“Two bucks it is. Who’s Sammy, Joe?”
“He’s a music boy.”
“What?”
“Hawaiian boy, he play music with Joe Crawford’s band, over on Maui. But when he’s home, on Oahu, he like to come over to the Ala Wai, and listen to the music, here. We always got good music here, boss.”
“What were Sammy and Mrs. Massie talking about?”
“I couldn’t hear ’em.” He shrugged. “Not even for ’nother dollar.”
“Were they friendly?”
“She seem a little worked up.”
“Arguing, then?”
“No. Jus’ talkin’, boss.”
“Has Sammy been back since?”
“Sure. Now an’ then, once in while.”
“Lately?”
“Not sure.”
“Look—this is where you can reach me.” I got out my notebook, jotted down my name and the Royal Hawaiian’s phone number, tore off the paper. “If Sammy shows up, no matter what time of day, Monday through Sunday—you call me. There’s a fin in it for you—and I don’t mean a shark, get me?”
Grinning, he snatched the slip of paper from my hands like it was the five-spot. “Got you, boss.”
The rest of the evening I spent dancing with Isabel to the syrupy but rhythmic music of the Sol Hoopii Trio.
And when we went out to the car, hand in hand, she said, “Did you find anything out?”
“Nothing particularly useful,” I said.
It was a lie, of course, but I didn’t feel like being the only guy who went to the Ala Wai Inn tonight who didn’t get laid.
13
In a land redolent of exotic blossoms, the second floor of the old Kapiolani Building at King and Alakea streets offered a mingling of pungent cockroach-repelling creosote and stale tobacco smoke. It was not an unfamiliar bouquet. I was, after all, a Chicago copper, and this was, after all, the temporary headquarters of the Honolulu Police. The central station house at Bethel and Merchant was getting a facelift, Chang Apana had explained.
They’d moved a few things in to turn this place into headquarters—the big open room you entered had a high counter for the desk sergeant to shuffle reports behind, a handful of desks against one wall with blue-uniformed cops talking to citizens at them, a few file cabinets, a scattering of straight-back chairs. Ceiling fans whirred lazily, throwing shadows, rustling papers.
The desk sergeant told me the assembly room of the detective bureau was on the second floor. At the top of the stairs, I found Chang Apana in another big open room. The mid-morning sun was filtering in through high windows, giving a golden glaze to greenish plaster walls and hardwood floor; like a lethargic cook beating eggs, ceiling fans stirred the air. At one end, an area was set up with chairs and a blackboard for roll call, and some glassed-off offices were along the right wall. Otherwise, it was desks and one central table where cops could gather for a conference or to just shoot the bull.
At that table—which had an oddly decorative top, a dragon fashioned from black and white dominoes and mahjongg tiles—sat Chang Apana, again in white linen and black bow tie, and a swarthy hawk-faced character who was either a cop or a hood. Under the ridge of a snap-brim that would have done George Raft proud, keen dark eyes tracked me as I approached. His suit was brown and rumpled, his tie red and snug, and he wasn’t as small as Chang, but he wouldn’t have met the Chicago PD’s height requirement, or the mob’s for that matter.
They were smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. This wasn’t exactly a bustling squadroom. Only about a third of the desks were filled, and anybody who wasn’t seated wasn’t in a hurry. There was no more sense of urgency here than on the beach at the Royal Hawaiian.
On second thought, there was more urgency at the beach: that surfboard polo could get pretty intense.
Chang stood politely and, half a beat later, so did the other guy. Smiling like a skull, Chang half-bowed; his companion didn’t.
“Detective Nate Heller, Chicago police,” Chang said, with a gesture to his hawk-faced friend, “Detective John Jardine, Honolulu police.”
We shook hands; the guy had a firm grip but he didn’t overplay it. He was studying me with the cold unblinking eyes of a cop assessing a murder suspect.
Chang called a secretary over—a round-faced Hawaiian girl with a nice shape under her businesslike blouse and skirt—and instructed her to bring me some coffee. How did I want it? Chang wondered. Black, I said. She nodded and went after it.
“Whose side are you on, Detective Heller?” Jardine asked.
I pulled out a chair and sat. “Why, same as any cop—my own.”
A tiny grin flashed in the dark face. He sat, and then Chang did, too.
“This is quite a table.” I gestured to the black and white domino-mah-jongg mosaic.
“It’s Detective Apana’s handiwork,” Jardine said.
I arched an eyebrow Chang’s way. “A carpenter and a great detective?”
