The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1)

by Brent Kroetch

  “Then you must have an opinion more helpful than that he’s Blake Garrett. Tell me what he’s like.”

  “Like any old guy who’s lived it all. Brilliant. Stupid. Self absorbed. Generous. Tender and mean. An open enigma.”

  Right, he thought, that makes sense. To Charlie, if nobody else. “Okay. Thanks. That prepares me.”

  Bemused, Ham studied her as she drove, tongue slightly protruded between her teeth as she concentrated on the constantly changing traffic. She enchanted him as always, from her almond eyes that hinted at some exotic influence, to her astonishing mane of blonde hair that nearly touched the lower back. Not to mention a slim but elegantly curved physique that perfectly suited her five and a half feet of height. All set off by a face maybe just a touch too round, but provoking nevertheless, and with a smoothness that belied her age, which fell only a couple of years south of his own. As always, a bloom adorned her ear, this time a large white flower that might have been a gardenia.

  “You’re drooling.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Charlie laughed, a little tinkling sound that was the female version of Blake’s soft chortle. “The way you look at me. You drool, Ham Man. With your eyes.”

  “I don’t drool. And you should be watching the road.”

  She ostentatiously leaned over, inches from his face, and punched the accelerator. “You’re lying to me, Ham Man. I’m not gonna watch the road until you stop.”

  “All right, all right, all right! I drool. Now watch the freaking road!”

  Embarrassed, Ham turned to the right to ostensibly check out the scenery. And what scenery it was, for suddenly the shoddy and seedy had been left behind, replaced by the splendiferous. He just caught the sign that read Ala Moana Beach Park, with the palms and brilliant sea beyond, before they crossed a small bridge into Waikiki. His jaw dropped in wonder at the sheer beauty of it all, the feel and smell of the ocean breeze; the complete antithesis of a Vegas neon skyline set amidst a desert nothingness.

  Charlie made a few more roundabout turns that led them to the most luxurious high rise Ham had ever seen. A wall of glass that extended beyond his ability to crane his neck, interrupted only by a muted sign that informed him they had arrived at the Waikiki Landmark.

  With nary a brake to slow them, Charlie flew over a couple of speed bumps and whipped into an assigned space that read “Grand Penthouse”. She popped the hood of the car—the trunk in the Beetle—allowing Ham to grab his bag, then directed him to the elevator that bordered their spot.

  Ham noted the elevator’s buttons, which were limited to “emergency”, “stop”, and “B” and “P”. “Private elevator,” Charlie told him. “Directly to the penthouse. There’s another one up there for other use, of course.”

  “Of course,” Ham mumbled. “Completely obvious.”

  Charlie grinned at him but said nothing until they exited into a private foyer that was at least the size of Ham’s entire apartment. “How big is this thing?” he wondered.

  He must have wondered aloud, since Charlie answered, “About forty-seven-hundred square feet.”

  “A little condo,” Ham whispered. “He said ‘I have a little condo’, I remember that.”

  “This is little. To Popster. Wait’ll you see Tahoe. He calls that medium.”

  They continued through the foyer directly into a vast living room that featured contemporary—and what looked to Ham’s uneducated eye—custom furnishing that perfectly complimented the open floor plan and that drew the eye directly to the masterful centerpiece: walls of windows, thirteen feet high, that showcased a well lighted, panoramic view of Honolulu, Diamond Head, Waikiki Beach and—according to Charlie—even some darkness shrouded mountain views that Ham had not been aware would be found in Hawaii.

  He’d expected gracious digs, but this was beyond the pale.

  “Intimidating, isn’t it?”

  He nodded his head before he caught himself. “No, not really. It’s about what I would expect.”

  “You even lie to yourself,” she said with a laugh. “Come on, then, the master awaits.”

  Charlie led him through the living room, past what looked to be bedrooms and baths, and on into a rounded, dimly lit solarium that had not been visible from the outside. This was, he noted, focused on the beach area that fronted them, rather than the panorama of the living area.

  As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a white baby grand piano hogging one corner at the end, two—maybe three—large screen televisions on the paneled interior walls, a well stocked replica of a complete tiki bar, and two distinct seating areas. But no Blake.

  “Hey, Popster,” Charlie yelled. “I bring you your little friend.”

  From somewhere distant a toilet flushed and not many seconds later a smiling Blake Garrett emerged from behind what Ham had thought was a solid wall.

  If he’d expected a wrinkled wreck of a rocker, somewhat akin to a modern day Keith Richards—and he most certainly had—he was to be more than a little surprised. Quite shocked might sum it up better.

  For one, Blake was surprisingly small—at least to a rather larger Ham. At five feet nine inches, he hardly looked the part of a towering legend, and the proffered hand exhibited short and thick fingers. The thought flashed through Ham’s mind that those ungainly fingers could hardly be responsible for the beautiful, sometimes hauntingly melodic, sometimes body jarring leads Blake was famous for, nor for the soothing or pounding piano passages that Ham had come to admire. But there it was.

  Old though he might be, he showed not the slightest sign of dereliction. His still handsome face, etched as it was with lines and crow’s feet, still had not shrunken to a sot’s peculiar combination of boniness and bulbousness of features. No sunken brown eyes, no weathered years beyond his advancement, no graying of that still blonde hair. Just an older version of a handsome, once young superstar.

  “So,” he grinned as he offered up a hand, “you’re my Charlie’s savior. And now to be mine. I want to thank you for both.”

  Ham found himself speechless. And much worse. Charlie’s teasing “you drool” echoed through his mind as he stood there agape.

  Don’t drool, don’t drool, don’t drool.

  Blake regarded him curiously, then nodded the obvious. “Happens a lot, Ham. Just take it easy.”

  “Try miming ‘hi’,” Charlie unhelpfully added.

  Red beyond beet, Ham extended his hand in return.

  In his mind, he’d had it all rehearsed. Something like, “How do you do, Mr. Garrett? Oh, call you ‘Blake’? Certainly, Blake.”

  “Call me ‘Ham’.”

  Stunned, unable to believe what his ears swore was true, Ham glanced over at Charlie. Her hand covered her mouth, her dancing eyes wide with delight.

  Did he really just say that? Call me ‘Ham’?

  Die now. Please, just keel over and die. Die, die, die.

  Blake, though his lips twitched uncontrollably, nodded solemnly. “Thank you. Will do. And you can call me ‘Blake’, how’s that?”

  Ham tried to regain his dignity. “So tell me what this is all about and what you think I can do to help.”

  “That can wait a bit,” Blake replied. “Let’s get to know each other a bit first, relax, as it were. I mean, especially now that I can call you by your first name and all.”

  That’s a very unladylike guffaw, Charlie. “Sure, right, of course. Good idea.”

  Blake led him over to the tiki bar, indicated a seat and went around to play bartender. “What’ll ya have?”

  “I’ll have a beer, I guess.” Unexpectedly, and with a jolt, his dream from the plane reappeared. “No, wait, maybe just coffee or…”

  “You’ll have a beer.” Popping the top of a Michelob Ultra, he asked, “Charlie? Ginger ale?”

  “Nope. I’m going straight to the hard stuff. Give me a root beer.”

  Blake proffered the beer to Ham, poured a root beer over ice for Charlie, and grabbed a beer for himself. “Here’s to it,” he t
oasted to both and to no one in particular. “The continuing misadventures of Truckee River.”

  Ham noted that his smile evinced more grimace than joy as he added the latter part of that toast. Curious, Ham thought. Curious enough to arouse his cop instinct.

  Something unsaid, but very much implied, would soon come into play. And it wouldn’t be pretty. He’d bet his inadequate pension on it. But that was for later.

  For now, Ham cocked half an ear as Blake performed the role of jovial host, serving up a brief history of Hawaii and its culture. He simply couldn’t concentrate on either Blake the Superstar or Blake the Travel Guide, not at that moment, at least not fully. The dancing flames of those hundreds of torches, the palms swaying in the breeze, the swells of the waves all conspired to mesmerize him, beckoned him to lose himself amidst their glories.

  Ham was little less than half way through his beer when Blake popped two more, reserved one for himself and shoved the other across the bar. Only then did he inquire, “Ready?”

  Ham struggled to return his attention to the task at hand. “Well, no, I …”

  “Gotta keep up with Popster before you become family, Ham. Get with it.”

  Confused, and a little alarmed, Ham looked back and forth between them. “Well, I, you know, uh …”

  “No worries, Ham. Popster wants to get drunk and you get to be his playmate tonight.” Despite the sharp words, her tone was soft, loving in its own way.

  Blake’s soft eyes told it all when he stage whispered to Ham, “Charlie is who she is. And that’s a precious thing. But,” he added more loudly, a clear dig at Charlie, “it’s all an act. She pretends tolerance, but it’s just that. Pretension. She doesn’t really approve of my weaknesses, you see. She’s never done drugs, hasn’t even had so much as a drink since the…well, the incident. Her high is life, isn’t it, Charlie?” His sigh said more than his words when he added, “Something I wish I’d had. Or do have. Or will.”

  “Come on, Popster, don’t be maudlin. Remember your image. Not to mention your age.”

  Blake’s laugh rang with delight. “And that’s why I love her. She never misses a chance to remind me that I’m not the icon, the legend, the image. I’m just a man. Her old dad and nothing but. Not at home.”

  “Popster’s pulling your leg a bit, Ham. He’s always been aware that it’s just an image, and the image is only what the world sees, what it makes of you. It doesn’t make you. It just is, and you can’t change it. Same with you.”

  “What?” Maybe he was chugging too fast, he decided, because her words made little sense. “I don’t have an image. Nobody knows me.”

  “Of course you have an image. Every human being on the planet has an image. It’s that reflection, like in a mirror, that others see as you. Doesn’t matter whether it’s real or not, to them it is.”

  Ham shook his head, uncomprehending and even less amused. “Charlie, you can’t possibly be equating my life with your dad’s, so what does all this crap mean? Or are you just tweaking me again?”

  “Poor Hamster. Poor, poor Hamster,” she smiled. “So confused. So lost. It’s all very simple,” she explained. “You are only what people think you are, no matter how many or how few the audience. For Dad, millions, maybe billions, they see what they want to project on him and that, to them, is what he is. A superstar they swoon over, whose every breath is of some Cosmic Importance. Same goes with you, too, just in a much more limited sense, and maybe with much less than total adoration. For instance, in your case, the universe of those who care about your image may be comprised of, say, three, four people we’re talking about. Still, it’s their image of you they see, not your own self image. It’s not who you really are. Understand?”

  “No. I do not see, I do not understand. And I do not care. I do, however, want that other beer. If my mind’s going to be this screwed up, I might as well at least enjoy destroying it.”

  “Oh come on,” Blake lectured. “This is simple stuff. Didn’t your mother ever warn you that you are known by the company you keep? Did that sound trite to you, maybe a little stupid, even? Well, it isn’t. It is true, it’s just an awkward way of saying that the image you project, the image others have of you, can get out of your control if you’re not careful. That’s why, in rock and roll, we deliberately project an image. It’s what we want people to associate with us because it inflames passions, makes us hotter, makes us bigger…gets us more fame, makes us more money. And that’s the name of the game. It’s only rock and roll, but it’s still a business.”

  “Maybe we should let him off the hook for awhile, Popster. He looks like he’s about to come undone.”

  “Maybe, darling,’ he smiled. “That may be best. Okay, Ham, here’s your beer and here’s your out. Come with me and let me show you what’s what.”

  They stepped up to the window—with Charlie snuggled uncomfortably close—where Blake began his travelogue-like guidance. “Straight ahead there, that’s the Hilton Hawaiian Village, one of the best hotels on Waikiki Beach. Those towers are the different parts of the hotel.” He pointed down toward the water and added, “See those torches over there?” When Ham nodded, he continued. “That’s the Hau Tree Bar, a small, intimate place that sits right on the beach, with a pool behind. It’s my favorite bar to go to watch football games when I get housebound.” Pointing slightly left, he added, “And that, with all the torches around the thatched hut, that’s the Tropics Bar and Grill. Good hamburgers, open air, though covered, and always with a truly great band. I go there when I want to listen to island music. They’ve got some of the best I’ve ever heard, and consistently so. We’ll go there in a bit, if you’re up for it.”

  “I told you Popster’s intent on getting drunk, didn’t I?”

  “That’s enough, Charlie.”

  Ham heard the rather mild rebuke in Blake’s voice, but it didn’t appear to mean much of anything. Either to Charlie or to Blake. Charlie merely gave her dad a peck on the cheek and replied, “Of course, Poppy,” while Blake smiled indulgently at his seemingly wayward ward.

  The exchange surprised Ham, at least to the extent that he was still capable of surprise. What should have turned into a bitchy argument came across as playful, loving even. There should have been at least an undercurrent of anger hidden beneath the veneer of indulgence, and on both sides. At least that was his experience. Of course, in his experience, he was divorced. And estranged from his now deceased parents. But still…

  “Over on the left, there, that’s the Hale Koa. It’s actually a military hotel, people from the Department of Defense run it, and defense personnel are the guests.” Pointing out toward the beach, he added, “See that open air bar? It’s called the Bare Foot Bar at Hale Koa and it’s a joy not only because of the ambience of sitting right there on Waikiki Beach, but because of this one unique bartender name of Big Ken. He’s been there since, oh, I don’t know, probably as long as I’ve been in the music business.”

  Blake took another sip of his drink and continued. “Civilians like me can drink at the bar, you just can’t eat there, shop there, stay there. Anyway, I went there shortly after I bought this place and Big Ken recognized me. He started to make a deal of it when I asked him not to. Told him I liked the incognito part of being older than my stills from the old days. Promised him an autographed picture for him and his kids if he’d keep my secret. And he did me one better than that,” Blake chuckled. “He denied me completely.”

  Blake smiled at some inner memory, a thought he didn’t share but that his eyes revealed in full. “Ever since, he’s always taken care of me. Always. I remember one time, some soldiers, older than the others around that night, thought they recognized me and asked Ken if he would check it out. He said he didn’t have to, that no, that guy’s Jim, an old hand who served and washed dishes for the hotel’s luau show. Told them that I was an angry, bitter old man who stopped in most evenings after the show to bitch about the tourists and the idiotic displays of forgotten lore that they so loved to
film for their pathetic posterity. Needless to say, nobody wanted to talk to the bitter old man. I mean, really, who wants to ruin their evening with that, right? Eventually, though, he introduced me to the general manager, on the promise of death if he blew my cover, and which led to my being able to eat there any time I want.” Blake’s smile softened into a pleasant reminiscence as he added, “We’ll go there, you, me and Charlie. Lindsey, too, if she wants to come, though she rarely does.” He held up his glass as if in toast and added, “She doesn’t entirely approve of my having a drink, you know. Mother hen that she is. Anyway, they’ve got the best fish and chips I’ve ever eaten. Made with mahi mahi. Sweet, delicious, flaky, and the crust is golden and light. If you like fish, it’s quite a treat.”

  Ham felt a pleasant buzz by the time Blake had ended his tourism monologue and suggested a trip to Tropics, the seaside bar he had referenced earlier. “We’ll catch a little of the music and the magic of Waikiki Beach,” he suggested. “And maybe then I’ll tell you a little about my problem.”

  “That would be good, except I don’t think I can—”

  “We’ll need to do some ground work,” Blake interrupted, “lay out a plan, I guess. At least I know where I’ll be on any given day. See, we’re doing a reunion tour starting this summer. I’m scheduled to be in Florida, South Carolina, New Jersey and Pennsylvania during the month of August. So for the next few days and weeks I’ll be busy with—”

  Startled at Ham’s reaction, Charlie blurted, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Where in Florida?” Ham demanded.

  “Daytona Beach first, then Orlando and Tampa. Why?”

  No, oh jeezus, no. It can’t be. Can it?

  “Nothing. Just a bit dizzy. Long flight, too many beers. But hey, it’s Hawaii, right? I’ll sleep it off later.”

  Sleep and perchance not to dream. Not again.

  DAY TWO

  3

  DESPERADO

  Ham woke to a silent household and a ringing head. Even though it was only 8:00 a.m. in Hawaii, it was ten in the morning his time, long past his usual hour of departure. But that was to be expected, he supposed. After all, they’d done a bit more than just “listen to a little music” at the Tropics—they’d drained the bar of liquid. Of all kinds of liquid, types and quantities of which he had no more than a vague recollection.