Damned in Paradise

from the knee down, beads dangling from necks and arms, blood-red mouths dangling cigarettes in doll-like faces with eyes as dead as doll’s eyes, too.

With Lyman’s mug shot in mind, I furtively scrutinized the faces of the kanaka pimps and bootleggers, roughnecks in loose shirts and trousers, hands lost in pockets, hands that could emerge with money or reefers or guns or knives; men with dark eyes in dark faces, round faces, oval faces, square faces, every kind of face but a smiling one.

For a place where sin was for sale, there was a startling absence of joy here.

Up ahead was a central area, or as close to one as the randomly laid out village had; a gentle fog of smoke rose from a shallow stone barbecue pit where a coffeepot nestled among glowing orange coals. Nearby, cigarettes drooping from their lips, a pair of Polynesian pimps played cards at a small wooden table not designed for that purpose; they had to hunker over it, particularly the taller of the two, a broad-shouldered bearded brute in a dirty white shirt and dungarees. The other cardplayer, a wispy-mustached pig in a yellow and orange aloha shirt, had more chins than the Honolulu phone book.

I got out of the way of a couple haole college kids who were heading home (or somewhere) with two jugs of oke, and I almost bumped into somebody. I turned, and it was a Chinese girl with a cherubic face and a flicker of life in her eyes.

She asked, “Wan’ trip ’round world, han’some?”

Second time tonight somebody called me that; unfortunately, the male who called me that had sounded more sincere.

I leaned in so close I could have kissed her. Instead, I whispered, “You want to make five bucks?”

The red-rouged mouth smiled; the teeth were yellow, or maybe it was just the bamboo-torch light. She was drenched in perfume and it wasn’t Chanel Number Five, but it had its own cheap allure. She was maybe sixteen— sweet sixteen, as Darrow had said of Thalia. The angel face was framed by twin scythe blades of shiny black hair.

“Step inside, han’some,” she said.

That time she sounded like she meant it.

As she was about to duck inside her hut, I stopped her with a hand on her arm, easily; her flesh was cool, smooth. “I don’t want what you think.”

She frowned. “No tie me up. Not even for five buck.”

“No,” I said, and laughed once. “I just want a little information.”

“Jus’ wan’ talk?”

“Just want talk,” I said softly. “I hear there’s a kanaka who needs a boat to the mainland, no questions asked.”

She shrugged. “Lot kanaka wan’ go mainland. Don’ you wan’ go ’round world, han’some?”

Very softly, I said, “His name’s Daniel Lyman.”

She frowned again, thinking. Now she whispered: “Five buck, I tell you where Dan Ly Man is?”

I nodded.

“No tell ’im who tol’ you?”

I nodded again.

“He got temper like lolo dog.” She shook a finger in my face. “No tell him.”

“No tell him,” I said.

“I tell you where. I not point. You let me go inside, then you go see Dan Ly Man.”

“Fine. Where the hell is he?”

“Where hell five buck?”

I gave her a fin.

She pulled the hem of her sarong up and slipped the five-spot into a garter that held a wad of greenbacks. She smiled as she saw me taking a gander at the white of her thigh.

“You like Anna Mae bank?” she asked.

“Sure do. Kinda wish I had time to make another deposit.”

She laughed tinklingly and slipped her arms around my neck and whispered in my ear. “You got more dollar? We go inside, you talk Dan Ly Man later. Make you happy.”

I pushed her away, gently. Kissed my forefinger and touched the tip of her nose. Her cute nose. “Save your money, honey. Go to the mainland and find one man to make happy.”

The life in her eyes pulsed; her smile was a half-smile, but it was genuine. “Someday I do that, han’some.” Then she whispered, barely audibly: “Beard man.” And she nodded her head toward the two pimps playing gin.

Then she slipped inside the hovel.

The full-face beard had been enough, added to the dim, otherworldly torch lighting, to keep me from recognizing him. But as I wandered over to the barbecue pit, I could see it was him, clearly enough; the deep pockmarks even showed under the nubby beard.

And those were the blank eyes of Daniel Lyman, all right. And the many-times-broken lump of a nose.