He gave her a knowing look and a smirk. “Okay, but Joe Kaniola's also fanning embers that've been smoldering for a long time, over a hundred years to be exact. He's got a whole population of disenfranchised people to blow off to, to vent his spleen with, over this issue, which leads him and his people straight back to the fundamental issue of who governs here and who carries the big stick of enforcement.”
“ Oh, God… I hope I didn't really mess things up for you, Jim.”
“ Well, the worst of it has nothing to do with what you told Kaniola.”
“ What's that?”
“ Like I said, this mention of George Oniiwah. Putting his name into this story made him a target for anyone remotely interested in avenging Linda Kahala, Thom Hilani, Alan Kaniola or any of the other women. Shit, if someone reading this decides that Oniiwah is the Cane Cutter, some bad pilikia's going to follow.”
“ Is Oniiwah white?”
“ Half Japanese.”
“ Surely that's inconsistent with Kaniola's innuendo that the killer is suspected to be a white male.”
“ Kaniola characterizes the kid as half 'white' by virture of his and his family's so emulating the white man- dressing white, dancing white, eating white, all that.”
“ Surely that's not enough to condemn him. Nobody could possibly decide that the FBI profile states the killer's whiteness is just mock white behavior, could they?”
“ We got some pretty big, pretty nasty and pretty dumb Samoans and Hawaiians on this island who put pilau like that together all the time, and proud of it.”
“ Is the man under arrest, in protective custody?”
“ Neither, and he's missing.”
“ What're you saying? That he's gone into hiding? That he's fleeing, what?”
“ No one's sure at this point.”
“ You're not saying… he's not been abducted? Has he?”
“ Possibly.”
“ Jesus…”
“ Minute I saw the paper, I called to have him picked up, but it was already too late. Oniiwah's roommate tells a story about three heavyset Samoans bursting into their dorm room-middle of the night-at the college. The roommate was knocked senseless, or so he maintains, but we're not sure his story is a hundred percent accurate.”
“ You suspect he was in on the abduction?”
“ Bruises he sustained are minimal; could've been inflicted by someone, but certainly not enough to knock him unconscious as he states. Anyway, his story has these big Samoan dudes taking George out by the hair, kicking and screaming. Tony's continued to grill the guy and-”
“ Neither Scanlon nor Marshal know a thing about this development, obviously, and you're not telling?”
He ignored her and continued. “An APB's being put out on the kid, but it doesn't look good for Oniiwah. All in all, nothing's turned out quite right.”
“ Hell, I didn't even know about Oniiwah when I spoke to Kaniola.”
“ I know that. Look, it could get ugly,” he stated.
“ If the boy's hurt…”
“ Oniiwah's being half Japanese and dressing the way he does… that's all some Samoans need to know. The typical dyed-in-the-wool Samoan believes in 'act now, think later,' and that's why there're so many of them in the state pen. Samoans are worse than the native Hawaiians in their hatred for the Japanese and the whites. They're the ones who initiated and now annually hold the Hawaiian version of Hell Night here, the 'Kill a Haole Day' festivities which annually lands many behind bars. So, don't go whipping yourself over this.”
She sensed that he was doing exactly that to himself all morning.
“ Anything happens, it's Kaniola's fault and mine,” said Parry. “I should've listened to Tony last night. He tried to warn me about the mood of the people. Damn…”
“ What next?”
“ We've got a notion we're playing out. Tony's working on getting paper for a search warrant as we speak. I'd be over at the site myself by now if I hadn't got hung up with Scanlon and Marshal.” He looked at his watch. “Should be about time now. When's the last time you were in on a bust?”
“ A bust? Me?”
“ Sure, why not. You want to see some real local color?” She took it as a challenge.
“ Want to join me or not?” He buzzed his secretary and called for his car to be brought around. “Well?”
“ All right, all right, maybe I will.”
Lopaka's hands are busy over the wheel of the bus he drives, a small, versatile twenty-four-seater for Enoa Tourist Industries. The bus makes stops at predesignated hotel locations to load more passengers till filled to capacity today. A typical Tuesday on the island. But while his hands and eyes are occupied here, Lopaka's mind is elsewhere.
His eyes scan the city streets for his next victim, for someone who resembles Kelia, someone who may walk like her, and whose pattern of life he can approach and intercept. Once their paths cross, he might easily fit into her world, which is his world, too. He's on the same streets every day, doing his job, carting tourists back and forth along the same avenues from the hotels-making some six to seven stops depending-to the sights at Pearl Harbor on his run. Along the way, he must spout the history and culture of the islands to the hungry tourists, who seem to have tattoos over their eyes that scream, “Tell me something I don't know, excite my curiosity, wake me up.”
“ Over to the left, the large building you're looking at is the Bishop Museum, Hawaii's largest and oldest museum. A day's visit in its friendly confines is a delight for all who visit the islands, a real must!” he tells his passengers, but even as he speaks in rote memory of his lines, his mind shifts between past experiences with the Kelias he has known and killed, and the future Kelias he will slay, and he wonders what life will be like after he reaches the final number, seven times seven, the one which will make him immortal.
'The Enoa Bus Line can of course accommodate you on a separate and unique trip to the Bishop Museum, if you wish to see the archaeological treasures of the islands,” he says over the P.A. just as they pass the turn for the famous museum. “Should you wish an extended trip into a truly Hawaiian world of gala festivities, topped off by a traditional evening luau, Enoa buses run daily to the Polynesian Cultural Center on the other side of the island. Read about it on the back of your free Enoa Tours map and plan for a six-hour tour.”
The bus came to a shuddering slowdown with traffic jamming up ahead. “No worry, folks,” he tells his charges. “Just a little accident up 'head on da freeway.” At just the right marker and moment, he adds, “Coming up on your right is the world-famous Hula Bowl, host to the world's finest young athletes, the All-Stars of college football each year after the regular season. The Hula Bowl is also known for being the home of…”
He no longer hears himself, having so often done the stock spiel. His mind is partitioned and while the left side takes care of business in the here and now, the other is considering his choices after dark. He might simply go to Alakana's ABC Liquor and Pharmacy on Ala Moana, the street of abundance, where he'd gotten to know the sales clerk enough to call her by her first name, Hiilani, and while she was younger than Kelia by a few years when Kelia had left him, she was all Hawaiian-no mix. At least she'd claimed to be a full-blood native when he'd jokingly asked if there were any full-bloods left. He had bought his newspaper as usual and had been careful not to overstay his welcome, but he did ask her what she'd do if he showed up that evening to drive her home.
“ In the bus?” she had asked, amused.
“ No, I have a car of my own, a nice car.”
“ Really? But I have a boyfriend.”
“ Is he coming to pick you up?”
“ No, he's too lazy. I have to take the bus usually.”
He'd quickly countered with, “If you were my girl, you wouldn't never ride no public bus.”
She'd only smiled coyly at this. So he had repeated his offer to drive her home, finishing with, “What do you say?”
“ Maybe yes, maybe no. I'll see when I see,” she'd teased.
He recognized bait when he smelled it, and he easily assumed that Hiilani was just as loose and fast as Kelia had been; she just hid it well behind her white smock and long braids, which, if allowed to fall, would trail to her
