Massie case, anyway?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Depends which case. Tommie Massie and his mother-in-law and sailors, law is clear. Man they kidnapped was killed.”
“It’s not quite that simple….”
“Not simple at all. Heavy cloud hangs over this island, Nate. Will we be stripped of self-government? Will dream of statehood burst like bubble? Outcome of trial will determine these things…and yet these things have nothing to do with law, or justice.”
“Where do you stand on the other case? The Ala Moana rape case?”
“I stand in embarrassment.”
“Why?”
“Because department I serve for thirty-seven years have disgraced self in committing many blunders. Example—Inspector McIntosh arrest five boys because they were involved in another ‘assault’ same night…. That assault was minor auto mishap and scuffle. Not rape. But McIntosh arrest them on this basis,
“Yeah, I read about that in the trial transcript. That does take the cake.”
“Cake taken by Thalia Massie when her memory makes remarkable improvement. Night she was attacked, she tell police she leave Ala Wai Inn between twelve-thirty and one A.M. Later, when Inspector McIntosh cannot make this work with suspects’ strong alibis, Mrs. Massie change time to eleven-thirty. Night she was attacked, she tell police she can’t identify rapists, too dark. Tell police also she didn’t see license plate number. Later, memory miraculously improve on all counts.”
“You think Kahahawai and the others are innocent?”
He shrugged. “Unlike Inspector Mclntosh, Chang Apana prefer making mind up after investigation complete. ‘Mind is like parachute, only function when open.’” He withdrew a card from his suit jacket pocket and handed it to me. “If you wish my aid, call me at headquarters, or at my home on Punchbowl Hill.”
“Why would you want to help the defense in this case?”
“Perhaps I only wish to help a brother officer from the great city of Chicago. Perhaps fame of Clarence Darrow has reached these shores. Clarence Darrow, who is defender of men regardless of shade of skin.”
“My understanding was, you weren’t directly involved in this case.”
The wide thin line of his mouth curved into a glorious smile. “No. Chang Apana nears retirement. He is grand old man of department. Sits at his desk and tells his stories—but he also hears stories. Stories of drunken Navy officer the night of rape picked up near Massie house with fly open. Stories of Mrs. Massie telling Navy officer not to worry, everything be all right. Stories of how the police had to fire gunshots at Mrs. Fortescue’s car before it pull over. Stories of Lt. Massie’s pride when body of Kahahawai is found in back of car…”
He stood.
“Should you wish to talk to officers who witnessed these events, Chang Apana can arrange. Should you wish to discover the truth, Chang Apana can open doors.”
I stood. “I just may take you up on that, Chang.”
He bowed again, and placed the Panama on his head; its turned-up brim seemed ridiculously wide, like an oversize soup bowl. A smile tickled the wide straight line that was his mouth.
“Welcome to Paradise,” Chang said, and went out as quietly as he must have come in.
8
The next morning, on the Surf Porch of the Royal Hawaiian, I sat at a wicker table, sipping pineapple juice, awaiting my guests for breakfast, enjoying the cooler-than-yesterday’s breeze. Off to the left, Diamond Head was a slumbering green and brown crocodile. Beyond a handful of palms watching, leaning, and a narrow band of white beach bereft of bathers, the shimmer of ocean was a gray-blue interrupted occasionally by the lazy roll of whitecaps. The overcast sky seemed more blue and white than gray, low-slung clouds hugging the horizon, making the gentle graduations of blue so subtle it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky began.
Just as the coolness and the overcast had nixed most beach activity this morning, the Surf Porch itself was lightly attended. Maybe a third of the canopied swinging chairs along the back wall were in use by the well-to-do few who were sharing this palatial hotel with a certain Chicago representative of the hoi polloi. I seemed to be the only one on the porch who wasn’t in white; in my brown suit, I felt like a poor relation hoping to worm into the will of a wealthy invalid uncle I was visiting at a very chic sanitarium.
“Excuse please,” the waitress said. A lovely Japanese girl in a colorful floral pattern kimono, she bore a pitcher of pineapple juice and wanted to know if I wanted more.
“No thanks,” I said. I didn’t really like that bitter stuff; I’d accepted the first glass just out of civility, not wanting to insult the Island beverage or anything. She was about to depart when I stopped her: “Say, you could bring me some coffee?”
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Black, honey,” I said, and grinned.
She smiled a little and floated off.
All the waitresses here wore kimonos—like the wenches who wore them, each garment was as lovely, delicate, and different as a snowflake; these little geishas were so attentive, it stopped just short of driving you batty. Maybe that was because the help at the Royal Hawaiian—Oriental and Polynesian, to a man (and woman)—seemed to outnumber the patrons.
I glanced back at the archway entry, to see if my guests were here; after a moment, as if I’d willed it, there they were, eyes searching for, and finding, me.
Waving them over, I admired all three women as they crossed the porch—Thalia Massie, pudgy but pretty in a navy blue frock with big white buttons, the lenses of her sunglasses like two big black buttons in counterpoint under
