“We’ll not be doing that, Patrick. Drinking solves nothing. Do your best to wrap your head around this, and realize that it changes nothing about you or your moral core. You are a kind and decent person. I wouldn’t be hanging with you if you weren’t.”
Philo drove west, heading back to their vacation cottage. An early supper would precede them heading out to see Wally Lanakai in the evening, or Philo would go it alone if Patrick couldn’t stomach it. They were waiting on the meeting location.
“We’ll have a lot more to talk about with him now, won’t we? About Ka Hui. About your parents, what happened to them…”
The rush of info on his parents bordered on overwhelming, coming from an iPhone internet search for Denholm and Haneen ʻŌpūnui as soon as they got to the car. A brutal attack in Philly took their lives one winter, during a cold snap that nearly killed their son Patrick after he’d been severely beaten and left for dead, perpetrators unknown. Until now, the crimes hadn’t been connected.
“I will need to tell Grace and Hank.”
“Of course you will. Grace and Hank love you, bud, you and all the baggage that came with you. There’s no shame here, Patrick. None. You’re a good person.”
“But my father wasn’t.”
No way to spin that cloud into a silver lining. Philo let that one sit out there with no comment.
“We’ll order in tonight, Patrick. I’m thinking Chinese.”
“You can bring him to meet with me if you want, Trout, but you need to assure me there will be no drama. It would not end well for him.”
“No drama, Wally. But should there be, I can assure you that it won’t end well for anyone in attendance. Are we on the same page?”
The “him” Wally Lanakai referred to was Evan Malcolm. Lanakai knew the risk arising from the Navy commander’s volatility, Evan having lost someone to so gruesome a circumstance, and having attributed the loss to Ka Hui.
“Seven p.m., Hiilani Spa at Kuluiula on the south shore,” Lanakai said. “I have a steam room reserved. You and your guests will be issued bathrobes and towels. Clothing not allowed. I’ll send a car to your cottage to pick up the three of you.”
Lanakai had looked for reassurances regarding Evan only. He hadn’t flinched on his FaceTime call with Philo when he mentioned Patrick attending. So be it. Let the discussion about Patrick be a surprise.
Kuluiula as a destination boasted more than three hundred days of sunshine annually, making most of its evenings comfortable as well. Arriving curbside for the wellness complex, they were ushered through meditation gardens into dressing cubicles with lava rock walls. The bathrobes came with welcome packs of tear-off oils and tonics and fresh-pressed juices in sippy pouches tucked into each robe’s kangaroo pockets. At the entrance to the steam room, Philo, Evan, and Patrick hung up their robes, and before towels replaced them, they needed to showcase their respective naked Caucasian, black, and Polynesian asses so Lanakai’s bodyguards could perform a visual body search. The mist-filled room was expansive, with natural lava rock ornamenting its rear wall, the wall’s black, pocked honeycombs shrouded by the steam.
Wally Lanakai didn’t stand to greet them. He instead left two towel-clad men to meet them inside the heavy door. The larger of the two, six-six, six-seven maybe, dark-skinned, and bulky top to bottom, gestured at a long wooden bench across from Lanakai. “Sit there.” They complied. “Are you comfortable, or should we lower the steam?” he asked.
“Fine for the moment,” Philo said. With all of them now seated, the six men faced each other.
“Good to see you, Trout,” Wally Lanakai said. “You look like you’re still in excellent condition. I’m happy to see that.”
“Still working out, still go a few rounds on occasion, in gear, not bareknuckle.”
“And still undefeated, I hear. What is it, sixty-five and oh?”
“I’m touched you remember. Look, I’m retired, but you want me, so you got me, one time only. For the price I said. With a deposit. When and where, Wally?”
“In a minute. Some introductions are needed. One of my associates wanted to meet you. Magpie”—Wally gestured at the larger and blacker of his two men—“this is Mr. Tristan Trout, Philo to his bareknuckle followers. Philo, this is Magpie Papahani.”
“The pleasure is mine, Trout.”
“Likewise,” Philo said.
“Magpie volunteered for this fight, Philo. I have the utmost faith in him, and I’m sure he’d give a great account of himself, for obvious reasons. But I wanted you as my champion, as freakishly talented as you are in this sport, considering what’s on the line.”
Philo’s attributes: large, heavy hands and wrists, leveraged punching power, a one-punch knockout artist, military conditioning, and a granite chin.
“And now that I’ve floated your name to my opponent,” Lanakai said, “he’s happier than a hard-on that you’re taking this bout as well. He’s got some whiz-bang ex-mixed-martial arts champ in his camp. You might have heard of him. Jerry Mifumo?”
Sure had. All boxers paid attention to the mixed martial arts circuit. They didn’t much like it because it drained money from the boxing game. Pure savagery, drawing from the worst aspects of gladiator warfare coupled with a Roman coliseum atmosphere, minus the cat-o’-nine-tails and axes and other barbaric weapons from that age. A no-holds-barred spectacle where combatants could be subdued just short of their expiration. If Philo’s memory served, Jerry Mifumo was—
“A doper. Fought as a light heavyweight. A Japanese Olympian. Boxing banned him.”
“And the Ultimate Fighting Circuit banned him, too, Trout. After three strikes for testing positive for steroids with the UFC, he moved back to Japan.”
“So he’s Yakuza.”
“He’s Yabuki’s boy, so yes. I should say Yabuki’s man. He’s now a full heavyweight. From what Magpie tells me, he killed the last guy he fought. Some kind of Yakuza death match.”
Magpie nodded in agreement.
“It was bareknuckles,” Lanakai said, “until it wasn’t. The loser was beheaded. I just
