by C. McGee
“Three Dead in Protest Gone Wrong,” read the gazette. It wasn’t the catchiest of titles, but it was an accurate one. The Hawaiian Liberation Front held a protest in downtown Hanalei. The protest spilled out into the street blocking Kuhio Highway. (A highway in name only, Kuhio is little more than two narrow lanes of macadam. It is also the only route through town.) The police were called, tempers flared, stuff got thrown, and fights broke out. At some point, someone reached for a cop’s gun, the cop shot the person reaching for their gun, another person tried to use a bottle to hit the cop that shot their friend, the cop fired at his new attacker, missed, hit an uninvolved tourist, and then got hit himself by the man with the bottle. The protestor died from a gunshot wound to the heart, the tourist from a gunshot wound to the abdomen, the cop from blunt force trauma to the head. It was a horrific tragedy that hurt everyone involved. It also created an opportunity. A bit of an unscrupulous opportunity, but an opportunity nonetheless.
It struck me roughly five minutes into the phone conversation with my mom.
“Seriously, you don’t need to worry,” I said in a reassuring yet slightly snarky tone. “Hanalei hasn’t turned into Mogadishu. Warlords aren’t terrorizing the streets.”
“Well, thank god for that,” she replied, only picking up on the reassuring aspect of my voice.
“In fact, this is probably the safest the town has ever been, basically every cop on the island is right downtow …” I faded out.
“Right where? Downtown? I couldn’t hear you, honey, your phone cut out.”
“Yeah, Mom, downtown. Listen, don’t worry I’m totally fine, all of my friends are fine, and the town will be fine. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you. Bye.”
I hung up the phone and headed to my closet. Once there I put on my shortest shorts, my most padded bra, and my lowest cut T-shirt. Having changed into an outfit that I was ashamed of but knew would work, I shoved a bottle of Ambien and a fifth of tequila into my purse and headed out the door.
Kauai PD was everywhere—directing traffic, controlling the crowds, investigating the scene. It seemed excessive, but it played right into my hand, so I was pleased. The more cops in Hanalei, the less cops at the station in Lihue. The less cops at the station, the higher the likelihood of my being able to sneak out the mongooses.
Driving at a snail’s pace, I turned right onto Weke Road and right again onto Malolo, smiling at each of the policemen directing me through the detour as I went. Traffic finally opened up once I got over the one-lane bridge at the edge of Hanalei. By the time I drove up the hill and into Princeville it felt like nothing was wrong. I’m sure the tourists at the resorts heard something about the incident, especially since one of their ilk was killed, but I am equally sure that they forgot within the hour. A luxurious room away from the difficulties of one’s own life makes it easy to ignore the difficulties of others, especially when the livelihood of the latter depends on the relaxation of the former. No one on the island benefits from distressed vacationers.
Continuing to drive south, Kapa’a came next. It wasn’t as tranquil as Princeville, but it was still relatively calm. An inordinate number of locals were out on the street talking to one another with concerned looks on their faces, but other than that it was business as usual. The same could be said of Wailua and Lihue. The towns felt slightly off but nothing more. It wasn’t until I arrived at the police station that things felt appropriately amiss, the way that they should after such a tragedy.
The station was nearly deserted. One car sat in the corner of the parking lot, one bike leaned against a tree near the entrance, one groundskeeper emptied garbage cans, and three chickens pecked away at the ground. That’s it, nothing else, just stillness where there should have been activity. It was a tad unnerving.
Ignoring the ominous feeling swelling up in my chest, I parked the car down the street (in order to avoid the cameras in the parking lot) and made my way into the white-walled, green-roofed building. I passed chickens on the way but did not try and attack them or even add them to my running tally. Instead, I stayed focused on the task at hand, choosing the war over a battle. So long as I succeeded, those chickens would receive their comeuppance.
The inside of the police station was even more disconcertingly desolate than the outside. Something in the air conveyed the freshness of the abandonment, the necessity of it, the wrongness. The moment that you entered it became clear that the building was empty because it had to be, because the situation demanded it, because something terrible had happened. It was perfect—horrible, obviously, but perfect.
The lone police officer remaining at the station was the young guy that had let me go a week prior. It was exactly as I had expected/hoped. The only thing between the mongooses and myself was an immature cop with a cock for a brain. The second that he laid eyes on me his face shifted into a stupid, smitten grin. It was the exact same expression he wore that night in front of the pet store, the night that he let me off with a warning despite the fact that he and his superior officers literally watched me commit a crime.
This is gonna be cake, I thought as I pulled down my V-neck tee and approached his desk.
I was right.
I feigned attraction to the young cop as well as concern and empathy for him. Within a quarter of an hour, we were drinking tequila together. Well, he and the potted plant on the floor next to me were drinking tequila together.
“You deserve these shots,” I said as I poured my third into the ficus and he poured his into his belly. “I mean you lost like a brother in arms.”
He nodded his head while staring at my boobs. Unbelievable.
“And it’s so scary to think how that could have been you. I mean I would have been so broken up if you got hurt out there today.”
“Oh yeah?” he said with a toothy smile and a half an erection.
It was then that I realized the Ambien would be unnecessary. The oaf would hand me what I wanted.
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week.”
“Really?”
Of course not you fucking Neanderthal, I thought. “Of course really,” I said, leaning forward, showing off my girls.
Three minutes, two shots, and one hand on his knee later, we were headed back to the evidence locker to get the mongooses.
“It so nice of you to do this,” I said, as he slid his key into the padlock. “You are definitely going to get rewarded later.”
“Really? What sort of reward am I gonna get?” he inquired, his voice wavering with the I’m-gonna-ejaculate-in-my-pants sort of excitement normally reserved for ninth-grade boys.
“You’ll see,” I replied in a passable attempt at coyness.
He opened the door and we made our way inside. I spotted the mongooses immediately. They were still in the cage in which they had been confiscated, stuffed away on a shelf next to the window. They looked like shit.
“Damn, they look like shit,” I said, momentarily forgetting the whole love-struck/temptress shtick.
For a second I became concerned that the shift in my tone of voice had given me away, that the break in character had alerted the young policeman to the fact that he was being used. Fortunately, I was wrong. Rather than responding with suspicion the sad sack responded with gag inducing obsequiousness.
“I know, I know, it’s terrible,” he said. “My sergeant told us that the mongooses were going to be put down, so there was no need to waste the department’s time or resources on them. I think they’d be dead if it weren’t for the food I’ve been sneaking into them.”
It was bullshit. The young cop hadn’t snuck the mongooses a fucking thing. I doubt any of the police officers had. The animals’ water bottle and food dish were empty, the bottom of their cage loaded with shit. Odds were high no one had so much as entered the evidence locker in the last six days.
“Well, thank god for you,” I said, placing my hand on the young cop’s forearm, returning to a flirtatious demeanor
.
“Of course … you know … I mean … I think it was just the right thing to do,” he said, blushing.
‘Of course, you know, I mean, I think’ what sort of pathetic blubbering English is that? I thought. “It would be so sweet if you could help me carry them to my car,” I said. “I would totally be in your debt.”
“My pleasure!”
Keen on making me happy, the young cop cleaned out the cage, picked it up, carried it to my vehicle, and loaded it into my trunk. As he closed the rear door a crackly message came over the walkie-talkie on his belt. Something about units leaving the Hanalei station and heading back to Lihue.
“I better go, the last thing I want to do is get you in trouble,” I said.
Looking a bit crestfallen he replied, “Oh, of course, right. That’s so sweet of you to think of me.”
After delivering a swift kiss to the young cop’s cheek, I jumped into my little SUV and drove off.
“Call me,” he said as I pulled away.
“The minute I get home,” I replied.
I didn’t even have his number.
Chapter 32
A Mongoose Rehab, a History Lesson, and a Celebration Cut Short
Humble, if you’re from the Upper Midwest that’s what you’re supposed to be. Generally speaking, I consider this admirable. Think about it, you don’t run into too many humble assholes. That said, the trait is not without its drawbacks. Never is this more evident than when a humble person achieves something significant. Overt modesty from an accomplished person seems like condescension, or bullshit, or both. I’m not saying you need to throw your success in others’ faces, but you don’t need to go out of your way to belittle your achievements either.
Having clarified my stance on that particular subject, I’m going to go ahead and say that I totally dominated the whole sneaking-mongooses-out-of-the-police-station business. The authorities couldn’t arrest me even if they wanted to, not for theft anyway. Christ, a policeman loaded the stolen animals into my vehicle for me. I didn’t even touch them. Given, I only have a cursory knowledge of the law acquired through television and one undergrad Constitutional Law class, but I’m fairly certain that the only offense for which I could actually be found guilty is possession of banned animals. So, basically, my slipshod crime of opportunity turned out to be an unparalleled success.
Initially, I planned on releasing the furry chicken assassins the moment that I arrived at my house. Unfortunately, those plans changed once I realized the extent of their physical deterioration. Back in the evidence locker I noted that the mongooses were in poor shape, yet I did not appreciate just how poor until I saw them up close. Below is a list of things that looked healthier than those mongooses:
• Tom Hanks at the end of Philadelphia
• Andersonville POWs
• The children of Nome, Alaska, before the arrival of Balto
• Every animal ever featured in an ASPCA commercial
• 1980s’ Karen Carpenter
• Solzhenitsyn after Stalin was done with him
• JC after the Romans were done with him
• Michael Jackson after his plastic surgeon was done with him
Freeing the little predators would have been a complete waste. In their state, the chickens would have been a bigger threat to them than they would have been to the chickens. A week, maybe two, that’s all they would have lasted. If I truly wanted them to eradicate the island’s rat-bird population then I needed to nurse them back to health, and since that’s exactly what I wanted, that’s what I set out to do. After unloading and feeding the mongooses, I went about building a small recovery center for them in the garage. In my head, the island’s chickens responded to this temporary reprieve from predators with a collective sigh of relief. In reality, they just clucked and shit and annoyed people, the same as always.
I finished the mongooses’ cage/luxurious recovery center around ten that night. The minute the project was completed I headed to the bar to celebrate. On the way I called Lana and the boys, but none of them picked up.
“Fuck it,” I said with a shrug and continued on my way.
It didn’t matter that I was on my own. I felt good, the way I was supposed to feel after achieving a major goal, and friends or not I was going to enjoy myself.
With a bounce in my step, I made my way across the sandy parking lot and into the bar. The instant that I swung the door open, it became apparent that I was mistaken about the whole enjoy-myself business. Fun was not on the night’s agenda.
The bar was like a funeral parlor but sadder. People were scattered throughout the space, shaking their heads mournfully, staring vacantly, talking sparingly, drinking heavily. It was a bleak affair. Obviously, I should have known that it would be. A tragedy had taken place less than twelve hours prior; somehow, the successful mongoose heist had driven that actuality from my mind. Realizing that such surroundings were not the festive atmosphere I was looking for, I immediately turned to exit. Then I saw Koa and stopped. He looked bad, anguished, worse than my frailness of mongooses, and he was all by himself. He needed company, and I was there to provide it. I didn’t want to, but I had to. Leaving him to wallow on his own while I partied with friends would have been too cunty of a move.
“Hey, old timer,” I said, putting a hand on Koa’s shoulder. “Need a drinking partner?”
I didn’t know what to say. Words of solace would have seemed hollow coming from someone unaware of his exact hardship, and an inquiry into whether or not he was all right seemed ludicrous as he clearly was not. A reserved offer to drink with him felt like the right way to go.
“A drinking partner sounds good,” he said, defeat, exhaustion, and sadness weighing on his eyes.
I pulled up a stool, ordered a Hefeweizen, and waited for Koa to speak. After a short spell of silence, he did. His words only served to darken the mood.
“My friend died today,” he said. It was a hell of a way to start a conversation. Zero to depressing-as-hell in under a second.
“Shit, that’s really horrible. I’m so sorry.” I replied, a weak but genuine attempt at comfort.
“And my other friend is currently running from the police because he killed a cop,” he continued, turning the serious up to eleven.
“Fucking Christ.”
“Fucking Christ is right. Stupid fuckin’ Tiny, what did he think was gonna happen? Four hundred pounds of pissed-off Polynesian swingin’ a bottle at a cop. Lolo kanapapiki.”
“…” I replied, completely unsure of how to respond. A) I didn’t know what to say to someone whose friend had just performed a capital crime, and B) I had no idea what lolo kana-whatever-the-fuck meant.
“I told him not to get those mokes worked up. Over and over again I told him, but he didn’t listen. And now look what happened.”
“So Tiny instigated all of this?” I inquired, my curiosity getting the best of me.
“No, no,” Koa replied, unfazed by my question, “at least not intentionally. Well, maybe intentionally. I don’t know. I’ve been arguing with him for weeks. But dat hupo not listen.”
“Hupo?”
“It’s like, uh …” Koa looked around the bar, searching for the word. “Fool. Hupo means fool, or halfwit. Sorry, when I get upset the pidgin comes out.”
“No, of course, not a problem” I said, feeling guilty for asking an unnecessary vocabulary question to a distressed friend. “So what have you been telling him for weeks?”
“To calm down and reign in the rhetoric. Over the last couple of months, he’s become more and more of an agitator getting everyone at the HLF meetings all riled up.”
I nodded my head, an attempt to disguise my surprise. I had no idea that Koa was a member of the HLF. I should have suspected, but I didn’t. The news didn’t bother me, (based off the limited knowledge that I possessed, the group seemed all right), but it did bring to mind an abundance of questions. Questions that I refrained from asking out of affection for Koa. At that moment
he needed a friend to hear him out, not an interrogator to draw him out, or an authority figure to bitch him out. Of course, the selfish part of me still hoped that he would provide some answers without my prompting. My responsibilities as a friend prevented me from prying, but they didn’t prevent me from listening to freely divulged information. A couple of beers later, the selfish part of me got what it wanted.
“You know, looking back on it now,” Koa said, “I’m not entirely sure why I joined the HLF to begin with.”
I remained quiet, tacitly encouraging Koa to continue but he did not acquiesce. Eventually, I spoke up, “So, why did you join? When did you join?” (Okay, perhaps the selfish part of me did prompt him a little).
“Ages ago,” he replied, answering the easy question first. “I couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, twenty-three. One night I was at a bar talking to this kupuna—that’s like a respected elder—and after a few drinks he started telling me all about the island’s history. It was stuff I’d heard before, back in my schooldays, but had ignored because it seemed boring. But it wasn’t boring when this kupuna told it; it was captivating. He talked about how things used to be on the islands way back when. The culture, the emphasis on family and community and the land, and he talked about how those things started to change with the arrival of Cook and how they really changed when the United States illegally took things over in the 1890s.”
“Illegally took over how?” I inquired.
“A coup led by a faction of non-Hawaiian locals that wanted to be part of the States. The U.S. military supported it. Nobody was shot so people tend to overlook it, but it was bad. Not a violent overthrow but an overthrow that succeeded due to the threat of violence. If it weren’t for Queen Lili’uokalani, it would have turned real bloody. She understood that with the U.S. military opposing her she didn’t have a chance, any effort to resist would have led to the death of thousands of her people so she stepped down.”