“No,” Kawika said. “But how about something to do with KKL? Maybe bad title to the land?”
“No idea about that,” Jarvis replied. “But after Fortunato bought Tom-Tom’s house, he used it himself sometimes, between rentals. He’d bring a woman here. Pretty one, in her thirties or forties maybe. Not Hawaiian, something else: Samoan, Fijian maybe.”
“Melanie Munu,” said Kawika. “Maori, people say. She’s Peter Pukui’s girlfriend, supposedly. But apparently she had something going with Fortunato too.”
“Don’t know,” Jarvis said. “Didn’t recognize her. She’s not local.”
Kawika shook his head. “Talk about living a double life,” he said, thinking of Joan Malo and Melanie and Corazon. “Or a triple life. You could’ve told Fortunato a double or triple life would make him miserable.”
“Yeah,” replied Jarvis. “Maybe it even made him dead.”
38Waiki‘i Ranch
Legs crossed and with a flip-flop dangling from her foot, a relaxed Melanie Munu sat on the lanai of an empty house at Waiki‘i Ranch, slowly smoking a cigarette and waiting patiently for Michael Cushing’s man to show up with the cash. She wondered idly if he’d bring it in a big mailing envelope, like FedEx, or a shopping bag. Whatever, she was prepared; she’d brought her own duffel. She’d specified mixed bills, nothing above a twenty. She hadn’t considered how large a bundle that might create. But she could hardly accept a check, and with drug wars raging all over the island, she couldn’t risk attracting attention with a zillion hundreds. Okay, she thought with a smile, maybe not a zillion. But still, a lot.
She felt the satisfaction of a harrowing ordeal successfully completed: She’d finally get the money. Peter Pukui needed to stay alive; he was HHH’s orator and leading public figure. Plus she truly did care for him. He’d be dead if he couldn’t pay his drug debts—maybe even if he couldn’t get more drugs, more of that damn H, something she’d never touch herself. To get money, with Peter’s drug-driven blessing she’d gone to bed with Fortunato after he refused the HHH demands over the heiau. And even then, Fortunato had demanded more; it wasn’t enough just to share his bed. So Melanie had agreed to conspire with him, pretending to be Chief Ku‘umoku’s heir—an improbable heir, she’d warned him, since normally she posed as a native from New Zealand.
The whole thing was risky, the idea of Melanie exposing KKL’s faulty legal title at Fortunato’s command, and the timing had remained fuzzy. Just to be safe, Melanie had taken a hastily provisioned Peter Pukui to the top of Pololū Valley, letting him hide deep in the rugged coastal wilderness until she got a cash advance from Fortunato and paid off Peter’s dealers.
Then Fortunato had reneged, dragging her from his car and beating her on the Queen K when she told him someone else was going to sue over KKL’s title. And just when she’d decided to extort money from him anyhow—he was married, after all, and using that bad legal title for some sort of fraud—Fortunato had gotten himself killed.
Shocked, it nonetheless took Melanie only a day to realize she could extort the money from Michael Cushing instead. Cushing seemed surprised when she asked to meet for coffee, and stunned when she told him that KKL’s title was faulty. Fortunato hadn’t let Cushing know everything, she realized. Wisely, she didn’t repeat her earlier mistake: She didn’t tell Cushing the Murphys and their lawyer Ted Pohano were going to expose KKL’s bad title anyway.
“Ralph wanted me to declare myself the chief’s heir in court,” Melanie had said to Cushing. “But you don’t want me to do that, do you?”
“Definitely not,” he answered, flushing bright pink.
“Well, I’ll just forget my claim in return for what Ralph promised. Same amount, nothing more. But he’s dead now, and you’re still here.”
“Your damned boyfriend, Peter Pukui, killed him,” Cushing said, angry now.
“He didn’t,” she replied.
“Liar. You’re a liar.”
“Look, if Peter killed him, I’d know,” she said calmly. “After all, I was fucking them both, wasn’t I?”
“You’re such a liar,” Cushing repeated. “You weren’t fucking Ralph and he wasn’t fucking you.”
“Suit yourself; I’m not proud of it. But hey, let’s stay on track here.” Melanie started to get tough. “Do we have a deal or not?”
“What if I refuse?” Cushing asked.
“Well,” she replied, “in that case I’d have to pursue my claim.”
“So basically it’s pay you now or pay you later?”
She’d smiled and handed him a card with her phone number. On it she’d also written a dollar amount.
“I need to hear from you in two days. Sorry for the rush.” She’d tapped the card and walked out.
Two days later, right on schedule, Cushing had called and said a man would bring her the money in twenty-four hours. Cushing told her to wait at a particular house at Waiki‘i Ranch, one she knew well; she used to meet Ralph there. What a relief to get the money, get this all behind her. Peter had called her from Hilo after his wilderness ordeal, and she gave him the good news. But since she didn’t have the money yet, she’d told him to go with his lawyer and keep out of sight.
She’d been waiting only about twenty minutes when a man drove up in an SUV and got out, but not carrying a bag. That confused her.
“Hi,” the man said as he approached. “I’m Rocco.”
“You’re from Michael Cushing?” she asked, stubbing out her cigarette and standing up.
“No, I’m from California,” he replied. “So’s this,” he added, pulling a handgun from his waistband.
“Whoa, wait a minute, Mister,” Melanie said, raising both hands to slow him down, to placate him. “I haven’t broken into the house. Just came
