Damned in Paradise

He called over a Japanese cutie in a kimono affair that, unlike the geisha garb of the waitresses at the Royal Hawaiian, was cut in front to show some leg. She was pretty, and pretty sweaty, tendrils of her piled-up black hair snaking loose; she had an order pad in hand, a pencil tucked behind her ear.

“Olds party,” the doorkeeper told her.

She blew hair away from her face, and grunted, “This way,” swaying off.

The doorkeeper grinned and pointed to himself with a thumb. “Need anything, jus’ ask for Joe—Joe Freitas!”

And we followed our sullen leggy geisha along the edge of the jammed dance floor. That the dance floor opened onto the terrace meant only that the mugginess and buggy, fishy odor of the canal could wend its way in to intermingle with the tobacco smoke, greasy food smells, and perspiration odor.

Two tiers of teakwood-lattice booths circled the dance floor but stopped at the terrace wall, making a sort of horseshoe; the upper tier extended out a few feet, making the floor-level booths cozier. Dark booths they were, each lighted by a single candle, deep booths that were damn near alcoves, lending privacy to conversations and assignations.

The Sol Hoopii Trio had a tiny stage to one side of the open terrace; they wore pink shirts and matching trousers with red cummerbunds and leis—three guitars, one of them a steel played in a lap, one of the guitar players singing into a microphone. No drummer, but the dancers didn’t mind—those guitarists were laying down a jazzy beat behind the falsetto gibberish.

With the exception of the Sol Hoopii Trio and other hired help, the Ala Wai Inn was conspicuously white this evening. White faces, white linen suits on many of the men, only the dresses of the white women to splash a little color around.

The geisha showed us to the booth where Lt. Francis Olds, in white linen, sat with a cute plump green-eyed redhead in a blue dress with white polka dots.

“Good evening, Pop,” I said to the lieutenant. “Don’t get up—we’ll slide in.”

And we did, Isabel getting in first, Olds scooching around the square table, closer to the redhead.

“This is Doris, the little woman,” Olds said, gesturing to the redhead’s generous bosom, making his description seem less than apt. “Doris, this is Nate Heller, the detective who works for Mr. Darrow I was telling you about.”

“Pleased to meetcha,” she said. She was chewing gum, but it wasn’t off-putting; it just made her seem enthusiastic, like the flirty green eyes she was flashing at me.

Olds didn’t have to introduce Doris to Isabel, because with the Olds’ baby-sitting Thalia at their home on that ammo-depot island out at Pearl, Isabel had been a frequent visitor.

“Thanks for helping me out,” I said to Olds.

“Not a problem,” Olds said. “Anything to help Thalia. She’s on the Alton tonight, by the way, playing bridge with Tommie, Mrs. Fortescue, and either Lord or Jones, Jones I think.”

Honey, we’re having the conspirators over for cards!

Brother.

I had told Olds out at Pearl Harbor yesterday that I needed to talk to a number of Tommie’s fellow officers, but that I hated to do it under Admiral Stirling’s nose. Was there somewhere more informal, where I might be able to get looser, straighter answers out of them?

He had suggested stopping by the Ala Wai on Saturday night.

“Why Saturday?” I’d asked him.

“Saturday night is Navy Night at the Ala Wai. Kanaka locals know to stay away. So do enlisted men. Strictly junior officers and their wives, out dancing and dining and drinking. They can’t afford the dining rooms at the Royal Hawaiian or Moana, you know, where the upper ranks go. But the food at the Ala Wai is passable and affordable, the music’s loud, the lights are low. What else would a Navy man ask?”

Olds had agreed to meet me and introduce me to some of his—and Tommie’s—friends. The way flasks of liquor and local moonshine were passed around freely, he assured me, I’d find my subjects well lubricated and talkative.

“Besides,” Olds had said, “if you’re going to question them about the night Thalia was raped, what better place to talk to them than the place where they spent that very evening?”

He’d had a point, but now that I was here, I wasn’t so sure it’d been a good idea. The loud music, the crowded dance floor, the smoky heat…none of it seemed all that conducive to conducting interviews, even informal ones.

The level of activity here was just this side of frantic: on the dance floor, there was continual cutting in during songs and swapping of partners at the end of them; men and women (seldom couples) were table-hopping, the laughter shrill and drunken. The smudgy shadows of couples necking could be seen in booths and corners, and there was fairly bold pawing going on, on the dance floor.

“You sailor boys sure know how to have a good time,” I said.

“A lot of us go way back.”

“You’re the oldest one here, Pop—and you ain’t thirty. How the hell far back can they go?”

Olds shrugged. “Annapolis. Every Saturday night at the Ala Wai is like a damn class reunion, Nate. You gotta understand something, about sub duty…you risk your life every day down there, crowded into those unventilated cramped metal coffins. Any second you can sink to the bottom, no warning, no hope of rescue. Hardship like that breeds loyalty among men, forges friendships deeper than family.” He shook his head. “Hard to explain to a civilian.”

“Like it’s hard to explain why Jones and Lord helped Mrs. Fortescue and Tommie snatch Joe Kahahawai?”