“Frankie blamed Sammy for screwing up his life.”
“How so?”
“Shit, you name it. For busting up the family, for us living in the projects, for Pa drowning, for Ma going freako, for the rash on his ass.”
Gloria crooked a hand to her face, registered surprise at the absence of the Camel.
“After Sammy left, Ma worked when she could, drank when she couldn’t. Soon as I turned sixteen I boogied for Kona to do my own thing.”
“Your thing?”
Gloria crossed her arms. “Massage therapy.”
“Uh-huh. Do you recall if your brother had any tattoos?”
“Sure. A fluffy French poodle right on his dick. He called it—”
“Tell me, Gloria. This massage therapy. You licensed for that?”
Lo slid a photo from one pocket. As he passed it to Gloria I recognized a close-up of the shark motif tattooed on the Halona Cove ankle.
Barely glancing at the image, Gloria handed it back.
“I’m going with Picasso.”
“Did Francis ever break a leg?”
“Yeah. He did.” Gloria’s surprise sounded genuine. “I forgot about that.”
Lo rotated one hand in a “give me more” gesture.
“He was in high school.”
Again, the hand.
“Not much to tell. Frankie got drunk, went boarding, wiped out. He ended up at The Queen’s. My mother whined about it in a couple of letters. She was so pissed I felt sorry for the kid and sent him a card.”
For a quick moment some internal turmoil flashed in Gloria’s eyes. Was gone.
“That’s when Ma was still writing to me.” Shoulder shrug. “Then she died.”
“I’m sorry,” Lo said.
“What the fuck. Bottom line, I got to thank the old gal.” A meaty arm swept an arc, indicating the squalid surroundings. “Thanks to Ma I’m living the American dream.”
Lo drew a card from his pocket and handed it to Gloria.
“If you think of anything, call me.”
Ignoring the card, Gloria stepped back.
“And, until we get this resolved, don’t travel without letting us know,” Lo added.
“Well, shit busters. There goes yachting in Monte Carlo.”
Gloria closed the door.
The locks reengaged.
As we drove off, I looked back.
The towers of Kuhio Park Terrace loomed bleak and hopeless against the perfect blue sky.
Like the occupants trapped in them, I thought sadly.
AS WE DROVE FROM KUHIO PARK TERRACE TO A MCDONALD’S across from the Kapalama Shopping Center, Lo sketched some background on the man we were about to meet. I didn’t ask, wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to share the information.
The CI, Fitch, was a street rat that Lo had once saved from arrest. A junkie who threatened no one, Fitch moved invisibly among the bangers, base heads, pimps, pushers, hookers, and stoners inhabiting Honolulu’s underbelly. In exchange for food and money, he provided Lo with the occasional tip or insider perspective.
At four in the afternoon, the McDonald’s lot held only a handful of cars.
As we crossed the asphalt, a figure in a faded yellow tee and LL Cool J rolled-up sweats crossed our path and pushed through the door before us. The brim of a way-too-large cap hid the person’s face, but hairy calves suggested male gender.
My instincts told me we’d connected with Fitch.
Glancing left, then right, the CI disappeared into a booth at the rear of the restaurant. Like Lo, he was short and wiry. I guessed his age at midtwenties.
Lo went to the counter. I followed.
Lo ordered a Big Mac, fries, and two Cokes.
