For a Song

by Morales, Rodney;

  Reg nodded. His facial expression seemed out of character. That could only mean that he was no longer in character.

  “OK, we’ll cut Dominic loose,” Wayne said.

  “Awesome,” I stood up. That was it?

  “But before you go,” Wayne added.

  Oh shit. What now?

  Reg got up and dug into his shorts pocket. He pulled out a hotel keycard and handed it to me.

  “What the fuck is this?” The imprint on the card was Hawaii Prince Hotel Waikiki.

  “Thought you might want a better bed, for the next few nights.”

  Wayne stood up, out of character too. “We thought we owed you that much.”

  “Why there? Why not here?”

  “For one, it’s down the block, nearer to your boat,” Reg said. “Two, this hotel’s only three stars.”

  “Three-and-a-half,” Wayne corrected.

  “And we thought you earned four-star treatment.”

  “Especially after staying in that two-star dump in Kona,” Wayne added.

  T-Rex and Stoner were back.

  “Taxpayer money? No thanks.”

  “Paid for already. You might as well take it,” Reg said.

  “Once you see it, you will thank us. I promise,” Wayne said.

  “Is it bugged?”

  “Whole friggin’ world’s bugged.”

  No car downstairs. Must have been the plan. Sal and Norm must have known this was how it would play. But why? Why go through all this trouble?

  When I reached the Prince, I walked through the luxurious doors, walked on the luxurious carpet, thinking what a wreck I must look like. I had no change of clothes. The little money I had was probably still damp. What if someone stops me?

  Well, can’t hurt to look at the suite. It was near enough to my boat. Maybe I could shower here and head there after.

  I got into the elevator and pressed 25.

  When the elevator door opened I allowed myself to limp down the splendidly carpeted hall. Found the room with the number that matched the one on my keycard. Slipped the card in the slot. A green light went on. I opened the door.

  She stood there, like she was expecting me.

  “Oh my god.” Her hands covered her face.

  “Hey, Mia.”

  She came up to me and ran her fingers along my wreck of a face. Then she gently put her arms around me and folded me in, whispering. “They pulled me out, Kawika.”

  “I know, Mia … I know.”

  Within minutes she was gently removing my clothes, removing hers, and we both stepped into the hot, luxurious, cascading shower. In my mind, she said as she carefully soaped me with a washcloth, you were never a client.

  Epilogue

  GRAVE CONCERNS

  (Thursday, June 21) She was a beauty from afar.

  Sitting alongside Lino’s gravestone, I watched as this young woman wearing a summer dress sauntered toward me. She was carrying a lei. She stopped when she saw my shadowed figure and was about to turn and run when I stood up and waved my hand. She recognized me. She came up to me and we embraced.

  “Looks like you’re healing well,” she said as she backed her head up to check my face.

  “On the surface.” My ribs still ached when I tried to run, and I’ve tried to on more than one occasion. “Thanks for saving me.”

  “God,” she said with a relief chuckle, “you really had us going.”

  I wished I could remember. I only knew what I had been told, by Joe, by Richards, and by Kay herself when she called, on behalf of her mother, to thank me. I had been rescued and taken via paddle-board to a house at Black Point. Kay and Matt were at that house, as I learned after the fact. I also learned that Joe and Declan had been giving me mouth-to-mouth and were pounding on my chest—it still hurts—when Matt came and took charge, shouting at them that they were doing it wrong, that my breathing was OK, that it looked more like I was suffering from some kind of brain trauma—either a concussion or an aneurysm. Fearing a subarachnoid hemorrhage, Matt called for an ambulance. When he did so he still had no idea what had transpired out in Portlock, so, for my sake, he, Kay and the others were putting themselves at risk. On the way to the hospital they got the call from Curtis, who explained, I’m sure quite curtly, that they no longer had to hide. Kay immediately phoned her mom, who had already been assured by Declan, after Minerva had threatened to wring his neck, that she and Matt were all right. Kay also told her mom that the guy she hired to find me was being taken to the hospital. Minerva, putting two and two together in a way that would befuddle any logician, saw me as some kind of hero in all this. She was so grateful that even before going to see her daughter, she came to the hospital to thank me. So I heard. If I had been conscious I would have said Thanks for what? I didn’t find them. I was the one that needed rescuing.

  Feeling the weight of things half-remembered, I sighed.

  “Still feel junk about it?”

  “I was hired to find you. Not be rescued by you.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “Somebody already did that.”

  “Same result, right?”

  It took me a moment. Then I said, albeit sheepishly, “Right.”

  Kay bent over and dusted the loose dirt off the grave with her hand. She placed the pikake lei next to the lei I had placed earlier—mine was plumeria—then sat facing me on the grass, her dress carefully arranged to cover her crotch and upper legs. When she looked straight at me, I saw the same face I had looked at so many times in that beach photo, a face that seemed to carry the weight of the world.

  She fingered the pikake strands. “They cut him down on the street, you know. Like he was some worthless piece of garbage.”

  “He loved you dearly.” I pulled at the weeds that had infiltrated the grass. Cast them into the air.

  “I had him for such a short time. You know, I remember moments … instances. They’re incredibly vivid. I relive them all the time. Cherish them.”

  “I have no doubt he did too. Cherish his moments with you.”

  “My mom has always claimed that my presence changed him—for the better.”

  “No doubt.” I yanked out more weeds and threw them. There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask her, but I didn’t know where to start.

  She moved the lei and began picking out the little bits of dirt and crud imbedded in the stone.

  “He would have been fifty-five today. Didn’t even get to see forty. Didn’t get to see his little girl grow up.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  She looked straight at me, her eyes teary. “No. Not fair.”

  “He’d be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

  “That’s quite a low bar.” She smoothed the grass around her. “I grew up in a world where the criminals—I mean the ones who go to jail, the ones whose mugs are labeled ‘most wanted’ … they’re the only honest people I’ve known. Politicians … cops … lawyers … they’re the worst. They’re the ones behind all the bullshit. Ruining people’s lives. They’re the real fucking criminals.”

  “I take it you’re not including Matt.”

  “I’m excluding Matt. Why do you think he doesn’t practice?”

  “What was that UCLA thing? Something about you guys going after Herblach?”

  “Oh, we were coming after him. Ready to take him to court.”

  “What happened?”

  She brushed a strand of hair off of her face. “What happened was….” She sighed. “He had the one thing I wanted more than anything, more than nailing him for stealing my dad’s song, even more than finding out who killed my dad….”

  “What was it?”

  She shut her eyes. “The recordings. My dad singing. His voice. Herblach told us, if we came after him, he’d destroy the tapes.”

  “So you made a deal.”

  She opened her eyes, staring blankly at the gravestone. “We had to…. Better the world hear the voice of Lino Johnson than a few people getting ret
ribution.”

  “Sounds bittersweet.”

  She looked straight at me. “When is it not bittersweet?”

  I wanted to say, you’re too young to think that way, but seeing what she had already lived through…. I pulled out one long weed and tossed it like an arrow through the air. What I did say was, “Do you have the tapes?”

  “Not yet. We’ve been working out the details. In fact, Matt’s negotiating right as we speak…. But don’t worry. All is not lost.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It doesn’t have to be us, you know. The authorities aren’t through with Jerry, not by a long shot. He still has to deal with people who will be coming after him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They’re seeing what Blankenship offers. We calculate that there’s no way Mr. B is going to fold on Kamana—he does want to live—but he may give up Herblach.”

  “What’s he got on him?”

  “Drugs, first of all. That’s how he got his first stash of money, way before he produced his first film…. And murder’s still a possibility. Sal said Herblach’s a suspect in two murders, my dad’s and Gerard’s.”

  Gerard’s. In all the madness I had forgotten about poor Mr. Plotkin. Forgotten about his daughter. I didn’t want to go to his memorial service, fearing my presence might be misperceived. His friends and family needed peace.

  “Frankly,” Kay continued, “I don’t think he has anything to do with Gerard’s murder. There’s just no motive. But I do know he’s on the run.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Right now, he’s in Bali, with Penelope. You know, Penny Lane. He says he’s on vacation. But smart money says he’s waiting to see what happens. You see, Kawika, Indonesia doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S.”

  Sal’s words came back, even the way in which he said it to me:

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

  “This drug thing—”

  “Like I was saying, he got his seed money dealing heroin. Curtis and Joe knew it. My dad knew it. When Curtis was arrested in that heroin bust, he kept quiet. He figured that Herblach, with his connections, would make some kind of deal. It didn’t happen. He let Curtis and the others take the fall. And what no one seems to know, or cares to know, for that matter, is that my dad tried to take matters in his own hands. He warned Herblach that he was going to the cops with what he knew. But he found out too late that Sergeant or Lieutenant Froom—whatever he was back then—not only was he in on the deal, he had told Herblach he’d take care of things.”

  “Who’s your source on this?”

  “Curtis.”

  “Froom just lost his son. As you probably know, he gave up his position with HPD.”

  “Divine retribution.”

  “If you found conclusive evidence that Froom Sr. was involved in your dad’s murder, would you still want to nail him? Or is it enough that he lost his son?”

  “His son? You mean the budding serial killer? I’d bet anything that he’s the one behind Gerard’s death. If his dad killed my dad….” She stopped, shook her head slowly, then muttered, “… the fucker should pay.” She was choking on her words. “Some things you can forgive, some things … you just can’t.” Kay shuddered. “There’s no statute of limitations on that kind of hurt.”

  I got to my knees and reached for her. Pulled her in to my embrace.

  “I’m OK,” she whispered.

  I sat back and looked at her. Her eyes were riveted into mine. I could envision her as Song Jin, saw how, on the big screen, she could move an audience. But I also saw the little girl who had lost her daddy.

  I had nothing else to say.

  I thanked her again for helping save my life. She thought I was being silly, but little did she know that she had saved me in more ways than one. I was the one who had gone missing. When they got me out of the water and to the hospital, I must have been conscious enough to know I was in good hands. Comforted enough to close my eyes and let whatever had to happen, happen. Now, though still physically impaired, I felt oddly rejuvenated, like I was getting my mojo back, finally. Finally prepared, at least mentally, for whatever was next.

  I’d been thinking a lot about Ethan Daniels, strategizing a way I could help him, without his knowing, help him get his daughters back. They had lost their daddy, but maybe not for good.

  I felt like running/swimming/biking with Mia—yah, right. As she kept reminding me, You need to be patient, Kawika.

  Things were OK with Mia, but we both carried baggage, and I feared that if we TSA’d each other, we might not make it through. We’d talk about going to Tahiti and other places, but we never talked commitment. Her reason? I have no idea. Mine? I’m not even sure myself, though as I got up and pulled my wallet out of my pocket to ferret out my business card I saw another card, one given to me by a certain medical examiner….

  I offered Kay my card and asked her to please stay in touch. She got up and embraced me, hard as I could stand. As we hugged, I could feel the frightening fragility of a woman who carries the weight of the world on her delicate shoulders. Desirous as I was to ease her load, even just a bit; desirous as I was to help balance the ledger of things gone wrong with things gone right; desirous as I was to get back to Mia’s apartment, where I’d been staying these last few days, I still couldn’t shake the notion that a woman who carries the weight of the dead might be more my type.

  I left the cemetery.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wish to thank the following people:

  Cristina Bacchilega and Paul Lyons, for friendship beyond collegial, and for facilitatin’.

  The staff at UH Press.

  Westchester Book Services and copy editor David “Birdman” Heath, for extraordinary work.

  The anonymous outside evaluators and peer reviewers, for their comments and valuable suggestions.

  Ian Lind, whose words I borrowed. The italicized words attributed to Orse Levinson in chapter 10 are his and I am grateful that he gave me permission to use them.

  The crew at Mocha Java—Aaronelle & Carol-Lynn Kaneakua, that great mother-daughter team; Dominic Takis; Victor Maia Jubé; Rene Almoradie (Mr. Fist-Bump); Arnolfo Brion; latecomers Rose and Dave; and predecessors Connie, Jesse, and dear dear Misty—for creating an atmosphere conducive to writing.

  The gang of artists at the Gallery at Ward Centre (another brick-and-mortar sadly gone), especially Doug Young and Mark Norseth, for the conversations.

  Richard Lessa and James Moses, for guitar/therapy.

  And other friends and colleagues who contributed in multifarious ways: Jim Caron, Jeffrey Carroll, Lynne Fitzek, Cindy Franklin, Muffet Jourdane, Eric Komori, Laura Lyons, Gino Merez, Cat Sawai, and my Van Gogh brothers and sisters, who are like family.

  And Dan-Michael Morales and Malia Umi, who are family.

  And, most of all, I wish to thank Holly Yamada, for her helpful comments on an early draft, for suggesting the title, for Lola, and for keeping me sane.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rodney Morales teaches creative writing at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. He is the editor of Ho‘iHo‘i Hou: A Tribute to George Helm and Kimo Mitchell. He is also the author of The Speed of Darkness, a short story collection, and When the Shark Bites, a novel.