Barracuda (10 page)

“Can I book this tour for tomorrow morning?” he
asked the young man.

“Sure,” he replied. “The tour bus will arrive
here at nine a.m. for pick-up.”

Micko made all the proper arrangements and paid
the college boy.

“Are you all right?” the boy inquired.

“Sure, why do you ask?”

“I see that you’re limping.”

Micko hadn’t been aware that he was favoring his
wounded leg as he walked. It must have been a little stiff from the
long flight.

Walking outside he saw a large outdoor shopping
market across the street. This bazaar-like flea market ran for
several blocks through alleys. He spied a sign that identified this
shopper’s chaos as the International Market. Micko enjoyed browsing
through the various shops and stalls, looking at the Hawaiian
goods. Colorful shirts and muumuus abounded, along with local
carvings and jewelry. But not being much of a shopper, he got bored
quickly and stopped in a small sandwich shop. This store was a
two-story recreation of a Hawaiian hut with an outdoor,
second-floor balcony. Micko sat out on the balcony and watched the
shoppers and tourists below. He was hungry since he had slept
through lunch on his flight.

One of his favorite past times was people
watching, and this was an ideal spot. He ordered a BBQ sandwich on
a kaiser role will a beer chaser as he looked at the people passing
by, admiring the beautiful women below. He slowly nursed a few
beers until nightfall, and then headed back to his hotel.
Surprisingly, he had a very restful sleep.

The receptionist woke him at seven a.m. as
directed, and Micko felt quite refreshed after his shower. He
looked out the window and saw that it was a beautiful day. He
noticed a line of people waiting to gain entrance to a rather
small-looking coffee shop.

Since he was only on the third floor, he could
see the shop fairly well and saw that the name of the place was the
Sea Breeze.
Let’s got see what they’re giving away there
, he
thought.

After dressing in a pair of black Dockers and a
white golf shirt, Micko walked to the small coffee shop and got in
line. A man wearing a bright blue shirt was walking up and down the
line, handing out cheap paper breakfast menus. Micko asked him,
“Why are there so many people here?”

“Ah, you’re a new tourist,” he said with a
smile. “This is a small family-run business, and we have the best
breakfast at the best price. We are only open for breakfast and we
close at noon. My name is Frank, and my family and I are from
Chicago.”

Frank had a good strong handshake. Funny, but
Micko could immediately tell if he liked someone by the first words
out of their mouths or their handshakes. With Frank, Micko liked
both.

They shared some small talk until Micko entered
the shop and was seated at a solo window seat. He finally had a
chance to read the menu that Frank had handed him. Micko was amazed
at the cheap prices. He was quite content after breakfast, and the
tour bus was on time. It was the typical huge, fifty-passenger
monstrosity painted in local pastel colors to make it look
tropical. The bus made the rounds to all the hotels that had booked
passengers.

The bus filled quickly, and a fat sweaty man
took the seat next to Micko.

“Hi, I’m Buddy Burger from Raleigh, North
Carolina.” The fat man stuck out a sweaty paw in Micko’s
direction.

Micko hesitantly shook it and said, “Hi, I’m
Mick O’Shaughnessy from the Big Apple.”

“New York City? Wow! I’ve never been there. I
bet it must be very exciting living there.” Buddy went on and on
about New York then switched the topic to Raleigh, and his job as a
manure consultant. Micko smiled to himself as he thought what
shitty job poor Buddy had.

He had never seen a man sweat so much in his
life. The bus was air conditioned, yet the sweat just poured off
Buddy. Micko felt that if the bus had not had A/C, he surely would
have drowned in a salty sea of the manure man’s sweat.

The fat man was just beginning to explain how
important a manure consultant’s job was for farming when the PA
system came alive with the sound of a sweet young lady’s voice
announcing that she would be the tour guide.

Buddy slithered into silence as the tour began
with a brief driving tour to the Indian Head Crater, with stops
along the way that included the Palti Lookout, the Byodo-In
Buddhist Temple, and Hanauma Bay.

Micko was very pleased to have taken the tour.
He was very proud of his patriotism, and this tour of Pearl Harbor
buoyed his love for his country and fellow Americans. He could not
wait to begin diving on the historic wrecks in Bikini Atoll.

On the return bus, Micko actually talked with
Buddy Burger and enjoyed it because the man was a fellow American.
Besides his proclivity to perspire, the chubby guy had a good sense
of humor and was a Vietnam vet. He had been in an artillery unit
and hadn’t seen much action, but he’d done his duty.

Since they were fast becoming friends, Micko
asked, “Hey, Buddy, let me buy you a beer when we get back.”

“I’ll take you up on that, pal.”

The bus stopped at Micko’s hotel first, and they
agreed to meet at the beach bar, in Buddy’s hotel, in half an hour.
This gave them both time to wash up and change clothes. Micko
carefully folded his clothes and looked for a fresh outfit.
Hey,
I’m going to the beach, so a tank top and bathing suit should
suffice.
He put on a white tank top that he had bought in
Honduras and a blue bathing suit that advertised the Great Barrier
Reef in Australia.
Good conversation clothes
, he
thought.

Then he walked out of his hotel and turned into
the International Market, exiting on Kalakaua Avenue. He looked up
and down the street until he saw the Sheraton Moana Surfrider
Hotel. Walking into the decadently ornate lobby be thought,
Geez! There must be a lot of money in manure!

He spotted a sign that pointed to the Banyon
Courtyard and followed it to the Beach Bar. He immediately liked
the bar, which was fairly crowded with a lively group who were
singing and laughing. It was a fancy little place with a tiki motif
looking out over the beach, and it had a spectacular view of the
setting sun. Micko took a seat in the shaded area of the bar and
looked out at the beach and the sun worshipers on their
blankets.

Micko smiled at the bikini-clad barmaid with the
nametag that read “Chrissy.”

“Hi, Chrissy, can I have a Coors Light,
please?”

“Sure, tap or bottle?”

“Bottle, please.”

“New Yorker. I can tell by your accent,” she
said with a smirk.

“Guilty as charged,” Micko remarked with a
laugh.

“I’m originally from Montauk, Long Island,” she
told him.

The two joked and spoke fondly of the Big Apple,
and Micko was genuinely impressed with her knowledge of New York
sports teams.

Finally, one of the revelers yelled down the
bar, “Hey, Chrissy! Have you forgotten about us?”

“Sorry, Stan. What do you guys need?”

“We need you to stay away from the confused guy
with the South American shirt and the Australian pants.”

It wasn’t long before Micko joined Stan’s crew
and some friendly chatter erupted. He was having a pleasant time
when he suddenly noticed Buddy walk into the bar. He nearly
collapsed with laughter as he pointed to Buddy’s overly colorful
Hawaiian shirt.

“I don’t think the guns on the USS Missouri were
ever as loud as that shirt,” he squealed between peals of laughter.
His laugh must have been infectious because Chrissy, Stan, and the
rest of the bar gang broke out in laughter as well.

Poor Buddy’s sweaty face turned beet red; but
fortunately, he had a good sense of humor. “You’re just jealous
because I bought the last one,” he murmured as he approached.

This brought more roars of laughter, and
immediately Buddy was accepted into this beach bar tribe. Before
long, Buddy was backed up several drinks as he led a chorus of
Beach Boys’ surfer songs.

Suddenly, the entire beach bar took a moment of
silence as they viewed a spectacular sunset. Then, just as if a
movie had ended, everyone up and left the bar. In retrospect, Micko
realized it was a good thing because he had an early flight the
next morning.

While Micko and Buddy were alone in the bar,
Buddy’s tone became serious. “I gotta be honest with you, pal. I’m
not really a manure salesman. That’s only a cover. I’m actually a
Fed.” He produced a shield and ID card, and Micko looked it over
carefully.

“What’s this all about?” Micko inquired, rather
startled.

“Everyone knows you’re a cop, so I guess I can
trust you. I’m investigating an intricate money laundering scam
involving the Russian Mafia in Brooklyn siphoning money to the West
Coast. It leaves the country dirty but comes back clean. We don’t
know how the illegal funds get clean, but by the time we pick up
the money train back in California, it’s legit. I’m here in Hawaii
attempting to see if the money gets laundered through the islands.
Take one of my business cards. My cell phone number is on it.” He
paused and leaned forward for effect. “You said that you are
traveling to Micronesia, so keep your eyes and ears open. Believe
me when I say that I need all the help I can get.”

Micko took the card and asked slowly, “What
about Japan? Couldn’t they launder the money through Japan and then
recirculate it though legitimate businesses in the States?”

“We’ve already looked into that, and we can’t
find any businesses that the Russians and the Japanese share in
common. Besides, the two crime organizations don’t get along.”

The two cops talked about their work for another
hour before saying their goodbyes. Micko’s final words were, “This
is not my line of work, Buddy, but it’s been nice to meet you. I’ll
keep my eyes and ears open.”

He felt sorry for Buddy. The poor guy was at a
dead end in his investigation, and the FBI did not accept excuses
from overworked agents.

***

The shuttle bus was on time the next morning,
and Micko made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare. His
travel itinerary called for an island hopper flight to Majuro, the
capital of the Marshall Islands, with an overnight stay in an
Outrigger Hotel. When his flight was called, Micko was pleasantly
surprised that the aircraft was roomy and comfortable, and the
flight was enjoyable for a small jet. The flight was not
overcrowded, but it was nearly full. The other passengers appeared
to be Marshall Islands natives and scuba diving tourists.

He was a bit tired from his raucous night, so he
kept to himself during the flight and caught up on his sleep.
Luckily, the seat beside him was empty. He dreamed of carefree
diving through huge underwater shipwreck graveyards with friendly
fish trailing his every move.

Suddenly, the plane banked a hard right, and
Micko gently awoke from his soothing dream. He looked out the
window and saw the magnificent Marshall Islands below. They were
much smaller than he had imagined, but the white sand and green
seas cornered by deep blue water were impressive nonetheless. Micko
pulled the video camera out of his knapsack and filmed the beauty
of these South Pacific islands.

Soon he was reunited with his luggage and
boarding the Outrigger Hotel shuttle. The tourists got a good view
of local life en route to the hotel. Small villages of nondescript
hovels lined the island amongst rows of coconut trees, and
livestock appeared to run wild along the country roads.

Majuro was a city of roughly thirty thousand
inhabitants. Three of the islands—Delap, Uliga, and Darrit—combined
to form the nation’s capital, and were known as D-U-D. It was the
most modern place on all the islands, with a museum, a copra
processing plant, and a shockingly modernistic capital building.
The best beaches and scuba diving were located on the west side of
the island at Laura, about thirty miles west of Delap.

Micko and about a dozen tourists exited the
shuttle and gathered their gear together. A guide appeared and did
an informal roll call, advising the passengers of their room
numbers. Several valets appeared to handle the suitcases and scuba
gear. It seemed that the other tourists were in a group that was
part of an organized dive trip. Micko was the lone wolf.

The valet led Micko to room 24B. Once inside,
the enthusiastic valet opened the curtains and turned on the A/C,
stating that dinner would be served at seven o’clock sharp. Micko
tipped the young man and unpacked his toiletries, as well as his
other one-night essentials. Once that small chore was accomplished,
Micko had about three hours of free time before dinner, so he
decided to explore this part of the island.

He walked down a short path to the sandy beach.
There he saw a handful of surfers gliding about the turquoise waves
while several swimmers played heartily in the refreshing surf. The
beach was a clean white plate of sand as far the eye could see.

Micko turned back to look at the hotel, a small
two-story structure with a white stucco exterior. Each second story
room’s balcony was neatly painted blue. The hotel was rudimentary,
but clean and fresh in a land of long-forgotten innocence.

Back in his room, he put on his bathing suit and
was soon splashing about in cool waves. He heard the other bathers
talking in European tongues. These were not the same tourists who
had been on the island hopper plane and shuttle bus with him.

After his refreshing swim, Micko decided to take
a walk and dry off. He was walking through the hotel lobby when a
young boy rushed up to him.

“Towel, Mister?” he asked in broken English. “I
have towel!”

“Sure, I’ll take one,” Micko said.

The boy handed him a clean blue and white
striped towel and asked, “Room number?”