Damned in Paradise

gardener’s cottage back at Bayport.”

“Well, the posher crowd stays at that pink flophouse, there. Drop by anytime. Feel free.”

Leisure was looking at me through those ever-narrowed eyes; he wore a mild frown, and whispered, “You’re staying at the Royal Hawaiian?”

“That’s what C.D. said.”

“Funny,” he said, still sotto voce. “He told me the party’s lodgings are at the Alexander Young. Anne wasn’t any too thrilled.”

“What’s wrong with the Young?”

“Nothing, really. A sound choice. Downtown, close to the courthouse. More of a commercial hotel.”

“I’m pretty sure he said Royal Hawaiian,” I shrugged. “Want me to ask him?”

“No! No….”

Waikiki Beach appeared to be a narrow strip of sand, rather than the endless expanse I’d imagined; but room enough for dabs and smidgens of bathing suit and beach umbrella color to paint the shore, as bathers bobbed in the water nearby. A few hundred yards out, occasional bronze figures would rise out of the water like apparitions: surf riders, gliding in, in a spray of white, shooting toward the beach, occasionally kneeling to paddle up some extra speed, mostly just standing on their boards as casually as if they were waiting for a trolley. Was that a dog riding with one of them?

“Could that be as easy as it looks?” I asked Leisure.

“No,” he said. “They call it the Sport of Kings. Get crowned by one of those heavy boards, and you’ll know why.”

Sharing the surf, but keeping their distance from its riders, were several long, narrow canoes, painted black, trimmed yellow, warlike-looking hulls supported by spidery extensions to one side (“outrigger canoes,” according to Leisure). The four-man crews were paddling in precision, stroking through the water with narrow-handled fat- bladed paddles.

Just to the left of the Pink Palace was a cluster of beach homes and summer hotels; then the low-slung severe structures of a military installation peeked out among palms; in the fore was an incongruous water playground of floats, diving platforms, and chutes, in use at this very moment by sunners and swimmers.

“Fort De Russey,” Leisure pointed out. “The Army dredged the coral and came up with the best stretch of beach in town. Civilians are always welcome.”

“Not always.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t that near where Thalia Massie was abducted?”

Leisure’s tour guide spiel suddenly stalled. He nodded gravely. Then he said, “Best not to forget why we’re here.”

“Hey, don’t let me spoil the party. I’m eatin’ up this sunshine and ocean spray, too.” I nodded toward the dazzling coastline. “But you know how sometimes a girl looks gorgeous from a distance? Then when you get close up—pockmarks and bad teeth.”

A shrill siren split the air, the sort of breathy whistle that might announce a shift change at a factory, or an air raid.

“What the hell…”

Leisure nodded toward the shore. “We’re being greeted—and announced. That’s the Aloha Tower’s siren, letting locals know it’s a ‘steamer day.’”

A clock tower did indeed loom above the harbor, like a beacon, ten stories’ worth of sleek white art deco spire, topped by an American flag. Not everyone on this ship was aware they were visiting a United States territory; I’d even overheard the ship’s purser being approached by one well-to-do imbecile wanting to exchange his U.S. currency for “Hawaiian money.”

When the whistle let up, Leisure said, “Can you see the word above the clock face?”

“No.”

“There’s actually a clock face on all four sides, and the word aloha is over each one. It means hello—and good-bye.”

“Who’s idea was that? Groucho Marx?”

The ship was slowing down; then it came to a stop, as several small launches drew up alongside it.

“What’s this about?” I asked Leisure.

The attorney shrugged. “Harbor pilot, health officers, customs officials, reps from various hotels booking rooms for any passengers that didn’t plan ahead. It’ll be at least another forty-five minutes before we dock.”

The mainland reporters who had traveled with us had long since given up on getting anything out of Darrow (other than anti-Prohibition spiels); but a small rabid pack of local newshounds, who had just clambered aboard, sniffed us out at the rail.

They wore straw fedoras and white shirts with no jackets, pads and pencils in hand, bright eyes and expectant white smiles in tanned faces. At first I thought they were natives, but on closer look, I could see they were white men, darkened by the sun.

“Mr. Darrow! Mr. Darrow!” were among the few words that could be culled from their overlapping questions. “Massie” and “Fortescue” were two more words I made out; also “rape” and “murder.” The rest was noise, a press conference in the Tower of Babel.

“Gentlemen!” Darrow said, in a courtroom-quieting fashion. He had stepped away from our little group, turning