red light at the Monsarrat/Campbell intersection.

  I took Ala Wai Boulevard back to the harbor, arriving there at sunset and quite ready for a shower.

  My hair still wet and dripping, I sat on the deck with my calendar and pen and reconstructed the case with the new information. Then I wrote down the names of all those I had encountered thus far in the case. Looking at each name, I thought through each one’s role, thought about what the stakes were.

  Amber had played me, spurred on by what and whom? She led me to Gerard; now he was dead. Could she have been an acquaintance of Kay? Was she Karl Lemon’s stacked blonde, posing as a bottle red?

  Then there’s Mia. She’s introduced me to a slew of materials, suspects, and motives. But what if that’s all to cover ulterior motives on her part? What if she was assigned to keep track of me? If so, by whom? Was our meeting at the beach accidental? Was the kid who pointed out the pink house prompted to point that way to any inquisitive stranger that came along?

  For that matter, what about that Mamet fan, Mr. Snappy Repartee? Maybe he paid the kid to ID Kay and send me on a wild chase to Les Biden’s house, and into the arms of Mia. He also mentioned Diamond Head Theatre, and Mamet. But there was no Mamet. Instead I got this mysterious woman who called herself Kane leading me to that very place to witness some bizarre play, one that started in Restoration Europe and ended up in modern-day Las Vegas. And guess what? Kay, Matthew, Josiah Kamana, Jerry Herblach … they were all there in Sin City.

  The play featured corrupt senators, sexploitation, murder, and glitter. I had thought it was a farce. Now it was looking like an exposé.

  I had bishops, I had queens, I had proprietary issues regarding authorship and women’s lives.

  Why were Lino and Gerard cut down? Could their deaths be linked?

  Be extremely wary of him, Gerard had warned, regarding Herblach. Later he wrote, Save the bishop.

  There was some other dimension to this, I could feel it in my gut. It was teasing at me, not fully formed.

  Kay stood at the epicenter of all this. Was she a victim, or someone in command? What did she discover or stumble upon? Whatever it was, was it the trigger, the act that set everything in motion?

  I looked at my timeline:

  Cinco de Mayo—Kay’s in Las Vegas; there’s no verified sighting of her after that; or Matthew, for that matter.

  May 7—Last conversation with Mia. Both Kay and Matthew said to have gone to Arizona. Together?

  May 10—Opening night of the play. Jerry, as one of its producers and the key money man, had to have conferred with Gerard around then. What could they have discussed?

  May 13—Mother’s Day. Matthew calls his mom and everything is copasetic; on the other hand, Kay’s gone off the grid since May 7th.

  May 18, or thereabouts—Someone put a lei (as Kay had always done) on Lino’s grave.

  May 21—Minerva Alter hires me.

  May 24—Amber Kane shows up on my boat.

  May 25—I attend the play and immediately afterward find myself sharing drinks and conversation with Gerard Plotkin, the director.

  May 26—Mia and I check out the Kamana house and are chased away by members of the notorious Sperry family.

  May 27—Newspaper announcement: Gerard is dead.

  I stared at the last three words.

  It was too abstract for me. It’s different when you see a body. See that the soul’s been knocked out. Watch the mass of flesh that’s left roll on rails into the crematorium and come out a pile of ashes.

  That’s what dead is.

  31

  On the other hand, Chinatown was vibrant and alive:

  Is Honolulu ready for this?

  Chinatown’s revival brings a new sophistication to the city

  By Sharon Goodjoy

  Associated Press

  May 28, 2007

  It’s a remake of Chinatown, and I’m not talking about that iconic seventies film, but rather Honolulu’s own mean streets. Known for its dives, its gambling dens, and its spirited denizens (read: drug dealers and prostitutes), Chinatown seems to be shedding its sordid reputation.

  During the daylight hours, as they have been doing for generations, hordes of locals invade Chinatown—to reap the harvest of fruits and flowers and freshly caught fish, to purchase freshly butchered meats, and to bask in the ambiance of the Orient. Now they’re being joined in increasing numbers by tourists from Asia and the continental U.S., who are leaving the comfort zones of Waikiki and the upscale shops at Ala Moana, and finding their way to Honolulu’s new fun neighborhood.

  When nighttime comes, a younger, hipper crowd swarms to Chinatown to dine at its ritzy restaurants, mill around at the various art spaces, cafés, and clubs. On the first Friday of every month, thousands swarm to the area to canvass the galleries, listen to music being played on every street corner, from bluegrass to jazz to Jawaiian and slack key. Food booths are abundant, serving everything from steak plates and corn on the cob to dim sum and malasadas.

  According to Vic Daley, proprietor of the Jazz Garage, “This place used to be run-down, with all these lowlifes making people afraid to come here. That’s all changed. We still get have some of that lowlife bull—, but it’s more ambiance. It’s become more wholesome, more safe.”

  Wow. This was the kind of shit they wanted me to write when they pulled me away from investigative reporting. I quickly checked through other sections of the newspaper before folding it and dumping it into the recycling bin. I decided to go and see if Chinatown was living up to its newfound reputation.

  Surreal is the word that came to me when I arrived at Smith and Hotel. It had been dark when I left my boat and now it looked like daytime. Then I saw the Klieg lamps and realized it was a movie set. Oh yeah, movie people don’t believe in holidays.

  I approached one of the technicians. He sat on the bumper of a van, wires slung around his shoulder.

  “What’s a key grip? I always see that in the credits—”

  “Chief. The key grip is the chief grip.”

  “OK … what’s a grip?”

  He frowned, as I figured he would. He looked straight ahead, not seeing me. “We do the lighting and the rigging.”

  I nodded. “You guys makin’ a movie?”

  “It’s a TV pilot. Diamond Head.” He pointed at the image on his t-shirt, a familiar outline of the famous mountain. “It’s a cop show.”

  “Who’s the star?”

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Hawai‘i.”

  “Any name actors?”

  He shook his head. “Just a couple of guys whose previous series got canceled. You know how that goes.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “If you want to be an extra, you can see Jack in the last trailer. I’m sure he could use a few more people for the bar scene.”

  “You guys are filming in Sally’s Tavern,” I said as I walked away, navigating the clutches of thick wires on the road and sidewalk, and positioning myself in the shadows. Cameras were rolling; I watched the scene unfold: A bus came slowly, turning from Hotel into Smith, which usually doesn’t allow buses. It stopped abruptly, establishing itself as the key prop piece. Then, after a guy with a megaphone shouted something that sounded like �
��take twenty,” a man wearing a bright aloha shirt, jeans, and slippers, waving what looked to be a snub-nosed revolver, leaped out of the halted bus, and ran toward the bar. Then out from the bus came actor number two, similarly dressed, except that he wore shoes. He was carrying a larger gun, a nine-millimeter. He chased the first actor into Sally’s bar. I heard shots, muffled yet firecracker-like sounds, though whatever commotion had ensued was not within my limited line of sight, and probably captured by second and third cameras in the bar. Then I heard “cut.” Between takes the actor who first ran into the tavern complained about the “flip-flops” they had him wear. He said he was getting a blister. The costume gal told him to hang in there; she said the director wanted them for verisimilitude.

  A typical night in downtown Honolulu.

  Then everything went into reverse. The actors were given instructions and led back into the bus. The bus backed up a bit. The director conferred with a technician, who was apparently the grip in charge of lighting; the technician was speaking into a Bluetooth device. The carbon-arc lamps suddenly glowed with less intensity. In seconds the street was darker, more shadowy. Rain, I was tempted to cry out. How about some rain? After some shuffling around, the guy with the megaphone yelled, “Take twenty.” Maybe he was stuck on twenty. The weary exasperation in his voice confirmed for me that Sally’s Tavern would be closed off until daylight.

  Probably because I had been seen conversing with one of the grips, no one seemed to question my presence in the restricted area. To bide my time while I plotted my next move I headed toward the row of trailers. A woman was stepping out backwards from one of the trailer doors.

  It was Mia.

  Lacking shades, let alone a trench coat or fedora, I ducked behind a telephone pole. She wore a white halter top and what looked like a pair of off-white painter’s pants. She carried a large canvas bag. As she exited the trailer, she was followed by a lean, studly guy who wore low-cut drawstring stretch pants and nothing else. He whacked her on her ass. When she turned around and said something that sounded like “stop it” to him, he flipped his shades up on his head. With all the ambient noise I couldn’t decipher any of their conversation. Then Mr. Six-Pack-Abs grabbed her by the hips, and moved in for a kiss. She turned her head to give him her cheek instead of her lips, and returned his embrace when he wrapped his arms around her. This time his hand rested on her butt for the duration of the hug. She then freed herself from him and turned away, walking in my direction. I stepped behind one of the trailers.