Fire Knife Dancing (Jungle Beat)

by John Enright

  Apelu didn’t remember the plot of the dream. All he remembered was that it ended in a big explosion that woke him up in pain. The sky out strange windows was just lighting up with dawn. The rain had stopped. No one was up yet, but he could hear Baby Peni fussing. Apelu folded his sheet on top of his pillow and let himself out. It was a beautiful morning with a dry after-storm breeze. The road down the hill was fairly dry but scattered with debris. At the main road he turned left, toward town.

  It was after seven by the time Apelu parked at the Rainmaker. He didn’t see the FBI’s rental cars parked anywhere, and at the front desk the clerk told him that the four strange palangi men had already left, complaining as usual about their rooms. The Samoan word the clerk used to describe them was not a polite one.

  Apelu stopped at the pay phone outside the entrance of the hotel—the one he had warned Dwayne about using—and called the shipping office where Sina worked. She was normally at work by then. Only she wasn’t. The woman who answered the phone—Apelu knew it was Sina’s bingo buddy, Tise—said Sina wasn’t in. She was on leave.

  “Tise, do you know where she is?”

  “Apelu? Where are you?” That question again—always where are you? Never how are you? “The police are looking for you.”

  “Where is Sina?”

  “I don’t know. She left yesterday after the police stopped here. She said she would be taking leave for a couple of days.”

  Apelu hung up. He doubted their crack crew of eavesdroppers would be on duty so early, so he made one more call, this one to Asia’s house. Again, she didn’t pick up after the answering machine came on and he had asked her to pick up. He left another message, telling her he would like to keep the car for the morning, but would be back at her place by two. He hung up the phone, wondering now where the fuck Asia was. What was she up to?

  Half an hour later Apelu was at the airport. At that point in time there was only one airline flying between the two Samoas, the Western Samoa national carrier, Polynesian. The American Samoa version, Samoa Air, had gone belly-up the year before. Apelu had to flash his badge to work his way up to the local Polynesian manager to make it happen, but within another half an hour he was sitting behind the airline’s ticket counter, checking their bookings to Apia for that day, the next day, and the day before. On the last flight out the day before he found Mrs. S. Soifua and three of his kids. Sina must have left the eldest, Sanele, with his cousins in Aua and taken Sarah and Isabel and Toby with her to her mother’s. He found no Woos or Tia by her real name. All that day’s flights were fully booked with waiting lists right up to the last flight at four. There were no Chinese names. He thought of Lisa’s list then remembered that he wasn’t thinking about Lisa. The next day, Friday, there was a Hawaiian Airlines flight arriving from and then returning to Honolulu. For more than an hour Apelu tried to get them to show him the manifest, but it didn’t happen—company policy, need approval from home office, home office wants court order or something, FAA regs, someone out to lunch, et cetera. Apelu wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for on that flight anyway, so he gave up on it.

  He was standing in the building’s shadow outside the Hawaiian Airlines ticket office, having a smoke and wondering what to do next, when he saw her again. A black SUV pulled up to the curb and parked in the no-parking zone, and Werner’s Fijian girl, looking brilliant in a green silk sari sort of thing, got out of the passenger side door. She walked briskly—vents in the sari showing lots of leg—toward the arrival gate. Apelu followed her with his eyes, then wandered after her. He saw an airport cop gesture to the driver of the SUV to move on, and it did, slowly. Apelu took a seat in the departure area where he could watch both the Fijian girl and the arrival gate from the customs area. A Polynesian flight from Apia had just landed.

  The fifth passenger through the arrivals gate was Werner, dressed both conservatively and conspicuously in a blue business suit, carrying just a black leather briefcase. The black SUV had had to make the complete circuit of the airport’s access road before picking up Werner and friend, and Apelu was almost to Asia’s car in the parking lot by then. He only had to pass two cars to catch up to them on their way west out of the airport. Apelu knew where they were going. He didn’t follow them when they turned up the dirt road to the Woos’.

  CHAPTER 18

  ACCORDING TO THE clock on the microwave in Asia’s kitchen Dwayne was four minutes late—it said 2:04 when the phone rang. Maybe the FBI was acquiescing a bit to island time. Asia wasn’t home, which was probably good, although Apelu noticed that his messages from the morning and the night before had been erased from the answering machine.

  “Okay, Dwayne, I’m all alone here and I’m not taping anything. Progress report?”

  “Well, your request for that ballistics test worked in a way, I guess. The attorney general has bolted.”

  “Bolted?”

  “He left island this morning, for Fiji via Apia, to attend a charity golf tournament his office said.”

  “Are you sure?” Apelu hadn’t seen the AG’s name on the manifest of any Apia flights.

  “No confirmation, but he has disappeared.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, we found one of the drivers from Legal Affairs, and I think he’ll turn. He said he had to talk to his family and his fy-fay-ow first. Who’s that? What’s that mean?”

  “That’s his church minister. It means he probably will talk. He had to confess it to his family and minister first—get their support—before talking to you guys, the authorities. You don’t take things like that to outsiders lightly.”

  “Whatever. So, you think this guy will come over?”

  “Keep on him, don’t give him too much time away.”

  “What’s new on your end?” Dwayne sounded rehearsed. Apelu wondered if Dwayne was alone and/or taping the call.

  “I found our girl Tia, late yesterday. I tried to catch you guys this morning at the hotel, but you were gone already.”

  “You know where she is?”

  “I know where they took her yesterday. My bet is she’s still there. The police misled you, by the way. They had her in lockup.”

  “Misled? They flat-out lied!” This part Dwayne had not rehearsed.

  “Well, who are you guys to them, anyway? They don’t know you. You’re not their boss. Why do you want to know? What’s the big deal about this girl? You may be the feds, but what are you doing here? Trying to get one of their brothers—or even worse, one of their chiefs—in trouble? I can see grounds for a what-you-don’t-know-I-ain’t-going-to-tell-you attitude.”

  “I don’t care what you people think. We’re the FBI. You’ve got to cooperate. We have jurisdiction here.”

  How big is your war club? Apelu thought, but what he said was, “What you haven’t got is a warrant, either federal or local.”

  “We’re dealing with that; we’re dealing with that. The grand jury warrants for the attorney general and for this Tia woman as a material witness will be here on tomorrow night’s flight from Honolulu with the special agent in charge and some backup.”

  “If they’re still here. Once they’re in Apia—or in Fiji—they’re out of your net. There is no extradition.”

  Dwayne grunted.

  “I checked the flights to Apia for yesterday, today, and tomorrow. No one on our list was booked, and the flights are all full.”

  “So, where is this Tia woman being held?”

  “At the Woos’ home, near the airport. If one or more of your guys could take over the stakeout there, we might be able to find out if she’s still there or if she leaves. I can’t cover it alone. Maybe she’ll still be there when your warrant arrives.”

  “How do we find this place?”

  “I’ve got to take you there, show you the layout. Say in about an hour. I’ll meet you.” Apelu named the Laundromat near the Woos’ where he had parked. “You can’t miss it,” he said. “It’s on the road between the airport and the golf course, on your ri
ght as you’re heading west.”

  Apelu had just hung up the phone and was looking for something quick to eat when Asia came in the back door. She didn’t close it. Behind her was the assistant commissioner.

  “You are such a man of your word,” Asia said. “You said you would be here by two, and here you are.”

  “And here you are too” Apelu said, “and you’ve brought a friend to arrest me.”

  “We’re just here to finish the job, Apelu. You can’t do it yourself.” Asia pulled the assistant commissioner into the house with a nod of her head.

  “When you vanish, you vanish into comfort, Sergeant,” the assistant commissioner said as he walked past Apelu into the living room.

  “I should have figured you guys were old friends,” Apelu said, looking at Asia.

  “Actually, we just met,” she said.

  “I got in on Monday night’s flight,” the assistant commissioner said. “I didn’t get a chance to be briefed by Agent Bowman here until this morning.”

  “Agent Bowman,” Apelu said, as if remembering a character’s name from an old movie.

  “And it is true that there is an internal directive out to have you picked up—not arrested, just brought in for questioning. I issued it.” The assistant commissioner turned to face Apelu when he said this.

  It was funny, Apelu thought, how you could be around people for years and never really look at them, especially someone as plain as the assistant commissioner. In most ways he was typical of a Samoan male of his age, late forties, but in every way he was somehow smaller. His height, his weight, his frame, his head and features, even his arms and hands were all slightly minimized from the norm—80 percent original size—but it was reduced enough for most men—at least for Apelu—to not fully notice him, not really look at him, out of a sort of male embarrassment. Not that he was effeminate. There was nothing effeminate about him. There was nothing memorable about him either. He was neither handsome nor ugly. He wore unremarkable clothes. He was like a servant, a nameless extra, and in spite of his position he was largely ignored by everyone.

  “I wanted you brought in because I think this whole thing is getting a bit out of hand, with all due respect to you, Agent Bowman.” Even the assistant commissioner’s voice was small, like listening to just one stereo track through a cheap speaker.

  “We’ve agreed to what has to be done,” Asia cut in. “Let’s take that step and see if your skepticism shrinks or grows.”

  “You see, Sergeant, Agent Bowman here—and her superiors—have imposed upon me to assist them in apprehending a young woman they have reason to suspect is involved in some sort of illegal activity.”

  He was clean, though, Apelu had to admit as he watched the assistant commissioner speak, always had been—short hair not yet turning gray, clean-shaven. Apelu noticed that when he spoke no part of his body except his lips moved, no gestures, no animation around the eyes.

  Asia was impatient. “FBI Agent Sparks found altered immigration records in the Attorney General’s Office connecting this girl to individuals involved in the smuggling and official corruption cases, and Sergeant Soifua has identified her as a prostitute connected to possible illegal aliens.” Asia, on the other hand, really used her body when she spoke. When she finished, she crossed her arms below her breasts. “In any event, she is an illegal overstayer under your laws, and you can—we will—bring her in today. We have already determined all this.”

  “We have no record, no report, no knowledge about the girl’s occupation. Nothing to prove it aside from the Sergeant’s assertion. And the Sergeant, I might point out, is currently under suspicion, suspended, and considered a fugitive at large.”

  Strange phrase to use, Apelu thought, at large. “Actually, I’m right here,” he said.

  “The attorney general does not involve himself in the recordkeeping of the Immigration Office. If there were some irregularities there…” The assistant commissioner felt their eyes on him. He did not like being looked at; he probably wasn’t used to it. “Could I have a glass of water, please?” He turned and walked to the windows looking out at the broken black lava fields. Neither of them moved to get his water. “And this thing with the phantom Chinese men. Really. Less than gossip. No proof of illegal activity. If there is anything to it, why wasn’t it brought before the grand jury along with the other points?”

  “Because the State Department’s case hasn’t been filed yet, and it will go before a separate grand jury anyway. What’s your problem?” Asia’s arms were still crossed.

  “Evidence, that’s my concern. Evidence about these additional accusations against the attorney general. The grand jury had just the matter of the smuggling ring charges before them, not all this…all this grand conspiracy.”

  “That’s what we’re going to get today, Assistant Commissioner”—Asia finally called him by name—“evidence, testimony.”

  “It’s all just out of control,” the assistant commissioner said. “Too big, too out of control. We don’t even have a warrant to enter wherever this woman supposedly is.”

  “We don’t need one in pursuit of an alien fugitive, and we have reason to believe she’s also being held without her consent, kidnapped.”

  “And why do the feds have to get involved? We can handle our own criminal affairs. All these things you’re talking about are against local laws as well, and we have jurisdiction. We don’t need the feds.”

  Apelu spoke up. “Might I remind you, sir, that you were the one who first went to the feds, to the Department of the Interior, with your evidence, your little vendetta against the AG?” The assistant commissioner still hadn’t turned to them. He looked even smaller standing in front of the windows and their open vista.

  Apelu knew what the assistant commissioner’s problem was and why he wouldn’t give it up. He had just said it—it had all gotten too big. One of his many inherited obligations was to test and torment the attorney general’s family. Why? The original conflict—more than likely over a property boundary or claims to a chiefly title—had probably been lost in the retelling generations ago, but the clan opposition endured. It was his chiefly duty to stick it to the AG’s clan whenever and wherever he could. He had gotten some goods on the guy and had done so. He took what he had to Interior, hoping probably just to get the guy fired, but now this, this pit of charges opening up, the control of events slipping to outsiders with no loyalty to anyone, and he somehow would be blamed in local eyes for every Samoan, including the AG, who fell into the federal pit. Then what if the feds started snooping into other local affairs? Everyone would think that he was the one who had opened the door to them in the first place, see him as being on their side, outside the malo, a traitor to the fa`asamoa. Apelu was already thinking those thoughts. Everyone else would too. No one, including Apelu, wanted the feds around. It would be just one more landslide on their once firm mountain of independence, one more American homogenization of their separate Samoan identity.

  The assistant commissioner was still standing at the window. The next thing he said was not audible enough for Apelu or Asia to make out its meaning.

  “Excuse me?” Asia said.

  The assistant commissioner turned around. “I said, Agent Sparks told you that, didn’t he, Sergeant? Where is Agent Sparks, by the way?”

  “Agent Sparks is dead, assassinated,” Apelu said.

  “Oh my god, there will be no getting rid of them now,” the assistant commissioner said.

  “When?” Asia asked.

  “A week ago today,” Apelu said, watching the assistant commissioner’s unexpressive face.

  “Who?” he said.

  “Someone in a car with Legal Affairs plates and a gun borrowed from their evidence locker. I was there.”

  “Let’s go,” Asia said.

  “All right, all right,” the Assistant Commissioner said. “We’ll do this, but if the woman’s not there, we stop and take a big step back. There’s too much we don’t know.”

&nbs
p; It was Apelu’s idea to go in through the back of the house—easy access, less conspicuous, and the back of the house was where most of the people in the Woos’ household usually hung out. Apelu knew that from watching the place. He had no choice about being there, seeing as he had to take them there. He realized he would miss his appointment with Dwayne and the boys at the Laundromat. Tough. He liked leaving them out of it, and they had enough manpower. The assistant commissioner had brought three plainclothes CID guys with him, who were pleased to see Apelu.

  No one was armed. No one, it turned out, except Asia, who, as they were about to go in, pulled a very professional-looking forty-five automatic out of her purse and clicked off the safety.

  “We got three corpses on our side already,” she said by way of explanation.

  The assistant commissioner sent one of the men around the side of the house to watch the front. The rest of them went in the open back kitchen door—Apelu first, then Asia, then the CID guys. The assistant commissioner stayed at the door. The kitchen was empty, but Apelu could hear a TV set in a side room. He motioned Asia and the others to go on through the house, and without knocking or announcing himself he opened the door to the room where the TV set was on. On a bed facing the TV set at the far wall was the body of a Samoan woman rolled over onto her side, her face away from him. She didn’t stir when he came in the door. He walked up to her back and put a hand on her bare shoulder. It was warm. Then it went tense, and the woman pushed herself up and away from him, letting out a sound that a startled wild bird might make. It was the house girl he’d talked to on their first visit there.

  “Police,” Apelu said. Then in Samoan he told her that no one would hurt her, but that she must be silent.

  The assistant commissioner came into the room. “What was that?” he asked.