For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  “O—kay. What is it?”

  “I need a ride. The cops took my car.”

  One fat moment passed. “Look, I’m carless myself,” Brenda said, “but Ted’s on his way. He’s picking me up.”

  “Never mind.”

  “What ‘never mind’? We’ll come get you. Just hang on.”

  I told her where I was exactly, and hung on, feeling more than a little unhinged.

  As I waited near A‘ala Park I watched the stalled parade of the homeless. Most were wrapped up in blankets and sleeping bags along the sidewalks; they were the muted grays and dark browns that brought gravitas to the sunlit backdrop. The scalding scent of urine scorched my nostrils, as did the smell of some awful herbicide, probably Roundup. The sky was expansive, inviting, but getting anywhere was hard when life dragged you down.

  In minutes I saw the Stossel lookalike and Brenda arriving in their BMW. I hopped in the back. Maybe they were going to tell me about Diamond Head, how different it is from their view plane.

  Both turned back to size up my bruised face. Just drive, I wanted to say. I folded my arms. “If you could take me to Ace Towing on Sand Island, I’d be forever grateful.”

  We headed down to Nimitz.

  “Ted and I are wondering, what’s going on? Word’s out that the shit’s about to hit the fan and you’re deep in it.”

  So you wanna be real journalists now? “Just following leads, like I always do.”

  “And getting beaten up? Christ, David.”

  Brenda took a digital camera out of her purse and aimed it at me. I blocked my face. “Don’t, Bren—”

  “We need to have a record of this.”

  “Of what?”

  “That you were beaten up.”

  “For what, for god’s sakes?”

  “I don’t know. Evidence?”

  I had few words for them, just directions to the nearest ATM, where I took out $300, and a quick thanks when they dropped me off at the towing company site. Brenda insisted they wait, to make sure I got the car. I went in and inquired about my Corolla.

  “Nope,” the young woman said. “We’ve only picked up one Corolla today, the green one out there.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure.” She looked again at the log book. “Nope. That’s it.”

  “The sign at the medical examiner’s office said that cars will be towed here.”

  “Sorry. No Corolla.”

  “Shit!”

  She looked at me more closely, finally noticing my bruises. The marks on my face weren’t eliciting sympathy. She more likely thought I was trouble.

  My phone had been down to its last bar since an hour ago. I had one or two calls I could make before the charge ran out. I phoned Richards.

  “I tried to chase you down,” he said, “right after you left. But you were gone. Fuckers impounded your car.”

  “Why, because I’m a suspect?” Ted and Brenda had walked in just when I was saying those words.

  “Jones jumped the gun,” Richards continued. “He’s gonna get his ass fried, the fucking idiot.”

  “I’m starting to think he’s not an idiot.”

  “What are you saying? You’re thinking he’s—”

  “I’m thinking he’s part of some well- or ill-conceived plan. Where are you?”

  “On Kalanianaole. I’m picking up my kids.”

  Fuck. “How do I get my car?”

  “Just let them do their shit. They won’t find nothing.”

  “Except my gun.” Both Brenda and the woman behind the counter gave me a look. I turned away from them. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “You got access to another vehicle?”

  “No! Fuck!” I shut my phone. Looked at Ted and Brenda. “The airport’s nearby. Mind dropping me off at one of the rent-a-car places?”

  “Say, you’re Brenda Park,” the woman behind the counter said.

  The three of us stopped in our tracks and looked at her.

  “That’s stupid,” Brenda said to me. “Just take the Acura.”

  “Yeah, take the Acura,” Ted added.

  On the way toward Kalihi Valley, Brenda tried to grill me some more. Said her station was doing a follow-up report on that incident on Tinian.

  When I told them I’m just looking for some missing people, Brenda reminded me that she had been helpful. She was right. So I gave her and Ted a quick rundown on Plotkin and his attempt to leverage a deal with some nasty players. I told them I couldn’t mention any names as yet, but I was sure they knew who I was talking about.

  She told me her station’s news director had taken a call from Derego, who told him if they went ahead with the Tinian story—which he said was a bunch of lies—he’d file a lawsuit. “Archie said go ahead. Sue us.”

  “Yay, Archie,” I said softly. That was all the enthusiasm I could muster.

  When we got to the house, I asked if they’d let me use their bathroom. “Of course,” the lovely couple said.

  My face felt really grubby, and although I touched nothing at the ME’s I felt like I needed to wash my hands too. So I grabbed a bottle of liquid soap and indulged myself.

  When I stepped into the living room, Ted handed me the keys to the Acura.

  “Thanks.”

  “Getting any use of the golf clubs?”

  “It’s been great. Love that one wood.”

  “Hitting them long, I see.”

  “And hard.”

  I shook hands with the mustached man and bade him and Brenda goodbye.

  Ted and Brenda kept a phone charger in the glove compartment. I connected my nearly drained phone to the cigarette lighter, fired the engine, and in minutes I was stuck in traffic on the H-1. It gave me time to cool off, though, time to figure out how I’d make my play. It’s a pretty large island, even when you’re driving. Police will probably be watching the boat, I figured, and if I go to Diamond Head Theatre, or to Mānoa, looking for evidence to clear my name, they’ll see it as the killer returning to the scene of the crime.

  They wouldn’t expect me to be driving an Acura, so this was the bright spot in an otherwise bleak day. I headed toward Diamond Head Theatre and parked not in the KCC lot, but on McCorriston Street down a ways.

  No one appeared to be watching the place, so I went to the box office and said hello to Helen.

  “Oh dear,” she said. Her hands went up, like she was being robbed. Then I realized she was reacting to my bruised face.

  When I explained to her that it was one of the pitfalls of the business she took it better. Then she told me that the cast of The Rose and the Sword were doing a special tribute to Gerard the next evening, for the final show. She explained that the cast members had reworked the play and that it would contain a few surprises. Would I like to be there?

  “I don’t know. I—”

  “Jerry Herblach will be coming. He’s a special guest.”

  Right when she uttered those words, a group of people arrived, ostensibly to buy tickets. I got out of their way. They discussed seating with Helen, who treated them with unlimited patience as they tried to figure out the best available seats. While I waited for them to pick, I checked my wallet. I had three hundred-dollar bills, a twenty, and a few dollar bills. I had some loose change in my pocket.

  As soon as Helen had dealt with them more people arrived.

  “Seems there’s quite a buzz,” I said to her, “regarding the show.”

  “We’re almost sold out. You better claim your seat now.”

  “Can you break a hundred? ’tsall I got.”

  Helen handed me a ticket. “You get the best ticket in the house … on the house.”

  “Thanks, Helen. Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  I left with ticket in hand, picked up two tacos at the Taco Bell, then drove toward Sally’s Tavern.

  53

  TÊTE-À-TÊTE

  There was a sign on the tavern door, saying after the weekend it was closing. What
the hell? I ventured inside.

  Sal greeted me with a slight grin. He wore an orchid lei. I’d never seen him wearing a lei.

  “What’s with the sign?”

  “Oh, we’re done here. Part of the big plan to turn Chinatown into an upscale, gentrified community—”

  I had a vision of some gigantic sweeper machine, clearing the homeless, buildings imploding…. “Boy, does that sound familiar.”

  “—One that feeds into the business district, attracts tourists coming off the cruise ships. You know how it goes. Some parts will remain untouched, for local color. The smell of fish and phô will be OK in that rectangle between Nu‘uanu and River. But keep it away from Fort Street Mall and beyond.

  “This is my last night,” he added.

  “Let’s drink to that.” We drank. Beer on tap for me, and who knows what concoction for Sal.

  “Can’t go to my boat,” I told him.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause now I’m the suspect in the Plotkin murder.”

  “Now why would they think that?”

  “Long story.”

  “I got all night. What can they do, fire me?”

  “Sally here?”

  “In the back. Counting the last set of receipts.”

  • • •

  “Hey, Sally.”

  “Hey, handsome. The way my sister-in-law talks about you, I’m starting to think she’s got the hots for you.”

  “She’s a lot of things, but she’s not delusional…. What’chu gonna do—with the tavern closing?”

  “Take a fucking break. First on the agenda, help look for my niece. Other than that I’ll read books whenever I can. When do I get to read books? And go to Italy. I’ve always wanted to go to Italy. Maybe do a Mediterranean cruise. Be served, for a change.”

  “What’s gonna happen with Sal?”

  “What’s gonna happen? He’ll land on his feet, as he always does. Last guy I’d worry about.”

  I wanted to say something about her brother, but I couldn’t find the words. It would have to be another time. Sally grabbed me by the arm and led me out of her office, sat me down on a stool at the bar and went off to say her goodbyes to other customers.

  In the next hour, as the drinks were poured and drunk, the tavern became the Tahitian Lanai, in terms of spirit. Musicians played, and everyone sang along. The song list was closer to the twenty-first century than the middle twentieth, and though Sal and I were talking for most of that time, we couldn’t help but join in occasionally. At one point I found myself wondering why everyone was singing “Don’t Look Back in Anger,” by Oasis, snarky British accents and all, and then I heard the chorus:

  So Sally can wait, she knows it’s too late …

  By the end of the night Sal and I were the only ones left. We talked and drank, talked and drank. Then we talked and drank some more.

  • • •

  Sal and I staggered out onto the sidewalk at 2 a.m. He sat down at the edge of the sidewalk. I sat next to him.

  “Look at all those shapes,” he said, lifting his head to indicate.

  I could barely make them out. They were nearly invisible as their gray covers melded with the background and the concrete they slept on. “Way more in the parks,” he added. “What they gonna do when this place goes upscale? Get a fucking backhoe and push ’em off? Hose them away? Local people will jam their fricken phones to vote for their favorite American Idol, but call the police when they see somebody being beaten up? I don’t think so.”

  “Aw, c’mon. They’d call the police.”

  “Yeah, but not take the next step. That’s what I mean. You don’t say you’re all about aloha and not show it when it’s inconvenient.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I think clearest when I’m drunk.”

  A police car cruised by, slowed down. Two cops, one riding shotgun. Sal pulled out a badge and held it up for their viewing. I pulled out my PI license and held it up too.

  The cop who wasn’t driving waved slightly to acknowledge whatever it was he thought he was acknowledging. He and his partner went on.

  “I took this job,” Sal said, “to keep guys like ‘Double-A’ from extorting poor Sally. Should have seen the look on his face the first time he saw me bartending.”

  “He ever come back?”

  “Never ever. Tried to send somebody else on my off day. Sally called me. I told her to stall the guy—I live one point eight miles away. I raced down here, gave the fucker a good shakedown and told him there’s a new fucking sheriff in town.”

  I guffawed, coughed, almost choked. I couldn’t breathe. I had to stand up to catch my breath, and almost fell again thanks to the jolt of pain in my ribs. “That’s what you told him?”

  Sal smiled. That alone was huge. This guy never smiled. “I dunno. Something like that. Maybe I said ‘Fire Marshal.’ … In any case, my guess is they made a calculation.”

  “Which was?”

  “Lose the money from the skim of one bar, or kill the bartender and risk the fallout. I think they made the right calculation.”

  My mouth was dry. “Damn, I’m thirsty.”

  “I’ll open up.”

  “No. Don’t. It’s water I need.”

  Sal got up anyway and unbolted the locks. Within a minute he returned with two ice-cold bottles of water. He sat down and handed one to me. We opened the bottle caps and drank.

  “Sucks your soul.”

  “What does?”

  “The more you try to fix it, the more it’s broke. Which is why I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving? For where?”

  “Some place where people will leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Got room for two?”

  “You? You got cases to solve.”

  “Oh yeah,” I sighed.

  We sat for a while in silence. I broke the silence.

  “When you were investigating Lino’s death, did you have a clear suspect?”

  “We had too many suspects.”

  “Like who?”

  “As you know, first we went after Curtis and Joe. Then other names got added to the list.”

  “Did Jerry Herblach’s name come up?”

  Sal shook his head violently, then looked at me.

  “I need to take a piss,” he said and opened up the tavern again. He returned in a few minutes with a bottle of Endurolyte and a leather equipment bag. He locked up again.

  “Let’s take a walk,” he said.

  Sal led me one block down, to Maunakea Street, to Lovey’s Flower Shop.

  “You know,” he began, “what always got me was the angle of the shots. They came from”—he pointed across the street, to the roof of Wo Fat’s—“up there. We’re talking about an eighty-degree angle in relation to the ground.”

  “How’d you figure that?”

  “A bullet mark in the curb.” He led me to it. “Maintenance around here’s so poor it’s still here….” We both went down on one knee to look. “Our forensics team made the measurements and calculations. And I triple-checked everything, just to be sure.” Sal got up and when I tried to do the same I almost lost my balance. I teetered. “The curb bullet was the shot that had missed,” Sal added. “We later found it. It matched the bullet fragments they got out of Lino’s body. Lino was standing”—he pointed—“right there, like he was going to cross the street. Like he might have seen someone he knew. Right then the first shot missed. My guess is he didn’t move, just stood frozen, wondering where it came from. Then two shots, bang, bang, right in the chest. Witnesses saw both Sperry brothers on the scene, but … they were, a, at street level, during the time of the shooting, and b, they had no guns on them. Sure, they could have dumped ’em really fast, but where? We combed every inch of the area. We tested them for powder burns. Nothing.”

  “Wait. I’ve read the report like a hundred times. It said there were suspects, a couple of career criminals with gunpowder residue all over their mitts and arms, but no ballistics match. And
now you’re telling me that Curtis and Joe were clean.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re telling me they weren’t the suspects?”

  “Not for me. I cleared them early on.”

  I felt dizzy. I closed my eyes.

  “You OK?”

  “Yeah. Not a problem.” The moment passed. It was replaced by a feeling of blissful sedation. I liked working as a team.

  Sal dug into his leather bag. Pulled out the Endurolyte. “Here. Take a couple of these. You need electrolytes. They do wonders for your system.”

  After I swallowed two capsules and washed them down with the water, I told Sal, “Danby and I never saw those other names.”

  “You did. Remember the heroin bust?”

  “Different set of names. Different crime.”

  “No, no, NO! Same crime. You see, the real crime was the way they pulled anyone doing any real investigating off the case.”

  “I was taken off the case too. Covering it, I mean…. And whoever killed Lino got away free and clear.”

  “Yeah, which means we got some unfinished business.”

  “What?” I had to chuckle. “You want us to look into an eighteen-year-old case?”

  “Why? You’re too busy? Got something better to do?”

  “Yeah. I’m trying to find the vic’s daughter.”

  “It’s the same case. I’d bet my career on it—if I had a career.”

  “Thought you were done.”

  “Me too, but you’ve whetted my appetite.”

  We walked back to Smith Street, again passing the societal vics sleeping in doorways. Instead of sitting on the sidewalk again, we got into my car.

  Sal was still talking. I’d never heard him talk so much.

  “When we interrogated Joe Sperry, he spilled the beans. I never knew what he meant when he kept saying, ‘You know who was behind it. You know who the hit man is.’ Took me years to figure out what he meant.”

  “You think he meant ‘one of your own’?”

  “Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves now. The first time I spoke with Joe, right on the scene, brother Curtis came by. He gave Joe the freakin’ nastiest look I’ve ever seen. Right then Joe clammed up. After that, nothing. At least for a while. But then Joe, he just couldn’t keep it in. And through the years, every now and then, a bit more information would leak out. And then came the beating….”