The donor’s family. Wally lamented about what he might need to do for them after this.
29
Philo piloted the SUV through a small business park, was nearing their destination, what was once a chicken farm on the mauka or “toward the mountain” side of the Kaumualii Highway in Kalaheo. Twenty-five-plus acres of prime Hawaiian real estate, the property was protected by a preservation society long working to have it recognized as an historical landmark. Today Philo and company would get a closer look at it during an impromptu sparring session arranged for his benefit by Wally Lanakai.
“The Yakuza want the fight here,” Philo said to passengers Evan and Patrick, “and I understand why. If I know the history, they for sure know it, too.”
Soon after the Pearl Harbor attack, the Kalaheo Stockade, a wartime detention center for Japanese and Japanese-Americans, rose from among the farm’s chicken coops and egg hatcheries, or this was the believed history at least. Elderly detainees with personal recollections of the internment camp had fingered the farm property as the most likely location, but their eighty-year-old memories were inexact. The inability to pinpoint the locations of their extinct barracks and cottages had hindered the historical designation process.
The SUV emerged from the commercial park and idled at a stop sign across the street from the farm.
“Far as I can tell from the car’s navigation, we’ve reconned the entire perimeter,” Philo said. “The old chicken farm, the business park, the residential neighborhood. This is it, gentlemen, this open space in front of us. Here we go.”
Philo goosed the engine, then immediately hit the brakes. A passing street sweeper bettered the forty-miles-per-hour speed limit as it ran the stop sign at the intersection and continued hauling ass, its large circular brushes raised. “One of these days I’m gonna call that ‘safety is our goal’ phone number…”
The first road into the farm was paved, the blacktop pockmarked and patched, with dips in places that made them hold onto their seats as they negotiated them. A bumpy ride, but not as bumpy as the dirt road Philo turned onto next, headed for a barn on the horizon. Make that two barns, side by side, as they drew closer.
“You really want to do this, Chief?” Evan said. “I’ve seen the YouTube videos of you out there. You’re good, but a lot of those guys you fought looked pathetic.”
“Checking up on me? Sure, there were a few tomato cans in there, but only a handful of my fights were filmed. Smartphones weren’t popular back then. Many of the guys I knocked out were monsters. ’Course, some of the bigger ones weren’t used to having smaller guys punch back.”
“A whole side of you I never knew about, Philo. But seriously, today you’re gonna fight some former pro?”
“Not today. Saturday. Today I’m doing some sparring.”
“Right. With that goon who watches Lanakai’s back, his bodyguard, Magpie whatshisname. What’s he weigh, three hundred, three fifty?”
“I have no idea. Him, plus Lanakai’s got another one lined up, a different body type, just to give me something to hit.”
“They’re bodyguards for a crime boss, Philo. You think they’re not gonna hit back?”
“You’re not helping my head here, Evan.”
Evan turned around in the front seat. “You have an opinion on this, Patrick?”
“‘Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.’”
Evan snorted. “You’re no help. All I can say is the chief here better have a white towel in that bag of his so you can throw it in when it gets rough in there, today and Saturday both.”
“Much appreciate the vote of confidence,” Philo said.
“Fine. How’s this, then. At least you kept yourself in shape. Still not an ounce of fat on you. Does that do it for you, stud?”
“Stamina makes little difference in these things. They’re usually over in five, ten minutes tops. But I do appreciate the man-crush. You made it move a little for me.”
The comment should have brought at least a chuckle, but Evan stayed somber, peering out the window, his look distant. “All these assholes will be carrying weapons, Philo. Way too risky…” Evan’s voice quivered; he couldn’t finish the thought.
“Look, Evan—you should sit this thing out. It could get ugly.”
Evan swept a tear away from his cheek. “No fucking way. I’m counting on it getting ugly. I wasn’t there to make a difference before, for a person I loved. This time I will be.”
Weathered gray, tan, and white, the barns had wooden frame windows that were missing glass panes, and a few of the planks serving as vertical siding had curled and shrunk. Both barns were still underroof, their overhead corrugated metal rusty but appearing intact. Philo stopped the car next to the one other vehicle parked already, Wally Lanakai’s gold Escalade limo. This was the fight venue, free and clear of Yakuza for today, that was the deal, so Lanakai and his fighter could scope it out. Philo pointed beyond the limo. “That building out there, three hundred yards at one o’clock,” he asked Evan, “is that a military bunker?”
“It’s a slaughterhouse. One of three on the property. They all date back to WW2. They were in use until the farmer went out of business. Empty for decades, far as I know.”
Now that the guest of honor had arrived, the limo’s occupants exited. Wally Lanakai was in a suit, his driver Magpie and one other man in gym clothing. Philo slipped his lanky frame out from behind the wheel, exited the SUV, stretched his back and neck muscles. He heard mumbling in Hawaiian coming from the limo audience, specifically the anonymous man, who was on the chunky side. He was sizing Philo up, a snicker or two mixed into his exchange with Magpie.
Philo had seen and heard this welcome before. No respect, his opponents oftentimes in designer nylon outfits with nicknames stitched across the
