K
imo shoved his chair back and started to get up, his face contorted, as if he were trying to flee. Then something changed in the man, as if a mechanism had broken inside of him. He just sat there, his great shoulders slumped, his hands in his lap, studying the floor as if searching for something down there.
“Kimoâ”
“Hush, Caine,” said Tala. “Let him alone.”
She gave me a look that told me I had blundered. At the same time, the look told me that I was not alone in my social incompetence, that almost all men should be lumped into the same group. We just don't know what to do when one of us crumbles.
She might have been right.
But how did she get all that into just one look?
We waited for him to pull himself together again. Life in the restaurant swirled around us with conversation and noise. We remained under a cone of silence, a frozen tableau. The waitress didn't approach. The busboy left us alone. People avoided our table, sensing that something was happening here that had nothing to do with them. It's the herd instinct, I suppose. Let one of us stumble, the others will avoid the scene, hoping that by keeping away from the one in trouble they will not be so infected.
I sipped the champagne while I waited. It was too good to waste.
“I'm all right,” said Kimo after a long silent consultation with the floor.
“Want some coffee?” asked Tala.
“Naw. I'll just get on home.” He raised his eyes to mine, smiling a sad, lopsided smile. “Glad you're out of jail, Caine.”
I nodded.
“Try to stay that way. It was kind of lonely out here without you.” Kimo rose to his feet, supported by the chair. Tears still tracked his cheeks, but he refrained from wiping them away, letting them flow.
I wished I could have helped, but I wished more that he could have shared his grief, because grief was what I was witnessing. But he had his reasons for keeping the source of his wounds private, and there was nothing I could do about it until he saw fit to tell me.
I could have guessed, given what I knew, but guessing is bad sport, nothing more than building paper tigers and tearing them down. Not satisfied with wasted efforts, I would wait until he told me what it was that hurt him.
I watched my friend lumber from the bar, a huge and unhappy man, battling his demons.
“So what's bothering him?” I asked Tala.
“The Hayes case. He knows what's happening. He knows who's responsible. He doesn't like to learn the things he's learning.”
“Silversword?”
She nodded.
“What'd I miss?”
“One of the newspapers received a letter signed by Silversword threatening to bomb one of the Waikiki beach hotels. Kimo reasons that the threat is similar to one received by the professor just before his death. Both are written. Both contain similar grammatical and spelling errors.”
“Hayes received a threat from an illiterate? So why arrest Donna?”
“Kimo told me he couldn't rule her out. At the time all of the evidence pointed to her.”
“The note could have been faked.”
“Exactly. And when the second note came we both thought it would clear her. It looks like the same paper, the same computer font, the same grammatical errors, too. The spelling is abysmal. The paper is the same as that used at U of H. The font is a Microsoft Word font. Taken together they mean nothing. HPD uses the same paper. Kinko's uses it, too. But too many things point toward the university. That's where Kimo thinks Silversword is based. There's always a radical element at the university. It's part of its history. It's natural for new and old ideas to be taken to the extreme in that kind of an environment.”
“Terrorists at Manoa?”
“Someone who works there, maybe. Or is a student with access to the storage closet or computer lab. But who knows? It's not necessarily there, but evidence is starting to build.”
“So it may not be significant?”
“Just a small piece of the puzzle. But it will help our case. That's really all I care about.”
“Point taken.”
“Kimo told me that the strange thing about these native Hawaiian groups is that they're just no Hawaiians left anymore. Look at me. I'm Samoan, not Hawaiian, although a tourist walking in the door would naturally assume that I'm from this island. There are two dominant Hawaiian rights groups, and they can't work together because of a basic disagreement as to what a Hawaiian really is. What's the definition? They began arguing that a Hawaiian is a person with at least 50% Hawaiian blood, but nobody in either group was 50% Hawaiian, so they dropped it to 25% and argued passionately. Few of either group could boast 25%. The best any of the groups could muster was 12.5%, and they argued about that because that wasn't a clear majority, either. It's like the old south. You were a slave even if you were
only 1/64 part African. You may have had blond hair and blue eyes, but according to the old laws you could still be a slave because of that 1/64. It's the money. It's always been the money.”
“What do you mean?”
“The federal government owes the Hawaiian peopleânot the state, the peopleâhundreds of millions of dollars in rent and reparations. The President of the United States made a big apology back in 1996, and then nothing happened while the Hawaiian groups tried getting their collective gear together. They couldn't. So they can't get their money. It remains in trust, gathering interest. More millions get dumped in every month.
“The State of Hawaii is holding even more moneyâmore hundreds of millions. Those accounts are frozen, too, until some responsible and recognized group comes forward.”
“But isn't Kimo Hawaiian?”
“Neolani is 100%, but Kimo is 75%, so their childrenâtheir natural childrenâare 87.5%. But nobody's asked them to join one of these groups and it's unlikely they would ask to join. This whole thing is not about what's right, it's about recognition. And about money.
“I honestly think someone would have asked Tutu Mae to head up one of these organizations if they were legitimate. She's the ranking expert on all things cultural and historical, she works closely with the U of H and the Bishop, and she is 100% Hawaiian. That tells me everything I need to know about the groups seeking recognition.”
“Cui bono?”
“Who benefits? You bet it's
cui bono
. That's all it is. It's always the case. As with the professor's murder.”
“Does Kimo have a suspect?”
“He doesn't say, or he won't say, but something's eating him. Whatever's happening is starting to accelerate. I think Kimo feels it's about to spin out of control.”
“Because?”
“Because that's what I think. Because while you were in jail somebody set fire to one of the beach hotels. Nobody was hurt
and property damage was minimal, but add arson to murder. Then two tourists got mugged in Ala Moana Park. They weren't seriously hurt, but their attackers, described as big, young and Polynesian, thank you very much, shouted âHawaii for Hawaiians' before they ran off.”
“Kimo loves this placeâ”
“Of course he does. But so do I. So do you. Neither of us is Hawaiian, according to those neoteric ethnic cleansers.” Tala took a last swallow of the champagne. “And therefore our opinions do not count. I think Kimo feels responsible for these guys. That would explain a lot.”
It would not explain the depth of feeling that my old friend demonstrated in that now empty chair, but I didn't say anything. I drained my glass. The bubbly had gone flat. So had my celebration. Neither of us had anything left to say.
“I was going to tell you to go home, John Caine, but I'm afraid you can't.”
“I'll bunk at the Royal.”
“Don't make it sound like camping. You've got the presidential suite.”
“I'd rather be aboard
Olympia
.”
“Yeah, I know. There's no place like home. The judge will let you go to Kona if you want. I'll put the letter in front of her first thing in the morning. You can fly over as soon as she gives her blessing.”
“I'd like that.”
She looked at me. “Enjoy your freedom while you can, John. Today was easy. But the next round won't be.”
“What are you saying?”
“To toss in some baseball metaphors, I'm saying that this was the warm-up, the preseason game. I'm saying that you were the home team today, and we used the home-team advantage. But you're going to be out on the road in San Francisco, with a different pitcher, and in an alien ballpark. You won't have a friendly umpire like you did today. And you won't have me.”
She regarded me over the top of her glass, her huge dark eyes solemn and serious.
“I'm saying it ain't over till the fat lady sings,” she said “And truth to tell, this one may go into extra innings.”
A
ringing telephone woke me, sending waves of adrenaline tremors through my body. Or it could have been the dream, something malevolent, something I could not quite remember in detail now that I found myself startled back into consciousness. The room was bathed in soft morning light. Reality could be a peaceful place. But the dream had contained something evil, something that stole my normal morning cheerfulness from me like a thief.
Something that left me with the shakes.
I reached for the receiver. Angelica had already picked it up.
“It's for you,” she said, handing me the telephone before she gracefully rolled from the bed and strolled into the bathroom. I admired her golden skin from her shoulders to her perfect, tiny feet before answering.
“Caine.”
“That one of your little nursemaids?” Kimo's gravely voice greeted me cheerfully, not something I would have expected after last night's events.
When I hesitated, he pushed on. “How you feeling this morning? You able to leap tall buildings with a single bound?”
“I might need two or three until I get some coffee.”
“Got some coffee downstairs. Pure Kona, if the menu can be believed.”
Kimo had seemingly thrown off his funk. I wondered how he had managed.
“What's up?”
“You're the defense investigator of record for Donna Wong. Her attorney called this morning to remind me of that fact. Counsel was fairly persuasive. So I'm extending an unofficial invitation to youâin your official capacityâto accompany me on a search for The Truth, capital T, capital T. It's rare, I know, for the prosecution and the defense to cooperate so thoroughly, so openly, soâ”
“I know. You're wonderful. What do you want?”
“Come with me. I need another pair of eyes and ears. I don't trust my own ⦠anymore.”
I wondered if Kimo had meant “my own” as his own people or his own eyes and ears, but I didn't ask. If it were the former, he would tell me.
“When and where?”
Angelica came back into the room and lay down upon the crisp white linen, stretching her lithe body next to mine. I could feel her soft, moist skin where we touched. I made the mistake of looking into one of her deep brown eyes, so dark it was nearly black. Inside the pupil, a spark of mischief lived. I knew where that was going and felt myself drawn into the dark pool. Looking into the whirlpool, I had missed part of the conversation. Kimo was saying something to me on the telephone.
“What?”
“I said I'm downstairs, having coffee. Can't afford anything else here. I'll be waiting. Come down as soon as you can pry yourself loose from your, er, little nurse.”
“Have breakfast. Put it on my tab.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“I'll be down in ten minutes. I've got to shower and brush my teeth.”
“Floss. Take fifteen. And leave your watchdog. I don't want him around.”
Â
Â
“Do you have to go?”
“Kimo wants me to back him up. I'm not sure why, but he wants me with him.”
“And you will go? Just like that?” She rolled over on her back, raised her arms over her head and stretched like a tawny cat.
“Yes,” I said, watching her smooth, supple skin in the morning light.
“You seem to be better than when I first came to your bed.”
“Better?”
“More able.”
“And you report this to Chawlie?”
“Someone does.”
“Not in detail, I trust.”
She smiled. “Not in accurate detail, anyway.” She rolled back over. “Are you sure you must go now?”
“I gave my word.”
“But you will be back?”
“Tonight.”
“Don't get too tired, John Caine.”
I rolled out of bed and patted her bare bottom, enjoying the tactile sensation on my palm. To me she represented the return of pleasure. She taught me secrets of lovemaking that I, an old war dog, had never even heard whispered before. Chawlie did indeed know what he was doing. Angelica was an expert in the ways of the Tantra, and she was teaching me about the chakras and the kundalini. Suddenly I didn't feel so old.
“I'm going to shower. Rest. I'll be back tonight.”
She watched me as I crossed the room, as still as a golden statue.
I watched her in the mirror, watched her watching me until I closed the door and got ready to meet the big policeman who had summoned me.
Â
Â
“This guy Hawaiian?” I asked as we approached the suspect Kimo had chosen. The kid sat on one of the wizard rocks at Waikiki beach, the Diamond Head side of the police substation.
“Chinese-Portuguese-Japanese-Filipino. Not Hawaiian, but who's counting? He's in solidarity with the Hawaiians, you know?” Kimo smirked. “This guy has no clue we're here, does he?”
As Kimo had explained it to me over his plate of rice and eggs and a double order of Scottish bangers, he had narrowed down the suspect to one of three people, all part of an unofficial group at the U of H, each having some affiliation with Hawaiian-rights groups, each having access to the computer lab. Kimo wanted me more as a witness, I supposed, than as an investigator. But with Kimo, as with Chawlie, his motives were more likely to be discovered after the plan was already in play.
The young man sunned his lard on the wizard rock, headphones in his ears, oblivious to everything but the Jawaiian reggae rap blasting his senses. The gain was maxed on the set. I could hear the angry bleating ten meters away.
Kimo slapped the kid on the sole of his bare foot.
He sat up, startled.
“Need to talk to you,” said Kimo.
The kid shook his head.
Kimo ripped off the headset. “I NEED TO TALK WITH YOU!”
“I think he heard that,” I said.
“What?”
Kimo picked the kid up by his belt buckle, bringing him more or less to a standing position, not an easy feat. The kid weighed close to three hundred pounds. “I SAIDâ”
“I heard you, man,” said the kid. “Put me down.”
“Got any Maui Wowie?”
“What?”
“How about some Aloha Gold?”
“Huh?”
“You dig elephant?”
“What?”
“What's your permanent address?”
“What?”
“Does your mother know you play with yourself?”
“Hey!”
Kimo put the kid down. “Your name Francis Quionnes?”
“Yeah. You gonna arrest me?”
“You got a guilty conscience?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Just asking a couple of questions.”
“Didn't feel like you were asking questions. Felt like you were hassling me. And I want a lawyer.”
“Hey, Francis, we only want to talk.”
“Fucking pig,” said the kid. “Why you hassling me? I didn't do nothing.”
“He's probably right,” I said, “considering the double negative.”
“You a college student?”
“Was. Not no more.”
“English major?” I asked.
The kid ignored me.
Kimo gave me a sour look.
“Could you prove your whereabouts if I gave you a date and a time?”
“Since when do I have to prove that in the land of the free and the home of the brave? You ever read the Constitution?”
“Can you spell that?”
“Keep your mouth shut, Caine.” Kimo braced the kid. “Got a little education, do you? Been spending your nights at the U of H computer lab? Oh, I forgot. You were tossed out, right? For stealing supplies. Abusing the system. Why don't you get a job?”
“Why don't you get a
real
job, man? When we Hawaiians take back our islands from theâ”
“You Hawaiian?”
“What?”
“Can you recite the
Kumulipo
?”
The kid looked blank.
“Can you count your ancestors back to Havaki'i?”
“Iâ”
“Which island does your family call home? And what does that mean?”
“You fucking pig. You think you're Hawaiian, but you work for the haoles. If you cared, you'd join us.”
“Who is us?”
The kid looked at us in silence, knowing he'd opened his mouth and put his foot in it. All the way to his shinbone.
“Come on,” said Kimo. “You said âjoin us.' I want to know what that means. Who is âus,' exactly?”
“I said too much.”
“Maybe. Who is âus'?”
The young man shook his head.
“Is it Silversword?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Why? I'm just asking questions. What's a lawyer going to do for you? You got a guilty conscience?”
The young man wouldn't budge. He closed his mouth and shook his head, as if the words would slip out otherwise. He reminded me of a huge mutant toddler, caught in the act of some wanton disruption, refusing to acknowledge his guilt.
“Thanks,” said Kimo, after a few long moments of staring at the kid. “You've been very helpful.”
Kimo turned his back on the kid and walked away from the wizard rocks. He looked like a mountain, moving toward Mohammed.
“Mahalo,” I said to the kid.
Kimo snickered.
“You won't be laughing when you arrest your own son!”
Kimo turned and charged the kid, slamming him down into the sand. Standing over him, he pointed a finger the size of a sausage at the kid's face. “You have something to back that up with?”
The young man smiled, shook his head, and said, “Got a little education, do you? Everybody knows you're not supposed to use a preposition to end a sentence with.”
Ready for the response, I stepped in to intercept the coconut of a fist that arced toward the kid's head. “That's enough, Kimo! Drop it!” His eyes were wild, and I knew his secret. “Just drop it.”
He looked at me, flexed his muscles to loosen the adrenaline charge, relaxed, and stepped away.
“Yeah,” he said. “It's not worth it.”
I noticed that he was still breathing hard. Kimo was trying, and not successfully, to hide the powerful emotions that were streaming through his body and his soul.
“I'll take it from here, Kimo,” I said.
He nodded, looked down at the kid on the ground, shook his head, and walked away.
I waited until he was gone, lost in the crowd near the police substation. Then I helped the kid to his feet.
“You know what you're talking about?”
“Fuck you, haole. You gonna beat me, too?”
I shook my head. “Not worth the effort.”
His blank look was rewarding.
“Do you know what you're talking about?”
“About what?”
“About Kimo.”
He gave me a knowing look and raised the middle finger of his left hand.
“Then mahalo to your mother, too,” I said, meaning it.