“It’s okay, bud, it’s okay. You’re doing great. Let’s concentrate on these stores—”
“There, sir.” After a few swipes at tears on his cheek, Patrick’s analytical side returned. “That bar on the corner. A different name now. Never been inside, but I remember it. An old woman used to sit outside the bar knitting, under a short palm tree. Not that tree, that one’s fake. A real palm tree, in a big tin wash bucket.”
Philo had a memory of his own flash past him. He knew the bar, too, KonTiki something, a different name now. He remembered the palm tree, the real one, and he knew why it was gone. Drunk patrons like himself leaving the bar at closing and soaking the shrubbery after realizing they still had to piss really bad. So sophomoric, getting hammered after the rigors of daily SEAL training, the occasional near-death experiences, “occasional” meaning nearly every single day, needing alcohol as a release at night to calm themselves.
Smart move, replacing the live tree with a plastic one, plus a new name for the bar. No old woman sitting on a chair outside; no chair. More to the point, no double-parking of a Honda Pilot after seeing it only a block away doing collection services a few moments ago. This bar had escaped the shakedown. Things had changed. The people in place had changed.
Who was in charge had also changed, and that was the answer. The organized crime family. Philo’s Philly connection to Hawaii. Wally Lanakai. Wally’s family was gone, eradicated from the islands by the Feds. But not really gone—relocated to the mainland. Someone else was here. Someone with different clients, a different network. But that didn’t change one thing that now looked more realistic with each of Patrick’s recalled experiences: his past attachment to someone in organized crime. To Wally? If that was the case, why didn’t Wally lay claim to him back in Philly? Some of these dynamics, Philo just wasn’t able to see.
“Sir? Hello? The light’s green. We can move now, Philo sir. Can we get some lunch now, sir?”
They met Evan for tacos at a restaurant called Da Crack, a local favorite. Mexican food, indoor-outdoor, with a walk-up counter next to the beach. One look at Da Crack’s cartoon logo and the name of the restaurant made more sense: a chubby sombreroed troubadour viewed from the rear, the tops of his ass cheeks visible. Plumber’s crack, Mexican-style. Yet the place was perfect for carrying food and beer to picnic tables where the patrons could watch the breakers while eating. Pet friendly, but more so because it was open-air dining. Dogs, cats, geckos, other pets all welcome, as long as they were on leashes. Not so welcome were the roaming feral chickens.
“Yes, there are animal fights occasionally,” Evan said. He was dressed in his Navy khakis, the three of them tucked into a table, their food in baskets in front of them, their beer bottles chilled. “The chickens carve out their territory, pick out their tables, and patrol them. You feed them, your funeral after you stop feeding them. They get belligerent, think they own you. Miya’s favorite Mexican restaurant on the island. We eat lunch here”—he caught himself—“ate lunch here, a lot.”
There were no updates from the police on the attack, per Evan. Her body had been released to her family, with Evan a part of them now even though he and Miya hadn’t yet married.
“The service will be small and closed to the public. Three days from today, after her cremation. I need to ask you something, Philo. Do you know a Wally Lanakai?”
Philo sipped at his beer to delay his response. “You asking me means you already know I do. What about him?”
“I saw you on a scratchy YouTube video. Something one of the sailors said I should check out after he saw your name on the outpost’s visitors list. What the hell, Philo, bareknuckle boxing in Philly? In an abandoned grain elevator?”
Everybody had a camera nowadays, damn it. “A long, involved story,” Philo said. “Too long, and too crazy.”
An animated Patrick nearly choked on his burrito, trying to swallow what he’d bit off so he could speak up. “I can tell the story, sir. You should have seen him, Commander Malcolm, sir. What a great fight…”
“Patrick—”
“He knocked out some big guy, an Army Ranger…”
“Enough, Patrick…”
“But during the fight the grain elevator blew up, with us in it! We were cleaning it, getting it ready for demolition—”
“Patrick, stop, damn it.”
“He did it for Grace, so she could get new lungs from Wally Lanakai…”
Philo grabbed Patrick’s face, pulled his chin in, got face to face with him. “You need to shut your piehole right now, bud. Let me explain it, okay?”
“Okay. Sorry, sir.”
Evan heard Philo tell the rest of it. Illegal boxing for big money. A fire in a grain silo in South Philadelphia from an explosion. Its collapse into the Delaware River. People patronizing the fight going into the water. Not all of them climbing out.
“I boxed bareknuckle in my twenties, made a lot of money under the table. It’s where I got the ‘Philo’ nickname. I walked away from it, but it found me again, after I retired from the Navy. Too many swingin’ dicks and criminal types involved. People with long memories, and grudges that never quit. It’s all settled now, all behind me.”
Evan took a long draw from his beer, studied Philo, finally spoke. “You didn’t mention Wally Lanakai.”
“So you know him.”
“Don’t know him, know of him,” Evan said. “Hawaiian mob guy from way back, kicked out of the islands. I heard a rumor he’s back.”
Not what Philo wanted to hear. “Doing what?”
“Whatever he was doing before, I suppose.”
Which meant gambling, women, loansharking, Philo hoped nothing else. But there was a good chance there was.
“And you mentioned nothing about new lungs, Philo. Hearing your friend mention Lanakai’s name and new lungs in the same discussion, you need to be
