For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  “When was this?”

  “April of 2000. Even though we had left it as a cold case years before, I just couldn’t help but look into it every now and then. Like in the mid-nineties, when I got wind of that Herblach guy, and learned about his contentious relationship with Lino. I was fucking pissed. I tell you, if I’d known about him earlier I would have hunted him down. I would have leaned on that fucker so hard…. I even thought about the phrase, hit man, the way Joe had put emphasis on those words. Joe’s no dummy. He knew Jerry had some ‘hits’ in the music business. But every time I tried to get the boys in Homicide interested, they’d remind me that I was in Vice. So, nothing …

  “Back when I was investigating Lino’s murder I still got along pretty well with Froom, and when they formed CIS and put him in charge, I was the first guy he brought into it. Frankly, I was flattered. Thought they thought highly of me. What I realized way later, and what made me turn against them, was they just wanted me close. They just wanted to watch me fall and get my hands dirty.”

  “Heard that one before.”

  “Before I blew the whistle, I learned of Froom’s relationship to Blankenship, and by extension Kamana. That sent me back to the Lino Johnson case for the thousandth time. But this time I began thinking, maybe it wasn’t Herblach; maybe it was union shit. And maybe, just maybe, Sergeant Froom—he was a sergeant back then—maybe he was the hit man. Think about this. Why’d he get promoted so fast?”

  “What would be his motive?”

  “No clear motive, except whatever rewards he’d reap for being a dirty cop. He helped cover up the heroin bust, I know that now. He helped make sure only low-level guys went to jail. He made sure the public would never know who was behind it.”

  “There’s a drug connection to Kay’s disappearance too.”

  “It’s always been about drugs, my friend. From day one.”

  “Let me take you home.”

  The Acura’s engine was slow starting. It took me a few tries. Maybe I had drained the battery charging my phone. I was almost ready to lift the hood when it roared to life. “One-point-eight miles, huh?” I told Sal, who was having trouble fastening his seat belt. “Let’s see if you’re correct.”

  “From the tavern door to my door. It’s exactly one-point-eight.”

  I turned into King Street, heading east.

  “So Joe was beaten because he knew too much and was leaking information?” I said at zero-point-four.

  “He was handcuffed. Think about it. Who on earth could get a guy like that to allow himself to be handcuffed?”

  I braked. “The cops. Your guys. I mean, your ex-guys.”

  “Yeah. My guys. They frisked him, made like they were arresting him on some trumped-up charge. He probably thought nothing of it. Then, once they got the cuffs on him, the gloves came off. My theory is he was beaten because they thought he was talking. You can go. The light’s green.” I hit the gas. Zero-point-nine.

  “Well, wasn’t he? Talking, that is?” I said as we passed the one-mile mark.

  Sal shook his head and kept shaking his head. “Curtis was the snitch.”

  Curtis was the snitch, Curtis was the snitch. Does not compute.

  “You know,” Sal continued, “when I first heard about Joe being beaten up I was so fucking pissed, but mostly because I thought whoever beat him up thought he was the one who had shot Lino. I thought it was a misguided attempt at retaliation. Boy, how wrong can a guy be?”

  “Any other reason you think Froom might have been involved in Lino’s killing?”

  “Oh, just circumstantial shit. For one, He was the first cop on the scene. Even before Joe had run into Lovey’s Flower Shop to make the 9-1-1 call, Froom had already called it in. Much later I figured he had been there all along and I figured that the Brothers Sperry were supposed to be the scapegoats. Years later, when I learned how Froom was connected to Blankenship, and how that guy Herblach had an agenda too…. It’s right there. My house.”

  “I have one-point-nine. Almost two.”

  “That’s ’cause of the way you went. If you drove back, and took Beretania, not King, you’d see what I mean.”

  “I’m not driving back.”

  “No. You’re staying over. The way you’re driving, I don’t wanna feel guilty when you get pulled over for DUI.”

  As we got out of the car I said, “You were saying about Herblach?”

  “He’s the kind of guy who’d hire someone to have it done, and Froom, back then, was the kind of guy who’d allow himself to be hired. Work that into the calculation.”

  “If there’s a connection between those two, any connection at all, we may have something.”

  “We just might. To what end, who the fuck knows?”

  • • •

  (Day 18—Thursday, June 7) I had fallen asleep on Sal’s futon, which in spite of my injuries was far more comfortable than the cabin berth I’d been sleeping in, and when I awoke, at 7:30, I felt oddly refreshed—that is, except for the slight headache and if I made an abrupt move, I’d feel like I’d just been punched in the ribs.

  Sal was already up and about. At least he wasn’t gone.

  We ate some eggs and croissants that he had dug out of the fridge. Drank coffee he had brewed. He brewed good coffee. It was like he had spent whatever was left of his settlement money on an espresso machine.

  Sal used his HPD contacts to locate the whereabouts of Jerry Herblach. After learning that he used the downtown office of deejay entrepreneur Muff Thompson when he was in town, we drove over to the Pacific Center in the Acura.

  According to the receptionist with the fake plumeria attached to her ear, Herblach was out of town.

  I thought about the play that evening. Helen had said he’d be coming. But now we were being told he wasn’t even on the island. Though I had told Helen that I wouldn’t miss it for the world, going to the play was now the stupid move. Our target wouldn’t even be there.

  As soon as we left the lobby, I called Helen and told her that from what I knew Jerry wasn’t coming, so she should give my ticket to someone else. She responded quickly with, “I just had a conversation with him. He is coming. Who told you he wasn’t?”

  “His receptionist.”

  “Dawn is trained to give people the runaround. You should know that, Mr. Apana. If you’re not someone who could make him even richer, he has no time for you. That’s the standard response. I just talked to him less than an hour ago.”

  “Which means you’re able to make him richer?”

  “Not exactly. It just means I know Dawn.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’ll be there, but I might need a second ticket.”

  “We’re sold out. But no worries, I’ll scrounge up another seat. You may not be able to sit together. Hope she doesn’t mind.”

  “No problem. And it’s a he, not a she.”

  “O—kay.” A lot was said in her tone. “I’ll have another ticket for you at Will Call.”

  “How’d you get him to go? Mr. In-It-For-Himself?”

  “Simple. I made it about him.”

  I dropped Sal off at his apartment. We agreed to rendezvous early this evening at the theater. I thought it would be worth the effort to get onto my boat and get a change of clothes and maybe a shower and somehow elude arrest.

  It was disquietingly quiet. No one around. Rian, nowhere to be seen. The boat harbor looked like desolation row.

  Still, I didn’t want to risk lingering. I grabbed everything I thought I’d need for the next couple of days and piled clothes, shoes, accessories, my laptop, golf clubs, and tools in the trunk of the Acura. I called Brenda and asked how soon they needed the car back. She said, “Take all the time you need, Dave. We’re all right.”

  I drove toward downtown, with no particular destination in mind. Ended up at the state library. As I parked the Acura near ‘Iolani Palace I realized I hadn’t talked to Minerva since that day at Kahala Mall, the day she uttered Declan. The way she said the name, the wa
y she smirked knowingly, told me there was a lot more going on in this area than she had let on. You hired me, Minerva. C’mon, work with me.

  I phoned her. No answer, and I didn’t want to wait for the voicemail prompt. Fuck me.

  In the library I looked up all I could about Declan. As a football player, in his junior year, he set a state record for unassisted tackles. In his senior year, he broke his own record. He went on to USC, where he majored in history. In his junior year he was a second-team All-American and a seventh-round draft pick for the Seattle Seahawks. He was traded to Detroit. In his second year in pro football he was not only a starter but a second-team all-pro. Then came the injury….

  I looked for more information on the Island News website: Kalani grad, 3.5 GPA, magna cum laude. Many colleges courted him—Oklahoma, Notre Dame included—but he chose USC because he wanted to play on the West Coast.

  Hmm. Kay had gone to L.A. too, when she transferred from Stanford.

  Declan played for USC from 2001 through 2003, when he chose to enter the draft rather than play his senior year. Played under Pete Carroll and Norm Chow. I looked at the rosters for those years, scrolling through the names. One name stood out: defensive back Dominic Serrano.

  I called Connie.

  She answered right away, and was happy to tell me that Donny had finagled an early release. She didn’t know the half of it.

  “Did he attend USC?”

  “Oh, yes. You didn’t know?”

  “No. Seems he played at the same time as Declan—”

  “Yeah, for one year, I think. Donny must have been a senior when Declan arrived. Donny took care of him, the same way he used to take care of his little brother.

  “Probably introduced Declan to drugs,” she added. “You know it was Declan who introduced Kay to Matt?”

  “No. I didn’t know.” God, if they thought to tell me half of what they know I’d have my case solved in no time.

  I told Connie it was great to hear some good news for a change, bid her goodbye, and headed for Diamond Head Theatre.

  54

  THE PLAY’S THE THING REDUX

  Brenda’s fellow reporter from K-KOI was on the scene. She was a lot shorter in person. She held the mike up toward the mug of Jerry Herblach, who was hastily saying something like “This is a tribute to Gerard. The actors are first-rate. He was a visionary.”

  “What’s your next film project?” she asked.

  “Tonight is not about me.”

  When I tapped his shoulder he brushed me off, saying “not now.”

  I saw Les Biden across the way. When our eyes met, he seemed surprised. He nodded just slightly, to acknowledge my presence. At the same time, a reporter type came up to him with a pad and pen. I could read his lips: No comment.

  • • •

  I was standing with Sal behind the last row when the play began. When an usher came by to tell us to go to our seats Sal flipped open his ever-ready wallet, displayed a badge and said we were working security. Sal didn’t want to sit through an entire play, so, a few minutes in, he stepped outside. I wanted to join him outside, but what kept me inside and attentive was the way certain lines resonated, lines like behind the death of her father….

  When two masked men reported to some shadowy figure, I saw them reporting to Jerry Herblach. That made me wonder, how did Herblach view these scenes?

  During intermission—I didn’t go for the wine this time—I went over to confer with Les.

  “Haven’t seen Mia since the night I stayed over. When did you last see her?”

  “The Case of the Disappearing House-Sitters. That’s my next movie…. Look, Kawika—it’s Kawika, right? I’m as puzzled as you. I have no idea what the fuck is going on.” Then he added, “All I know is Mia’s a big girl.”

  “That’s what you said about Kay.”

  That gave him pause. “I did, didn’t I?”

  “You guys left in a hurry the other morning.”

  “Haste is how we roll. People see the glamorous side of the film business. In reality, it’s long, crazy hours.” He waved at someone he knew, and used it as an excuse to walk away.

  “Introduce me to Jerry,” I said before he could get out of earshot.

  “Sorry,” he said, not even turning back to address me. “You’re on your own with that one.”

  Fuck.

  “Waiting on a Friend” again hoovered the crowd in. It reminded me of how hurricanes work: They don’t push, they pull. I had been sucked into a hurricane of a case, and each time I thought I’d found the eye, I’d learn that it wasn’t the eye, that maybe there was no eye. Because, really, this was no hurricane, so quit it with the forced analogies, Kawika.

  The play continued to go on as before. Where were the promised changes? I kept seeing Matthew in Pierre, kept imagining Kay as Belvidira, but these were my impositions. The play never deviated as Helen had said it would.

  At least not until near the end.

  Instead of the stab-fest that closed the version I had seen two weeks ago, all the cast members came out, each and every one had an instrument. Either a guitar, a lute, or something percussive. They began to sing a song that went like this:

  Take from me, this blackened herb

  Dear blackened heart, surrender

  Its potency will surely curb

  Your taste for legal tender

  Take from me, this heart you lack

  Wear it like the ocean’s roar

  Take from me, this herb now black

  Leave me on the shore

  As for me, my ship is gone

  My slate is blank, my dinner cold

  I have only you to thank

  It’s in the bank, or so I’m told

  The vault is empty, my soul’s bereft

  There is nothing, nothing left—

  (A lone voice, speaking not singing:)

  —Just the story of one man

  Who ran afoul of Shaftesbury

  See-ee-ee you around

  (Some actors leave the stage.)

  See-ee-ee you around

  (More actors leave.)

  See-ee-ee you around

  (The rest of the actors, save one, all leave.)

  (A lone voice:)

  What is left will no longer astound!—

  —Dream on, Gerard!

  (The lone actor runs off)

  I walked out. Sal was by a tree, mashing a cigarette with his sandals.

  “I fucking hate plays,” he said.

  “You heard the song?”

  “What song?”

  “The one they sang at the end. Seems whoever wrote it was implicating both Blankenship and Herblach.”

  “In a song?”

  “Yes. What say we have a talk with the impresario?”

  We headed back in.

  We found ourselves witness to some kind of ceremony.

  Cast members had returned onstage to enthusiastic applause. The actor who played Pierre then thanked Herblach for his monetary contributions, for his ongoing support, and asked him to please come up to receive a token of their thanks. Jerry Herblach hustled onto the stage. Penelope, still dressed as Belvidira, came out and presented him with a plaque, a gold-plated stage figure set in wood. Herblach accepted the award graciously, directing most of his praise toward Gerard Plotkin, calling him a risk-taking visionary.

  Minutes later, as he headed backstage with plaque in hand, Sal and I cut him off.

  “Got a story to pitch to you, Mr. Herblach,” I began.

  “How’d you get back here? Who the fuck are you?”

  A large bodyguard type immediately came between us. Sal grabbed the guy and launched him against the hallway wall. He seemed to get the message.

  I flipped open my wallet to show Herblach my PI license. “Before I tell you my story—which would make a great film, I guarantee you—one question: Caroline Johnson, aka Lino Johnson’s daughter, where is she?”

  His deeply tanned face went pale. “I have no idea what you’re
talking about.”

  “Yes you do,” Sal said as he cracked his knuckles.

  “We really need to find her, Mr. Herblach.”

  “Look, I don’t need to talk to you. Get a warrant, get a subpoena. Other wise, get lost.” He started to walk off.

  “Wait,” I said as I cut him off. “I’m not through pitching my story.”

  Sal grabbed Herblach by the collar and shoved him against the wall. Jerry dropped his plaque. It broke into several pieces. The bodyguard did nothing.

  “Cheap shit,” I said as I looked down at the fragments.

  Jerry muttered something incomprehensible.

  “So here’s the story,” I continued. “Young couple enticed to Vegas to secure the funding for their film. They get the royal treatment. Room at the Venetian, Cirque du Soleil shows, they get to see the boxing match of the century … everything’s all set. The funding’s there. Only one glitch. A favor’s needed. You know, quid pro quo. Some guy in Mexico needs a ride into the U.S. Since the young couple know how to navigate a boat, they’re given the simple task of delivering said stranger. That, they’re told, is the deal-breaker. Only thing, when they get to Mexico, they find something’s fishy. Maybe it’s not a stranger they’re being asked to deliver; hmm, maybe it’s drugs, or women.

  “Now doesn’t that have the makings of a blockbuster, Jerry? Can I call you Jerry?”

  The actor who played Pierre came by. Sal crossed his arms and stood in his path. He backed off.

  “I get stories pitched to me every fucking day. What can I tell you? It’s been done. Can I go now?”

  More cast members were coming out of the dressing room, some only half-dressed. They watched us from a distance, murmuring amongst themselves.