“Maybe. Of course, back where I come from, it isn’t honorable to rat guys out.”
He looked up from his food with spaniel eyes. “If I knew…if I hear anything, I’d say.”
“I believe you. Of course, maybe they don’t exist; maybe the second gang is nothing
“Somebody attack on that white woman, and it wasn’t us.”
I leaned forward. “Then, Shorty—you and your friends, you need to beat the bushes for me. I’m an outsider, I can only do so much.”
He frowned. “Why do you want to help? Why don’t you go home now? You and Clarence Darrow who is too big a shot to meet with us.”
The chop suey was delicious; best I ever had. “I’m here on his behalf. I believe if Darrow is convinced of your innocence, he’ll help you.”
“Help how?”
“I don’t know exactly. But I know he’s dealing with the governor for his clients; he might do the same for you.”
Ida snorted. “Why?”
“Maybe he agrees with you. Maybe he thinks he was on the wrong side of the courtroom in this one.”
Ida thought about it. “What can I do? What can
“I know the Island’s crawling with rumors, but I need leads, and I need leads with substance.”
“There is one rumor,” Ida said, frowning thoughtfully, “that does not go away. I hear it over and over.”
“What’s that?”
“That Thalia Massie have
“A beach boy.”
He shrugged, ate some rice. “Maybe a beach boy.”
“I don’t suppose he has a name.”
“No. Sometimes I hear he’s a beach boy. More times I hear he’s a music boy.”
The doorman at the Ala Wai Inn said Thalia had talked to a music boy before she went out in the night.
And the music boy had a name—Sammy.
“Thanks for dinner, Shorty.” I rose from the table, touched a napkin to my lips.
“That all you gonna eat?”
“I got enough,” I said.
The dark, stocky doorman at the Ala Wai was wearing the orange shirt with flowers on it again. He didn’t recognize me at first; maybe that’s because I wasn’t in my parrots-on-red silk number, though I did dress up my brown suit with a blue tie with yellow blossoms I’d bought in the Royal Hawaiian gift shop.
I held up a five-dollar bill, and that he recognized.
“We talked about Thalia Massie,” I reminded him, working my voice up over the tremolo of the George Ku Trio’s steel guitar. “This is the fin you were gonna get if that music boy, Sammy, showed up….”
“But he hasn’t, boss.”
I put the five-spot away and fished out a ten. Held it up. “Has he been here for a sawbuck?”
A rueful half-smile formed on his moon face. He shook his head, saying, “Even a double sawbuck can’t make him here when he never was.”
“Tell ya what, Joe—that’s what you will get…a double sawbuck…if you call me when you see him. You still got my name and number?”
He nodded, patted his pocket. “Got it right here, boss. You at the Royal Hawaiian.”
“Good. Good man.”
“He may show, anytime.”
I frowned. “Why’s that?”
“I seen another guy here from Joe Crawford’s band. So they must be takin’ a break from that Maui gig.”
His use of “gig”—a term I’d heard jazz players in Chicago use—reminded me how small the world was getting.
“Any of Crawford’s music boys here tonight?”
He shook his head, no. “But one of those commanders you was here with last time is.”
“Commanders?”
He grinned. “I call ’em all ‘Commander.’ They get a kick of that, those Navy officers.”
“You know which ‘commander’ is here tonight?”
“Let me look.” He had a clipboard hanging from a teakwood lattice. “Sure. Bradford. Lt. Jimmy Bradford.”
