by Hughes, Chip
“It’s gone,” I told Maya in the mission’s gravel lot.
Her face went blank. “It can’t be,” she said. “It can’t be.”
“This is all that’s left.” I held in my palm the little crystal of ice. “Somebody got here first.”
“They lied to me.” Maya’s green eyes darkened to the impenetrable jade of a Waimea wave. “They lied!” The words spilled out as if she were alone and trying to convince herself she’d been had.
“Who lied?”
“The men who took Corky.”
“Took Corky? You said they killed Corky. Remember his slipper and sunglasses, his spilled blood?”
“They told me to say that . . .” She looked away from me. “To tell you, so you’d think I was the only one left who knew where the ice was.” She ran her long, slender fingers through her hair. “And they did kill a man, right in front of me. But not Corky.”
I didn’t know whether to believe anything this woman said anymore. I started up the car.
“It was the guy who hired Corky—Damon DiCarlo.” She sounded pleading now. “They told me if I didn’t lead them to the ice, the same thing would happen to Corky.”
“Then why didn’t they take both of you?” I turned off the engine and looked hard at her. “Why leave you behind?”
“Corky wouldn’t tell them where the ice was. And he convinced them I knew nothing. But they thought you did and told me to go with you. Once we found the ice, they said they’d release Corky and pay me ten thousand dollars.”
“And you believed that?”
She shrugged. “I had to.”
“So all along you’ve been cooperating with Sun?” Her seduction routine suddenly made sense—it wasn’t my irresistible attraction, but my usefulness in retrieving her boyfriend.
“What else could I do?”
“Think, Maya. You’re not getting anything from Sun, probably not even your boyfriend.”
“I’ll see Corky again,” she said defiantly.
“Did you call Sun and tell him where the ice was hidden?”
“No!”
“Can the lies, Maya.”
“Mr. Sun gave me a phone number, but I didn’t call. Honest.”
“You mean, you didn’t call since Lana‘i. That’s why you kept disappearing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it was before we found the map. I haven’t talked with Mr. Sun since. I swear. That’s why he kept following us.”
“If you didn’t tell Sun, he obviously got it out of Corky. And if Corky was alive, he’s not anymore. Your boyfriend double-crossed the organization—look what Sun did to DiCarlo.”
“I want to go back to Maui,” Maya said abruptly. “Corky will meet me there.”
“Let me see your cell phone and then I’ll drive you to the airport.”
She looked befuddled, but reached into her pants pocket and handed me her tiny Motorola. I checked her call log for Sun’s number and dialed.
On the first ring a heavy voice said “Sun.”
“Mr. Frank O. Sun?”
“Yes. Who is speaking?”
“Kai Cooke.”
“Ah, Mr. Cooke. You follow still errant ways? You forget investigation over, do you?”
“Mr. Sun, you’ve got your ice—thanks to me. If I hadn’t found Corky, you’d be nowhere—like you were before I took this case.”
“Beware of pride, Mr. Cooke. An emotion most unwholesome.”
“My message is simple . . .” I paused for effect. “Let my client go. Narco-Vice would love to hear all I know about your organization. If you hurt Summer, I’m on the phone. Think about it.” Sun didn’t need to know I had already called Narco-Vice.
“You forget the husband, Mr. Cooke.”
“I didn’t forget. I just don’t believe Corky McDahl is alive.” I watched Maya flinch. “Good-bye, Mr. Sun.”
I hung up.
“You didn’t have to say that about Corky,” Maya bristled.
“Not to be cruel, Maya, but if your boyfriend is still walking this earth, I’d be very surprised. You can call Sun and speak to him yourself, if you like.” I handed back her cell phone.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I want to go home to Maui.”
Minutes later we were cruising by Hale‘iwa, then pineapple fields, coffee groves and Schofield Barracks. Finally we caught the freeway to the airport.
I dropped Maya at the inter-island terminal. I wasn’t worried about her. She knew how to take care of herself.
“Sorry to have to ask you this, Kai,” she said stepping from the rental car. “I need airfare.”
“You need what?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Airfare to Maui.” She shook her copper hair, which in the full sun seemed to burst into flame.
More than anything I wanted to be rid of this woman. I reached into my wallet. From the wad of hundreds Summer had given me that fateful morning at Denny’s, one was left. One green Ben Franklin—the only bill in my wallet. I gave it to her.
“Bon Voyage.”
She grinned and then kissed me passionately. I admit I didn’t stop her. With her arms tight around me, her breasts pressed against me, I recalled that jasmine-scented blue bathtub at the Lodge at Koele. When she broke off the kiss, she announced: “You’re warm-hearted and generous. You must be a Leo.” Maya nodded. “Yes, I bet you’re a Leo.”
Still smiling, with my last hundred in her hand, Maya glided into the terminal. She had lied to me for most of the forty-eight hour blur we were together. And I felt guilty, but not really sorry, that I had given into her seductions. I also felt oddly sad upon seeing her go. I watched as she stepped gracefully toward the terminal, then broke into a run. Was she running to or running from?
Whatevahs. Maya was gone.
When I returned the rental car at the airport, it seemed as if we had it for days. I put the charge on a credit card, then walked to the parking garage to retrieve my Impala. I had no idea what Sun might have done with my classic Chevy. But the teal ‘69 Impala was still there, looking a little dusty but unharmed. I peeked under the car for explosive devices. Nah, they wouldn’t waste the powder on me.
It started up on the first try; I swung in line to pay for parking and suddenly realized my wallet was empty. The bill for parking nearly three days would be at least thirty dollars.
When my turn at the window came I pulled in front of the attendant, a woman in a flowered mu‘umu‘u the size of a tent. “I was just dropping off a friend at the terminal,” I said. “I got in the wrong lane.”
“Ticket?” she asked.
“Don’t have one. I must have left it at the lot entrance.”
A cloud crossed the attendant’s face. She scanned the thin layer of dust on my Impala’s hood. Obviously the car had sat several days in the garage. “Got to talk to one supahvisah.”
“I’m really in a hurry,” I pleaded. “It wasn’t my fault. I mean it was, but I won’t do it again.”
“Auwe!” She let out an exasperated breath. Horns blew. The line of cars behind me was growing.
“I return da favah someday, yeah?” I hauled out my pidgin, winked, and hoped for the best.
She gave me serious “stink eye” then suddenly the gate went up.
“Tanks, eh?” I drove away.
Maunakea Street never looked better. I was glad to be home. I walked through the flower shop, saying hello to Mrs. Fujiyama, who peered at me sourly over her glasses. I glanced to the rear of the shop where were Chastity was working, and Joon and Blossom. No Leimomi.
“Upstairs . . .” Mrs. Fujiyama said without apparent reference to anything. Did she mean Leimomi?
I climbed the orange shag and marched past Madame Zenobia’s. The psychic shop was shut tight. Ahead I could see the full-color surfer on my door and, yes, someone was waiting, sitting on the floor, hunched over as if in pain.
“Leimomi?”
The woman turned, then slowly dragged herself up. She peered at me with violet eyes.
“Corky’s alive,” Summer said. “I want you to find him.”
“Are you OK?” I scanned her body for evidence of abuse. She appeared fine, though from her now even lower-slung burden, it looked like the baby might come any minute.
“Corky didn’t die at Waimea.” Summer ignored my question. “He’s alive. And I need him now.” Her voice was still a whisper, but a determined one. She glanced down at her enormous tummy.
I wondered if now was the time to quiz her about her association with Sun. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore. She was unharmed and, by the looks of it, at this moment very in need. Besides, she was still my client and I had yet to produce her husband—dead or alive.
“How do you know he’s alive?” I asked.
“It’s an intuition—a strong intuition.”
“OK, for argument sake, let’s say that Frank O. Sun did the unthinkable and let Corky live—where do we start looking?”
“Is the surf up?”
I should have thought of that, but I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in three days.
“Give me a minute.” I opened the door to my office. The familiar mustiness of the place felt reassuring. “What about the baby?” I scanned again her bulging middle.
She grimaced. “I’ve felt a few small cramps.”
“Contractions? Do you need a hospital?”
“Find Corky first. Then I’ll go to a hospital.”
“Let’s talk.” I gestured to my client chair. She sat down as I walked behind my desk.
“Somebody has to tell you this, Summer, even at this inopportune time.” I paused to gather my thoughts, but there was no gentle way to deliver them. “Corky may not want to see you as much as you want to see him. He thinks your baby isn’t his. He thinks it’s a Damon DiCarlo’s.”
“This baby is Corky’s.” Summer peered deeply into my eyes without blinking. “Damon and I never made love. He asked but I refused. I’ve been faithful to Corky, despite what he thinks. There was never anyone else.”
“I believe you.” I meant it.
“I think we should go to Waimea Bay.” Summer looked at me anxiously. “I want to find Corky before the baby comes.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded.
“O.K.,” I sighed. “Back to Waimea.”
Twenty-Three
On the ridge overlooking Waimea Bay I parked my Impala—leaving Summer sprawled in the passenger seat—and began searching for Corky McDahl, again.
Stepping from the car I felt a tug of the Smith & Wesson I had tucked into the right front pocket of my khakis. It felt heavy and cold, and made a bulge in my pants that Summer could have easily noticed, had she been in any condition to look. I hoped I wouldn’t need it. Frank O. Sun had his ice, Summer was free, and Corky was God knows where—on Earth or in Heaven. Or maybe hell.
So why did I need the revolver? I don’t know. I just didn’t feel comfortable showing up at Waimea without it.
With my field glasses I scoped out countless surfers in Waimea’s lineup. The swell had gone down since this morning. The waves were big enough—twelve to fifteen feet—to attract a crowd, but not too big to frighten anybody off. A half dozen of surfers dropped down each precipitous face.
In the unlikely event that Corky actually was out there, whose board would he be riding? His own patched candy cane sat safely in my office. I scanned the crowd and managed to pick out Cousin Alika on his sunshine yellow gun and a few of his friends. I also spotted a blond mophead here and there. But nobody who looked like Corky. After searching for several minutes, I gave up and walked back to the car.
“I don’t see him,” I told Summer.
Hunched over inside the Impala, she glared at me with an intensity that was almost scary.
“Here, let me find him!” She lumbered from the car, reached for the binoculars, and took up a shaky position on the ridge overlooking the bay. I steadied her and suggested she sit down. But she wouldn’t.
She swung the field glasses to one side of the lineup, then to the other—coming back again and again to the same spot in the thick of the farthest break.
“Oooohh!” She groaned.
“Are you alright?” Was she going into labor? “You should really sit down.”
“No.” She kept standing, focusing the binoculars. “That’s him,” she said. “That’s Corky. He’s grown his beard and he’s on an orange board. If I know him, he’ll stay out in the waves all day.”
“Let me see.”
She handed me the glasses and I checked out the surfers, focusing on a bearded blond guy on an orange gun. “Could be,” I admitted. “Looks a little like the photo you gave me.”
“It is him. Aaahh—Aaahh!” Summer winced. Her paper white face bore an expression of pure pain.
“Are you—“
“A huge contraction . . .” She grimaced and then buckled over.
“We’re finding a hospital.” I reached for her hand.
Summer no longer resisted. Inside the car I stretched her out in the front seat, her head on my lap. She was beginning to writhe. “Aaaaaaahh!—Aaaaaaahh!”
Neither of us paid anymore attention to the surf or the scenery on the way to Kahuku Community Hospital, about five miles of Kamehameha Highway that passes some of the most famous breaks in the world. By the time we pulled up to the emergency entrance, Summer was breathing fast and hard. I have to confess, I felt totally helpless.
The green-smocked medics wheeled her off in a flash, and so I waited. I thought about Leimomi. Her pleading voice was echoing in my head. I picked up a People magazine and flipped through it, without seeing a thing. I kept thinking about Leimomi. Time passed.
Summer delivered a healthy eight-pound, two-ounce baby girl.
“You’re the father?” one of the ER nurses said to me in the waiting room.
“Y—” I started to say, then realized where I was. “No, the baby is not mine. The father is surfing at Waimea Bay.”
“Oh . . .” she said.
“Is she OK?” I interrupted any possible further questioning.
“The mother and daughter are doing fine,” the nurse reassured me. “Both are doing fine.”
“Can you tell her I’ll be right back?” I stood up. “She’ll understand.”
“I . . . yes, I can.” The nurse looked at me curiously as I turned and made for the door.
I fetched my Impala in the hospital’s lot and roared back to Waimea, even faster than the trip down. There was no place to park legally in the bay’s lot, so I double parked and walked across the beach, hoping the officer directing traffic was too busy to notice.
Of the dozens of surfers we had seen earlier in the water, a few were now coming in, while others were just paddling out. I looked around hoping to see someone I knew. Cousin Alika on his yellow board was still in the water. I scanned the faces on the beach.
“Ham!” I said, seeing Alika’s surfing buddy who’d made us those deli sandwiches in Hale‘iwa. “Get off work fo’ check out da surf?”
“Kai, bruddah,” Ham said and shook my hand local style, the Polynesian tattoo on his bicep dancing.
“Yeah, I wen’ make sandwiches fo’ da lunch crowd, then I dig out.”
“Ham, you do me one favor?”
“Shoots,” he said, tossing his sun-bleached dreadlocks.
“One haole guy in da lineup on da orange board—see um?” I pointed.
“Yeah, brah,” Ham squinted. “Jus’ one orange speck way out dere.”
“Dat’s him, da California surfah named Corky, you know, da guy dat wipe out Christmas Eve. Tell him come in. If he no come, you round up Alika and da boyz and encourage him, o.k.?”
“He alive? Da surfah dat wipe out stay alive?”
“Yeah, his wife hapai and jus’ deliver one keiki at Kahuku Hospital. I goin’ drive him down dere.”
“Dis guy goin’ come in.” Ham’s serious face looked determined.
“Tanks, ‘eh?”
“No mentio
n.” Ham mounted his board and paddled into the boiling surf.
I sat on the beach and waited. For the first time since this whole twisted case began, I actually felt peaceful. Summer was alive and well, and so was her baby girl. And Summer’s estranged husband, by some miracle I might never understand, was also still alive. I wondered how he might react. Would he believe the child was his? Would he care?
A half hour went by before I saw the orange gun coming in. The closer he got, the more he looked like the photo Summer had brought to Denny’sin Waikiki that rainy Monday morning.
Straw yellow hair. Boyish face, and now that blond beard. Not until he walked up the beach could I see his green eyes clearly and understand how both Summer and Maya might have fallen for him. Something about his churlish expression said, “I’m cool.”
He scanned the beach with the board under his arm and a totally pissed look on his face.
“Corky McDahl?” I approached him. “Your wife has just given birth to your new daughter.”
“Says who?” he blustered with boyhood bravado.
“Kai Cooke.” I replied. “I’m the private detective she hired to find you.”
“The kid ain’t mine.” Corky was all attitude. “You got no right to pull me out of the water on such a good day.” He turned back toward the waves.
I reached for his arm, but he was already trotting down the beach, heading for the shore break. I ran after him and grabbed a rail of his surfboard.
“Chill!” He yanked away the orange gun. As his toes touched the water, from my khakis I pulled my own gun—the Smith & Wesson.
“Hold on.” I pointed it at his head.
“Piss off.” He kept walking into the water.
I aimed at his board and fired, ripping a hole through it the size of a silver dollar.
He peered back at me. “You’re f–k’n crazy, man!”
“Let’s go.” I pointed the smoldering Smith & Wesson toward my Impala in the parking lot. “I won’t hurt you enough to get charged with anything serious, but if I were to drop my gun, say, and it accidentally discharged into your foot, you could miss a lot more than one day of good surf.”
Corky scratched his blond mop with the hand that wasn’t cradling his damaged board. Then he started walking with me toward my car. A small crowd had gathered around us and followed behind. I figured someone had already dialed “911” by now, so we needed to move fast.