Damned in Paradise

how long? Four months?”

The skull-faced little man smiled. “But you forget one thing, Nate—the main reason they not find him yet.”

“What’s that?”

“Chang Apana hasn’t looked for him.”

The Ala Wai Inn was its usual smoky self, and the music its usual syrupy mixture of steel guitar and tight harmonies. The George Ku Trio was finishing its engagement tonight, according to a poster tacked next to the door, outside. Inside, my doorman friend Joe Frietas said he was sorry, he hadn’t seen Sammy yet.

“I know,” I told him.

Chang Apana was at my side; he hadn’t taken off his Panama or said a word since we’d entered the club. But for such a small man, Chang’s presence seemed to loom large with Joe, who clearly recognized him, and was obviously nervous.

Now Chang spoke: “Sammy on mainland.”

Joe grinned, nodded, and delivered a belated greeting: “You honor Ala Wai with presence. Detective Apana.”

“Pleasure mine,” Chang said, nodding back.

“Joe,” I said, “you seen any of Joe Crawford’s other music boys lately?”

He frowned at me, worried. “You’re not gonna bust up another dinin’ room, are ya, Mr. Heller?”

“I paid for the damage, didn’t I?” I slipped a five-spot out of my pocket, held it up casually. “Have you seen anybody?”

He cocked his head. “Other night, you talkin’ more than a fin, boss….”

“Sammy was worth a sawbuck,” I said. “This is what I figure a friend of Sammy’s is worth.”

Chang stepped forward and snatched the five-dollar bill from my hand; it startled me, and Joe, too. The frown on Chang’s scarred-skull puss wasn’t pretty. He shoved his face up into the doorman’s. “No money. Just talk.”

Joe backed away from the little Chinaman, holding his hands up, palms out, as if surrendering. Comical, seeing a burly guy who was at least in part the bouncer of the joint backing off from this lightweight bundle of bones.

“H-h-h-ey, boss, I’m happy to help out. There’s a guy, friend of Sammy’s, he’s here right now…”

Chang and I exchanged glances.

“…you should talk to him, half-French, half-Tahitian—I’ll point ya there. I like helpin’ police.”

“Thank you,” Chang said, handing the five-spot back to me. “Name?”

The guy’s name, or anyway what they called him, was Tahiti. Frail, rail-thin, in a blue aloha shirt (yellow and white blossoms) and tan trousers his toothpick legs swam in, he was up next to the bandstand, by himself, swaying to the music, singing along, smiling, a glass in one hand, cigarette dangling from sensual, feminine lips. I made him twenty, twenty-two. His dark narrow face with its prominent cheekbones was almost pretty, his eyes dark, large, half-lidded, his eyebrows heavy and dark, his eyelashes long and dark and curling. When I approached he smiled at me, as if expecting me to ask him to dance.

“They call you Tahiti?”

“That’s me,” he said, sucked on the cigarette, and blew smoke to one side. “And what’s your name, handsome?”

That’s when he saw Chang. The lids of his eyes rolled up like windowshades, and he swallowed audibly.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, backing away.

“Out on terrace,” Chang said.

Tahiti swallowed again and nodded.

The dance floor opened directly onto grass that led to the rocky shore of the fetid canal. On really busy nights at the Ala Wai, couples spilled out onto this terrace. Tonight wasn’t that busy, and only a few couples were out here holding hands, looking at the slice of moon reflecting on the shimmering surface of the smelly craphole of a canal.

The George Ku Trio went on break just as we were wandering out, so there was no music to talk over. Chang took Tahiti by the arm and led him to a wood-slat table near the thatched fence that separated the club from its residential neighbor. We were tucked beside a small palm and near where the grass stopped and the rocks began their fast slope to the lapping water.

“Nice night for swim,” Chang said pleasantly.

“I don’t know anything,” the boy said.

“You don’t know anything?” I asked. “Not anything at all? Not even your name?”

“Philip Kemp,” he said.

“You know a guy named Sammy, Phil?”

He looked upward, shook his head, sucked on his cigarette again, looked down, shook his head some more. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it….”

“Knew what?” Chang asked.

“Trouble, Sammy was always trouble, too much booze, too many girls….” Then wistfully he added: “But he plays steel guitar like a dream.”