Les walked down onto the sand, past a cluster of old, open-air showers that were just nozzles pouring out water, stripped down to his Speedos, and leaving his bag next to an orange lifeguard tower waded out into the biggest pool and dived in. The water was warm, the day reasonably sunny, but the strong offshore wind seemed to keep the temperature down. Les ended up doing six laps, having to stop now and again to avoid squashing several bunches of Japanese squawking and laughing as they floundered around splashing water over each other, before getting out and doing a few stretches near the railings by the showers. One thing Les did know when he dried off, he was getting peckish and couldn’t possibly wait till ten-thirty when he and Mick were meeting for breakfast. Something light would go well.
There was an ABC store directly across the road; Les crossed over and walked in. It was nicely air-conditioned and sold everything from booze to batteries, and all at rock-bottom prices — if you were Kerry Packer. Les bought some papaya, a carton of orange juice and a chicken sandwich from the fridge, then walked up to McDonald’s to get a takeaway coffee. Norton couldn’t believe McDonald’s. The staff were all Japanese-Hawaiians, about two feet high, with heads that round they made Bert Newton’s look like a butter box. Seated around the tables, stuffing themselves with french fries swimming with ketchup and yammering away at the tops of their voices, were the horriblest fattest excuses for human beings Les had ever seen. They looked and sounded like some alien vegetable creatures from Mars or beyond. Christ, shuddered Norton. I hope this isn’t the way Australia’s heading. He shook his head almost in disbelief, got some tiny containers of milk and sugar and retreated to his room.
The papaya and chicken sandwich were okay; the coffee was probably what killed Les Darcy and Phar Lap. Les decided to eat out on his balcony, catch a bit of breeze and listen to the small ghetto blaster he’d brought with him. The music was much of a muchness and Les was thinking of throwing on a tape when a song finished and some DJ said, ‘You’re listening to AM Stereo 83. KIKI. The oldies channel.’ Next thing Johnny Rivers’ ‘Mountain of Love’ came burbling out the speakers. Oh, bugger it, this’ll do, shrugged Les. He ate his sandwich and drank in the view. When he’d finished, Les took the radio inside, got cleaned up and sorted out his gear. He was putting some iodine on his knuckles to Aretha Franklin warbling ‘Chain of Fools’ when the phone rang.
‘Is that you, Mick?’
‘No,’ came a voice at the other end. ‘It’s Duke Kaha-namoku. You want to come surfing?’
‘Yeah, righto,’ chuckled Les. ‘Just give me five minutes to get my boardshorts and find some wax and I’ll be right down. How are you, Mick?’
‘Fine, Les. How’s yourself? The trip all right?’
‘Good as gold. Where are you?’
‘In the lobby by the elevators.’
‘Okay. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes. Unless you want to come up.’
‘I’ll wait here for you. It’s nice and cool.’
‘Righto, Mick. See you in a couple of minutes.’
Les got into a pair of Levi shorts and a white Mambo T-shirt, turned off the radio and walked down to the lift, finishing up with about half a dozen Japanese girls on the way down, the tallest of whom would have come up to Mickey Mouse’s knee. Mick was standing near the fountain wearing shorts and a blue floral shirt. Apart from needing a haircut, he hadn’t changed since Les had seen him in Australia, although as he walked over smiling there appeared to be a shadowy tiredness edged in with the laughlines around his eyes.
‘Les. How are you, mate?’ he said, emphasising the ‘mate’ as he offered his hand.
‘Not too bad — mate,’ replied Les, doing the same. ‘Good to see you again, Mick.’
‘You too, Les.’ They shook hands and checked each other out for a moment. ‘So you cracked it for a freebie to Hawaii?’ said Mick, remembering the things Norton had told him on the phone. ‘What’s the room like?’
‘Pretty good. Got a top view.’
‘Where did you say your mate Warren was?’
‘On the big island, wherever that is. Staying with some friends or something.’
‘And you’re on your Pat Malone?’
‘Yeah. It’s a bummer. Apart from one ugly big walloper, I don’t know a soul. Except for this surfie who’s gonna ring me and pick up a camera case. He’s covering some surfing contest over the north shore.’
‘You should take a ride over there and check out the other beaches. This is just touristville round here.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Les. ‘I didn’t know whether I’d landed in Surfers Paradise or Tokyo.’
Mick pointed to the signs and the Japanese swarming around the wooden tables along the wall. ‘The Honolulu Marathon’s on this weekend. Thirty thousand Japs fly in and try to kill themselves in the heat.’
‘So I noticed. Hey, what were all the motorbikes in aid of this morning? There were hundreds of the bloody things out the front.’
‘That,’ Mick chuckled a little derisively. ‘That’s the annual Bikers For Christmas rally. They all get together for one day of the year and donate a toy for the kids out at the army barracks. It’s good for their image.’
‘Then for the other 364 days of the year they go back to killing each other, dealing dope and burning sheilas?’
‘Exactly, Les. Only over here it’s called gang-banging.’
‘Yeah, right. Anyway, what do you want to do for breakfast?’
Les suggested they eat in the hotel; the food would probably be good and they could charge it to his room. However, Mick said there was a good breakfast place — ‘Bennies’ — just round the corner and across from the park. His girlfriend was waiting there with a table. Norton agreed and they started walking through the lobby out into Kalakau Avenue. It was only a short walk past another highrise and a few shops, then it was right on the corner of Kalakau and Kapahulu — a wide boulevard that ran past the park and zoo towards the mountains. As they strolled along in the sun they chitchatted about things in general. Mick said he’d worked till after midnight the previous night. Les said he was a bit tired after the flight so he just went for a walk and finished up in Mahias having a few beers and listening to the band before he hit the sack. He didn’t mention belting the three blokes. The conversation was lighthearted and Les got the impression that Mick liked it if any Aussies he knew dropped in and said hello. Les also got the impression that at times Mick seemed a little distant, vague even, as if there was something on his mind.
They rounded the corner and Les followed Mick up a flight of stairs into the lobby of a restaurant that was again mainly Polynesian decor. A long counter and stools faced the stairs, the dining area angled off to the right, there were chairs and tables in the centre, and red vinyl booths ran round the walls. Outside over the avenue was a balcony but almost the whole restaurant gave you a pleasant view of the ocean. It was quite crowded with more overweight Americans stuffing themselves with anything that could be drowned in maple syrup, gravy, or some kind of sauce guaranteed to bung on calories. The only difference Les could notice between the vegetables seated at Bennies and the ones at McDonald’s was that the Bennies lot weren’t quite as noisy and they seemed to be dressed a little better. At a table near the balcony and to their right a girl waved.
‘There she is,’ said Mick. Les followed him over.
Mick’s girl was Hawaiian and quite pretty with long black hair and dazzling white teeth emphasised by her smooth brown skin. She was wearing a green and white floral dress and a touch of blue mascara round her walnut eyes; resting on the table next to her handbag were a pair of tiny hands tinged with red nail polish.
‘Les, this is Kia.’
‘Hello, Kia,’ said Norton, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘You too, Les,’ smiled Kia, giving Norton a quick once up and down. ‘So you’re the Aussie guy Mick stayed with in Australia? The bouncer?’
Les noticed Mick smile a little self-consciously. Les just smil
ed. ‘“Crowd behavioural supervisor” is the politically correct term, Kia.’
Kia nodded, letting her eyes rest on Norton’s iodine-stained knuckles. ‘You still look like a bouncer.’
‘Anyway, grab a seat,’ said Mick, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Yeah, righto.’ Les sat down on Kia’s left with Mick on her right closest to the balcony.
The waitress arrived with the menus, ice water and a percolator of coffee. The menu was a full-on, glossy reproduction of the usual American breakfast nosh. Pancakes, bistro steaks, Portuguese sausage, hash browns, et cetera. Norton gave it the once-over then looked at the vegetables stuffing themselves around him and suddenly didn’t feel all that hungry. What he did fancy was a bowl of Weetbix, muesli and chopped-up mango and banana with a little bit of raw sugar. But if he ordered that in here they’d probably have him terminated by the CIA as a pinko, commie subversive. It made no difference to Mick and Kia. They ordered bacon, sausage, omelettes, pancakes, more eggs, the works. Oh well, mused Les. When in Rome. He ordered Portuguese sausages, eggs over easy, hash browns, tomato and extra toast.
‘Tah-mait-oh is a separate order,’ said the waitress.
‘Good. Then bring me a whole plate of tah-mait-oh,’ said Norton.
It turned out Kia was a schoolteacher. She and Mick lived together and were getting married in April. She also couldn’t stay long when they’d finished breakfast because she had private classes starting at twelve-thirty teaching Japanese students English. Les was a little curious how Mick came to be in the police force. Mick said when he got his green card it was either that, the fire brigade, or the council, and he fancied doing the physical for the police force where he blitzed the field — then found he truly enjoyed the work, although Les thought he heard him mutter ‘sort of’ to Kia, who gave him what seemed like an understanding smile and squeezed his arm.
The food arrived and Les was surprised the way Kia tore in for a fairly small girl. Her omelette was already drowning under about two metres of gravy, but she still added around half a bottle of every sauce on the table, mopping up what was left with toast. Mick wasn’t far behind. Norton’s sausages were just okay but the eggs ran into the hash browns like a big, greasy, yellow puddle. He just picked here and there, mainly eating his tomato and toast and drinking his coffee. It was still quite pleasant chit-chatting away about not much in particular. Kia was a nice girl with a slightly cynical sense of humour, which she needed because Mick still had plenty of Bondi in him. Yet despite the pleasantries Les still felt Mick seemed a little strained at times and it wasn’t just from working the night before.
They finished the last of the toast and jam and Kia had to get going. Norton said he’d pay the bill and Mick could leave the customary tip. Outside they walked across to the park where Kia had left her car — a white Toyota.
‘Well, it was truly nice meeting you, Kia,’ said Norton.
‘You too, Les. And thanks for the breakfast.’
‘My pleasure. We might do it again before I go back.’
‘So where are you off to now, Mick?’
‘I gotta go pick up my pay. What time’ll you be home?’
‘Around five. I got two big classes this afternoon.’ Kia pointed a finger at Mick. ‘And don’t forget, we have to do some Christmas shopping tonight.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Goodbye, Les.’
‘Mele Kalikimaka,’ winked Norton.
Kia’s smile was dazzling. ‘Hey, you too, Les.’
Les watched her drive off then turned to Mick. He was completely expressionless and Les decided to put it straight on him. ‘Hey, Mick, have you got something on your mind?’
Mick seemed to think for a moment. ‘You noticed?’
‘Noticed? Mate, you’re miles away half the fuckin’ time. Nothing like when you stayed at my place.’
The policeman’s face was taut. ‘What are you doing now, Les?’
‘Not much,’ shrugged Norton.
‘Okay. Let’s take a walk by the park. We can work the meal off and I’ll tell you what’s going on.’
‘All right. Suits me.’
They crossed Kalakau and began walking amongst the other strollers and joggers along the promenade. A few cloudbanks had drifted over but it was still quite sunny and the offshore breeze refreshing. Mick had his hands stuffed in his pockets as if deep in troubled thought. After they’d walked a dozen or so metres he spoke.
‘Les, I’ve been tossed what they call in America a curved ball.’
‘You mean someone’s bowled you a googly?’
‘Exactly.’ Mick caught Norton’s eye. ‘Have the boys back home told you anything about me?’
‘I know about the Lionheart Reinhardt thing.’
‘Yeah, right. You see, I’ve just got that much energy at times I can’t help myself. And that’s what happened when I joined the cops. I made that many arrests they almost had to build another gaol. Fair dinkum, Les, I had charge sheets longer than the dead sea scrolls.’
‘A regular Dick Tracy.’
‘Hah! I made him look like a Bow Street runner.’ Mick smiled openly now, obviously glad to be getting something off his chest to someone he knew from home. ‘Well, I had nothing else to do and that’s what they were paying me for. Plus I thought I was making a good impression. So I just charged in, guns blazing, more or less. Fair dinkum, I arrested hookers, pimps, clients, dope dealers, revheads, jaywalkers. Fishing without a licence, whistling in the pictures. Anything.’
‘Square dancing in a roundhouse?’
‘Mate, I even arrested a dwarf for growing up. But you see, there’s a few little pricks whose fathers are high up in the HPD, and they play on it. You know — my daddy’s Captain or Major so and so.’
‘Yeah, same as home,’ nodded Les.
‘But that made no difference to Sheriff Reinhardt. The other blokes are a bit laid back, but if anything it made me even keener.’
‘I’m proud of you, Mick. Even if you’d have tried the same caper back home we’d have probably had you shot or your legs broken, I’m still proud of you.’
‘Thanks. Anyway, I nicked this little dropkick whose old man’s right up in the HPD. The little shithouse, though. He’s stealing cars, breaking into houses, he belted an old lady over in Niu Valley. And the last time I collared him he pulled a fuckin’ switchblade on me.’
‘All he probably needed was a bit of counselling?’ suggested Les dryly.
‘Yeah, I gave him counselling. I broke his arm, four of his ribs and got him three years in the slam. Then pinched his fuckin’ mates, whose fathers are local big shots too, and got them a year each.’
‘Good on you.’
‘Yeah.’ Mick gritted his teeth. ‘Doing the right fuckin’ thing. So anyway, the powers that be decided Bondi’s answer to Wyatt Earp needed cooling off. So they gave me a new beat and a new assignment. Around Diamond Head.’
Les pointed to the mountain in front of them. ‘You don’t have to climb the bloody thing every day, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t want to. They also gave me a partner who should be in a nursing home. In fact, he’s off right now with his prostate and heart trouble. Now I’ve got this beat and right in the middle of it is a sheila making a squillion running high-class hookers through travelling brothels and I can’t bloody pinch her.’
‘Why fuckin’ bother? Christ! Just do what any self-respecting cop back in Australia would do. Put a gun to her head and say, “Give me my whack, you fuckin’ moll, or you’re off.” And get her to put it straight in a bank account under a bodgie name. That’s a bonus, Mick. You’ve killed ’em.’
Mick gave Les a thin smile. ‘It doesn’t quite work like that over here, Les.’
‘It doesn’t?’ Norton was genuinely surprised.
‘No!’
They walked past the old shutdown swimming pool, and then under some metal scaffolding that had been formed into a canopy of thick vines by several trees growi
ng along the side of the promenade. They paused for a moment to let a group of Japanese joggers sweat and pant their way past.
‘You see, not only is this rotten bloody sheila nicknamed “the Madam to the Stars”, she’s also a fuckin’ Australian.’
‘An Aussie?’ Norton felt like cheering. ‘Unreal.’
‘Yeah. She tries to kid everyone she’s a pommy, but she’s as Australian as Four’n Twenty pies. Plus she’s a real cheeky bastard and I’d give me left nut to nick her.’
‘An Aussie tart running a trap in Hawaii?’ Norton grinned. ‘This is great, Mick. Tell me more.’
‘Hah! That’s not even half of it.’
Norton didn’t know whether to feel sorry for Mick or what. What he’d just told him didn’t exactly sound like the end of the world and the thought of a true-blue Aussie woman running brothels in Hawaii appealed to the big Queenslander’s sense of humour. For the sake of diplomacy, however, he decided to sympathise with Mick a little. Plus, all up, Mick was just a good cop trying to do his job.
‘So what do you mean when you say you can’t pinch her?’
‘When I said she was called the Madam to the Stars, nearly all her clientele are film directors, producers, movie stars, politicians, publishers. The odd senator and governor.’
‘Any judges, or the “odd” high-ranking police officer?’
Mick gave another thin smile. ‘What do you think? And the bitch has got a little black book with all their names in it. And a big box full of photos.’
‘Ooohh.’
‘Yeah. So if I do nick her all this shit’s gonna come down on me. They’d literally have me shot. And when I do make an attempt just to get a case going or bring her in for questioning, I get fucked over all along the line. And she knows it too. Which shits me, Les, because I’m straight up. I just want to do my job.’
Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker Page 4