Atoa slumped back and crossed his arms. “I got nothing more to say.”
“Here’s something to think about.” Lo leaned forward and laced his fingers on the tabletop. “Ever hear of Nickie Lapasa?”
Atoa pushed out his lips and looked at the ceiling.
“Nickie Lapasa’s connected, Pinky. I’m not talking Facebook or My fucking Space. I’m talking real mean men with real bad attitude. And you know what you did, you dumb shit? You messed with Nickie’s life.”
Atoa’s eyes stayed up, but the jittery feet belied his fear.
Lo cut a glance to his partner, then tipped his head toward the door.
Hung reached over and flicked a switch.
The screen went blank.
Ryan and I met Hung and Lo in the hall.
“Well played,” Ryan said.
Lo and Hung both smiled.
“You think there’s a link between Al Lapasa in Oakland and Nickie Lapasa in Honolulu?” Ryan asked.
Lo shrugged. “Maybe yes, maybe no. Can’t hurt to let Pinky think about it.”
“Is he aware who Nickie is?”
“Who knows?”
“Now what?” Ryan asked.
“Now we let the little bastard sweat for a while,” Lo said.
“Will it take long to background Al Lapasa?” I asked.
Hung checked her watch.
“You guys get coffee. I’ll call Oakland.”
When we got to her desk Hung was drawing stick figures and shoulder-cradling the phone, obviously on hold. Lo placed a Styrofoam cup on her blotter. She started to say thanks, instead spoke into the mouthpiece.
“Yeah, I’m here.” She readied her pen. “Shoot.”
Lo, Ryan, and I sat and removed the lids from our containers.
I sipped. The swill tasted like mud puddle runoff. Or at least how I imagined mud puddle runoff would taste.
Hung said “Uh-huh” and “OK,” asked a few questions. Finally, “That’s it?”
Pause.
Hung thanked the person on the other end and disconnected.
“This is what I got.” Clicking and reclicking the pen. “The guy’s full name is Alexander Emanuel Lapasa.”
Again, the world receded. This couldn’t be happening. First Spider. Now Lapasa.
“—U.S. citizen, born twelve fourteen forty-one right here in the lovely metropolis of Honolulu.”
I blinked. Blinked again.
“Lapasa’s got no sheet, but the Oakland cops have been watching him for several years. He owns a dive called the Savaii. An SOS hangout. They think he runs drugs out of the bar.”
“The locals can’t nail him?” Lo sounded disgusted.
“Lapasa maintains a low profile, keeps layers between himself and the street.”
“How long has he been in Oakland?” My voice sounded wrong, high and strained.
“Lapasa’s name started popping up in the midnineties, when he bought the bar. But they think by then he’d been in the area awhile.”
“Did you get a Social Security number?”
Hung looked at me oddly, but read from her notes. I jotted the digits.
“He’s SOS?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah, but the guy’s in his sixties now.”
Lo snorted. “A model citizen with a schnauzer and a lawn.”
“Don’t know about the dog,” Hung said. “But Lapasa paid cash for both the bar and his condo.”
“Now what?” Ryan asked.
“Now we get Al hauled across the ocean and booked in a cage,” Hung said.
“Based on the statement of an eighteen-year-old junkie looking to save his ass?” Lo tipped back in his chair and planted one foot on an open desk drawer. “We won’t get a warrant and there’s no way Lapasa’s going to budge.”
