Norton looked at Mitzi, looked out the window for a split second, then looked back at Mitzi. ‘Right! Yes. Of course. You’re the accountant.’
Mitzi continued to stare at Les. ‘What exactly did you think I was?’
‘Think?’ Les blinked once or twice while his mind started tap-dancing at a thousand miles an hour. ‘Well. The… the marine architect.’
‘Marine architect?’
‘Yeah. You know. Andriana’s got that… those boatbuilding interests. You’re her accountant. You should know what I mean.’
Mitzi nodded very slowly. ‘I think I know what you’re talking about.’
‘Well. I’ve got a mate… a friend, back in Australia, who’s building a yacht. Andriana was going to get this girl… Kia… to drop some plans off for me to take back.’ Les looked at his watch. ‘She said if she wasn’t here by eight-thirty she couldn’t make it. I thought you might have been her… running late.’
Some expression returned to Mitzi’s face. An impassive blink. ‘Oh. I see.’
‘I thought you might have been an accountant anyway.’
‘Why’s that?’
Les pointed to Mitzi’s face. ‘I can see the marks on the bridge of your nose from your glasses,’ he said weakly.
Mitzi subconsciously massaged the top of her nose. ‘Actually, I had to do some reading this morning.’
‘Yeah. Right.’ Les clapped his hands together. ‘Well, now that we’ve got that sorted out, can I get you something, Mitzi? You don’t mind me calling you Mitzi, do you? Ms Moonkiss sounds a bit… you know?’
‘Mitzi’s fine,’ she nodded.
‘I’ve got no coffee. And I think it’s a bit early to start hitting the turps. Would you like some fruit juice?’
‘Thank you, Les. That would be very nice.’
‘Coming right up.’ Les gave Mitzi an oily smile and retreated to the bathroom.
Shit! How about that, thought Les, as he got some ice from the fridge. She’s an accountant. Trust bloody Andrea. I knew she’d pull some kind of a trick on me. The cheeky little bastard. But what a good sort anyway. Andrea must’ve got her straight out of school. And if she’s just a pen-pusher, I wonder what those other girls must look like in the flesh. Les mixed up two glasses of juice and went back into the bedroom.
‘There you go,’ he said, handing Mitzi a glass. ‘I call these “purple people eaters”. They’re not bad.’
Mitzi took a delicate sip. ‘Yes, they’re lovely. Thank you.’
Norton sat down opposite Mitzi and decided it might be an idea to stop perving on her. He’d already nearly made a dill of himself and Mitzi was obviously a very cool and intelligent young lady. A little respect now would be well in order. ‘So what did Andriana tell you about today, Mitzi? All she said to me was she was sending someone around to keep me company. But I am over twenty-one. I don’t need someone to hold my hand.’
‘Andriana said you’d hired a car and you were taking a drive over to the North Shore. She told me to see that you got there okay and take you out for dinner afterwards. Then we could both go and have a few drinks later, if you wanted to.’
‘Sounds all right to me.’ Norton’s smile was warm and genuine. ‘And thanks very much for going to the trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
Les was rapt. Just going out for the day with Mitzi would be sensational. And you never know — if he behaved himself there was a chance he might get another lash before he left. ‘You got any places in mind?’
‘Oh, a couple.’
‘Rightyo!’ Les took another sip of fruit juice. ‘So how long have you been Andriana’s accountant?’
Mitzi stared impassively at Les for a moment. ‘Oh, for a while.’
‘So you’d know a fair bit about Andriana… Ms Hazlewood?’
‘A bit. Yes.’
‘Then why don’t we drop this Andriana Hazlewood sheizenheimer, and call her Andrea.’
A wry smile crept across Mitzi’s inscrutable oriental face and flickered in those two beautiful brown eyes. ‘Yes. Why not,’ she nodded slowly with a quiet laugh.
‘Right,’ Les smiled back, happy now that they seemed to be on more even terms. He took another sip of fruit juice. ‘So, tell us a bit about yourself, Mitzi. But before you do, there’s something I’ve got to ask you, if you don’t mind. How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-seven. Why?’
Norton picked his jaw up off the floor and put it back on his face where it belonged. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he just about mumbled. ‘You don’t look anywhere near it, that’s all.’ What else could Les say?
Mitzi originally came from a small town in Korea called Yinchee, before moving to Seoul so she could attend university. She finished university in San Francisco, where she met Takushi’s two sons. She moved to Hawaii because she had relatives here and it was old Takushi who introduced her to Andrea. Mitzi had been with Andrea since day one and knew everything about her, including what Andrea had told her about Les. Naturally she knew exactly what Andrea was up to, how much she was worth and how she was covering her arse. She also knew that the bubble was going to burst eventually, especially with Andrea’s Godfather gone, and had advised her it was about time she got into something else. For her own good as well as everybody else’s. Les reiterated about how he knew Andrea, how he came to be in Hawaii and told Mitzi pretty much what he’d told Andrea, pointing to the mailing bag with the photocopies sitting on the table. Mitzi was trying not to let on too much, but being a woman she had to have a bit of a gossip, and once again, Les was a shoulder to lean on and an ear to chew, as well as seeming to be a likeable, easy-going sort of bloke. However, judging by the way Mitzi spoke about Andrea at different times, Les could see that as well as having a sort of admiration for her, she genuinely liked Andrea and the way Andrea treated her and others and was genuinely concerned for her wellbeing. After a couple more cool fruit juices, Mitzi seemed to be warming up to Norton even more.
‘You know, Les, Andrea’s a shrewd businesswoman. But at times she can be so damn vague.’
‘Vague? How do you mean, vague?’
‘Blasé might be a better word. I mean, she just carries on in the middle of all this like it’s some sort of joke. It’s almost as if she gets more of a kick out of stirring people up than she does from the money she’s making.’ ‘Andrea’s always been a bit of a stirrer,’ smiled Les. ‘Maybe she’s just got things on her mind. The cops and all that.’
‘Forget the cops for the time being. Andrea wants to watch her back.’
‘You mean all the killings?’
‘Exactly,’ Mitzi nodded quite worriedly. ‘They’re starting to get scary, Les. But Andrea just says, “No worries. It’s all sweet.” Or, “I’ve sweetened it all up.” Or something like that.’
‘That’d be her,’ Les smiled again. He looked at Mitzi over his fruit juice for a moment. ‘What do you think of all these murders? Have you got any ideas who the bloke… the guy, is?’ Hello. Here I go again, thought Les. Sticking my big silly head in. I must be a frustrated bloody detective.
Mitzi shook her head, blowing air out over her lips. ‘I don’t know, Les. It’s weird. Really weird.’
‘Why’s that, Mitzi?’
‘Well. Because I come from the same village as all the girls, I’ve had to go down and identify the bodies, then get them sent home. Which is no big deal. I’m just an accountant who happens to come from the same place. And between the local cops and the marines, no one’s pushing it all that much. Except —’
‘Mick. The Aussie cop.’
‘Yeah. Actually, he’s an all right guy. Anyway, one day I ran all the girls’ names up on a computer, and as well as being strong the guy knows all the girls’ movements, where they live… and he must be able to speak Korean.’
Norton’s ears started to prick up. It might have been the frustrated cop in him. Maybe it was the fifty grand. ‘Tell me more, Mitzi,’ he said avidly.
‘Well, you must know how we Kor
eans have names like “Yik Ah Sun”, or “Roh Lan Kim”. I used to be called Mit Mu Kow, but I got sick of every yo-yo calling me Mitzi Moo Cow.’
‘Yeah, I can sort of dig that, Mitzi,’ chuckled Les, shifting his eyes to the ghetto blaster for a second. ‘I sometimes think all Korean politicians are named after old rock ’n’ roll songs. You know, Doo Ron Ron, Sha Na Na. Wop Bop Bop. Sorry if I’m being a little culturally insensitive there, Mitzi, old sausage. But they do.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean, Les.’ Mitzi returned Norton’s smile. ‘But so far all the girls, except for that damn black one, have been killed in alphabetical order.’
‘Interesting,’ Norton nodded slowly.
‘And you know what the next initial is, Les?’ The big Queenslander shook his head. ‘H. For “Hazlewood” or “Hayden”. Take your pick. There’s a Ho and a Han on the books, but they’ve gone back home. I reckon the next name on the killer’s list is Andrea.’
‘Shit! You could be right, Mitzi.’
‘I’m sure I’m right. There’s more to this than some kook marine that’s murdering the girls.’
‘That’s what I reckon.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the Yakuza was behind it. They’re ruthless enough. Takushi’s gone and there’s a lot of money involved. Plus they got all these weird rituals and things.’
‘It’s a thought.’ Norton drummed his fingers on the table.
‘And right in the middle of all this, Andrea just goes blissfully on about her ways. She should be more careful, for crissake!’
‘She told me she carries a gun. And she’s got Monroe to look after her. I couldn’t see anybody getting past him.’
‘But she just roams off at times. Never tells anybody where she is. She’s crazy. Especially with all this going on.’ Mitzi looked directly at Norton. ‘I’m scared for her, Les.’
Les nodded sincerely. ‘I don’t blame you, Mitzi. I wouldn’t like to see anything happen to her either.’
They talked for a while longer about different things, with Mitzi generally switching the conversation back to Andrea. Les showed her the photocopies and Mitzi was able to identify the girls easily; the photo of Andrea in the paper she’d seen before. More golden oldies oozed out of the radio and although Mitzi didn’t appear to have the greatest sense of humour in the world it was quite pleasant sipping fruit juice with her; at different moments it was almost like they’d been drinking. However, it wasn’t getting any earlier and Les suggested it might be an idea if they made a move. Mitzi agreed. Les got the plastic camera case, plus anything else he thought he might need, and shoved it all in his overnight bag. Mitzi took a towel from hers and slung a small leather handbag over her shoulder. Then they caught the lift downstairs.
It was a different driveway attendant, but Les still got the same smile, and he noticed the attendant giving Mitzi’s legs and backside a good going over as he opened the car door for her. Les slung him a dollar, climbed in the other side and put the hood down, then drove out from the hotel and pulled up with the other traffic waiting for the lights on Kalakau Avenue. He looked at the radio for a moment. No. The golden oldies had to cease. Gene Pitney, The Regents, Freddy Cannon. Maybe if you were a western suburbs housewife full of valium. Norton pulled a tape from his pocket and slipped it into the cassette.
‘Do you know the way?’ asked Mitzi.
‘I got a fair idea,’ replied Les.
‘I can show you anyway.’
‘Righto.’
The lights changed and as Les turned left into Kalakau Avenue, Lee Kernaghan slipped nicely into ‘The Outback Club’. Yes. This sounds a lot bloody better, thought Les. A bit further on they turned left again into Kapahulu and Paul Norton zipped into ‘They’re Getting Away with Murder’. Yes, Les chuckled to himself. This sounds appropriate. Mitzi directed him to go left there, get into that lane, go up some ramp, watch the truck behind him. Then with The Cockroaches boogying into ‘Kiss You Tonight’, they went down some other ramp into the H1, heading for the North Shore.
Considering Honolulu wasn’t all that big, the freeway was huge, with giant trucks and yank gas guzzlers going everywhere. Sitting down low in the small convertible the noise was fairly horrendous so Les slipped the side windows up. Flogging the guts out of the Mustang and not worrying about the speed limit would have been a lot of fun, but Les noticed the convertible didn’t have any roll bars and being decapitated in an accident wouldn’t be much fun at all. So Les just cruised along, taking his time and not taking any risks. Besides, the more time he took, the more time he had to look at Mitzi’s lovely brown accountant’s legs.
Between the noise and the music they didn’t talk all that much. Mitzi seemed happy enough tapping along to the cassette and being out in the sun for the day with someone different who was a friend of Andrea’s. Les cracked a couple of feeble jokes and even got a couple of feeble laughs. Les got a good view of Pearl Harbor and all the outlying suburbs as they cruised past, then the H1 became the H2 going towards Wahiawa.
It was rolling hills, trees and greenery, then near Wahiawa the H2 ended at Schofield Army Barracks and became just a double road. Les noticed soldiers in uniform walking around or on pushbikes; there were houses and playgrounds for kids and now and again a HUM-VEE would rumble past with aerials poking out everywhere. They crossed a narrow bridge, came up a rise, then all Les could see for miles was rows and rows of pineapples sitting in the red soil. Millions of them, for as far as the eye could see. It was dead flat and looked like someone had dug up the Nullarbor Plain and filled it full of pineapples. He saw a sign saying ‘Dole Pineapples’, then a railroad crossing and more pineapples. After a few more miles of pineapples the road narrowed and what little traffic there was slowed for some roadwork, then Les noticed a few small sugar cane fields along the side of the road, and about three miles ahead of him the ocean. It was quite windy and the water was a blue-grey with countless white horses being pushed over the reefs by the gusty tradewind. The wind appeared to be neither offshore nor onshore but coming from the side. As they got a little closer Les could see these rugged, grey headlands looking sinister and treacherous, plumed as they were with white spray from the choppy seas. A sign said ‘Kaiaka Bay’ and another pointed to Haleiwa. Mitzi pointed Les in that direction.
Now it was all old, dusty, wooden houses and shops, nothing like the concrete and chrome bustle of Waikiki. There were art galleries, restaurants and surf shops and Les wasn’t quite sure whether the place had an untouched, rustic ambience about it or whether it was just decrepit and rundown and would be better off being bulldozed. A sign outside a stall on the right caught his eye. ‘Conch Shells For Blowing.’
‘I don’t need one of those to make me blow,’ he said to Mitzi, knowing it would go straight over her head.
‘Neither do I,’ she answered, without taking her eyes off the road.
Norton was a little admonished. Hello, he thought. Hasn’t the conversation suddenly taken a lower tone. The dirty little tart.
They drove past more shops and old wooden houses, a park with a war memorial and different little bays and beaches. Les saw a sign saying ‘Chuns Reef’, then the road curved down and another sign said ‘Waimea Bay’. I got to have a look at this, thought Les. There was a break in the traffic so he drove straight in.
The carpark was about a third full. Les got his overnight bag and they walked across to the beach. There was an open shower next to a stone change shed and a clump of palm trees, cliffs behind, jagged reefs sticking out of the water on the left and a headland with more palm trees and about a six foot wave half a kilometre or so out to the right, and the whole place reminded Les of Bronte. Same size, same shape, the only things missing were the stormwater tunnel and a couple of thousand Greeks barbecuing sides of lamb. Just past the lifeguard’s tower on the right was a pretty lagoon surrounded by lush green hills, where about a dozen kids with shovels were digging a long ditch to empty it out. Les didn’t bother to ask why, although it seemed like
a pretty dumb idea because the lagoon looked quite beautiful. He looked at Mitzi, who shrugged her shoulders and shook her head also. Oh well, thought Les. Knowing the mentality of your average young wax-head, if they weren’t wrecking the lagoon they’d only be burning down the nearest building or kicking over all the Otto-bins. The wave on the point was mushy and a bit slow, but the beach had a six foot shore break slamming down into the coarse sand. The water, however, looked blue and inviting; Les dropped his overnight bag and stripped down to his Speedos.
‘Wait here, Mitzi,’ he winked. ‘I’m going to show these local yokels how it’s done.’
Without waiting for a reply, Norton charged down the beach and dived under the next wave, not quite managing to avoid getting sucked back and dumped heavily on his arse in an explosion of swirling white foam and gritty brown sand. With water and sand pouring out of his nose and ears, Les managed to clamber to his feet, only to get bowled over on his arse again. With more sand and salt water pouring out of him Les got to his feet as another shore break loomed up. This time he managed to dive deep and hard, breast-stroking underwater till he surfaced well out the other side. It was only a matter of seconds before another shore break loomed up. One kick and Les was on it. It was kind of like getting burst out of a water tank, then having a dump truck full of wet sand tipped all over you. Les got smashed into about a foot of water, but was able to duck his chin in, roll and breakfall so he didn’t get spread over the beach like a squashed cane toad.
‘Hey! How good’s this!’ he yelled, to no one in particular, then turned around and dived another one.
Up on the beach Mitzi watched him and shook her head, while a few metres to Norton’s left a bunch of young grommets were doing pretty much the same thing. And if they could do it, so could the big, would-be grommet from Australia. Les got chundered into the sand by another six waves, then dripping water and sand walked up and stood in front of Mitzi.
‘There you go, Mitzi,’ he grinned. ‘At least when I get home I can say I surfed Waimea Bay.’
Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker Page 11