Coco's Nuts

 Prologue As beautiful as a Bamboo Orchid and as cool as an English cucumber, Buddy Feuer seemed neither fazed nor anxious, given the grave predicament. Tall and willowy, the thirty-four-year-old former society woman turned truck driver was easy on the eyes no matter what your predilection. A “looker” or “dish” she might have been called back in the days of gin rickeys, trilbys, and gumshoes. Some females truly lucked out in the comeliness lottery, as unconventional, chinchilla-faced Aunt Rowena Jaye was often heard to utter about a relation or friend (with a wistful, wishful sigh). Buddy had contacted the Triple Threat Private Investigation Agency after researching our involvement -- and success -- with the handling of the “Gruesome Twosome Case” (as we’d jokingly dubbed our first P.I. job) and the ensuing arrest of our client, William Pierponce Howell. The now-deceased WP Howell had been as wealthy as he’d been eccentric (a tactful way of saying f’g zany) and the murder of his young, pretty wife was not the only crime he’d been guilty of. HPD’s Detective Gerald “Ald” Ives had been gracious enough during a media interview to credit the agency with providing “some valid crime-stopping information”, which had led to the apprehension of the millionaire and his equally culpable (f’g zany) partner. The truth was we’d done considerably more, but we were cool with letting HPD take credit. Our latest assignment was fairly clear-cut: prove Buddy hadn’t murdered renowned entrepreneur Jimmy Silone Picolo III. Jimmy Man-I’m-Fabulously-Rich Picolo was second-generation owner of a hapu’upu’u pickling factory called Braddah Jimmy’s Pickled Aquatic Delights (who’d have guessed preserved fish cheeks and eyes could be such popular delicacies). In addition, the shrewd man owned JSP Capital-Credit Corporation and Balz to the Walz Incorporated, a demolition-construction company that knocked down buildings as rapidly as it put them up. There were also pet projects here and there, little businesses he absorbed or annihilated. Slim and trim and relatively short, Jimmy was a cross between Dean Martin and Sal Mineo in their heydays. Over the years, the attractive man had rubbed a few people the wrong way. You see, equally successful had been his loansharking and racketeering -- excuse me, alleged loansharking and racketeering. Unlike Jimmy Silone Picolo II, who’d been indicted on racketeering and murder in the 70s, “III” had never been convicted of anything. Equally charmed and charming, he’d navigated the tranquil waters of life and business with a multi-thousand-dollar smile and a playful monarch-like wave . . . of the middle finger. The odd time the folks in blue had become involved, paperwork transformed into ashes and lawsuits dropped like smoldering charcoal briquettes. Witnesses developed curious cases of amnesia or hopped continent-bound jets faster than Hollywood celebrities changed partners. Picolo had been found in an alley in the business district, not far from his opulent Bishop Street office. The capital-credit company took up half the fourth floor while the main office occupied the entire top floor. Lavishly decorated with marble, crystal, and 14-K gold, it even held an interior waterfall rumored to stream champagne instead of water. How decadent was that? No longer a concern, however: expanding that firm fiscal foothold and/or working long hours while sitting in a gold-trimmed leather barrister chair before said waterfall. The quinquagenarian’s face had greeted a brick wall several times before three bullets created cranial air vents. Had he survived, attractive would certainly no longer have described Jimmy Silone Picolo III. Buddy and I had met at 7:00 a.m.in tranquil Sans Souci State Recreational Park, not far from the Waikiki Aquarium and Diamond Head, the famous volcanic tuff cone, known to Hawaiians as Lēʻahi. I’d brought two extra-large creamy steaming coffees, she a box of freshly-baked, sugary-sweet malasadas. Sitting on a recently painted bench under a cloudless late October sky, we’d initially chatted over trivial events and how we’d both ended up on the Hawaiian Islands. She’d moved here not long after “the pater’s incarceration”. I’d landed courtesy of a fervent if not fanatical desire to open a detective agency on the part of my melodramatic (excitable) cousin Reynalda Fonne-Werde and her ever-supportive (anything-to-keep-the-peace) best friend, Linda Royale. Once the agency’s new client and I had finished swapping getting-to-know-you facts and scarfing a second round of scrumptious confections, we got down to business. In addition to proving her innocence, Buddy wanted us to periodically apprise Howie Pastille, an ambitious but wet-behind-the-ears defense lawyer. In the event she was formally charged, she wanted to be prepared, and because she couldn’t afford the best or most experienced legal representative, money was an option. The agency’s task seemed straightforward enough, as did Buddy’s nonchalantly related story (even if rookie P.I. intuition advised there’d been some abridged segments). Sitting in the lanai of my ten-floor Ala Moana condo, an icy herbal tea in one hand and Button, the snoozing Wunder Hund at my feet, I replayed the Thursday morning exchange in my mind . . .