He got so tired of the chase, of boring evenings rehashing his life story for the twentieth time in a month, that he settled for satisfying his sexual needs with prostitutes, both in Denver and when he was traveling. In Honolulu, after a number of failures, he discontinued contact with any of the numerous escort services, which took up a whole small section in the Yellow Pages. He liked to walk the Kalakaua strip, breathing the soft, late-evening air, and make his choice from the many young women who discreetly and not so discreetly offered their services. Lieberman often talked to several women before selecting one, negotiating a price, then hailing a taxi to take them to his hotel.
His experiences with the escort services were that they seemed to send whatever girl happened to be available, paying no attention to the height, weight, or coloring he had specifically requested. He had a number of unpleasant experiences—women appeared at his door, who, though young and attractive, were not sexually appealing to him. He had particular difficulty with a tall, toothsome Filipino girl, who was insulted even after Lieberman paid her full fee and tipped her handsomely.
“I earn my money, okay?” she said several times, leaning against the inside of his hotel room door. “Why you no like me? I’m clean. See doctor alla time. You no have to look at me. Lie down, think about girlfriend. I do you good, okay?”
Another time a combative Samoan woman made serious threats against his person after he declined her services, though he paid her in full.
On other occasions he made love to women who displeased him in some minor way. They were too thin, or had scratchy voices, or had shaved their pubic hair, something he particularly disliked.
It took him two weeks to make what he considered a suitable contact. He spotted her standing on the sidewalk in front of a Mrs. Fields cookie shop, on Kaiulani Street. She was staring boldly at passersby, nibbling a chocolate-fudge cookie, wearing a knee-length brown leather skirt, a white haltertop, and white high heels; she was blue-eyed with reddish-blond hair expertly styled. She has a mind of her own, Lieberman thought, and she radiates sexuality.
“Hi,” said Lieberman, stopping directly in front of her.
The girl, Shaleen, eyed him up and down, licked cookie crumbs from her lips, said nothing.
“So how’s business?” asked Lieberman.
“How do you know I’m not somebody’s expensive wife who just walked around the corner from her suite at the Hyatt to buy a cookie and take in some night air?”
“That’s exactly who I assumed you were,” said Lieberman, bowing slightly. “I also assumed you were a woman looking for excitement.”
“And you’re a man looking for excitement?”
Lieberman nodded.
“Do you have any idea how I hate being cutesy like this?” said Shaleen.
Lieberman smiled. “So do I,” he said.
“The kind of excitement you have in mind, with the kind of woman you have in mind, costs,” said Shaleen.
“It costs what it costs,” said Lieberman.
“We can get a cab at the Princess Kaiulani. We’ll go to your hotel,” said Shaleen.
Shaleen was what Lieberman was looking for, an accomplished lover, an intelligent companion, a woman with both common and business sense.
Early in their acquaintance, as soon as Shaleen decided that she would allow Lieberman to become a steady customer, Shaleen set down guidelines.
“I don’t think you’re the type to get all foolish over a working girl, but let’s get a few things straight just in case. First of all, I don’t have a heart of gold. I’m a businesswoman. I’m not a lesbian and I was never sexually abused. I come from a perfectly normal, middle-class family. I do what I do for the money, and for the excitement.
“You know what I did after my first month on the street? I flew to Switzerland and opened myself a bank account—pretty smart for an 18-year-old, wouldn’t you say? I’ve sent a little envelope of cash off in the mail every few days ever since. I’m 27 years old, Lieberman, I don’t do drugs, I don’t have an old man, I don’t drink myself senseless like most chicks in this business. Most whores give away their money because they feel guilty about how they earned it, well not me. I don’t feel guilty and I bet I’m worth more than you were at 27, maybe even more than you are now.”
“You probably are. I have something called taxes that bleed me white. Perhaps you should be paying me.”
“I’m gonna retire on my thirtieth birthday. Maybe I’ll just live off interest, or maybe I’ll buy a hotel, or maybe I’ll go into land development. Need a partner?” said Shaleen, laughing.
During his third week in Honolulu, more out of boredom than anything else, Lieberman decided to rent an apartment instead of living out the winter in a hotel. He chose a rental office within walking distance of his hotel. It was the moment that he was introduced to the rental agent that he fell in love.
How could anyone not love a face like that? he thought. That she was special to Lieberman only, he knew to be true, but who else was he shopping for? Her name was Kate McSomething. He didn’t assimilate her last name, but he could tell from her drawl that she was from either Texas or Oklahoma. She was redheaded with green eyes and freckles, and the twang in her speech made Lieberman’s knees weak.
Lieberman had trouble keeping his agitation under control. He asked her numerous unnecessary questions, discovered by looking at her left hand that she was married, was able to establish through questioning that her husband was an officer at nearby Fort DeRussy. In spite of the fact that the young woman was very busy, Lieberman tried to make the interview last forever. He was disappointed that she could not take him around Waikiki to view apartments; her job kept her at her desk. She was wearing a white peasant blouse that exposed her tanned and freckled shoulders. While Lieberman questioned and salivated, Kate got on the phone and set up appointments with apartment owners or tenants, or set aside a number of keys to vacant units. Her phones were ringing constantly, making it difficult for Lieberman to pry personal information from her. He accepted the keys and a paper with his list of appointments. He loved her large, looping handwriting. He held the paper to his nose when he reached the street hoping some brief scent of her had remained behind. He wanted to rent all her available apartment units, leaving her free to deal only with him. Over the next two days he viewed nearly every apartment her firm had available. When an appointment had been made, he felt he had to keep it, and did. He would report back to Kate after each one. If she just gave him keys he often did not view the apartment at all, simply going to a nearby restaurant for coffee until sufficient time had passed that he could return the key and stare at the face of his loved one again.
On the second day he waited for over an hour outside the office, but out of view from the window, planning to intercept her when she emerged to go to lunch. But she did not emerge. Finally he went back in and returned the last key he had been given. The remains of a sandwich and salad tray were in her wastebasket, a can of Diet 7UP on the edge of her desk.
On the third day he invited her to lunch. She refused.
“I work right through,” she said. “That way I can go home a half hour earlier.”
The next day Lieberman tried a new tack.
“I’ve taken up so much of your time,” he said, smiling with as much charm as he could muster, “I’d like to repay you.” He waved off her objection and continued. “Tomorrow I’ll make reservations for lunch,” and he named a revolving restaurant at the top of a 45-storey building.
Kate smiled and Lieberman could feel his heart melt with desire.
“I’ll have to dress up,” Kate said. “Usually, since I don’t go out of the office, I just wear jeans.
Lieberman shaved twice, changed his shirt three times in preparation for the date. Kate wore a white dress with a single palm frond patterned near her right shoulder, and matching green shoes. As they walked among the tourists on Kalakaua Avenue, Lieberman was ecstatic. He made pointless conversation, tried to conjure up ways of making
contact with Kate. He managed to guide her by the arm across a couple of streets, into and out of the elevator at the restaurant. As his fingers touched her, he tried to will her to thrill to the contact the same way he did. The lunch was pleasant, but Kate didn’t give him any hint of being infatuated with him. He told her his life story, heavy on the widowhood and loneliness, short on his age, the fact that he had a son nearly as old as she, long on his financial success, without appearing ostentatious.
He found out a little about her. She was from Oklahoma, had been in Hawaii for a year; her husband’s name was Larry, and he was stationed at Fort DeRussy.
Lieberman was cautious not to make any sexual overtures that might frighten her away. He would take his time. He watched her eating a sliced papaya for dessert. The succulent yellow fruit disappearing into her mouth made Lieberman faint with desire.
“I’d be honored if we could do this again, soon,” Lieberman said, when he returned her to her office.
“There’s no reason,” the girl said, staring at him frankly.
“To make an old man happy,” he said. “I hadn’t realized how lonely I’ve been,” he said. “Friendship only,” he added quickly. “You’re so young, and married. I’m not making a pass.”
“I enjoyed myself, too,” she said. “I don’t see why not then, in a couple of days. While I think of it, I’ve got a new listing you may want to look at.”
The next week, Lieberman rented an apartment from her, a beautiful, furnished one-bedroom in Discovery Bay Tower, on Ala Moana Boulevard, with an unobstructed view of both the ocean and Diamond Head.
“I’d invite you to my housewarming,” he said to Kate, “you and your husband, except I don’t know anyone else here in Honolulu; that would be kind of a small crowd.”
Kate smiled at him. She wrinkled her nose when she smiled. Lieberman thought he would die of happiness each time she did that.
“I don’t suppose,” he went on quickly, “that you’d be able to have dinner with me? Just a friendly celebration, you understand. Is there an evening you’d be free?”
To his surprise Kate allowed it as her husband bowled in a league Thursday evenings. Lieberman hired a limousine, picked her up at the apartment on Date Street where she lived, took her to Nick’s Fishmarket, probably the most exciting restaurant in Honolulu, the place where visiting celebrities visited or were entertained. Cheryl Tiegs was there, as was film critic Gene Siskel. Kate had hoped to see Sylvester Stallone, or Bette Midler, both of whom were in the islands, and had been sighted at Nick’s on previous evenings.
“It must be wonderful to live this way all the time,” Kate sighed.
“Only when you have someone you love to share it with,” said Lieberman, fearing for an instant that he had said too much.
But Kate smiled sweetly and said, “You really should be looking around, not wasting your time with someone like me.”
“If I don’t have a sweetheart, at least I have a friend,” said Lieberman, forcing a cheerful smile.
At Nick’s, Lieberman danced with her for the first time, held her in his arms, smelled her hair, explored the contours of her body, running his hand up and down her back as they danced. Lieberman was in heaven. He controlled his desires carefully. At the end of the evening, when he walked her to her door, he took both of her hands in his, leaned in and kissed her cheek. She didn’t mind. In fact she stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth, a non-sexual kiss of thanks.
Lieberman floated back to the limousine. When he got home he called Shaleen’s answering service and left a message. She arrived at his apartment a little after midnight.
“This is my busy time, Lieberman. It’s gonna cost you.”
He handed her a signed check. “Fill in the blanks,” he said. “It costs what it costs.”
Lieberman, wanting to know everything about Kate and her husband, called in a private detective. His name was Mr. Woo. He looked like a busboy, Lieberman thought. He reminded himself that the detective came highly recommended by a reputable lawyer. Mr. Woo wore a cheap Panama hat, a cheap Hawaiian shirt, baggy black trousers and sandals. He was about five feet tall, and so thin he might have recently escaped from a country with a food shortage.
Lieberman explained what he wanted to know.
“Involves surveillance,” said Mr. Woo. “Time is expensive.”
“It costs what it costs,” said Lieberman. “Money I’ve got, information I don’t.”
He gave Mr. Woo their names, Larry and Kate McInally, their address, the name of the rental agency she worked for and his rank at Fort DeRussy.
“They must never know. You must be certain that anyone you talk to won’t report back to them.”
Woo bowed slightly, opened his mouth as if to speak.
“I know,” said Lieberman, “expensive.” He took out his checkbook. “As I’m sure you know, everyone has a price for silence. Neither this man nor his wife must ever know they’ve been investigated.”
Woo smiled as he folded the check and placed it in his shirt pocket.
Six days later the report was delivered by messenger. After reading it, Lieberman felt he probably knew more about Larry McInally than Kate did.
He had lunch with Kate as usual; he explained his excess energy, his edginess, by saying he was waiting for a phone call to confirm a very important business deal. He was so tempted to let slip some of the information he knew about Larry, even some of the things he had found out about Kate that he didn’t know. Lieberman felt full to overflowing with terrible secrets.
“I’ve never seen you like this before,” said Kate, laughing.
“Business can be very stimulating,” said Lieberman. “A little like hunting, the excitement of the chase, the thrill of closing in for the kill.”
He had to wait until mid-afternoon to get through to Shaleen; she left her phone unplugged until she was ready to start her day.
They had finished making love. Shaleen was sitting up, three pillows behind her, smoking a cigarette; her short blond hair was only slightly dishevelled.
“How long are you planning on staying?” she had asked Lieberman earlier, almost as soon as he had arrived. Shaleen’s condo was in Yacht Harbor Towers, only a block from where Lieberman rented. Worth $300,000 if it’s worth a dime, thought Lieberman.
“All night, if it’s okay,” he replied.
“It’ll cost,” said Shaleen.
Lieberman tossed his wallet on the coffee table in front of the velvet chair he was sitting in.
“Help yourself. It costs what it costs,” he said.
“Never trust a whore, Lieberman. You’ll get burned.”
“You just don’t want me to know you’re honest. Tell me the amount, I’ll count it out myself.”
She did, and he did.
“For an old guy, you’re a great fuck,” Shaleen said now, exhaling smoke.
“You’re not bad yourself, for a hooker,” said Lieberman.
Lieberman and Shaleen were spending three or four nights a week together at either his place or hers. From the day it began he told her about his courting of Kate McInally.
“Still not making any progress with your lady love?” asked Shaleen. Lieberman had come to Shaleen’s after his third Thursday evening dinner date with Kate.
Lieberman sighed. “Three lunches a week, dinner every Thursday. What else can I do?”
“Offer her money. Shit, Lieberman, some of these little sex-rataries are just dying to turn an extra buck, especially if their husbands are in low-paying jobs like the military. Offer her a thousand dollars to go to bed with you.”
“What if she accepts? I’d have to pay her a thousand each time. It would be the same as what we do.”
“It costs what it costs,” said Shaleen mockingly. “You pay me. You get a good lay. It would be the same. Except you’re soft at the center, Lieberman. You’re in love. You have the mistaken idea that one woman is different from another. It’s alright. My business would drop 80% if men realized women
are essentially all the same.”
“That’s ridiculous,” shouted Lieberman. “There’s love and there’s sex, and there’s mutual respect and companionship and caring.”
“Sure,” said Shaleen. “So how are you gonna get into her pants?”
“I don’t know. She loves her husband.”
“Kill him,” said Shaleen. “Or have him killed. Out of sight out of mind, you know the old saying.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Hell, Lieberman, I know people. For $25,000 I could arrange to get anybody knocked off.”
“That means if I paid you $25,000, you’d only spend $10,000. Is life that cheap?”
“Cheaper. You underestimate my greed, Lieberman. I’d only spend $2,500. For that price the guy would leave a terrible mess and probably his fingerprints, but he’d never know who hired him or why.”
“I couldn’t,” Lieberman repeated. “He’s an innocent man. Probably a decent one. From what she says, he loves her too.”
“You’re all heart, Lieberman. Why don’t you fall in love with me? I’ll fall in love with you. Just dig out your fucking checkbook, write down the number five and keep adding zeroes; I’ll peek over your shoulder and let you know when I’m in love.”
“Wait,” said Lieberman. “Maybe there is something you could do. What would make it the easiest for me to win Kate over? If Larry wasn’t in love with her, right? If he dumped her, why I could be the dear, patient, long-suffering friend there to comfort her in her time of need. She’d slowly come to love me.”
“Oh, God,” said Shaleen, “get me a violin.”
“Ridicule from someone who would think nothing of having a man killed does not move me,” said Lieberman. “The problem is how to get Larry to dump his wife. And what more logical way than for him to fall in love with another woman?” He smiled at Shaleen. “And that’s where you come in.”
The Essential W. P. Kinsella Page 8