Can You Hula Like Hilo Hattie?

Chapter 6

Chapter 6Saturday 8:00 a.m. found me at McDonald’s, enjoying SPAM and rice and eggs, and a large coffee. As I was forking up ketchup-slathered eggs, Linda jogged toward the restaurant in papaya-orange nylon shorts and matching tank top, and stopped fifteen feet from the window to do a few quick stretches. I rapped on the window, but she didn’t hear thanks to iPod tunes blasting her ears. A frantic wave garnered no results either in terms of my friend, but it did net me a crooked grin and kiss from a wall-eyed fellow in industrial green polyester shorts and a corn-yellow T-shirt displaying waltzing polar bears. That resulted in a smack to the head with a plastic rose-print bag from a portly muumuu-encased woman ambling alongside. One of his eyes looked at her in disbelief, the other at me with regret.

After breakfast, grocery shopping was on the agenda, as was getting little Button a raincoat and bows. She liked wearing dresses when there was sunshine, not when it rained. I’d seen a lovely little pink-and-taupe number she’d love. Funny, I’d never much thought of owning a dog, much less dressing up poochy in pricey designer-wear. There you go: never say never (a favorite expression of mine).

Figuring they’d had late nights and wouldn’t want to be awakened too early, I’d not yet phoned or texted my fellow detectives. Rey wasn’t the most sociable being first thing in the morning, unless there was a mission to pursue, like catching a crazed killer in Connecticut. Linda didn’t sleep past seven but, unlike this morning, she was usually out running early, so I’d decided to wait until 9:30 before informing them of the agency’s first official assignment.

Before I’d left William, I’d given him my cell number and pledge to give the assignment everything we had; he’d given me the promised pastries in a decorative tin box and a couple of recent photos of Carmelita Sangita Howell along with a list of her favorite haunts and doings. She was a pretty woman, but not naturally so. She had a perfect ski-slope nose, very similar to Linda’s actually, plumped lips somewhat like mine (but mine were natural, I swear), stunningly blue eyes the color of the Pacific, and wonderfully smooth, glossy skin, courtesy of regular micro-abrasion scrubs. Shiny hair, thick and wavy, hung two inches below the shoulders and held a brassiness that seemed cheap in comparison to the rest of the costly enhancements and upkeep.

At 5’4”, William’s wife was a slim 105 pounds. But she was a fitness freak and went to the gym regularly, played tennis, and was big on hiking, walking and swimming. Her taste in clothes leaned toward the odd: expensive, flamboyant, and tarty. The two photos showed her wearing sleeveless linen dresses—one neon raspberry red, the other a vibrant floral print—that were cut dangerously low, no doubt to show off 38C boobs. She also had two rings that brought one word to mind: wow. A three-stone diamond engagement ring with pear-shaped side and a band ring with a full circle of round, brilliant diamonds were set in platinum , and cost more than I would likely earn over the next two decades.

A lover of music—jazz, blues, salsa, and lounge—Carmelita Howell supported local musicians and artists by sitting on three charity boards and belonging to a couple of associations. Carmelita (Carmie for short) was also co-owner of La Tortou, an upscale French bistro on Kalakaua Avenue. Friday evenings saw her serving as hostess, while Tuesdays through Thursdays found her co-managing with Benoit F. Paillasson.

I’d made a note to reserve a table for the coming Friday evening, a perfect occasion for observing Mrs. Howell in professional action. After jotting down addresses, I’d scheduled visits to the associations and charities she supported. We’d have to check out her nightclub haunts, but more importantly, we’d have to start tailing her. Linda and I were fairly good photographers while Rey tended to snap her thumbs and fingers, and blurry bodies, even with a digital camera or cellphone. We all had weak spots or disadvantages. Rey could sing up a storm; I sounded like a possum that had barely missed being flattened by a speeding pick-up truck.

Next came the plan of attack. Would tailing and investigating be done as a trio, or would tasks be divided? Maybe the first couple of days the priority should be to cover as much ground as possible by going our separate ways. We could compare notes and then determine which course(s) of action would be most logical and beneficial.

Finishing the coffee, I stepped into a sunny morning. Strolling down Ala Moana, I bumped into Sam, one of several homeless folks in the area I’d gotten to know. A few lived amidst the banyans in the park across from the condo building or along nearby sidewalks. He didn’t, but most days you could find him perched on a concrete step or border along the busy boulevard with a pet mongoose on a baby-blue leash, sitting in an unzipped fabric-covered pet carrier. The forty-year-old was almost always sober, though on the odd day, an obviously bad one, he imbibed to the point bright almond-shaped, copper-brown eyes were red-rimmed slits.

I gave the docile herpestes javanicus a pat on the head. He smiled in return. (Regardless of what anyone claimed, I believed all God’s creatures had emotions and moods.) “How are you and Messer?”

“Hey, Jay. We’re good.” He always called me that. He couldn’t seem to remember Jill. Or maybe he preferred the name Jay.

I dug out ten dollars and pressed the bills into a sinewy hand missing an index finger. He’d lost it during his early twenties, when he’d hung with a bad crowd in Miami, and they’d burgled the wrong people’s warehouse. As he told it, the mob guys portrayed on television weren’t far off the mark; you didn’t screw them and walk away whole. Those years also officially earned Sam the title “undesirable” and the street became his home. He managed to clean up his act for a while when a cousin got him to Hawaii and found him a job as a clerk maintaining freight schedules. A decent room and good food were his, and all went well for three years until the cousin was killed in a car accident on the North Shore. Depression sank in and so did alcohol and drugs. The latter he’d managed to pull free of completely, the former had proven a little more difficult. The rest, as Sam tells it with a rueful nicotine-stained smile, is history.

Tucking the money into his khakis, he grinned. “You’re the best.”

“Tell your friends,” I joked with a light slap to his forearm.

“I do, all the time.” He winked. “Like the new duds?” He spun slowly.

“Very nice. The powder-blue shirt looks good on you. It accentuates the tan.”

He winked again and leaned close. “That’s dirt.”

“Really? Then, why do you smell like Irish Spring?”

His laughter was reminiscent of a bleating goat. “Ya got me. Actually, they did.” He removed an off-white bucket hat. “Even got me a nice haircut.”

“It’s very chic,” I replied, eyeing thick ginger hair styled into a Buddy Holly do. “I better get a move on. You take care of yourself and your friend.”

“If I don’t, who will?” Hat in hand, he grabbed the bag and started ambling Ewa (the Oahu word for east, denoting the direction of Ewa Beach).