For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

I saw a note on the lamp table:

  Got up at the crack of dawn. You look absolutely lovely in your sleep. You’re snoring right now, a soft snore. I’m heading out. Going to ride my bike up the coast, check out the race route. See ya when I see ya. (And no, I don’t fuck my clients.)

  Mia

  I washed up, grabbed my backpack, left my card key and enough twenties to pay for the room and rent-a-car and took a cab to catch the noontime flight back to O‘ahu. Back in Honolulu, I caught another cab, not a Crown Vic but one of them new hybrids, a Toyota Prius, to the harbor.

  After I tipped the driver I stood looking at my boat. It appeared smaller and lonelier than ever. I turned to my left and remembered watching Minerva coming out of the vapor in slo-mo from the Diamond Head direction all those days ago.

  Her daughter was still missing, but now I had evidence of her movements, evidence that she and Matt were making contact with people while off the grid. And everything was pointing toward two places: Tinian, the symbol of all that Kay railed against, and the Big Island, the place I had just left. And considering the whistle-blower’s words—He didn’t say I would have to catch a plane to get there or anything like that—perhaps I left a bit too hastily.

  I laid my backpack down and stood on the deck, taking in fresh ocean air and the expanse. I then went into my cabin and checked my voicemail. When I clicked play all I heard was silence. Someone was there; I could hear her breathing. It was that same restricted number. “I don’t have time for this shit!” I yelled into the phone, as if she could hear, then trudged over to the newsstand across the Ilikai and got hold of the Thursday editions of both city newspapers and some bottled water. I returned to my boat, and sat on the deck above the wheelhouse. When I got to the obits I saw a write-up on Gerard. Very nice bio. It mentioned his lifelong passion for the stage and film. Said he was survived by a twenty-three-year-old daughter, a brother, and a sister. There wasn’t much else, just an announcement of the funeral ceremony, a scattering of ashes at Waimea Bay, to be held the Saturday after next, June ninth. The article didn’t mention that the police had determined his death a homicide and were investigating.

  As I contemplated my next move I heard voices. It sounded like I was being summoned. I came out of the cabin and saw Rian and what looked to be a younger, handsomer version of himself. Had to be his son.

  “Hey,” he yelled. “Come on over and meet your namesake.”

  I folded and set aside the newspaper, climbed down, then hopped over onto Rian’s boat. “Hi. I’m Kawika.” I shook the kid’s hand.

  “So am I.” Blond curls, tanned, he looked the part of a California surfer stud. If there was Maori blood in this kid I didn’t see it.

  “Some chardonnay?” Rian asked. He lifted his cocktail glass.

  “A bit too early for me.” I lifted up my bottle of water. His son was drinking what looked to be a smoothie. We toasted and drank our respective brews, then sat on chairs on the deck.

  “The kid’s staying with me for a couple of weeks. I have to behave.”

  Kawika Jr. grinned.

  “No double-dating?” I guessed I wouldn’t see Meg for a while.

  Rian smiled. “We gotta get your damn boat out of this slip. How’s tomorrow?”

  “Can’t.”

  He was playfully annoyed. “Well, when can ya?”

  “Hmm. Sunday maybe?”

  “Shit. I can’t. No wait, that’s only church. I can skip that. I’ve been fast-tracking my way to hell anyway.”

  “Hell in a handbasket?”

  “We say ‘handcart’ where I come from, but we don’t have a different word for Sunday. So Sunday it is, amigo.”

  Kawika Jr. said he had signed up for a one-day screenwriting workshop at the University of Hawai‘i and when his father told him I was a private eye he got excited and said he wanted to “pick my brain.”

  I didn’t like the image the phrase conjured, but I thought, fair enough. After a bit more drink and conversation the three of us walked over to the Chart House for a late lunch. The kid insisted on paying.

  While we ate Kawika Jr. asked a lot of questions. If anything, his questions reminded me how both print and film mediums romanticized my line of work. I didn’t want to tell this kid who shared my name how dreary the job could be—mostly online searches, visits to those places where they kept reams of data of all sorts, whether archival or up-to-the-minute. On the ground it was even worse—those endless stakeouts, frustrating foot searches, whether coursing through bleak streets or deep jungles…. When there was no payoff, it took something out of you. Glorifying my work might inspire him to switch his major, and I didn’t want to do that either. Not on this auspiciously golden afternoon.

  Luckily Rian got me off the hook by interrogating his son on his life in Santa Cruz. He asked him about

  Sex: How often? What are your girlfriends’ names? Only one? You using condoms? What brand?

  Drugs: Be careful. Watch out for the law. And if you stumble upon some really good shit, please let your dear father in on it.

  & Rock ’n’ Roll: How’s the band? Still limited to that mindless reggae-ska shit? Ever thought to inject more pathos, some blues?

  Kawika Jr. rolled his eyes, then mentioned that he’d met a girl from Hawai‘i. He had just started dating her before the semester ended. Her name was Charlene Chan.

  That really got Rian going. “Charlene Chan? You’re going out with a girl named Charlie Chan?”

  “Nobody calls her Charlie.”

  “Yet.”

  Rian then pointed at me and told his son, “Did you know that this bloke is an Apana, like Chang Apana? The detective who was the inspiration for Charlie Chan?”

  Kawika Jr. looked at me, seemingly amazed. “Was he a relative of yours?”

  I shook my head. “Got a bit of Chinese in me; that’s as close as it gets.”

  “Chang Apana was hānai’ed by a Hawaiian family,” Rian put in.

  “Maybe you’re related to that family,” Kawika Jr. added.

  “Who knows?” I told him. “In this town we’re all related in some kind of way.”

  Like how everything is related to my case.

  As we walked back to our boats, Rian said to me, “We got an electronics whiz here. My son can hook you up with basic cable, then he can unscramble the feed and you’ll have whatever premium package you want. He can rig it.”

  “Sounds like a deal. Whadaya charge, kid?”

  “How about nothing?”

  “The price is roit,” Rian added.

  “I could do it right now,” Kawika Jr. declared.

  “I got some work I gotta do.”

  “Of course,” Rian said. “We know you got work to do. That’s why I’m offering his services. We can do it while you do your shit.”

  “You got me there. All I got is a thirteen-inch Sony.”

  “Not a problem. You don’t need a big-screen plasma shit on a little boat. But if you want one, I know where you can get a great deal.”

  I’m sure you do.

  Minutes later Kawika Jr. and Rian came to my boat with marine-quality cable wires and some tools. Though I wanted to find out more about this Drew person and wanted to scrutinize all the photos I could find that would help me put names to faces, I was also wondering what I had gotten myself into by letting this father-son team board my boat and behave like they owned the dwelling. Before I knew it I was working with them, not only working with them but also picking the brain of this “electronics whiz” regarding other kinds of hookups, mainly surveillance devices. My mere mention of the word surveillance seemed to give Rian pause. Then he gave his son the slightest of nods and Kawika Jr. said Let’s go for it. The kid not only hooked me up with a zillion cable channels, he also helped me set up two tiny surveillance cameras that I had long ago removed from my old office, and, coupled with his extensive supply of coaxial cables, mounting brackets, balun transformers, adapters, and who knows what types of interfaces, he was able to connect the cam
eras to the tiny monitor that had come with it. He told me my equipment was a bit dated, but still functional. He also tutored me on the more up-to-the-moment methods of surveillance while I answered his questions about past cases. Soon enough I was hankering to order some state-of-the-art tracking devices while he was talking about taking a criminology course when he got back to Santa Cruz.

  Just don’t change your major, kid.

  The extended lunch break, coupled with the intensive wiring of my boat, had taken up what remained of the afternoon. Night was coming on and I had to get on with my investigation. With Mia safely ensconced on the Big Island, hopefully, I decided it was time I have a talk with Sally.

  • • •

  When I arrived at the tavern Sal greeted me with a “She was here again.”

  “Minerva?”

  “Who else.”

  “Just learned she’s Sally’s—”

  “—sister-in-law.” Sal then made a face, a slightly sheepish one. As sheepish as a guy like him could ever get. “She told me to keep it a secret. Figured you’d find out soon enough.”

  “Is Sally here?”

  “In the back.”

  “Introduce me?”

  • • •

  She looked nothing like her brother. Half-brother, to be more accurate. She was quite a looker twenty years ago, judging by the photos she showed me of her and Lino, but she was about thirty pounds lighter then. Still, she had a pleasant face—a little world-weary but show me a fifty-year-old who isn’t.

  “Hadn’t talked to her in years,” Sally was saying, “then Sweetie starts coming by, soon after Caroline disappeared.”

  “Sweetie?”

  “That’s what Lino used to call her, so the family started calling her that. Nobody calls her Minerva.” She said the name with disdain.

  “What you two talk about?”

  She shook her head. “Life. Her daughter. Lino.”

  “Were you close to him?”

  “Not really. I mean, I looked up to him—he was my big brother, after all—but we grew up in different houses. I only saw him on special occasions. Birthdays, Christmas, and such.”

  I had to cut to the chase. “Anything you might know that could help me find Caroline?”

  She grimaced. “You think Minerva and I haven’t explored every angle already? Look, I’m the one telling her it has to be linked to Lino’s death. She’s been resisting that all the way. Still clinging to the notion it’s something else. As far as anything recent goes, I haven’t seen Caroline in years. There was a time she used to come to my place, asking about her dad and the family. Wanting to know our side of the family. I tell you, there’s not much worth knowing.”

  “Why do you think there’s a connection?”

  “’Cause there’s always a connection. ’Cause I have nothing else. How’s that for a shitty answer?”

  “Do you know the Sperry brothers?”

  Sally laughed sardonically. “I know the entire fucking lowlife family. Curtis and Joe used to look after me. But after Lino was killed, I wanted nothing to do with them.”

  “You think they had something to do with his death?”

  “No. No. Of course not. But they didn’t step up either. What is it in their fucking crazed world—the price of doing business?”

  “Joe told me they’re independent contractors now. Not affiliated with any … crew.”

  “I like Joe. I kinda feel sorry for him, the way they tried to kill him. Seems they broke every bone in his body.”

  “You have any idea why?”

  “My guess is they found out he was snitchin’ to the cops. I think Lino’s death really got to him. Turned him around…. I went to see him in the hospital. He was connected to all these machines. His body was in splints and braces. When he got better, I told him, ‘What? The price of doing business?’”

  “What about Curtis?”

  “Curtis,” she spat. “He’s another story entirely. He’s cold. The only warmth I’ve ever seen him show is for his goddamned nephew.”

  “Declan.”

  “We call him Deek.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Not much. He was just a little shit who used to follow Ku‘ulei, that’s Caroline, around. Now he’s, what, six feet eight?”

  “What do you know about Deek the grown-up?”

  “I know what I read. College all-star. Played for the Trojans. Signed an NFL contract for huge bucks, but in his second year he tore his ACL.”

  “Is he done with football?”

  “I think his ball-playing days are over. Heard he works with Uncle Curtis, getting into mischief.”

  “Who’s his mom?”

  “Delia. Their sister. The father died in a car accident before the kid was born.”

  “You sure it was an accident?”

  “Whadaya mean?”

  “Getting involved with a family like that.” McMichaels had termed the dad German-Samoan scum. I’d like to know his back story.

  “I really doubt it,” she said. “Within their family, they’re all angels. They would have accepted him as a brother.”

  “I ran into Deek recently. He was with his uncle, conducting some kind of surveillance, as far as I could tell…. Do you know if the Sperry brothers ever interacted with Caroline? I mean in recent years.”

  “Sweetie said Joe saw himself as their protector. I guess through the years he’d check in on them from time to time. See if they needed anything. I think that ended a while back. In fact, I think it ended with the beating.”

  “When I first talked to him he acted like he didn’t know Caroline.”

  “My guess is he didn’t know you. Look, he’s not gonna give away the store to some inquiring detective. The beating may have fucked him up, but he’s still two steps ahead of everybody.”

  “You think he’d be helpful, with finding Caroline?”

  “Frankly, I think he’d give his life for her.”

  “Thanks. What you’ve told me really helps.”

  She looked dumbfounded. “Really?”

  I gave Sally a hug.

  “Tell Sal your drinks are on me.”

  I found a seat at the bar. Sal brought over a glass filled with ice and a bottle of gin. “On the house.” Sally came out and brought over some food—fortunate for me, since I hadn’t had dinner yet—then went to talk with other customers.

  While Sal was engaged with other tasks I picked at the abalone, sushi, and chips—clearly not the tavern’s usual fare—and swallowed the gin in one gulp.

  “Joe said the Sperry family are independent contractors,” I told Sal when he came back to refill my glass. “I guess you know that.”

  “I know very little about those guys.”

  Between sips I told him about the whistle-blower. Thought he might like hearing he was not alone in that category. Told him what the guy had said about Tinian and abbacus. When I was done talking all Sal said was He better watch his back.

  “You told me to talk with Orse,” I told Sal in a tone that was as jovial as I could make it. “Orse led me to this guy. I’m telling you what happened and you’re going to make like you’re not interested?”

  “My bad.”

  I refilled my own glass from the bottle and took a long sip. My head was getting dizzy with drink. “You can stop pretending you don’t give a shit, Sal. I know you’re making calls. And you had to have known about Jerry Herblach and Lino. And that Queen’s Surf story? Shit, you had a line on Lino nobody had….” I took one more long swallow, put down my glass, and pointed a finger at him. “Plus, I know you’re cozy with Joe…. Agnes gave that one up.” She wasn’t trying to write the word Sad, I finally figured. She was trying to write Sal, as in, Go talk to Sal. I stood up, wobbled a bit, and said, “You know a lot more than you’re letting on, and if you’re not gonna tell me, I’m gonna find out why.”

  Sal looked at me flatly, saying nothing.

  I pulled out a twenty from my wallet and dropped it on the
counter.

  “Told you,” he said, “it’s on the house.”

  “That’s the tip … of the fricken iceberg.”

  “Sure you can drive?”

  “Not a pro’m.”

  “Watch your back, Dave.”

  40

  FRICKEN DOLDRUMS

  (Day 12—Friday, June 1) I don’t know how I got to my boat but I did. I vaguely remember standing at the edge of my boat and peeing overboard. Did I really do that? I remember muttering to myself, or maybe I was talking loud: What kind of private eye are you, Kawika? Thomas Magnum could have done in an hour what you’ve taken weeks to accomplish. Forty-two minutes, if you don’t count commercial breaks. The case would have been solved, with a nice, light-hearted denouement thrown in.

  And then I threw up. I remember gargling with Listerine, then falling on the bed.

  Tired as I was, I was restless in bed, turning over and over, trying to find a comfortable position. I must have really knocked out after a while because I could feel the sun coming up. I moaned and groaned, then turned around on my narrow bed to put the pressure on the shoulder that wasn’t hurting. When I did that I noticed my cell phone on the cabin floor. It was blinking.

  I reached for the phone, thinking Shit, what now? I saw that I had a text message from Mia. Double shit. I held it up close so I could read it: Had a great ride. Thought about you the whole time. Wish you were here. I clicked the phone shut, then opened it again to check my voicemail. There was one message, from an unknown number. The voice was that of the whistle-blower. All he said was, I left something for you at the hotel.

  Triple shit.

  I stepped out onto the deck, stepped off the boat, and called out in a hoarse sort of whisper to Rian, who was bustling about on deck.

  “You and the kid got plans?”

  “He might sleep all day for all I know. You got something in mind?”

  “Still up for giving me a run-through on my boat?”

  “What day is it?”

  “I don’t know. Tuesday?”