For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  “Fucker has no boundaries.”

  “You happen to know of a guy named Herblach? Jerry Herblach?”

  He shook his head.

  “There’s a photo, in Midweek magazine. Taken at a private golf course in Vegas. Five guys: Kamana, Blankenship, Ike Irashige, Steve Wynn, and Jerry Herblach.”

  “Don’t know any Steve Wynn or Jerry Herblach. Those guys never came on any of those trips. I do know Irashige. Fucker is so immature. Can’t tell you the number of times I wanted to slap his fucking face.”

  “Herblach’s a movie mogul. Worth millions…. Heard of the Wynn Hotel?”

  “In Macau?”

  “Macau … Las Vegas.”

  He realized who I was talking about. “You shitting me.”

  “Wish I were. That’s who they were playing golf with…. So why’d you leave Kawaiahao Plaza?”

  He lit a cigarette.

  “Couple months ago, I had drinks with those guys.”

  “The Hawai‘i guys?”

  He nodded.

  “Who, exactly?”

  “Blankenship, Kamana … Irashige … Derego was there, with two other guys who weren’t introduced. They just took notes. Hardly said anything. I thought they worked for Derego’s firm, but when I started working there—doing public relations, whatever the fuck that was—these guys, they weren’t around. I figured out later they had to be abbacus guys. They weren’t the guys who do the clean up. No. Not by a long shot. They’re the guys who make sure it gets done.”

  “But you don’t know who they are, exactly? No names?”

  He shook his head. “I wish. The closest I got to putting a name on either of them was when, after the meeting, somebody called out the name Drew, and one of those guys turned around. He and the other guy—man, they were slick dressers—real expensive-looking suits. Who dresses like that? Lawyers? Guys on Wall Street? They had that look.”

  I thought about Larry and Ed, the other poker players that night at Andy’s. They said very little, and they looked more like clerks than mercenaries.

  “You wanna know the truth?”

  “You mean you been lying all this time?” I quickly put up my hands. “Just kidding.” This wasn’t a guy to joke with.

  “abbacus is the reason I’m talking. With Kamana’s boys, you’re talking about a bunch of middle-aged guys who want to have a good time and just got in over their heads. I could live with that. But with abbacus, it’s just dirty shit. Guys like that, they don’t have borders. Shit, anything goes. That guy Drew, when we were leaving, he made a joke about the dead girl. And they just laughed…. They were joking about it. That’s what drove me up the fricken wall. That they’d joke about it.”

  “So,” I had to ask again, “why’d you move from Kawaiahao Plaza to Derego’s law firm?”

  “Good question…. They gave me some shit about Bishop Estate being under scrutiny again. I kinda doubted it, but what could I say? I went along. I think the only reason Derego was there was that they wanted to assure me I would still be taken care of. It was a cut in pay, you know?” He chuckled.

  “And then you called Levinson?”

  “I didn’t call anybody. He contacted me, through a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Who?”

  “Not telling.”

  “Did you ever meet up with Kay Johnson and Matthew Serrano?”

  After a pause that was more than a tell: “The couple that made the film?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They never showed. They were my first choice … to talk to. Not Orse. Not you.”

  “When did they not show?”

  “I dunno. ’Bout a week ago? I had stuff for them. We made arrangements. They never came. Frightened off, you think?”

  “It’s important to know exactly when.”

  “You sure you wanna go there? Their friend did and you know what happened to him.”

  “Gerard?”

  “They may be dead too, for all I know. Everybody around this fucking case is getting killed off, and I’m probably next.”

  “I do wanna go there. When, exactly?”

  He reached into his back pocket and brought out a small, spiral-bound notebook that seemed quite worn. He peeled through pages.

  “May twenty.” He shut the notebook and pocketed it.

  “They’ve been missing since May six or seven.”

  “Well, they called me.”

  May 20. That was a couple days before the time Matt’s boat went missing. The day before Minerva hired me.

  “And you’re sure it was them?”

  “How the fuck would I know? I talked with the guy Matt. You think it was somebody pretending to be Matt?”

  “No, I think it was Matt. Happen to know where he was calling from?”

  “No, but when I told him when and where to meet me, and I was on this island, I haven’t been anywhere else these last few months, he didn’t seem to have a problem. He didn’t say I would have to catch a plane to get there or anything like that.”

  “What was the meeting for?”

  “I had stuff for them. Evidence.”

  “The evidence. You still have it?”

  “Good question. What do you think?”

  Sigh. “I think you made copies.”

  “Yes, and I flew to Honolulu and gave them to two individuals. First, the guy who they sent, that faggoty guy who got murdered, and second, your girlfriend.”

  “My girlfriend?”

  “Yeah, the lady you’re sharing a room with.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend, but she does know Matt and Kay.” He knows I’m rooming with Mia? What kind of spy network does this guy have?

  “She didn’t show you the stuff?”

  “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t.” I asked him a few questions about its contents and realized that that envelope that Mia had given me, the one that contained the transcript—it came from him. But had Mia given me everything? And didn’t she say she found this stuff in Les’s den? “Why those two? The murdered guy and Mia?”

  “I was instructed.” He didn’t say by whom. “Look, if you think she’s holding out on you I could have a copy sent to you. Thing is, they don’t want this information getting out. So you better watch your back.”

  He leaned back, as if to distance himself from me.

  I asked him whether he missed living in the Northern Marianas.

  He chuckled grimly, closed his eyes, pinched his forehead. Broke into sweat. He reached for a cloth napkin with stains on it. I offered him my clean one. He took it and used it to wipe his face. “I just hope—”

  “Hope what?”

  “I just wanna see my daughter…. I just … just want her to know I love her. Think about her.”

  “Just call her and tell her.”

  “You think I haven’t tried? She won’t take my calls. Her mom has filled her head with all kindsa bullshit. She hates my fricken guts.”

  He looked at his watch, put his shades back on, like he had another appointment, another sop to spill his story to. We were done.

  I walked out of Café Sibu feeling drained. Ali‘i Drive was all lit up, with tourists in bright clothes wandering around, locals too, and it brought no consolation. I walked under the moon and along the balmy shore. Gazed across the street at the huge banners advertising the weekend’s festivities. Ironman Triathlon signs were everywhere, along with posters advertising running shoes, bikes, swim gear, gels and energy bars, and every accessory you could think of. Everything on sale.

  A different world.

  Nah, make it an indifferent world.

  38

  When i opened the door to our hotel room I saw that Mia was asleep. She lay on her side, covered by the thin blanket. I busted out my notebook, sat at the desk, turned on the lamp, and began writing my thoughts as they came:

  —B-ship: murder suspect. Negligent homicide, at the very least.

  —Kamana: Suspect also. Like B-ship, powerful enough to cover his tracks.

  —A
notion: Between the two, each could secretly harbor resentment toward the other for his indiscretion. With so much at stake …

  I crossed out indiscretion and replaced it with recklessness. Then added:

  —abbacus? A clean-up committee made up of exmercenaries?

  It’s not like guys haven’t been doing this shit since the fricken Roman Empire. So why not here and now? And this guy Drew, is he the go-to person? And even more important, how does this connect to Kay? Matt allegedly spoke with this same guy, then bagged on the rendezvous. Why? Did he see a trap? Could he and Kay be hiding out on this island? Could they have taken Matt’s boat? Minerva thinks so, and now it’s even more plausible. Mia and Gerard got caught up in this deadly game and look what happened to Gerard. Forget the queen, he wrote. Was he talking about himself? He chose to be a courier, went to pick up documents. If Mia was acting as a courier too, then she really is in danger. And for what? Why all this passing on of documents? For leverage? What, exactly, were they trying to leverage? If Gerard died because of these documents, what’s in them that’s so damning?

  I wrote down other names:

  —Jerry Herblach.

  —the Sperrys.

  Herblach had been with Kamana’s crew in Vegas. Minerva claims he’s a fraud. The guy had a hostile relationship with Lino. That alone could put him behind what went down on Maunakea Street eighteen years ago. Quite a timeline.

  As for Smokin’ Joe and Curtis, their criminal history aligns them with Kamana and Blankenship, but something seems to have happened. Guilt from what happened to Lino? Joe’s beating? Declan’s tight with Kay. On the other hand, Mia saw Curtis with Kamana at the state capitol. They both work there. Blankenship works there too. Is Curtis keeping them close, or is it the other way around?

  There were too many trajectories. I paused to look at the sleeping girl. Cops following Mia? And even if they ain’t cops I still see HPD’s prints all over this. And I can’t ignore the possibility that she’s playing me. Hiding something. If so, why?

  This is so fucked up.

  I heard Mia stirring. She threw off the covers, revealing what had to be her usual sleep clothes, a t-shirt and what I’d call trunk-style panties, and sat up.

  “Did you eat?” I asked her.

  She looked like she needed a moment, then said, “I’m still full from that early dinner. Been drinking Gatorade.”

  “Already?”

  “Counters the beer. There’s more in the fridge.”

  “Already had some. Thanks.”

  “So how’d it go, Mistah Bond?”

  “I could use a drink, Moneypenny—shaken, preferably.” No sense in telling her what I had learned. It would keep her up all night. “I’m gonna check out the lounge. See what they got. You better get some sleep.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to accompany you?”

  “No, no, no. You need to rest.”

  “Bummer.” She reached for the remote and clicked on the TV.

  Tired as I was, I was too stimulated to even try to sleep. From Minerva to Joe, to Rian, Mia, and the whistle-blower, this had been quite a day. I left Mia to her own devices, went downstairs to the lounge. It looked like a pretty sad place, so I stepped outside and headed toward Ali‘i Drive.

  The starlit ocean did little to assuage my disenchantment. I wandered along the coastal drive practically oblivious to my surroundings. At some point I found myself standing in front of Ocean Sports Bar & Grill. It seemed pretty lively. I stepped inside, sat at the bar, and ordered a drink.

  Drink in hand, I watched a couple of guys in vintage aloha shirts shooting pool. The game was all angles and cross-sections and I must’ve thought if I stared long enough something would be revealed. When they glanced at me on occasion I merely nodded. They looked like they were among the chosen few whom fate had selected to behave as if life were an endless party. Lean, strong, impervious. After a couple of shots of bourbon—I was so off the wagon now—I was eager to join their little club.

  They had asked me earlier if I wanted to join in and I had uttered a polite “No thanks.” Now I looked at them and said, “On second thought—” and I was in. I hadn’t played in years but I learned that the touch comes back quite quickly. After a few stumbles I was lining up the balls, using just the right amount of English to make some nifty pocket shots.

  “This guy’s a pro,” one of them said when I pocketed the seven. “Good thing we’re not betting.”

  I was in no mood for betting. No mood for taking anyone’s money away. No mood for losing any. I asked them if they knew about Saturday’s triathlon.

  “Brah, we’re doing it.” They clinked their pool sticks and their drinks, then introduced themselves as T-Rex and Stoner.

  “Is this how you prepare?”

  “It’s tradition,” Stoner said. “We’re not gonna beat Tim Deboom or Cra-aig”—he belched, long and loud—“Craig McCormack.”

  “Are they doing it?” T-Rex asked his friend.

  “I don’t fuckin’ know who’s entered. ’Cept you and me…. We’re entered, right?”

  “They took our late entries.”

  “I don’t know which of the so-called stars is doing it,” T-Rex said to me, “but who gives a shit? We can’t beat them, can’t even come close. That’s why we’re MAKING IT FUN!” They fist-jabbed.

  That was all I needed, the cast from Knocked Up. After a few more games we sat down at a table. I was tired, but not sleepy. We ordered a pitcher of margaritas. But drinking more alcohol without getting in some food didn’t seem all that wise, so I added chicken wings and garlic fries to the order. When the food came, about an hour later and another pitcher later, I offered to share, and they said no, initially, insisting they had eaten enough already, but once they got a taste of those hot, fat, buttery fries, they picked at it and soon the large basket was empty.

  After a good half hour of talking shit, another level of fatigue came on like a stage curtain. Good, I thought. I dropped a pair of twenties on the table, said “Party on.”

  “You gonna come watch us? Saturday?” T-Rex asked. Stoner had gone quiet.

  “Gotta go back to Honolulu.”

  “Aww, what for?”

  “Yeah. Come on. Stay … watch….”

  “Tell you what. If I find my way back here, I’ll see you at the finish line.”

  “’Smore like it,” T-Rex said. Stoner looked like he was on the verge of puking. He then burped and said, “Whew. That was pretty freaky,” and reached for his drink.

  “Have a good one.” I fist-bumped each guy. Didn’t want to say, “Break a leg.”

  When I returned, Mia was asleep, the remote next to her, the TV still on. I took the remote, clicked the TV off, and headed for a shower.

  Seems I hadn’t had a good hot shower in weeks. I soaped myself. Rinsed off. Just stayed there and luxuriated, basked. It seemed as if everything in me that was toxic was coming out of my pores and I liked the feeling. I felt I could stay in this comforting womb all night long.

  When I finally got out of the shower I dried myself off and began to dress. Mia tapped the door and walked into the bathroom just as I slipped on the loose pair of shorts that I was going to sleep in.

  “Sorry, I really need to pee.”

  Before I could say anything she had pulled down her panties and sat, a motion so quick that my brain couldn’t assess whether I had seen something or not. I walked out, closing the door behind me.

  When Mia came out of the bathroom she must have seen me rubbing my neck. She said, “I said I owed you one. Get on your belly.”

  “You need to sleep.”

  “I will. Get on your belly.”

  She really dug into me. She had pulled some kind of oil or ointment from her gear bag and rubbed it all over my feet, then began working these nerve ends to great effect. She put oil on my legs, worked out the knots, all the way up to my glutes, the seat of some unbelievable pain, which she confronted with her elbows.

  “God, you’re tight,�
�� she muttered.

  She oiled and massaged on my back, using her powerful fingers to put me in a state of bliss. By the time she got to my neck, loosening those tight muscles, she literally had me in the palms of her hands. When she told me to turn around she saw that I was hesitant and when I did she saw why.

  “My, my. Maybe we should take care of that too.”

  “You do this for all your customers?”

  She looked absolutely crushed. She got up from her sitting position and walked toward the kitchenette.

  “Sorry.”

  She leaned against the counter, crossed her arms, and just looked at me. What is it with this woman?

  I sat up. “That was the best massage I’ve had in, like, forever.”

  She turned her back to me and began washing her hands. I got up and walked up to her and gripped her shoulders. “Sorry,” I whispered. “Didn’t mean it that way.”

  She kept washing her hands so I let go and headed to the bathroom and shut the door. I jumped in the shower again, this time to rinse off the body oils, took a piss, then opened the door. Mia was in her bed, either asleep or pretending to be asleep.

  I lay in bed, quite awake, thinking about Mia at first, but after a while my thoughts turned to the shenanigans in the Northern Marianas. Boys being boys, not unlike those clowns back at the bar (and I wasn’t excluding myself), but on another level. A level where the players involved not only misbehave, but also do grievous harm. And do so with a profound sense of entitlement.

  Then I tortured myself some more, reliving moments with Carlotta, the mother of those two poor girls. Our fling was as passionate as it was short-lived. As intense as it was problematic. The question I didn’t want to ask myself was, Did I, just moments ago, unconsciously sabotage an opportunity for passionate sex? Did I foresee danger in this step, like the last time? I beat the dead horse relentlessly, till I finally began to fade….

  39

  (Day 11—Thursday, May 31) When I woke up both Mia and her bike were gone.