Can You Hula Like Hilo Hattie?

Chapter 2

Chapter 2The power threatened to go out at least four times during the rainstorm that raged until nearly eight p.m. Turning off the lights, I’d comforted Button, who ended up curled in the corner of a dusty-pink two-seater rattan sofa, snoring up a storm louder than the one outside. For a wee thing, she was a force to be reckoned with. She reminded me of my Aunt Mat’s former twenty-pound cat Fred, whose snoring could be heard three rooms over. He now resided in North Carolina with my ex-boyfriend, but still best friend, Adwin Byron Timmins.

The Shiraz proved a perfect accompaniment for weather watching, though by the time the glass was finished, I was feeling lightheaded. Nine ounces of vino + one sushi roll for lunch = you do the (wobbly) math. It seemed a good time to indulge in a bowl of pork saimin. I’d never had the noodle dish until I arrived in Hawaii and from the first flavorful mouthful I knew it was a bond that would last forever. The noodle mixture was delicious, or nummy as Rey was inclined to say these days. Button was happy with a bowl of warm brown rice mixed with olive oil, diced carrots, chopped broccoli, and ground turkey. Homemade dog food was based on naturopathic recipes, something I felt was more wholesome than the mud-colored, stinky stuff found in cans. Treats, when not prepared by yours truly, came from a couple of bakeries catering to canines. And long as I wasn’t feeding her chocolate-covered bonbons, I was fine with the “dog mom” decisions.

Button and I had not been back five minutes from a hurried walk-trot along Atkinson and around Hobron when a persistent rat-tat-tat-tat sounded on the door. A surfboard shaped clock over a new freestanding Kenmore range said it was 9:25 p.m. It could only be Rey and/or Linda.

“Enter.” I bowed majestically and Button yapped greetings to both.

Rey blew a kiss and strolled in, her own faithful companion at her side. Both removed mud-encased runners and dropped them on a plastic mat that sported peach and pink orchids. A Hawaiian Spirit knapsack fell to a polished hardwood floor with a clunk while a small leather Coach bag (faux) graced a pink-veined granite kitchen counter.

My cousin’s lightweight egg-white sweater was covered in ketchup, mustard, and some sort of gray-green sauce. Diesel jeans sported greasy splotches. Her hair, now shoulder length and wheat-colored with sunshine-yellow streaks as opposed to short platinum spikes, looked like it had been doused with olive oil. Linda hadn’t fared much better. Her V-necked white T-shirt was covered with similar condiments, while army-green capris held a rip in the right knee and a big blob of brown gunk on the left thigh. Cranberry-red hair, previously mocha (we’d simultaneously gone for new looks), was disheveled, but not greasy like her best friend’s. An odd smell, a cross between hot pepper chutney and teriyaki sauce, wafted across the foyer.

“Did you two get into a tussle?” I smiled dryly as I closed the door and adjusted the deadbolt. “You might have gone home first to shower and change.”

Rey looked at Linda, who shrugged. “We thought we’d provide the dramatic news first. Can we have drinks?”

“Only if you remove those clothes. I’m not having two live garbage bins sitting on my new furniture.” I gestured a small bedroom to the left. “Toss them in the washer and grab a couple of robes from the right side of the closet. I’ll get drinks.”

The two scurried off while I poured two glasses of Shiraz and prepared Rey’s favorite: rye and ginger with one ice cube. Linda had evolved from a lager drinker to a wine enthusiast in the last few weeks. This was due to a newfound relationship with Makjo, an attractive and personable young man of Hawaiian origin. Oenology was something he’d studied while attending college in California. In their five weeks together, they’d attended three tastings. The former scriptwriting assistant was really getting into it, as she was law writing and journalism evening courses.

Eccentric Aunt Mat had given each of us $200,000 to invest in our agency and new lives in Hawaii. Was it because she’d had us endure a harrowing week-long stay at her weird multi-winged, neo-Gothic mansion where ghastly murders had occurred and a real ghost named Fred resided? Or was it “hush money” to keep us from revealing a dark family secret? Linda had struggled with accepting the money, but finally decided if it could be used for our betterment, to hell with it. Rey’s badgering may have had some influence as well. We often gave in to the tall, lanky woman because her nagging could be much like her: a b***h.

Like Linda, I had qualms about taking the money, but at the same time, I saw myself repaying Aunt Mat at some point. For now, it would serve as intended: to assist in getting settled. As for Rey, she was fine accepting the check. She felt it was payment due. Funny, how views re the same occurrence could be so dissimilar.

The two sashayed into the living room, Linda dressed in a terrycloth robe the color of a Gray Chub, Rey in a satiny one, crimson like the fins of an Opah. Both dropped into circular rattan armchairs that matched the sofa. Button immediately leaped onto Linda’s lap and they posed in their usual stance: dog on back with lady rubbing belly.

“Man, do I need this.” Rey lifted the rocks glass and took a long sip.

I grabbed both wine glasses and passed Linda hers before settling on the sofa. “Dare I ask what happened?”

“Dare away.” Rey leaned back and sipped again.

“Did Xavier escape?”

“He did,” was her dry response.

I looked at Linda.

Extending an arm, she pulled up a sleeve. Above a bruised wrist was a long, ugly, puckered scratch; it promised to look worse come tomorrow. “Never buy discontinued handcuffs.”

“Who’d have thought such a scrawny kid could knock our fit friend here on her well-toned ass? Or manage to break free of metal handcuffs?”

“They were defective. Pretty, though. A nice, neon green.” Linda’s smile expressed both regret and chagrin. “He was fine after we put the basket of wings and gravy-slathered fries in front of him. He actually seemed to have an appetite and scarfed half the basket as if he hadn’t eaten in a week—”

“Which is strange for a druggie,” Rey threw in. “Pot, yeah, I can see. Munchies and all that. But crystal meth?”

“Are you sure it’s crystal meth?” I asked. “His drug of choice could be any one of a number.”

“Could be, but he looks like hell. If you saw his face—”

“Those lips,” Linda emphasized with a tense nod. “What an ugly and tragic addiction.” She sighed softly and finally tasted the wine, then nodded absently, apparently finding it acceptable. “You’ve seen the notices. Give Xavier another couple of months, and he could be prime poster boy.”

Rey finished her drink and got up for a refill. “He was fine for a while as he was shoveling fries, though he didn’t seem to care for being handcuffed to Linda.”

I grinned. “He didn’t? She’s a nice, good-looking woman—far from intimidating, except when you see her arms.” Linda enjoyed regular free-weight workouts. I was more of an elliptical and standing bike gal, although I’d taken up jogging recently. There was even a standard route: the length of Ali Wai Canal to Kapahula, over to the boardwalk on Waikiki Beach, around the Hilton Lagoon, and back home along Ala Moana Boulevard.

“Guess he started feeling the heat, and we’re not talking about the hot sauce on the wings.” Instead of returning to the armchair, Rey stepped into an enclosed lanai and peered into the night. “He threw the basket at a hippie-dude at the bar. Caught him by surprise under the eye. Then he took our Linda unawares—yanked and twisted so hard the handcuffs snapped and she fell over.”

Linda took the reins. “Xav morphed into a manic super hero. The kid threw a chair across the other side of the bar, pushed a table into a wall, and bolted for the rear exit—”

“Super freak, you mean,” Rey threw in with a scowl.

“I managed to push my stunned surprise aside and made a dive for him. We smashed into a table laden with hamburgers, fries, condiments,” Linda continued. “In the struggle, we fell onto the huge laps of two guys who looked like they do serious construction work when they’re not pumping iron.”

“Then things promised to get really ugly,” Rey declared. “The construction guys were p’o’d. Who could blame them? No one wants to wear lunch.”

I envisioned the mêlée and smiled. When it came to Rey, things almost always tended to have theatrical overtones.